Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     “Was it your idea?” Rey asks, her back to him.
     Kylo Ren can’t see her face, but he thinks she’s watching the waves roll across the ocean, the same ocean in the vision he’d pulled from her mind. He almost smiles at that, that this place now holds significance not just for her, but for them.
     He closes his eyes, pulls in a deep breath that smells of seaweed and salt, and tries to centre himself before he answers her question. He exhales, barely noticing the air leave his lungs, the sound lost under the tides crashing against the cliff face. An apt metaphor for our relationship.
     Relationship is far too strong a word. He’s not heard Rey’s voice outside of his dreams for over half a year, not caught so much as a glance of her across their bond. And while it had been laughably easy for General Hux to locate the last members of the Resistance after they’d escaped from Crait, Emperor Ren definitely did not laugh when he was advised that Rey was not with them. She’s evaded him so thoroughly that he was almost surprised when, a few minutes ago, she allowed him to contact her through the Force after six months of silence.
     Six months, three days, and five hours.
     “Well, was it? Your idea?”
     “No,” he says, voice catching in his throat. “I wouldn’t do this. You know that.”
     She doesn’t press further. At least she’s willing to accept him at his word.
     And he’s glad to have her trust, of course he is, but it’s a bit unfortunate, too. She’s right that he won’t lie, but he also knows he won’t tell her everything. He’s no fool.
     And he can’t fault her for asking. Emperor Ren really is certain he wouldn’t put her in this situation, because he’s already considered it, more than once. Dwelled on it, in those first few weeks after Rey had turned him down in the throne room.
     “Who proposed it then?”
     Nice choice of words, that. “High Command,” he says. “Also, the strategy team. I don’t know which group was first.”
     He tells her that they likely drew inspiration from a common source, a recording of the two of them together that she doesn’t seem to know about. Wherever Rey is, it must be devoid of modern technology. That’s the only way to account for her having never seen that goddam scrap of surveillance footage that survived the Supremacy’s crash, leaked onto the Holonet by a yet-unidentified technician with a desire to die slowly. How many times had Kylo suffered through watching that clip? One of his Knights had a hidden talent for splicing, apparently, because somebody kept looping the feed into the Finalizer’s bridge displays, and nobody else would dare to do that and presume they’d survive. The control panels certainly hadn’t.
     Emperor Ren also knows that many others campaigned for this outcome with uninhibited enthusiasm, once those images began to circulate: his entire civilian staff, a majority of the military, and of course, the Knights of Ren.
     And then there’s the small matter of the rest of the galaxy, thanks again to a “well-placed source” leaking the story to the free press (which Kylo very much regrets reinstating). A deliberate leak, no doubt, to gauge reception. And what a reception it received. Inspired, the masses gushed. Enchanting. Romantic.
     Not the words Rey would use, of course.
Rey has hardly used any words at all, but Kylo can tell from her posture, from the crunch of her heels digging into gravel, that she’s about to.
     “Is it from the throne room?” That’s not what he was expecting her to ask, not even close. And she’s still, still not turning around. He should be insulted, offended by this stubborn dismissal, but instead, he’s bemused.
     “Not there, no. Snoke didn’t permit recording in his personal areas.” It’s a small mercy — the only one Kylo Ren’s been afforded in decades, as far as he’s concerned — that no permanent record exists of that disastrous interlude. “When — when we walked to the turbolift.”
     The clip is soundless, and only a few seconds long, but it’s striking nonetheless. He knew it would be. Kylo Ren didn’t spend years wearing a mask just to emulate his grandfather’s armour. He’s always had an expressive face. So expressive, it turns out, that trillions of beings now know exactly what he was thinking when he came upon a certain member of the Resistance reposed in an escape pod. He’d needed to call upon the Force to conceal his feelings from Snoke long enough to kill him.
     And then everything went to absolute hell. Why, with bodies at his feet and the smell of fire in the air, did he feel the need to tell Rey to let the past die, even though with his master’s death he’d already done exactly that? Kylo had been so suddenly untethered from Snoke’s mind that he could barely fight off half the praetorian guard, let alone form a coherent thought free from dark impulses. He knows now that refusing to save Rey’s friends and calling her nothing was not his best moment. So of course she chose that pathetic group of self-styled freedom fighters over him. And then — then he could do nothing to stop his merciless rage, did not pause to even consider that she was on board the Millennium Falcon when he ordered it shot out of the sky.
     “If it’s not your idea, Emperor Ren, then you should have refused.”
     Hearing her use his title, even with disdain, sends a shiver of sparks down Kylo’s spine. He hopes she’ll say it again, especially if circumstances between them improve.
     “I did refuse,” he tells her, “quite enthusiastically, as a matter of fact.” The image of half a dozen members of High Command dangling in the air, pawing at invisible hands around their throats, drifts unbidden through the bond, along with a sense of immense satisfaction.
     That’s enough to make Rey finally turn around, looking every bit as beautiful — and every bit as shocked — as when the Skywalker lightsaber flew into her hand on Starkiller.
     “I didn’t kill them,” Kylo says, and shrugs. He bets Vader would have. But Kylo’s worked hard to govern his temper, given what it cost him at Crait. He’s still the Emperor of the galaxy, though, and no light side Force user. Best manage Rey’s expectations about that now. Besides, he thinks to himself, they deserved it, collectively implying this arrangement was not only strategically sound, but the only way Kylo could get what he wanted.
     It stung.
     He’s certain Rey didn’t sense that last thought, but she’s still staring at him, the expression on her lovely face as cold as the ocean behind her. But then he catches a glimpse of something through their bond. Surprise, he thinks, and — dismay? The feelings disappear before he can study them further. She can’t really be surprised by his flawless execution of his grandfather’s trademark chokehold, can she? And kindhearted though she is, he doubts she cares enough about the First Order brass to be upset by their asphyxiation. He did let them live, after all. Before he can ask her to clarify, she continues her line of questions.
     “How did we end up in this situation, if you don’t want to do this either?”
     Either. As in he doesn’t want this — a misinterpretation his pride won’t allow him to correct — and neither does she.
     He didn’t expect her to. Not really. She’d made her feelings clear when she reached for a lightsaber instead of his hand in the throne room. And in case that act was somehow ambiguous, she followed it up by leaving him knocked out and ready to die on the durasteel floor while the Supremacy collapsed. Message received.
     But not by his heart, pitiful as it is, because this newest rejection still feels like shards of glass sliding between his ribs.
     “I’d thought the matter closed,” he replies, hoping to dislodge the sensation of a knife in his chest, “but then someone leaked a draft of the announcement, and — ” he holds his arms out, a gesture of helplessness he does not recall ever making before “— and here we are.”
     “Here we are,” she repeats.
     “Rey, I am sorry.” He really is. For things he has done, and for what he’s going to do later. For the secrets he’s still keeping.
     “It’s not your fault,” Rey allows, lips pressed together.
     Causally, she’s correct. He hadn’t approved the document for circulation, hadn’t been consulted on its contents. He’d known nothing of it at all, not even who wrote it, until it was transmitted across his entire domain.
     It was brilliant political maneuvering. The sort of scheme General Organa would dream up, if she thought more of him or less of Rey. But the resistance leader — he refuses to think of her in other terms — would never consign Rey to this fate, would never force her into his arms after he’d failed to convince her that was where she belonged.
     He really should kill the Knights of Ren.
     But now it’s done. Kylo can’t retract the very public terms of the truce without suffering fallout from his inner circle, who know the value of this alliance goes far beyond optics, and the majority of his subjects, who are all rather taken with the idea of a beautiful Empress to moderate their ill-tempered Emperor. He can hardly blame them for that. And if Rey refuses, she’ll embolden the dissenters, whose numbers grow daily despite the resistance being all but obliterated. Rey’s rejection might even incite full-scale war. Kylo doesn’t know how closely Rey follows the political landscape, if she’s aware that a spattering of Core Worlds are preparing to rise up against his rule, but if she does, she knows the Last Jedi allying herself with Emperor Ren might be the only way to prevent open rebellion.
     And then there are the other considerations, which Rey knows nothing about. He’s going to keep it that way for as long as he can. 
     “I have a question,” she says, eyes downcast. A small rock lying in front of her foot has suddenly become fascinating. “What would be…” she struggles to phrase it politely, a faint blush erupting across her cheeks.
     “Expected of you?” Kylo’s quick to ask. Very quick. “Nothing. Just proximity, and public politeness.”
     Her eyes shift to his, her relief obvious. Kylo tries not to wince.
     “Alright,” she says, her tone terribly casual for someone who just committed to spending the rest of her life married to, well, him. “I accept.”

