Chapter Text
“Mr. Solo needs to sign these.” Bazine Netal drops an inch-thick folder on her desk. “Now.”
Without taking her hands off the keyboard, Rey says, “You told me to transcribe—”
“I know what I said,” Bazine Netal cuts her off with a snap. “But right now this is what you need to do.”
A flash of anger so immediate makes the sides of Rey’s vision blur. She takes her hands off the keyboard to clasp one over her right wrist.
The pulsating pain came back Monday morning, when, over the weekend, she cleaned kitchens and bathrooms—scrubbing bathtubs, tiled floors, stovetops, counters, toilets, and sinks, eyes stinging from all the bleach and disinfectant. After the desk work she did in the day, she cleaned houses and apartments at night, and the pain in her right hand persisted throughout the week.
“These people are my clients. I don’t trust you to do their bedrooms and living rooms yet. When I know for sure you don’t have sticky fingers, we’ll see,” was all Jannah said by way of explanation regarding the division of labor.
Jannah drove them to the houses, let Rey use her cleaning supplies, and didn’t stiff Rey out over her half of the payments and tips.
Rey doesn’t know her last name. She’d only said to call her Jannah, and left it at that.
She’s serious, aloof, taciturn, and leaves Rey alone.
She likes Jannah a lot.
Unlike Bazine Netal, who’s being even more of an ice queen than usual today.
“Maybe you can do it,” Rey ventures, taking care to sound courteous. “You’re not doing anything right now, are you?”
“Or maybe…” Bazine Netal grinds out, “I’ve already seen my fair share of Mr. Solo’s tantrums this week, so now it’s your turn.”
It’s true that he’s been in a black mood for days, snapping at even the other lead engineers over simple slights and disagreements.
She hasn’t opened the spyware app since last week, so she doesn’t know what the angry outbursts are about. Nor should she care. She doesn’t care, in fact.
“I need to fax those to the Chinese clients in half an hour, so tell Mr. Solo it’s urgent.”
If Plutt hadn’t messed up her hand, she’d already be quitting First Order and doing the cleaning job full time.
Grinding her molars to stop herself from cussing Bazine Netal out, Rey stands and takes the folder without another word.
“I don’t fucking care what he said! We’re not going to use the cheap kind! Do you want the building to collapse on itself! Go back and tell him nothing is decided until I say so! Tell him if he tries something like this behind my back again I will personally ensure—”
Ben Solo notices her standing by the door.
Without warning the person on the other line, he drops the call and throws his phone down on the table.
He’s breathing hard from all the shouting, but when he speaks to her, his voice is just above a murmur. “Come in.”
They stare at each other for two, three beats before she walks over and places the folder in front of him. “I was told to wait until you’re done signing, sir.”
He nods, curt, before sitting and rifling through the papers, signing the tabbed pages with a practiced efficiency.
“This could be done digitally,” he mutters.
“I’m sorry, sir, I know you’re busy.”
“No, that’s not—” His hand flexes around his fountain pen. “You can sit. There’s a chair right there.”
“That’s all right, sir.”
His phone lights up with a call, but he doesn’t glance at it before turning it face down, and continues signing.
All around Ben Solo’s office, it’s quiet, with just the scribbling of his pen.
If she inspects the bags under his eyes, it’s only because she doesn’t have anywhere else to look.
When he’s halfway through the stack he places a hand on his forehead, as if his head is too heavy to carry around his neck, and sighs—long and heavy and hitching before tapering off.
She shifts in place, rubbing her wrist—and the scratching of his pen immediately stops.
Without looking up, Ben Solo says, “Your hand’s bothering you again.” His tone is decided, no uptick at the end to signal it’s a question.
She stills for a moment before promptly hiding both hands behind her back. “It’s not, sir.”
His frown deepens, jaw ticking, but says nothing more.
When he’s done, he takes his time putting the cap back on his fountain pen, stacking the papers, and closing the folder.
She reaches out to take it, but he grabs it first. “I just—” he starts, stops, mouth pressed in a tight line.
“Yes, sir?” she prompts, hand outstretched and waiting to be given the folder.
“Use your other hand,” he orders.
He’s pale, with red-rimmed eyes and scruff above his upper lip and chin. The freckles from the sun that she’d wanted to trace with her eyes again and again, gone.
“Take the folder with your right hand,” he repeats.
“I’m left-handed, sir.”
“No, you’re not, you’re right-handed.” His tone is stubborn, and brooks no argument.
“Sir, I just need the papers so Bazine can—”
“So take them.”
