Unlucky Us

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/23825107.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Relationship: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Kylo Ren/Rey,
Rey/Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo, Kylo Ren & Rey
Character: Rey (Star Wars), Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Kylo Ren, Ben Solo, Han Solo,
Leia Organa
Additional Tags: Character Death, Death, Road Trips, Alternate Universe, Alternate
Universe - Modern Setting, POV Rey (Star Wars), Forced Bonding,
there's only one bed, Explicit Sexual Content, Dirty Talk, Rough Sex,
Dark Ben Solo, Snark, Banter, Slow Burn, Consensual Non-Consent,
Angst, Car Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Stats: Published: 2020-04-24 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1258

Unlucky Us
by Onyx_and_Elm

Summary

This time last week, Ben Solo was the furthest thing from Rey’s mind.

But she owes Leia everything. And if Leia can’t stand the thought of Han’s remains flying
back to her — can’t stand the thought of him ever going up into the air again — then Rey
won’t let that happen.

Even if it means driving across the country with the man she hates the most.

Even then.

The worst part about this is that it's all so painfully fucking avoidable.

None of this would have to happen if Leia could learn to put her foot down — ever — when it
comes to her son. It doesn't help that she’s so good at putting it down when it comes to everything
else.

None of this would have to happen if Rey still had her license, and she’d definitely still have her
license if Ben Solo somehow miraculously ceased to exist.

And absolutely none of this would have to happen if Han wasn't — wasn't — past tense, and god if
that doesn’t make her throat swell until it’s hard to breathe…but it wouldn't have to happen if Han
wasn’t Han. The way he is — was — about everything.
And now he's nothing. A body in a box. What’s left of it. What they could find.

And soon he’ll just be ashes.

Rey's gotten sick twice this morning just thinking about it, and she's normally so proud of her
strong stomach. The nerves don't help. Because she's not just dealing with the death of the most
important person in the world to her, here — she’s also insanely fucking nervous.

Up until this point, Ben Solo was able to rot his way through her life as nothing more than a name.
No face to it — there are no pictures of him in Leia’s house, at least not out in the open. Han never
showed her the one she knows he kept tucked in his wallet. No, Rey has no idea what he looks
like. But from everything she's heard — everything she knows after growing up in his absence,
after filling up his space — it's pretty easy for her to picture him.

She sits on the curb in front of Ilum County Mortuary, watching the cab pull in and picturing as
many sweat-stained, beer-gutted, dead-eyed brutes as her imagination can churn up. She'll have to
keep the window rolled down the whole way, she thinks, if he smells as bad as she thinks he will
and they're forced to share a confined space. Drunks and ex-cons smell, right? Like bad habits.

She hopes he’s as ugly as his history.

Except, in retrospect, she should’ve been considering the source. Han and Leia — both far too
good-looking to produce anything but. She should’ve known he’d step out of that cab with Han’s
stature and Leia’s eyes.

But Rey’s too busy thinking about the possibility of prison tats and maybe even possibly some
fangs.

Which is why she’s so unprepared when the real Ben Solo slams the cab door. Her hand slips
where it’s propped on the curb and scrapes across the rough asphalt, tearing open.

“Bleeding fuck!” she hisses, immediately bringing the shredded flesh to her mouth. It’s the first
two words she’s ever said to him.

Because Ben Solo is not a bald, grotesque, sweaty man, as he should be. He is —

Well, he’s absurdly easy on the eyes. Inky black hair falling low over dark brows. An equally dark
gaze, rimmed by lashes so thick any woman would be jealous. A strangely disarming and
prominent nose. And lips — his lips are a big problem.

To make matters worse, he’s also enormous.

She can’t help but let her eyes trace the length of him as she sucks the blood from her palm. Well
over six feet. Shoulders like a mountain range. Body like a freight train. A simple black t-shirt and
jeans has never been so not simple.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He stops in front of her at the curb as the cab pulls away, a duffel bag hanging at his side.

“Normally how you say hello?” he asks, and his voice is way too low. Way, way, way too low —
rich and layered and momentarily disorienting.
Rey feels the sudden urge to slap herself. Forces her brain to flood with the memories of everything
he’s done to his family and — by the transitive property — to her. The sudden burst of indignation
goes straight to her knees, helping her to her feet.

She narrows her eyes at him. Turns her head to spit the blood out onto the concrete, but when he
says, “Nice,” in a dry, mocking tone she sort of wishes she’d aimed for his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she grates out, despite being suddenly conscious of their size difference.
The ridiculous amount of feet separating the top of her head from his.

His face is impassive. Blank. “Your eyes are swollen,” is all he says.

It throws her off, and for a moment she can’t help but open and close her mouth like a fish, staring
up at him. “I’ve been crying—”

“Why?” He cocks his head to the side, just slightly. His face is still expressionless.

Rey gestures incredulously at the doors to the mortuary behind her.

Ben only shrugs. “I’m his son. Not you. Why are you crying?”

His coldness is like a brick to the face. She splutters again, blood starting to simmer. “Because I’m
upset. I’m — I’m horrified. Because — because he deserves to have someone cry for him.”

“Waste of time,” Ben says flatly.

Jesus Christ. Less than a minute into meeting him and she’s already seething.

“It shouldn’t be you,” she growls. “It should be literally anyone but you.”

Ben blinks slowly at her, the way someone blinks at a stupid person. “Leia wants it done this way.”

Leia. Leia. Of course he doesn’t call her ‘mom.’

Rey swallows back something particularly vicious, opting instead to repeat, “You shouldn’t be—”

He cuts her off like a sharp knife. “No, you shouldn’t be here.” And he leans down over her,
drawing more attention to his size — making her feel small — his eyes suddenly blazing. “You’re
not real family. You can’t even legally accept the remains. What right do you have to be here?”

The rage that blossoms in her chest has her speaking through gritted teeth. She goes his route.
“Leia wants me here.”

“Yeah. Unlucky me,” he hisses, and before she can think up a sufficiently biting response he’s
shoving past her. He throws open the mortuary door so hard it smacks against the adjacent wall.
“Let’s get this over with.”

Rey stares after him, breathing hard, hands gathered into bloodless fists.

She suddenly doesn’t know if she can do this. Suddenly finds herself impossibly angry at Leia and
her wishes.

All her life, she’s trusted that woman. Idolized her. She’d — she’d do anything for Leia. Especially
after everything Leia’s done for her.

But this? Why did she have to want this?

Leia — always so reasonable and forward-thinking — somehow thinks it’s a good idea to force her
disgraced son and his goddamned replacement into the same car for three days.

This time last week, that would’ve been a fever dream.

This time last week, Han’s stunt plane hadn’t exploded at 31,000 feet. Hadn’t plummeted down
into the unforgiving cold of the Atlantic.

This time last week, they weren't planning funerals.

This time last week, Ben Solo was the furthest thing from Rey’s mind.

But she owes Leia everything. And if Leia can’t stand the thought of Han’s remains flying back to
her — can’t stand the thought of him ever going up into the air again — then Rey won’t let that
happen.

Even if it means driving across the country with the man she hates the most.

Even then.

Digging her fingernails into her palms, Rey sets her jaw and follows Ben into the mortuary.

“Unlucky us,” she corrects darkly under her breath. “Unlucky us.”

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