Chapter Text

     Kylo Ren plunges his lightsaber into the chest plate of another BX-Training Series Battle Droid. It collapses to the floor, carcass sparking, to join the rest. The smell of burnt metal rushes into his lungs, but his urge to cripple, to hurt, is not nearly satisfied.
     “Are you done?”
     “No,” Kylo replies. Three Commando Units march forward, blasters raised in attack position. Ordinarily, he’d practice his swordplay by deflecting their shots, then freeze and redirect the bolts. But those are precision skills. They require concentration and a calm disposition — calm for him, anyway. And that’s a mental state far beyond his current reach. He fists his left hand instead, crushing the droids with an ear-scraping crunch. It’s not enough. He channels his anger and frustration into his fingertips and arcs of blue lightning shoot towards the heap for good measure.

“Do you need something?”
Jacen Ren shrugs. If the first Knight of Ren is alarmed by the Emperor’s display of power, he conceals it well. “Just wanted to see how it went with the girl. If this is any indication —” his voice trails off, arm sweeping across the piles of singed debris “ — I take it, not well?”
      Kylo extinguishes his lightsaber. ”No, not well.”
     “No matter. These things take time.” Jacen claps his hand on Kylo’s shoulder, a gesture that belies their longstanding friendship. Few people in the galaxy can touch the Emperor without losing their arm. Few would even try. “It will work out eventually.”
     But Kylo doesn’t see it that way. He shakes his head, sweat-slicked hair sticking to the sides of his face. “She hates me.” He knows he sounds pathetic, knows that this conversation is beyond unbecoming a Dark Lord of the Force, but now that he’s started, the words just keep spewing out. “And even if she doesn’t — if by some miracle that changes — we both know how this will end.” With another rejection, and abject misery. “Perhaps,” the knight hedges, “but perhaps she’ll be swayed to join our cause before we need to take our next steps. It will help, that she will be here with us in the meantime.”
Kylo’s lips twitch upward, equivalent to half a smile on another person’s face. He knows his knights didn’t meddle in his love life to secure a tactical advantage, but he appreciates the redirection nonetheless. It’s easier to save face when assessing the scenario objectively.
     “Maybe. But what if she won’t cooperate?” It’s a question Kylo has struggled with from the moment he knew what had to be done, a question he can’t — won’t — answer.
      Jacen is not concerned. “What choice will she have? The other option — “
      “Is not an option,” Kylo grits out, his jaw clenched so hard one of his molars cracks.
     The other option is Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master, Resistance Saviour, and would-be nephew killer, though most people are happy to gloss over that last bit.
     If life was fair, Skywalker would be dead. Kylo is certain his uncle projected himself beyond the limit of his powers to pantomime that lightsaber duel on Crait. He felt the self-styled Rebel Hero’s force signature waver out of existence. But in typical Son-of-the-Chosen-One fashion, it blinked right back. And that means that the galaxy’s new Emperor made a fool of himself for nothing.
     It also means that said Emperor’s reluctant fiancee has been training with his enemy on whatever backwater planet Snoke discovered in Rey’s mind, but didn’t deign to identify out loud. Although I suppose he would have, Kylo admits, if I hadn’t cut him in half with my grandfather’s lightsaber first.
     “You worry too much,” Jacen tells him. “Everything is going according to plan.
”Your plan,” Kylo amends. “I still might kill you for this.”
“I know,” Jacen replies, dismissing the empty threat for what it is. “But this was a team effort. You wouldn’t kill all of us, would you?”
“Probably not,” Kylo mutters.    

—————

     “You know, I’ve always wanted a niece.”
     “That’s your reaction to this?” Rey, still standing on the rock face overlooking the ocean, is stunned. “What am I supposed to do now?”
     “Exactly what you said you would do,” Luke advises, sounding like he’s trying, and failing, to school his tone into something a little more severe. He must realize Rey isn’t placated, because he tacks on a very serious-sounding “...all is as the Force wills it.”
“As the Force wills it? What’s that supposed to mean?”
     Rey has learned a lot about the mysterious power she can manipulate, but while she respects it, is sometimes — not currently — grateful for it, she spent far too long holed-up in an abandoned AT-AT to believe in destiny.
     “Perhaps we should commune with the Council,” Luke suggests, stroking his beard, but there’s still a glint of mischief in his eyes.
     “You just want to tell Master Skywalker. I bet he’ll be as thrilled as you are.”
     Luke can’t quite manage to stifle a laugh. “Your mind-reading powers have certainly improved.”
     “So has your disposition towards Kylo Ren,” Rey snaps. She absolutely will not call him by any other name.
     “I could have said the same to you, not long ago.”
     Damn him.
     “Yes, well, that was before he tried to kill me. And you. And all our friends. Why are you suddenly so charitable?”
     “I don’t believe he's ever tried to kill you. Not really.”
     Sure felt like it. Rey is aware that Jedi do not indulge their anger, but it’s been an eventful afternoon, and she’s moments away from lashing out. She takes a centering breath, and then another.
Rey and Luke have scarcely mentioned the new Emperor since she resumed her training. Her silence is motivated by sheer distaste (and the desire to skirt an admittedly deserved “I told you so”), but it seems Luke hasn’t been avoiding the topic for the same reasons. Rey watches him now as he stares off into the distance, Ahch-To’s twin suns blazing in the sky behind him. It takes him a few minutes to gather his thoughts.
“I was granted a Force vision,” he tells her, “when I was in the World Between Worlds.”
     “You’re making that up.”
     “I’m not,” he replies, straightening his posture. “It was... enlightening.”
    “Really? What did you see?”
“I can’t say.”
     Is Luke teasing her? He no longer looks like he is. But while Rey readily accepts that her Master will keep things to himself whenever it suits him, she highly doubts he lets Force messages dictate his behaviour. Even Rey has absorbed that lesson. All she had to do was space-mail herself to the First Order flagship and watch the disaster that followed.
“Let me get this straight. You’ve been gifted knowledge of the future, which has caused you to completely change your perspective on the galaxy’s current autocratic ruler, and you can’t talk about it?”
“I appreciate the irony,” Luke says, declining to reveal whatever the Force decided to show him. “And — to be clear — I’m not thrilled. It’s an awkward arrangement and I expect many challenges ahead. But I’m also hopeful that your influence will continue to reach Ben where others have failed.”
     “Some influence,” Rey mutters, willing herself not to dwell on what happened in the Supremacy’s throne room.
     But Luke has warmed to the theme. “He killed Snoke for you,” he reminds her. “He turned away from darkness, for the brief period of time he believed you were his ally. Do not underestimate his call to the light.”
Rey hates when Luke’s like this. This erudite facade suits him even less than the crotchety personality he adopted when she first arrived on Ahch-To. Next he’ll start reading from the sacred texts she borrowed — and returned, once all the Force ghosts promised not to light them on fire.
But Rey’s terse response dies on her lips, interrupted by the rumble of engines that could only belong to one ship.
     “Looks like my ride’s here.”