Biting her tongue to stop herself from saying something stupid, she reaches for the folder and tugs, but it doesn’t give. “Sir, I’m trying to—let go of the—”
He’s studying the pain relief patches wrapped around her little finger, the side of her hand, and her wrist. “Why is it worse,” he mutters, tone flat, voice barely audible.
“It’s really none of your business,” she huffs impatiently, “so can you just give me the—”
As soon as he loosens his hold on the folder, she snarls, “Thank you,” before striding out of Ben Solo’s office.
For the rest of the day, even during lunch, Ben Solo doesn’t leave his office.
His mood doesn’t improve, either, but in fact gets progressively worse.
In the late afternoon, she spies Armitage Hux and Gwen Phasma coming into his office, and it’s not long before she starts hearing three distinct voices shouting over one another. Gwen Phasma walks out after ten or so minutes of this, but Ben Solo and Armitage Hux go at it for significantly longer, that Rey—who isn’t interested in any of this at all, and in fact is actively trying not to hear—wonders if they wouldn’t permanently damage their vocal boxes this way.
When Ben Solo finally steps out, Armitage Hux in tow, looking harried and still clearly pissed off, she’s already packed her stuff, ready to log off work.
Seeing the two engineers lumbering in the direction of the indoor smoking area, she proceeds in the opposite way, where the elevators are.
The doors are just about to close when Ben Solo slams himself between the gap.
“Hey. I—” He places a hand on each side to keep the doors open. “I just—”
Pressing the hold button, she waits for him to continue. “Do you need anything, sir? Because I was just about to go.”
“Did I—did I say something? Or do something?”
She blinks. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Because I’ve thought about our last call so many times this week, and I can’t remember saying anything that might have upset or offended you. Was it when we were at the photocopy room? Did I say something then?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir, but I really need to—”
“Why have you stopped answering my calls?” His voice is hoarse, but soft, tone earnest, painfully so. “I tried calling you every night, but you’ve stopped answering. Is it—did Finn tell you to… because I’d understand if he did, but I just want to know if it’s that, or if I—”
Looking at a point past his shoulders, she says, “I’ve just been busy. I have to go now, so if you don’t need anything—”
“Wait, please. Please, I—” He wipes the beads of sweat on his forehead before quickly putting his hand back on the side of the elevator. “Whatever it is. Can you please… I’m sorry. Whatever it is that I said or did—”
“You didn’t say or do anything, sir.”
“So… so then, can I—”
“No, you can’t,” she cuts in, pressing the close button.
She presses it once more, twice, thrice until he finally drops his hands to his side. “Right,” he mutters, nodding, “of course.”
Ben Solo takes a step back, eyes downcast. “Understood... Understood.”
The elevator doors close.
Jannah tells her, as soon as Rey gets on the passenger seat, that she can do the living rooms and the kitchens now, and Jannah will do the bedrooms and the bathrooms.
“But if I catch you stealing anything—and I mean anything—an old, crumpled paper bill tucked between the folds of a sofa—I won’t hesitant to cut a bitch. Understood?”
Rey nods as she stares out the car window, hands clasped over her lap. “Understood,” she mumbles, turning all the way to her side to hide her face.
“Finn, you already sound drunk.” She taps her card, and the turnstile drops to let her pass through. Jogging a little, she gets to the platform just in time for the last train to slow down the track. “Are you sure this guy’s not like that pervert creep from last time?”
Despite the Friday—the week—she’s just had, she finds herself rolling her eyes and smiling a little as she listens to Finn’s garbled talk on the other line. “I’m talking about the tall one who then tried to steal your wallet... You were convinced he was your soulmate too.”
She spots Ben Solo’s tall frame folded on the bench. Immediately, she can tell he saw her first, because he’s got a horrified look on his face.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she mutters, before ending the call and tugging her earphones off.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Ben Solo blurts, “or I wouldn’t—”
“It’s public transportation, sir,” she monotones, dropping on the seat across from him. “You’re free to use it whenever you want.”
He lets a beat pass before leaning back on his seat and saying, “You’re just going home now?”
“Yes.”
She pretends to sift through the contents of her backpack to appear too preoccupied to be spoken to, and Ben Solo, she guesses, takes the hint, because he remains quiet on his side of the train car.
It’s only when the doors open and close at the next stop that she realizes something.
Looking up quickly, she finds that Ben Solo is already staring at her, chewing the inside of his cheek in contemplation. “Your stop—you need to get off the train now,” she stammers. “You’ve missed your stop… six stops ago.”
He straightens in his seat, rubbing a hand on the back of his head. “I, uh, I’m not going home yet… I want to stay here a bit more.”
“What?” she scoffs.
