#capaldiwrites

He holds the shock of anger in his fists, squeezing it up his arms and through his neck, before finally gritting it out around his teeth. "You rear-ended my car."

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, kicking up dust from the road as she steps toward him, an accusatory finger pointed at the loosened knot of his tie. "I bumped into your black car that didn't have any fucking lights on in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere at night," she counters. "If anyone was a hazard on the road, it was you."

He's both impressed and horrified by her words. The sharks he swims with usually conceal their teeth around him; seeing them bared and ready to bite is oddly refreshing. "Are you always this eloquent at three in the morning?"

"Only when my best friend is getting married tomorrow, and his fiance will kill me if I end up in jail," the girl goes on.

"I didn't say I was going to call the cops," Ben remarks. He has every right to. Taking his car in to be looked at by the dealer for underlying damage will cost him more than what her bike is worth. Still. . .the truth she hit upon nags at him: he is at least partially responsible for the accident. Parking at an intersection without hazards—even on a back road no one should be cruising through on a still-dark Saturday morning—wasn't the best choice on his end.

Her eyes snap up to his, hopeful. "You mean that?"

Ben groans inwardly. Considering the age of her bike and the sudden calmness in her tone, he assumes it means she has no insurance. He doesn't care much; money has never been a concern on his radar. But her bike is inoperable, if not totaled. How is she going to get it fixed without coverage? What would have happened had she been thrown from the bike and injured?

He puts aside the what-ifs to focus on the present. His jaw eats around the lie as his hand waves off the entire accident, willing to sweep it under the proverbial rug seeing as neither of them are hurt. "There's no damage."

Her eyes narrow. "Are you blind? Or do you really not see that dent?"

"It's nothing major," he corrects.

She's already shaking her head at him, not accepting his words even though she's the one that benefits from him not making a fuss. This girl seems determined to hold on to something he's ready to move past, to forget.

She crouches next to his bumper, hands smoothing over the impact site, whispering her apologies. "I'm so sorry, gorgeous. I'm gonna fix you up in no time."

"Are you talking to my—?"

"Shh," she hisses. "Let me think. I can get this dent out. I know I can."

She'd give anything to have her tools. Normally, she keeps the essentials in her saddlebag at all times, but she'd needed the space to transport party supplies tonight. For a moment she considers offering to fix the dent at her shop on Monday—even goes so far as to visualize the sleek, black 911 model nestled into the single station she calls a garage—but brushes off the thought.

The G-Man, whom she's upgraded from jackass due to his offer to forego a paper trail, would probably laugh at such an offer. He's dressed in navy Tom Ford pants and a tailored white shirt that knows every curve of muscle in his upper arms and chest intimately. This is the kind of man who doesn't work for the government so much as is the government. He doesn't come to businesses that break half a dozen OSHA laws unless he's there to give a citation.

Better not to invite trouble, Rey agrees with herself. Even so, she can't leave his beautiful Porsche looking like this. If only I had something with suction. . .

"Ah!" she cries, startling his spine straight in her eureka moment. Spinning dangerously on her heels, she bends over to dig through her saddlebag. It's a crazy idea, but the physics of it should be the same no matter if the pull is coming from a traditional suction cup or from the more unorthodox tool she has on hand thanks to Rose and her ridiculous party favors.

Her hand finally closes around the soft shaft of silicone and she whips it out into the country air.

At first, Ben isn't sure he's seeing what he's seeing. It can't possibly be that.

She straightens and holds the electric blue dildo aloft like it's some award. A delighted laugh at her ingenuity turns into a fit of giggles as she considers the obscenely large phallus, pressing the base to her hand several times as if testing it out. Whatever simulation she's running, it passes. "This should do the trick."

He intercedes before she can reach his vehicle. "Wait," he tells her, "You're going to fix my car with a. . .with that?"

Her smile falters slightly as she looks from him to the intimate toy—how anything so imposing can be called a toy, he can't begin to fathom. Flipping the dildo so she's holding the tip, she shows him the end with the concave cup. "It's just like a plunger," she explains. "It'll work just fine. These things have some incredible suction."

He's at a loss for words, but his eyebrows must speak for him because her eyes cringe shut and she runs her tongue along her bottom lip. "Not that I would know," she mutters, clearing her throat.