——-

     The loading ramp hasn’t even hit the ground before Finn comes bounding out of the Millennium Falcon, pulling Rey into his arms and kissing the top of her hair. She’ll never get over the easy affection this former stormtrooper shows to his friends. But the moment grows serious.
     “You’re not thinking of doing it,” he says. “Are you?”      Rey doesn’t meet his eyes, waiting for the rest of their retinue to disembark. “Do you have a better idea?”      “I do,” Poe interjects, bringing Rey in for a quicker hug of his own. “Throw yourself off this cliff face. No offence, General.”
     “None taken, Commander.” Leia’s slower to tread down the ramp these days, flanked by Chewie, Kaydel, and Rose, who are trying, and failing, to inconspicuously position themselves to grab their leader if she falls over.
     That’ll be the day. Leia may be as battle worn as the ship they arrived in, but her health has steadily improved since Crait. She turns to Rey, kind eyes assessing the young woman who is now, apparently, her son’s betrothed. “You could certainly do better.”

 Chewie signals his agreement in half-growled Shyriiwook. 
     “Thank you,” Rey replies, nearly scowling at Luke, who has joined the rest of the group as they stand in a loose circle.
     “We can still try to find a work-around,” Kaydel suggests, but it’s more of a question than a statement.    Rey appreciates the sentiment, but shakes her head. “It’s fine. It’s as the Force wills it.”
     Maybe it is, Rey decides, from a certain point of view. Luke’s insight is far from compelling, but that doesn’t make it untrue. Maybe the future she saw when she touched hands with Kylo Ren across the Force bond is still possible. She’d only caught glimpses, after all, a jumble of images patched together. She’d been left with the impression that the two of them would stand together and bring peace to the galaxy. Wasn’t that what she’d just committed to doing?
     “I think it won’t be so bad,” Rose pipes up, thrusting a discreet elbow into Kaydel’s ribcage.
     “You could be right,” the other woman chokes out. “It’s an arms-length marriage, after all. So you’ll what, live in a separate wing of the Palace? Or your own Palace?”
     Rey has no idea, and is starting to realize she failed to hammer out some important details before signing on. But Kaydel’s determination to rally with optimism, and Rose’s application of duress to produce it, are too endearing to quash. “It’ll be alright. Purely political. My only obligations are proximity (which probably rules out separate domiciles) and public politeness.”
     It’s Rose’s turn to press. “What does that mean?”
Rey doesn’t know what that means. She should have asked more questions, should have asked for more time, should’ve done any number of things beyond blindly agreeing to follow through with this ridiculous scheme.
     Stupid, stupid, stupid.
     Leia Organa may not have finished her Jedi training, but she’s Force-sensitive enough to sense that Rey is spiralling into panic. She reaches out to place a reassuring hand on her arm. “My son is many things, but he will undoubtedly behave like a Prince of Alderaan.”
     “Absolutely,” Luke quickly agrees.
     Rey wonders how they can possibly know that Kylo Ren will govern himself according to the aristocratic expectations of a long-destroyed planet, and what those expectations even are, but Rose and Kaydel are looking at her wide-eyed and full of hope. Even Finn looks less nauseous. They need to accept this assurance at face value, Rey realizes, so she will too, for their sake. If it feels uncomfortably like she’s reverted to a maladaptive coping mechanism — they’ll be back, I just have to wait a little longer — well, at least it’s familiar.
     Poe has been uncharacteristically quiet. Forever the tactician, it turns out he’s far more concerned about the non-interpersonal aspects of this arrangement. “Don’t worry guys. Rey can handle herself. What I want to know is if it will even work? Will it prevent another massacre?”
     “For now,” Leia advises. “The core world coalition has provisionally ceded negotiating authority to the Resistance, and agreed to cease hostilities while they evaluate Rey’s influence on Ren’s regime.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to have much influence,” Rey interjects, repeating what she said to Luke just before her friends arrived. “This is basically a public relations stunt.”
“Even if it is, you can use that proximity to your advantage,” Luke tells her.
     “And he did ask you to marry him,” Kaydel says, overcompensating for her initial alarm. “Surely that means something?”
     “It doesn’t. And he didn’t,” Rey corrects her, having noticed — but is in no way disappointed by — the distinct absence of any such question in the Force bond discussion she’d had with the Emperor. “He’s as trapped as I am, spinning damage control. The idea came from his advisors, and it was leaked it to the press.”
     Rose is shaking her head.“Sure, but what about before, when —“
     The look Rey shoots her could melt the ice caps on Hoth. Rey had given others an edited summary of what had happened on the Supremacy, but Rose knew the full content of the conversation that led to Rey reaching for a lightsaber instead of an outstretched hand. It had been unnervingly easy, to confide in her new friend while they kept watch in the cockpit of the Falcon, the rest of the group passed out from exhaustion, or in Poe’s case, a secret stash of Corellian brandy. As the details poured out — every word, every gesture — Rey hoped that Rose would help her understand how things had gone so wrong, so quickly. Hadn’t it been Ben Solo, not Kylo Ren, who’d saved her from Snoke? But if so, that meant he’d turned to the light, only to revert back to darkness moments later. Rose was no help there. She seemed more interested in whether I want you to join me meant something beyond an offer to co-rule an empire. Rey admitted that in the moment, she’d thought maybe it did, given the look on Kylo’s face, the way he’d stared into her eyes and said please... but he’d also called her nothing and refused to stop her friends from being blown up. Surely that wasn’t meant to be romantic? No one could be that clueless. And then he’d ordered no quarter given, for the Millennium Falcon to be destroyed with all of them on board... Rose called that “the extreme overreaction of a heartbroken fool,” but Rey knew better. She had no experience with real-life relationships, but she’d watched more than enough holovids to know that people don’t try to kill who they love, no matter how disappointed they are.

Chapter Text

     Rose isn’t the only one who believes Emperor Ren is besotted, a fact Rey learns while reinforcing one of the Falcon’s transparisteel viewports. She wonders if it’s rude to spend her last hours with the Resistance completing maintenance chores, but it’s better than sitting around. And she likes the company. Mostly.

     “Say that again, R2?” Rey considers herself proficient in binary, but she struggles to parse meaning from all his rapid-fire beeps and whirs. The little droid signals his frustration with a low whistle before repeating himself.      “Oh, I see,” Rey says, running a strip of duratape across the viewport’s inner casing. “I haven’t watched the clip on the holonet, no, but I don’t need to. I was there.”

     Rey has avoided the news for months. Officially, she’s motivated by skepticism. She doubts the “independent media” is anything more than a First Order propaganda machine. Why would the Emperor reinstate freedom of the press, knowing it will inevitably criticize his regime? This explanation satisfies Rey’s friends, and it’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. Rey’s other reason for shunning galactic newsfeeds is far more embarrassing. She doesn’t want to see or hear about Kylo Ren. And she definitely doesn’t need to suffer through a replay of any part of her time on the Supremacy. But apparently R2 thinks otherwise.

     “It really wasn’t like that,” she replies when he suggests Ben Solo looked at her like she held all the stars in the sky. And since when are droids so romantic? Rey wonders if she should check R2’s language banks for a syntax error. He’s not making any sense, suggesting she can use the Emperor’s obvious affection to maximum tactical advantage.