“I know it’s weird,” he allows. “But my dog’s with the sitter, and it’s fine, I just—it feels better here, so.”
“Where are you getting off then?”
“At the last stop.”
“But that’s—”
“I can transfer seats if you want,” he offers in an appeasing tone. “Do you want me to—”
“You can sit wherever you want, it’s a free country,” she snaps. “Sir,” she adds, a little late.
She goes back to rummaging through her bag, opening a new pack of pain relief patches and focusing on peeling the day-old ones off.
Because her wrist is killing her, and she can’t really let any expression pass through her face with Ben Solo’s eyes trained on her like that, it takes her longer to wrap her right hand with fresh patches. By the time she’s through, her pinkie’s started spasming uncontrollably.
She only realizes that the train’s slowing down for her stop because Ben Solo clears his throat to speak. “See you on Monday?” he asks, hesitant, brows raised a little, eyes doleful and pleading.
And it’s that stupid, stupid expression on his face that derails all her thoughts.
She stands abruptly, and having forgotten that all the pockets of her backpack are open, her things scatter across the aisle between them.
“Shit—”
“Here, let me—”
“Don’t, I can—”
“Please, just—”
“No, leave it—”
She’s out the train, cramming her wallet and her sweaty t-shirt inside her bag, before Ben Solo could say good night.
Her life has never been fair, but it feels particularly unfair tonight, because her pinkie won’t stop contracting with pain, her right hand completely useless at her side, as she roots inside her backpack for her missing apartment keys.
Plutt, of course, has to show his mug again tonight—whistling and taking his leisurely time as he climbs the steps up the hill.
Her Mace spray isn’t in the front pocket of her bag either, because why would it be, just when she needs it.
As her hand grasps the handle of the ice pick, her heart thuds. It's only further proof that she has the most rotten luck.
She turns and kicks the rusty gate of her and Finn’s apartment before facing Plutt again, warning, “If you take one more step, I’m going to kill you."
Plutt laughs derisively, showing his row of yellow teeth, before continuing his ascent, assured that he’s trapped her.
She flings her backpack on the ground and runs down the steps.
It’s only the surprise that slows Plutt to react in defense and allows her to stab the ice pick on his fleshy thigh.
He falls to the ground with a shriek, and she plants the ice pick once, twice, thrice.
“Rey?”
Plutt’s high-pitched cries are deafening.
The more hurt he sounds, the more she wants to drive the sharp, pointed end on his buttery sinews.
“Rey!”
She’s only stabbing his leg, but maybe she will actually kill him, why not, she thinks, delirious with rage.
“Rey.”
A hand closes around her forearm, but she shakes it off to thrust the ice pick over Plutt’s heart.
“No, Rey.” Ben Solo grips her left wrist and snatches the ice pick, leaving her empty handed, so she starts kicking Plutt in the ribs, but with an arm across her waist Ben Solo drags her off Plutt’s prone figure, now whimpering pathetically and clutching at his pant leg, red blooming across the frayed denim.
“No, I’m going to kill him,” she cries. “Let me go, I’m going to kill him, get off—”
Ben Solo's heart is beating so fast. That must be his heart, because her ear is pressed against his chest.
“Shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
When he runs a hand through her hair, and rests it on her nape, holding her in place, something brittle inside her breaks and she starts sobbing into his shirt collar.
“That bitch and her brother owe me money.”
Ben Solo’s wide back hides Plutt from her view. “If you call her that again, I’ll snap your spine in half. Just try and see if I don’t mean it.” He takes his wallet out of his back pocket.
She’d protest, tell him he shouldn’t give Plutt anything, but she’s drained of all energy and will to do much of anything besides take the next shaky inhale.
From the stair step where she’s perched, she rests her head on her knees and closes her eyes, willing everything to disappear, or be a bad dream.
“How much do you want? Is that enough?”
“Enough for now. I’ll be back next month to collect—”
“No, you won’t… Take that card. Look at the address on that thing… I’ll meet you there tomorrow.”
“My business is legal. I have a permit and all that.”
“Yeah. I just bet you fucking do... If you don’t show up tomorrow at ten, I’m going to call the police on you. I can do that. Just one phone call, and I can do that. Do you think I'm bluffing?”
“She and her brother came to me willingly, and took out a loan. I’m only trying to make a living, same as—”
“We’ll settle the loan tomorrow. Ten. Skywalker Legal... Now fuck off because I’ve seen too much of your fucking face, and if I see any more of it, I’m going to use her ice pick and poke holes until it’s mangled to fuck. Don’t open your stupid fucking mouth, walk away now or I’m going to kill you myself.”
When she hears Plutt limping away, she starts crying again.