"This really isn't necessary," he protests. "I can have a mechanic work it out tomorrow."

"I am a mechanic," she returns with a proud smile. "And one that won't charge you a fucking pound of flesh for an easy fix."

Without another word, she brushes past him and kneels down on the road, clenching her jaw against the bite of the asphalt on her bare knees.

"It's just. . ." he begins again, gesturing at the thing he can't seem to name without his cheeks threatening to catch fire. "Why do you even have it?"

She shrugs as she lines up the base of the dildo with the center of the dent. The thing is so large that even her two hands don't cover all of it. "It's from the party. No need to worry," she adds, "I haven't used it yet."

Rey remembers learning about spontaneous human combustion in school and thinks it might be happening to her right now, starting at her ears. Haven't used it yet? she repeats to herself with an internal groan she wonders if he can hear. You don't plan on using it at all, Rey. It was a gag gift.

She goes silent with embarrassment and hopes he thinks she's concentrating on her task. There's not a chance in hell that she can meet his eyes right now to check. Instead, she secures her hold around the dildo and presses it firmly against the dent. She feels the air compress beneath it, gives the dildo a slight twist to lock it in place, and then yanks back with a determined pull.

The dent pops out with a hollow thunk, and it's over. Easy, peasy. She's probably just saved him a grand with a five second job.

His remark is a dumbfounded whisper: "I can't believe that worked."

She's still flushed from her previous comment, but she can't help grinning at the skeptic. "I said I could fix it. I'm good at fixing things. Always have been."

"Even with your skills," he starts, "I don't think there's a way you can fix that tonight."

She follows his gaze to her busted front tire, and Rey scrunches her nose at the sight. It really is a miracle that she wasn't bucked from her seat when the rear of the bike popped up. Having opted for two wheels all her life, Rey's had her fair share of scary situations and taken one or two trips to the ER; tonight marks the first time she's ever been truly afraid of not walking away.

"I'll have to call for an Uber," she remarks, tucking the dildo under her arm to retrieve her phone. "Finn will give me a tow to my shop in the morning."

As she unzips a pocket on her leather jacket and removes her phone, Ben scuffs the asphalt with his cap-toe Oxfords. Getting an Uber to come all the way out here at this hour is going to take forever and cost her an arm and leg. He would extend an offer to drive her home, but he can't think of a way to express it without coming off sounding like a creep. They are relative strangers, after all. He doesn't even know her name.

"I'll wait with you," he says instead, leaning against the side of his car and tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. "It's the least I can do."

"You might be out here until dawn," she comments as she scrolls through the app to contact a driver.

"I insist."

Her thumbs stop moving across the screen. The girl peers up at him, cocking her head to the side. "If you're willing to wait that long, why not just give me a lift?"

Ben thanks the stars that she is the one who asks, and he pushes away from the vehicle. "I'd be happy to, if you're comfortable with that."

She looks from him to the car, an odd sense of longing in her glance. In the eyes of a mechanic, the sleek Porsche must be an awfully big temptation. The hunger in her gaze isn't focused on him, that's for sure. He fleetingly wonders if it's possible to be jealous of his own car.

"On one condition," she states, then changes her mind, "No, two."

Tentatively, he nods in agreement. He did say he wants her to be comfortable with him driving her home. "Make your demands."

"Show me your ID."

Of all the things she could have said, that isn't what he anticipated. "My what?"

"Your license," she repeats. "I don't make a habit of getting into cars with men at three AM. You could be a serial killer."

His eyes go wide and his jaw slack in mild horror—these are the conclusions women leap to?—but he's already digging into his back pocket for his wallet. In a moment, he produces it and slips his driver's license out of the clear window, holding it out to her between two fingers while questioning her logic, "Even if I was out to kidnap beautiful women, how would having my license keep you safe?"

She shrugs, snapping a picture of it and tapping out a message he presumes she's sending to a friend. "It wouldn't," she answers, "but at least if I go missing, the police will know where to look first."

"A bit morbid, don't you think?"

"I like to think of it as pragmatic," she responds, finally reading his name from the card, "Ben Solo."