     “Sorry, but there’s nothing to maximize. Kylo Ren thinks I’m worthless. He basically said so in Snoke’s throne room.” Of course that part wasn’t broadcast to the galaxy.

     Before the droid can argue further, Rey hears the hum of engines breaking atmosphere, a vessel touching down near the Falcon. She tenses, not expecting any visitors ahead of her departure.

     Before she can go outside to investigate, Rose bursts into the cockpit, red-cheeked and beaming. Rey doesn’t need to use the Force to know her friend is — thrilled? “Beaumont and Jess!” Rose shouts, rushing towards Rey to pull her into a hug, but the latter is too confused to do more than stand still. R2 whirs away to “retrieve a soldering kit,” by which he means check on the new arrivals.

     “What about them?” Rey’s not unhappy to have them here — Jessika, especially — but she is surprised. About three dozen Resistance members survived Crait, and as far as Rey knows, the ones not on Ahch-To are needed on base at Ajon Kloss, recruiting new members and forging political alliances.

     “They were at Black Spire Outpost, conducting surveillance when their comms went dark. We hadn’t heard from them in weeks. And then we got intel that they’d been arrested. But they’re back, and everything’s great!”

     Rey loves Rose. She loves her enthusiasm, her can-do attitude, her unfailing optimism. But she loves none of those things right now. Right now she could scream.

     “Black Spire Outpost? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I could have gone after them. I should have gone with them — instead of them —”

     “Yeah, that’s why we didn’t tell you,” Rose says, and her chipper tone is starting to grate. “They were just supposed to find out what the First Order’s doing on Batuu, not run straight into Tavic Ren.”

     Rey blanches. She only knows the Knights by reputation and through Force visions, but that’s enough to hold an unfavourable opinion of Tavic. He’s supposed to be bloodthirsty and ruthless, and definitely not known for taking prisoners.

     “How did they escape?”

    “They didn’t,” Rose replies. “They let them go.”

     Let them go? “That doesn’t make sense. How do you even know that’s what happened?” Rey’s mind is starting to spiral. Maybe they’ve been tracked; maybe the leaked engagement story is a hoax, meant to distract the Resistance while the First Order locates Luke... And that’s when Rey notices that Rose is no longer looking at her, that she’s now poking at the pile of random tools R2 left sprawled across the narrow floor with her foot. Apparently the hydrospanner is fascinating.

     “Rose, what’s going on?”

    “What?” Rose must have picked up a screwdriver, because she drops it, wincing as it clangs against the side of the co-pilot’s seat. Rey quirks an eyebrow.

    “Going on? Nothing. I mean, a lot of things, really. Anything specific?”

     Rey is not a talented telepath. Her Force abilities have grown exponentially in the last six months, but it’s hard to learn mind-reading from dead Jedi Masters who aren’t fully part of this plane of existence. She did, however, spend a decade on Jakku, hustling and avoiding being hustled. Time to bluff a little.      “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”      “Do I?” Rey crosses her arms.

     “Fine. Yes. Alright.”

     “And?”

     “And... and okay. We knew they were fine.”      Whatever face Rey makes, it prods Rose to continue.

     “Don’t look at me like that! We were going to rescue them! We were working a plan out with someone —“

     “With who?”

     “Who? Nobody, really, I mean a few people, I guess...”

     “Rose.” But Rey doesn’t need her to say it out loud. Whether it’s through the Force or deductive reasoning, Rey couldn’t say, but realization dawns. “We have a spy.”

     Rey has never seen a person’s mood change so quickly. The annoyingly gleeful Rose from ten seconds ago has disappeared, replaced by a woman ready to panic.

     “We have a spy,” Rose confirms. “A good one. Really good. But — do you really want details? We thought you probably wouldn’t, and that was before...”

     “Before I was about to join the enemy?” Rey can’t help the petulant tone in her voice, even though she knows Rose is right. Rey has been forthright about the Force bond — that she’s been able to block it, and that she has no sense of how hard Kylo Ren has, or has not, been trying to break through. It’s best if she knows nothing sensitive, and a spy embedded in the First Order is a significant piece of intel.

     “I suppose this is why my — change in circumstance — wasn’t received as poorly as I might have expected?” She’d been glad to put on a brave face for her friends, but their willingness to let her go, after only a little argument, had stung.

     Rose nods. “We know we can get you out of there,” she says, and it brings Rey a surprising amount of comfort. “And before you ask — yes, we’ll know if you want to come home.”

     Home. Rey finally has one, with these people, on this ship. Even though she’s about to leave, she really does know that she’ll always be welcome back. And that gets her thinking.

     “Well,” Rey says, checking the chrono on the Falcon’s control panel. “I better quit stalling.” Arrangements have been made for her to turn herself in to a First Order base of her choosing, and it’s probably time for a final round of good-byes, before she learns anything else she’d rather not know. Rey decides she’ll take that hug from Rose after all, and reminds herself that with a Resistance spy embedded in the First Order, she already has an ally, even though she doesn’t know who it is.

———-

     Kylo Ren is vibrating. The effort to stand still is causing his body to shake. He’s wondered whether he should have assembled a fully military parade, befitting the arrival of his Empress. But he doesn’t want to overwhelm her, and there will be plenty of ceremony at their wedding. So he’d decided to meet her now absent much pageantry, wearing his usual black garb without gloves or mask, cape kicking high in the breeze. He hopes he looks like he’s waiting on the landing platform that sits atop the Coruscant Imperial Palace as though he’s receiving any high-ranking visitor, although it’s hardly a visit, since she won’t be leaving. Kylo’s not prone to smiling, but he can’t stop his lips from twitching, and another body part, too…

     He really should remain where he is to receive her, welcoming Rey with at least a modicum of formality after she disembarks, but it’s been half a year since he last saw this girl. He’s done waiting. Kylo bounds up the loading ramp of her vessel before it’s met the ground.

     The ship is a typical prisoner transport. He should have specified they take another craft, something befitting their passenger’s status, but he doubts Rey noticed. His fiancee has very low standards, something he looks forward to improving.

     He bounds on board and looks around the interior, trimmed in standard First Order black and grey.  Most of the chairs are empty, save the half-dozen officers who departed the First Order base with Rey as her escort. They hurry to their feet, not expecting him, but are quick to rally, standing rigidly at attention. But where is she?  He knows Rey’s here. She’s shut the Force bond, again, but he can still feel her the way he can feel any other Force user. The only other space in this shuttle is through the back door to the cell area, though, and surely nobody would have the audacity —-

     The senior officer, a slim, middle-aged lieutenant, must have noticed the Emperor’s confused expression, and must have not noticed it was a precursor to fury, because he starts to clarify.

     “The Jedi is secure, Your Majesty. We confiscated her weapon —“ he hands over the Skywalker lightsaber — “after she surrendered without incident. We sedated her prior to takeoff in line with prisoner transport protocols. Out of an abundance of caution, she’s also been secured using —-“

     That’s as far as he gets. Kylo Ren raises his right hand and tears into the lieutenant’s mind, scraping hard. Kylo’s not interested in memories. Watching his own troops detain his betrothed will only drive him further into rage, and while indulging his murderous impulses would be satisfying, he has just enough of a grasp on his faculties to know that escorting Rey through a pile of dead bodies isn’t the best way to start their engagement. So no, he won’t kill this man.

     But he will enjoy making him hurt. Kylo watches as soundless screams escape from the man’s drooling mouth, tears rolling down his flushed cheeks. But then the lieutenant starts shaking. Kylo sighs in frustration, releasing his hold before causing permanent damage. Rey’s already be inspiring him to be merciful. A pity. 

     The Emperor’s reputation must precede him, because the other officers do nothing to intervene when their comrade falls to the floor. They’re still standing ramrod straight and facing forward, adopting the posture they must assume is least likely to offend.        

     Cowards.

     They should all suffer for what they’ve done. Rey, in her misguided but endearing benevolence, would probably say they just made a mistake, that he has more than made his point already, that these men should remain unharmed. But, he reminds himself, the art of marriage is compromise. He’s already been too kind. So Kylo Ren Force throws everyone, hard, through the viewport and onto the tarmac. They thud and thunk and groan as they hit the ground, or maybe they crash into another vessel. He doesn’t bother to check. They’re alive, he assumes, and that’s better than they deserve. He congratulates himself on his level of restraint. 

     Kylo takes a moment to settle himself before he stomps to the door separating the cabin from the secure area used to hold prisoners. It wouldn’t do for him to greet his beloved before he’s able to comport himself properly. After a few calming breaths, he opens the door.

     There she is. His beautiful Rey, asleep in the cell, body covered with a blanket. A few loose strands of hair frame her face, and she looks so peaceful that Kylo almost forgets she’s been treated like a criminal. He flexes his fingers, resisting the urge to smooth it behind her ear, to trace the arc of freckles across her nose.  Later.

     He summons the Force to deactivate the invisible force field, wondering why she didn’t do so herself. 

     “Rey?” She doesn’t stir. He understands she’s been sedated, but chemical relaxants have muted effects on Force users. He pulls the blanket away and finds her hands cuffed with Force-suppressing binders.

     “What the hell?” He yanks them off so roughly he’s afraid he’s hurt her, but she doesn’t move. Where did they get these? He hasn’t seen a pair in years, not since Snoke taught him how to overcome their effects by throwing him into Lake Andrasha with weights tied to his feet. He puts them in a pocket beneath his cape to consider later. For now, there are more pressing matters. He kneels beside Rey and gives her a gentle push through the Force, almost a caress, and she shifts, parting her lips as a small moan escapes her mouth. Being this close, hovering over her body while she’s lying down and making a noise like that— Kylo can’t help but think of all the things he’ll do to her when she’s finally in his bed. But she’s not. She’s lying on the bench of a prisoner’s cell. So Kylo stands back up, takes her hands in his, and rubs the sensitive flesh of her wrists.

      Rey’s eyes open, bright and alert and without a trace of grogginess. She jerks upright and he lets go of her hands.

     “I apologize for this,” he says, gesturing around them, and is that twice that he’s said sorry to her? What is she doing to him?

     Rey nods and stands, but doesn’t speak.

     “We should go,” he says, mostly to prevent an awkward silence, and then he hands Rey her lightsaber. She quirks an eyebrow.

     “You’re not a prisoner,” he says. “And you’re not my enemy.”

     “Thank you,” she says, as she clips the weapon to her belt.

     He leads her back towards the exit, but before he takes a step down the ramp, he stops and turns. He can’t resist. He holds his hand out toward her. “Join me?”

     Rey rolls her eyes before slipping her hand in his. He thinks he sees her smile.

Chapter Text

     Rey does not consider herself timid. She’s taken on half the Praetorian guard, stared down Snoke, wielded a lightsaber against Kylo Ren. And those are just the most recent examples of the stand-your-ground disposition she’s possessed since she was a child. Backing down was never an option on Jakku — run from a rival scavenger’s challenge and you’d find yourself their constant target, no matter how small you were.
     But Rey stumbles just fifteen steps off the prisoner transport, confronted by a threat she’s never faced before. Hover-cams. Dozens of them, swooping between the Upsilon-class shuttles and sleek black TIEs that populate the landing pad. The cameras swarm, unimpeded, towards her and Kylo, pausing mid-air in a phalanx configuration that blocks their path into the palace. Still disoriented from earlier events, Rey can’t help but feel like she’s being outflanked. She tries not to flinch, only to find herself reaching for her lightsaber.
     Kylo swats her hand away. From anyone else, she’d have called the gesture playful.  

     “You’re better off leaving them be,” he says, “though I understand the impulse.”
     Huh? What just happened? This man is not known for lightheartedness or restraint. Rey’s dumbfounded, and frankly feels a little sheepish. She could swear she caught sight of a couple of her transport crew limping down the landing zone, automatically ascribing their injuries to Kylo Ren’s capricious temper. Was she wrong? There’s no subtle way to crane her head to catch a second look, so instead she glances at Kylo’s face. Other than a slight flex to his jaw, and a line of tension across his shoulders that’s probably part of his permanent countenance, he seems completely at ease. She’s about to ask him where this easygoing attitude has sprung from when she feels his arm drape across her lower back, his large fingers curling into her waist with slight pressure, signalling her to keep moving forward. And yeah, that keeps her quiet.
     The hover-cams peel away as she and Kylo reach the palace doors, and Rey forces herself to act disinterested as she steps inside. She’s been in a handful of First Order facilities, but none of them were high priority locations. And while she has no plans to deviate from her stated course — assisting this government in discouraging hopeless rebellions, thereby saving countless lives — plans can always change. Hers will, if this publicity stunt proves ineffective, or if the First Order insists on waging a one-sided war against its citizens. If that happens, knowing the specifications of this building will be invaluable. At any given time, the palace hosts a majority of High Command, the Knights of Ren, and of course, the Emperor himself.
      Strange then, she thinks, taking in the grand but enclosed concourse, its stark white walls and obsidian floor, that it’s completely empty, devoid even of sound, save for the hum of recirculating air.
      But that’s a passing thought. Rey’s still trying to puzzle out the restraint she just witnessed from Kylo Ren — how he wasn’t the slightest bit annoyed at the hover-cams, and his gentle suggestion that she follow his lead. Shouldn’t the self-anointed head of the Dark Side try to encourage her destructive impulses, not dissuade her? It makes no sense.

     For now, Rey sees she’ll have to accept that surprise is her current emotional default. In less than a week, she’s become engaged to a galactic dictator; a man who has both saved her life and tried to kill her in the recent past. She’s discovered the Resistance has a spy in the First Order’s upper echelon, and whatever their intel, it’s led her friends to all but endorse said dictator, at least for now. She’s been chemically sedated and put in Force-binding cuffs after turning herself in to her fiance’s military, despite being assured of peaceable intent.
     And now Kylo Ren has counselled Rey  against hacking into a group of camera droids with her lightsaber. Strange.

     “The reporters won’t always be that determined,” Kylo says, apparently also thinking about the hover-cams. “You’re somewhat of a novelty.”
     “Because I’m —-“ the enemy, Rey almost says, but she decides not to reclaim that label so quickly after Kylo Ren had denounced it on the shuttle. Best not remind him. “—A Jedi?”
     “That’s part of it,” Kylo replies, a faint smile ghosting his lips as his fingers, still wrapped around Rey’s waist, press a bit more firmly into the skin beneath her tunic, “but this is also the first time the press has been able to confirm I'm linked with someone, romantically.” He leans down, his breath hot against her ear as he all but whispers, “I’m a bit of a catch.” And then he winks.
     Rey wonders if hallucinations are a side effect of the sedative she’d been given on the prisoner transport. Or perhaps she’s still unconscious. Because she is completely incapable of responding to whatever this is. Flirting? Kylo Ren doesn’t flirt. Kylo Ren barely speaks, although when he does, his dark, steady voice is as soothing as a heartbeat in the dead of night...
     Stop it. Whatever this is, whatever latest mood swing Kylo’s currently afflicted by, he doesn’t want Rey any more than she wants him. Which is not at all, of course.We’re just a pair of high-value pieces in a game of dejarik. Maybe the man doesn’t now how to have a conversation. Maybe he’s trying to keep her off-balance so she won’t absorb any useful information. Or maybe he’s trying to charm her into giving away Resistance secrets. Whatever the reason, Rey resolves right then and there that this new version of Kylo Ren won’t get any further with her than the last one.