He watches the way her mouth forms his name, how her pink lips kiss together before curving around the vowels. "What's your other condition?" he inquires as he plucks his ID from her hand.

She moves past him and ghosts her free hand an inch over the car's shell, headed for the passenger side door, as she makes her second request: "I want to hear her roar. I may never get the chance to ride in one of these again, and. . .it'll kill me if I don't find out what she can do."

He mirrors her movements as she speaks, meeting her on the opposite side of the car. He was right about the hungry look in her eyes as they feasted upon his car. "I think I can make that happen," he agrees with a wide grin, adding, "But he prefers to be called 'Kylo.'"

Ben’s hands tighten the silk a hair more than comfortable, thrown off by her statement. “Excuse me?”

She brushes her hand next to her ear, though there’s no stray hair to push back. A nervous tick, perhaps. “I’m going along as security.”

He turns and narrows his eyes at her. It’s hard to determine the amount of muscle, or perhaps weapons, hidden beneath the ill-fitting garments. Still, it doesn’t matter. “I don’t need a bodyguard,” he dismisses.

“I’m not–” she starts, then cuts off the thought, as if calculating her approach, trying to gauge how he’ll react even before she delivers her retort. “I’m not here for you. I’m here to ensure these make it back to your uncle.”

He blinks – once, twice. “You’re here to protect my accessories?”

She places the briefcase on the coffee table in front of the loveseat, putting in a combination and scanning a fingerprint to open the latches. The girl turns the case in his direction; inside are a gold watch ringed with an inlay of diamonds, an equally bedecked tie clip, and golden cufflinks in the shape of dice which belonged to his father. She waves her hand over the family jewels like she’s a model on The Price is Right.

“Luke said they’re invaluable,” she reports. “Irreplaceable.”

His uncle may be on to something there, but it doesn’t change Ben’s attitude about having a shadow all evening. Growing up as an ambassador’s son, he’s long since had his fill of someone watching his every step. Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t wish to wear the pieces in the first place; it was only at his mother’s insistence that he agreed, only at the reminder that the award he’s presenting is to honor his late father that he gave in.

“They have more sentimental value than anything else. There’s no reason for you to stay,” he repeats, taking up the watch and sliding it over his wrist.

“With all due respect, Mr. Solo–”

“Ben,” he abbreviates with a wince, finally understanding why his mother hates when people address her as ma’am; he doesn’t want to be a mister anything in this girl’s eyes. “Formalities aren’t necessary.”

Her shoulders set against the friendly shift in his formerly detached tone. She won’t be turned from her duty. “I don’t take my orders from you.”

She’s staring him down more intensely than any sponsor or politician ever has, all over some baubles that his uncle dug out of the Skywalker vault. She looks just as ready to lay him out on the floor as she looks ready to protect him from red-carpet thieves. And, while he wasn’t sure at first, he now believes she’s capable of both.

Ben decides then that he likes her – that even as his exasperation grows, so does his respect.

His curiosity has always been an insatiable thing, and it’s found someone new to whet its appetite. They’ve only just met, but he finds himself with a list of questions on the tip of his tongue. Everything from the mundane, comprehensive where are you from? types to the ones which will synthesize her personal philosophies and life goals into a deeper understanding of who she is. He wants to listen as her dreams fall from her full, pink lips.

Restraint, he scolds himself, tamping down on the romantic notions that pop up suddenly, unexpectedly, while meeting brown eyes that seem to see him, not the founder of a startup so successful that they can hold a celebratory gala. She’s here for a job, not a date.

“Fine,” he acquiesces, sliding the tie clip into place and holding out his hand to her for the cufflinks. “I guess that makes you my plus one.”

An eyebrow stretches tall as she drops the cufflinks into his open palm, then retracts her hand. “Does that actually work for you?”

His neck heats, and he does his best to look sheepish. “What? You’ve been tasked to keep my uncle’s valuables safe, haven’t you Miss…?”

If you want to know her, you should probably start with her name, he thinks belatedly.

“Rey,” she finishes, not backing down from the way he leans forward into her space. She isn’t intimated.

“Rey,” he repeats, drawing the name across his lips slowly. And, just like that, he needs another day – maybe a week – to understand her, to have the opportunity to say her name again and again.