      Time to keep the conversation flowing. “Have they been following your — personal life — for long? The media?”
     Rey has no idea why that was the question she came up with, but it’s a good one, because Kylo Ren looks all too pleased to answer, something else that's out of character for the sullen man she knows.
     “About twenty years,” he replies, and is that the start of a grin? Apparently two decades of secret girlfriends is enough to make even the stone-faced Emperor smirk.
     “I’m surprised you tolerate the attention,” Rey says, shifting the topic for reasons she won’t examine.
     “Historically I haven’t,” Kylo admits, his familiar, humourless countenance resurfacing as they keep walking, the echo of their footsteps keeping rhythm with Rey’s pulse. “I considered entrenching the embargo on independent journalism, but it serves its purpose. Coverage of military campaigns and state policy is carefully vetted. I’m more relaxed about the rest. Creates an air of legitimacy.”
      This disclosure is another surprise for Rey, who did not expect to be briefed on the inner workings of First Order publicity tactics, presuming he’s telling the truth, of course.
But she did expect this regime would continue to handcuff the media. She feels a little smug that she was right. There’s no way the man who was outed as Darth Vader’s grandson via the holonet would actually champion freedom of the press. Rey has an urge to tell Rose, then remembers that Rose isn’t there. None of her friends are, and she has no idea if that will ever change.
     She forces her thoughts back to Kylo Ren’s news strategy. It’s brilliant, granting latitude on soft topics so the masses believe coverage is objective, when in fact the government controls the flow of sensitive information. A chill runs up Rey’s spine at the thought, calling her attention to Kylo’s arm, still resting across her lower back, even though there’s nothing to distract her now from continuing to walk, nobody to halt their progress.
      “I thought it would be easier if you didn’t run into anyone yet, so you have time to settle in,” Kylo says, and Rey checks her mental shields to make sure he can’t read her mind. She doesn’t think he can, but she also knows he’s much better at it than she is. She’s decided she won’t even attempt to look at his thoughts for fear of being discovered, unless it’s absolutely critical.
     After a few minutes of silence, they come to a turbolift. It moves without inputting a destination, making Rey wonder if it’s biometrically-coded. She hopes the entire palace isn’t like that — it would make infiltrating it extremely difficult.
     All thoughts of laying siege come to an abrupt halt when the doors slide back open onto a long, light-filled hallway, and it’s like they’re in a different building, and that building is on a different planet. There’s not a scrap of military aesthetic in sight. Everything is lush and bright and Rey has to stop herself from saying something inane, like “wow.”
     The walls are made of thick white stone, cut up by floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto silver-leaved galek and lush red fig, even though Coruscant is completely covered in urban sprawl. Immense beams of cherry-stained wood trim a high-arched ceiling. The entire hall is sun-warmed and smells pleasantly earthy, with floral undertones.
      Now this, Rey thinks, is a palace. For the first time she can remember, she finds herself self-conscious of her clothing, her clean white tunic and form-fitting trousers suddenly a bit casual. Was she supposed to wear a dress?
      “Our residence has biometric security,” Kylo states, answering another question Rey didn’t give voice to. They’ve come to the end of the foyer, standing in front of a heavy wooden door that is, she assumes, their final destination. Kylo’s palm finally leaves Rey’s back so he can press it against a hidden scanner.

      “Only a handful of people are authorized on this system. Someone will come by later to add you, and run you through an agenda for the rest of the week. I’d rather do it myself, but something that needs my attention came up just before you landed...”
     Rey’s pretty sure that Kylo keeps talking, pretty sure that he’s fidgeting, actually, and his vague allusions to a pressing issue really ought to merit her full attention. But Rey can’t think about any of that right now. Her mind is stuck, frozen, on two words.
     Our residence.
     Before she can even begin to ask what that means, he’s ushering her inside what she now knows is their shared apartment.
     It’a an open concept design, so open that the Millennium Falcon could fit in the living room. To the left are the dining area and kitchen, but Rey barely spares them a glance, deciding to inspect them later. The right is taken up by a sitting area, the furniture facing a set of large glass doors that lead onto a terrace.
     Most of the far wall is covered by a stone fireplace and bookshelves, filled with real books, except for an arch that leads further into the suite. Kylo looks at it and runs his hand through his hair.
     “So this is where we live when we’re on Coruscant,” he says. “We also have residences on Naboo and Mustafar, and we have quarters set aside on most of the larger fleet vessels. But this is home, for the most part.”
     Rey has never applied the word “home” to a place. She’s only recently associated it with people, and those people are not here.
     “It’s very nice,” she says without much inflection. She actually has no idea what to say. Well, that’s not true. What she wants to say is you’re not really behaving like this is just a marriage of convenience brought about by political necessity, followed by where am I supposed to sleep? Do I have my own bedroom? My own bed?
     Unfortunately she can’t make any of that come out of her mouth.
     “We can change whatever you want,” Kylo says, not meeting her eyes. Rey knows he wouldn’t need to read her mind to realize she’s uncomfortable, that she’s well on her way to full-fledged panic.

     Rey’s about to disturb this new-found peace, to assure Kylo that no, she’s not going to cut him down with his grandfather’s lightsaber — not today, anyway — but she really does need to clarify a few things, when the door alert signals.
     “That must be Brell,” Kylo says. “She’s a member of our staff.”
     A tall, blue-skinned woman with flowing purple hair walks through the door, apparently one of the select few who comes and goes uninhibited. She’s wearing a dress, of course, a flouncy pink frock that flares out at the hips, and while Rey has no idea who she is, she does know that she’s pretty. Very pretty.
     “Sorry to interrupt,” the woman says, not pausing to introduce herself, although she does give Rey a quick smile before pursing her lips and looking down at the floor. Is something funny? “I caught sight of Hux’s shuttle breaking atmo and, well, you know how he’s been...”
     “Point taken,” Kylo sighs. “Rey, Brell will run you through the rest. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He heads for the door, shaking his head as he passes his assistant, but doesn’t say another word.

Chapter Text

     Kylo Ren looks at the members of the High Council with an air of indifference, prodding their surface thoughts. What he finds does not surprise him.
     Most of them have little interest in his plans for the galaxy. They do not apply a critical lens to his policies, nor will they make proposals of their own beyond military manoeuvres to quell rebellion. These sycophants will do as they’re told as long as their side continues to win. Kylo is a deity-meets-mascot to them, the scion of the Skywalker legacy. He’s the most powerful Force user in the galaxy, as far as they’re concerned. His uncle may have distracted him on Crait, but he didn’t land a single blow against the new Emperor, didn’t dare face him in the flesh. And the Jedi girl? Seems to them their leader is well on his way to conquering her, too.
     Oh, there were a few skeptics, some middle-aged hardliners — too young to remember Darth Vader, not young enough to defer to those who do — who’d whispered of treason in the days after Crait. But it’s hard to whisper when the new Emperor crushes your windpipe with a Force choke. After that, securing majority support was all too easy.
     Majority support, but not unanimous. Kylo has no doubt that if given the chance, neither General Hux nor Allegiant General Pryde would hesitate to assassinate him. Fortunately they hate each other more than they hate him. They’re consumed with outdoing each other as often as they can.
     And that’s how Kylo finds himself sitting at the head of the War Room’s obsidian table, instead of relaxing at home with his fiancee. Or trying to relax, at least.
     “Report,” Kylo barks, prompting Hux to speak.