Her eyes go dark, arms crossing over her chest. “I can do my job from the sidelines.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” His grin is a challenge as he secures the cufflinks in place and shakes his wrists to settle his shirt. He moves to the closet and unzips the garment bag holding his suit jacket, then slips into it with a shrug. “I’m only trying to make your job easier, Rey.”

“You are, huh?” She takes a step toward him, closing the distance between them in a bold move that stirs something within him.

“As my guest, you’d be able to keep your eye on…things.”

He nearly says me but chickens out at the last moment. It’s been a long time, too long, since he’s tried to openly flirt with anyone. It’s not something he should be focused on anyway: he should be focused on the queasiness rolling through his stomach at the thought of the speech he has to deliver in a little under two hours.

“Oh, I won’t be letting you out of my sight,” she guarantees, casually pulling the lapels of his jacket closer, as if she’s done it for years. She taps her index finger against the jeweled tie clip. “Alright. You’ve got yourself a plus one.”

“Excellent.” His hand motions up and down in the air, indicating her attire. “Of course, you can’t go like that.”

Now it is her turn to flush with color, though she quickly places her hands on her hips and puffs out her slight chest; it practically grazes his own. In a pointed tone, she reminds him, “I dressed to blend into the background.”

Rey fumbled with the latches on the medkit, her dexterity slipping; the nimble-fingered scavenger within her scolded the clumsy attempt.

"Then you've really tapped in at the wrong time," she huffed, finally popping open the rusty latches. Without ceremony, Rey dumped the contents on the tile, rooting through them to find something useful. Gauze, bacta swabs, and some pre-filled syringes made up most of the supplies.

Rey picked up the nearest syringe and examined it; the label had faded and peeled with time, obscuring its purpose. The others were equal mysteries. Standard medkits came equipped with pain medication, adrenaline boosters, and antibiotics. Special cases included a fourth type of syringe: one which brought a swift death should a pilot or soldier fall into the hands of the enemy.

There was no way to know which type she held in her hand. Rey vented her frustration with a litany of Jakku curses.

He shook his head, pleading with her. "Expired training supplies are useless. They'll do more harm than good. You need serious aid."

A harsh sound crawled up the back of her throat. "Our support frigate is gone. The station's medbay is past capacity. There is no help."

He looked over his shoulder again—why did he keep doing that?—then turned back to her. A gloved hand smoothed the agitation creeping across his forehead. "What about the worthless friends you fight for? Where are they when you need them?"

The empty metal kit flew in his direction, crashing just in front of his feet. If she'd possessed an iota of spare strength, it would have been a direct hit. "My friends are still out there fighting—dying," she spat at him, "because of you."

As soon as the spark of anger subsided, Rey regretted the needless drain from her already waning energy. Her head felt woozy. The pain in her arm had started to fade, replaced by a chill that did not bode well.

"I gave no order of attack."

Maybe her hearing was failing too, because what she'd heard didn't make any sense. "You. . .what?"

He stepped closer; Rey responded by inching back until she bumped into the wall. Crouching next to her, his hooded cape spilled around him in a black pool of thick wool.

"I didn't order the attack," he reiterated, his voice quiet yet urgent.

"How can I trust you?"

It wasn't a question of if she believed him: she did. Even if her mind wanted to blame him, to curse him for his allegiance to the First Order, her heart accepted the sincerity he exuded in his statement. The part of his soul fused with hers through their bond revealed the truth.

His voice dropped to a murmur. "Have I ever lied to you?"

Her head lolled away from him, once again unable to meet the earnestness behind his expression, raw and unprotected—vulnerable. His eyes were her undoing: they exposed the light within him, separated Ben Solo from the title he had worn as a shroud against perceived weakness.

"Then who…?" she whispered.

"That usurping bastard: Hux."

When he said the name, she connected the signs. His panic, the frantic glances over his shoulder, the sense of alert that thrummed through him and into her consciousness. The implication became achinginly clear: "He's hunting you."

Ben grimaced, nodded, and immediately tried to reassure her. "I'm safe for now."

"You should go," she told him. "Escape while there's still a chance."

His jaw went slack with shock. Shaking his head in disbelief and denial, he calmly said, "Delaying my fate isn't worth your life."