     The general rises to his feet, straightening his already pristine uniform. “The uprising on Corellia seems to have simmered down. Admiral Engell has pulled the majority of her troops off the surface and awaits further update.”
     “Update on what? She’s the one on the ground. She should be updating me.”
     “Indeed, Your Majesty.” Hux closes and opens his mouth, then closes it again and takes his seat. The rest of the room is silent. The only movement comes from the flickering visage of Admiral Griss, occupying his chair holographically from the Unknown Regions.
     “Is there something else?”
     Nobody answers.
     Kylo Ren does not repeat himself. Ever. He calls upon the Force and delves deep into the minds of those around him, slipping his power over the contours just enough to ensure they notice.
    “You’re wondering about the political alliance with the Resistance,” he says, to no one in particular, because everyone’s thinking the same thing, and desperately trying not to think about it. “You want a timeline for formalizing the arrangement with the Jedi girl, so we can evaluate its success before repositioning the fleets.”
     They want him to hurry up and get married.
     Well so do I, he thinks. But he’d barely managed to deposit his would-be bride at their residence before being summonsed to this pointless meeting, let alone canvass dates with her. Instead, his assistant is keeping Rey company, probably making him look like a fool, and he’s stuck here, helpless to stop it.
     “Advise Admiral Engell to keep her ships in orbit,” Kylo says. “That should pose a sufficient deterrent against further uprisings. We’ll reconsider in a fortnight.”
     A fortnight is optimistic, but Kylo’s done waiting. He’d rather Rey have accepted his hand in Snoke’s throne room, but Jacen Ren is right. How she got here doesn’t matter. It won’t be long before she’s ready to admit what he’s known since Starkiller. Kylo will make sure of it.
     Kylo is about to rise from his chair, calling an end to this “urgent” meeting, when Allegiant General Pryde speaks up.
     “Before we adjourn,” Pryde says, “there’s an update on Batuu.”
     Kylo keeps his voice completely even when he tells Pryde to go ahead.
     “It appears a criminal element arrived on scene, shortly after Tavic Ren left for Coruscant.” The implied criticism in Pryde’s voice causes Kylo to flex his jaw. He takes a breath. He needs to keep his temper in check more often, now that Rey’s in the palace.
     “Is the site secure?”
     “For now,” Pryde says. “But they’re making demands.”
     Kylo fights to keep his countenance blank. Batuu is a delicate situation, but not for
the reasons known to the rest of High Command.

    “A targeted attack from space would send a message,” Hux says, turning to Admiral Griss, whose smile has a wicked glint, despite his grainy projection.
     “Indeed,” Gross agrees. “I can be there with the Steadfast in a few hours.”
     “Don’t be ridiculous,” Pryde sneers. “We can’t risk damage to the kyber deposits.”

     “What we can’t do is show weakness,” Hux says. “We must strike fear.”
     Kylo holds back a sigh. They’re both right. Or they would be, if Kylo actually cared about the kyber. Precious as they are, the crystals used to make lightsabers and super weapons are not why Batuu’s a priority.
     Kylo ends the debate by ordering Griss to dispatch a Star Destroyer from the Steadfast’s escort.
     “One of its battalions can lead a ground assault,” he tells Griss, and this time when Kylo stands to leave, the others in the room join him. “Grant no quarter, take no prisoners. Do whatever you need to ensure there are no further setbacks.”
————-
     Brell rounds on Rey the moment Kylo Ren departs for his meeting.
    “So,” she says, a hint of something in her voice that Rey can’t place, “what are your intentions?”
     “Intentions?”
     “With the Emperor.”
     Oh. Rey intends to promote galactic peace with the Emperor. She intends to play
her role, ill-defined as it currently is. She intends to encourage diplomacy. Because if she doesn’t, full-scale war will break out against the First Order. A war her friends can’t currently win. Why else would she be here?
     Then again... why is Brell here? Kylo said she’d “run her through the rest,” but Brell’s not going to complete Rey’s First Order onboarding, whatever that entails. She doesn’t even have a datapad. And she doesn’t pose a physical threat, not with her flawless makeup and form-fitting dress... her curves too generous for a warrior’s body... If Rey wants to engage in espionage — and she hasn’t ruled it out — this woman is no obstacle. But she is someone Kylo Ren takes into his confidence, someone he smiles at... someone who couldn't wait to ask Rey what she intends to do with the Emperor...
     Of course.
     Kylo Ren’s been acting out of character since the moment Rey arrived. And that doesn’t make sense if he wants her here. No, he’d be his usual, insufferable self, gloating at his conquest. But he’s not. And now Rey thinks she understands why.
     Kylo hadn’t asked for Rey’s love or affection, or even her fidelity, when he raised the issue of marriage on Ahch-To. And he certainly hadn’t promised her any of those things. He’d been the one to set the terms of their forthcoming union, and he’d requested proximity and public politeness. And nothing else. And hadn’t he just mentioned his talent for hiding girlfriends from the press? His status as the galaxy’s most desirable man?
Rey is such a fool, ignoring the obvious, that these are indications Kylo Ren’s in some sort of relationship with someone else.
     Rey looks at Brell and her chest swells with pity. Only pity. It must be hard, to see the person you want to be with choosing, for whatever reason, to be with someone else.
     And are Rey’s cheeks burning? Not possible. Not for Kylo Ren, whom she’d yet again forgotten had ordered his navy to fire concussion missiles straight at her just six months ago. Rey rubs away the sting behind her eyes and answers Brell’s question.
     “I intend to prevent bloodshed,” she says, invoking the pacifist philosophy of the Jedi. And then, because she doesn’t know Brell, but knows it’s not her fault they’re in this horribly awkward mess, she adds “there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
     Not that Brell would worry. She practically drips sex appeal.
     But Brell looks at Rey with a furrowed brow. “Right,” she finally says, and sighs. “Would you like to see the rest of the residence?”
     Why not, Rey thinks, failing to tamp down an unfamiliar sense of hostility. I’m sure you know your way around.
     She does. Brell points out concealed panels and hidden access ports, outlines the routines of the sentient staff and housekeeping droids. She’s starting to make recommendations for ordering food when Rey interrupts her.
     “Why is there a kitchen?”
     “A kitchen?”
     Rey points towards the commercial-grade appliances, sleek and shiny and utterly
redundant if meals are delivered by droids.
    “That’s for you,” Brell says. “The Emperor thought you might make use of it.” Rey stifles a scoff. If Kylo Ren expects her to cook for him, he’ll be sorely disappointed. She’s spent the last six months learning the ways of the Force, not how to fry an egg. Besides, he has someone else to do that.
     That’s when Rey’s imagination conjures an image of Brell standing at the stove top, a dark-haired man wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and and leaning in...
     “These counters are beautiful,” Rey says, even though she couldn’t care less, has no interest whatsoever in residential aesthetics. “How long did it take, to have the stone brought in?”
     “It’s amazing you noticed,” Brell says, perking up further, and her capacity to be kind to Rey is utterly befuddling. “So few people recognize Alderaanian granite. It took nearly four months, from sourcing to installation.”
     “And the rest of the apartment?”
     “About half a year. The Emperor insisted on designing the space personally. It was quite a process, he only just moved in himself...” Rey nods, ignoring a half-formed something pricking at the back of her mind, trying to call her attention back to what Brell was talking about, a kitchen designed months ago... but the thought’s gone before Rey can grasp it. She needs to change topics again, before she starts wondering how involved this woman was in the process of creating the home she’s now supposed to occupy. At least she knows Brell hasn’t been living here for months with Kylo, not that it would bother her.