If his worry over her survival cost him his own, Rey would never forgive herself. She had to make it out of this situation alive. All her life, she'd been a survivor; there was no way she would give up now.

Maybe the aged medical supplies scattered around her would do her no good, but she still had one option. She could try to heal herself using the Force. Granted, it would be a big undertaking; the blaster's plasma had sliced through layers of tissue and muscle. The most she'd ever healed had been the superficial cut on Ben's chest—a task which had exhausted her.

She imagined a wound of this nature would require even more skill and power than she had previously utilized. Rey's confidence in herself and her abilities wavered, though she supposed even a novice attempt at employing the regenerative power would be better than no attempt at all. Right?

Gingerly, she began untying the impromptu cloth bandage she'd fashioned from one of her arm wraps. The soaked fabric dripped red; the color stained her tunic and smeared down the exposed skin of her arm. While Rey had garnered her unfortunate share of injuries on Jakku, she'd never lost this much blood in one incident.

Ben watched, brows drawing together and eyes growing wider. "What are you doing?"

With a muffled grunt, she stripped the bandage away completely. Her breath came in short, shallow pants as fresh blood trickled from the blaster wound. "The Resistance can't lend me the aid I require," she acknowledged, "so I'm going to fix this myself."

Recalling her training from Ben, Rey's right hand hovered over the injury, barely an inch from the surface of her skin. You can do this, she thought as she centered herself, trying to push beyond the pain.

"Don't," Ben cautioned. "You're too weak. You're training is incomplete."

Both observations were true; she ignored him nonetheless. Focusing on the Force, she tried to connect the shredded muscle and tissue beneath her fingers while talking herself through the action. "I just—have to—control—"

"Stop it!"

"—the bleeding," Rey finished on a loud groan.

Her right arm went limp, landing in her lap. The exertion had wiped her out, but had done little to stem the bleeding or mend her wound; if anything, her efforts had left her worse off than when she'd started. As Ben had said, she was just too weak. She'd used too much energy fighting the First Order to use the Force to heal herself.

While death didn't scare her, she feared what would become of the man she'd given everything to save from the darkness if she succumbed to its fatal embrace. Ben Solo crouched beside her, though the current circumstances were nothing like the vision she'd had what seemed like a lifetime ago.

A sob rattled through her chest, tears following afterward. Their intertwined fates would amount to nothing if it ended now; she couldn't accept that.

Determined, the hand in her lap twitched and lifted slightly for a second attempt, knowing it would be her last if she failed.

A warm hand—large and uncalloused in comparison—encompassed hers. Skin-to-skin, the comforting touch begged her to open her eyes. They blinked apart just as his head bent forward, face curtained by dark tendrils of hair. His lips brushed against her knuckles.

When he spoke, his voice resonated with reverence, awe. "Idiot." He whispered it like a term of endearment. "You'll kill yourself like this."

"Wouldn't it have come to this eventually?" she asked, voice hollow. "My destruction? Yours?"

Her words knocked him to his knees. "How can you say that?" A clenched fist rapt against his chest over his heart. "I wanted you to be my queen. I wanted to worship you."

Rey could feel tears on her cheeks. Was she still angry with him for supporting the brutality of the First Order? Still hurt that he couldn't see the difference between worshiping her and loving her? Or did her sorrow stem from finally having Ben Solo kneeling in front of her and knowing her death would erase him from existence?

She couldn't let that happen. "Ben. . ."

Squeezing her hand to quiet her, he continued. "My vision was wrong. What I need isn't the First Order or to rule the galaxy. What I need is you. Only you, Rey."

With her good hand still enveloped within his, Rey raised her left hand to lay against the side of his face. Thumbing the scar against his cheek, she caressed him. He'd come into her life through violence; she resolved to leave him with love.

Leaning forward, she brought her lips to his. They felt warm against her own. Ben didn't move at first, frozen until her tenderness could thaw him. When he did slant his lips along her mouth, it was controlled and unhurried, light and giving—much different than the kiss they'd shared in his quarters. The surprise of his easy approach took her breath away.

When she could no longer support herself, Rey fell back against the wall and looked up at him through her lashes. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth. "A good note to leave on."

His gloved hand joined the ungloved one still holding onto hers, enfolding her in a contrasting grip. "You aren't going anywhere."

As soon as he'd uttered the declaration, he released his grasp and reached for a syringe filled with yellow liquid.

"What are you doing?" she asked, echoing his earlier words as he popped the cap from the needle. He worked quickly, almost mechanically, as composed and coolheaded as she had ever seen him.

"My father used to keep one of these kits on the Falcon," he explained, pushing on the plunger to discharge a small amount of the medicine and potential air bubbles. "I can't have you pass out on me now. I'll disappear."

She barely felt the prick in her thigh. As he rubbed the injection site to spread the medicine, Rey's body revved to life. Every nerve stood on alert, sending shockwaves of rippling pain to her injury. Her heart rate increased, pulse fluttering at her neck. Ben sensed the change, ducking his head to place a kiss against her throat in apology.

"I don't know if this will work. . .or if I have enough strength," he admitted grimly.

"You said that once before," she replied, remembering their experiment on Ahch-To.

He made one last comment, blunt and honest: "It's going to hurt."

She nodded once to show she understood. It couldn't hurt much worse than being shot, could it?

His ungloved hand hovered over the blaster wound, just as hers had. He closed his eyes, concentrating all his energy on the challenge. His breathing steadied and the muscles in his face relaxed as he reached for the Force. He appeared calm, and she marveled at how easily he could push aside his worry and desperation; his years of studying and training with the Force became strikingly apparent.

She realized, belatedly, how her foolhardy arrogance had almost ended her life in trying to heal herself without much experience.

Familiar white light emanated from his palm. At first, she felt a brush of heat at the site of her injury which brought back memories of the time he'd administered the Force on her bruise; nothing unpleasant. As he continued his ministrations, however, the fiery sensation grew and grew until it became almost unbearable.

"It burns!" she cried as tears tracked down her cheeks.

"Regenerating the tissue gives off heat, remember?" he reminded her, once again mentoring her through the process in a patient voice. "A wound this deep requires a great deal of repair."

The lesson fell on deaf ears: she was on fire. Her body arched, trying to tear itself away from the source of its distress. In response, his gloved hand came between them, palm placed in the center of her chest to steady her, to keep her from floating away from him, to tether her to a corporeal realm. The pressure holding her in place felt firm and weighty, but not crushing or restrictive.

"Breathe," he instructed, voice so soothing it sounded like it came from another entity altogether.

She did the opposite, gnashing her teeth together and huffing through the pain.

The briefest flash of a smile caught her attention. "You're stubbornness will get you killed one of these days," he chided with affection. "But that day remains on the distant horizon."

It was over.

He pulled away just far enough to look at his efforts. Rey glanced down at her shoulder as well. Where there had been a ragged hole, there was now a thick, pink scar. Rolling her shoulder experimentally, Rey winced at the lingering ache, but the tears on her face were from another feeling entirely.

Raising her right hand, she swept the sweat from his brow before carding her fingers through his hair and bringing his forehead down to rest against hers. She sensed the exhaustion within him, could only imagine how taxing it had been for him to heal her. Her worried mind brought the memory of Luke Skywalker to the forefront; after intensive use of the Force on Crait, he'd disappeared.

Would Ben disappear too?

"You're trembling," he observed.

"I thought that was you."

She noticed, now, that her body shivered uncontrollably. Her shoulders and arms shook despite her attempts to stop them. The adrenaline had nearly worn off, leaving her feeling sluggish and drowsy, chilled to the core.

With a fluid movement, Ben stood and removed his cloak. Careful that he didn't disturb her sensitive shoulder, he draped the cozy material over her. Then he glanced back again, as if he'd heard something her ears couldn't.

A stroke of panic ran up her spine, sensing his alarm as well. She dreaded the answer to the question she had to ask. "What is it?"

"Footsteps."

"Get out of there." Her warning became a demand. "Come to me."

He bent down, adjusting the cloak and brushing away a sweaty strand of hair glued against her forehead. "Don't do anything foolish for my sake."

She wanted to reach out to him, to hold on and keep him safe, but her body wouldn't cooperate. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed because she wouldn't acknowledge this was the end. "This isn't goodbye, Ben."