     “Everything alright?”
     “Just tired,” Rey half-lies. She’s not ready to apply any other label to her state of growing distress.
     “Good thing we’re headed for the bedrooms, then.”
    Rey’s fear — and it was fear, that’s all it was — that Kylo Ren intended they sleep together was completely unfounded, of course. Rey declines the invitation to explore her fiancé’s bedroom, won’t risk peeking in to the spares across the hall, and quicksteps past his door to her own.
     She’s had her own space before — her AT-AT on Jakku, her hut on Ahch-To — but this... nothing could have prepared her for this. The room is generously sized and well- appointed, with a desk and seating area and the largest bed Rey’s ever seen. Even the colours suit her, sand-coloured linens set off against deep, clean blues that remind Rey of the ocean and her kyber crystal when it’s not lit up. Unlike the rest of the residence, Rey can detect hints of recent construction — the faint smell of paint, metal shavings below the wall that separates her bedroom from Kylo’s — but she loves it. Brell shows her the ensuite, and she thinks she loves that even more, and her closet —-
     Her closet is full of clothes.
     “I hope you like them,” Brell says, and there’s something genuine about the way she says it that makes Rey wish they could be friends. “But if you don’t, I can bring you some catalogues. The Emperor didn’t really know what you’d like, other than training clothes, and I had to guess your size from surveillance footage...”
     Hey — why can’t they be friends? Rey won’t read Brell’s thoughts — she’s not an enemy combatant — but she senses no ill-intent, no hostility despite the strained circumstances. Meanwhile, Rey hasn’t paused her own internal dialogue of nasty comments since the moment they met. Rey won’t explore why that is — she has enough self-awareness  to know it would hurt — but it’s time to stop. Besides, she’s going to need allies if she’s here for any length of time, and Kylo Ren’s mistress is as good a place to start as any.
     “I’m sorry about all this,” Rey tells her, and she really is. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone, doesn’t want to insert herself into this lady’s personal life, no matter how bad her taste in men is. “I’m just here so the core worlds don’t break into open rebellion. I’m sure we’ll find a way for you and the Emperor to continue your relationship. ”
     Brell’s eyes widen.
     “Rey,” she says, sucking in a deep breath.    “Every word of what you just said is wrong.”

Chapter Text

     Every word of what you just said is wrong.  

     The sentence is barely out of Brell’s mouth when her commlink chirps. “Sorry,” she says, frowning at the device. “I better see what they want.” She offers a polite smile before hurrying down the hallway, leaving Rey to wonder why she doesn’t want to be overheard.

     Rey’s also wondering how every word she’d said a few moments before could be wrong. It’s far more likely Brell’s deflecting. Or she doesn’t want to admit to whatever awkward arrangement she has with Kylo. 

     Rey gets no clarification. Her follow-up questions die on her lips when Brell returns, high-heeled footsteps sharp and quick. 

     “Everything alright?”

     “More or less.” It seems Brell’s not the type to placate. Rey appreciates that. It’s a good quality to have in a new friend. Or, Rey considers, maybe she doesn’t think you’re worth the effort.

     Brell isn’t acting like she doesn’t care, though. Rey watches her run her hands down the sides of her head, smoothing her already perfectly smooth hair. It’s probably the closest to flustered this woman can look. Rey feels another twinge of sympathy. She hasn’t figured out what Brell’s job is, the official one, anyway, but it doesn’t look easy. 

     “Apparently the PR team’s scheduled a press conference,” Brell says. “But don’t worry —“ she adds, looking plenty worried herself, “it’s just a few vetted questions. We’ll do a dry run on the way.” 

     “On the way?” 

     “It starts in half an hour. Lots of time to get ready.” 

     So Brell is the placating type. She just tries to be subtle about it. Her singsong voice isn’t fooling Rey, though. Rey has no idea how long it takes to get ready for a media event, but thirty minutes isn’t enough, especially for someone who’s never done one before. 

     Rey again wishes Rose were here. No one in the Resistance interacted with the press directly, not even Leia, but Rose did release a few statements on pirated Holo-channels. At least she’d be able to tell her what to expect.  

     Brell must pick up on some of Rey’s concerns, because she offers to select something for her to wear. 

     Rey nods, reminding herself to not panic as Brell disappears. Rey’s a Jedi. Nobody’s expecting her to pull off high fashion. Are they? She should’ve examined the contents of her closet more carefully.

     “This one?”

     Rey’s not really sure what Brell’s holding up. An outfit, probably, but to Rey it’s just reams of diaphanous blue fabric. She reaches out, rubbing her fingers across the smooth cloth. 

     “Not First Order colours?”

     “Kylo didn’t think you’d wear them. Not initially, anyway.” 

     Rey stops a snide remark from leaving her mouth. She would never jeopardize a galactic ceasefire over her wardrobe, but she’s not about to correct the assumption, either. As for whatever haute couture Brell’s handing her — “this season’s all about Tyrion shimmersilk" — Rey decides she’s in no position to judge. She wound rags around her body for most of her life. As long as it can accommodate her lightsaber, she’ll put it on without complaint. 

     On that happy thought, Rey steps into her closet, closing the door so she doesn’t have to strip in front of her new friend. Then Brell casually adds, “I’ll set up the styling droid while you slip that on.”

     Rey bites into her cheeks. Hard. She understands the need for clean, unwrinkled clothes, maybe even for something a bit refined, but makeup? No one’s ever tried putting cosmetics on her face. What could Brell hope to achieve? Even if they had all day, she’d never look like her. 

     “Won’t that make us late?” 

     “Maybe,” Brell says, Rey’s heart sinking. Apparently making her look presentable really is no small task.  “But you’re about to be Empress of the galaxy. They’ll wait.”

————-

     Kylo doesn't head back to the residence. Instead, he’s summonsed to a press conference. He flexes his hands in his gloves, cracking the leather over his knuckles. Few people have the audacity to summons him anywhere. This must be more of Jacen’s meddling. 

     A quick scan of the agenda en route confirms it. The only bullets to cover are formally announcing that Rey is his fiancee — with her by his side, hopefully not looking like a hostage — and outlining the terms of the peace treaty.

     He can’t do much about the latter. Not until General Organa approves one of the drafts that’s been circulating, or offers a counter-proposal. But he doubts the press cares. Why worry about the fate of trillions when his personal life is no longer off-limits? The galaxy’s citizens are far more interested in his upcoming wedding than the prospects of open war. 

     He’d happily muse over his upcoming marriage, too, if his bride wasn’t forced into this union by political manoeuvres. He and Rey haven’t even had a chance to discuss their official backstory, to decide which parts to admit and which to gloss over… which to outright make up…

     He enters the press room with a flourish of his cape, intent to look as foreboding as possible. As predicted, all six Knights of Ren are loosely standing off to one side, wearing full battle regalia. They stiffen as he stalks by, but their Force signatures are practically buoyant. He doesn’t need the Force to feel the smirks behind their masks. 

     Kylo takes his seat on the small stage at the front of the room, watching as pre-selected members of the press file in. His wretched heart skips a beat at the sight of the empty chair beside him. He seldom gives interviews, but when he does, he’s always alone. Not anymore. Knowing he has someone to share these mundane tasks with lightens his mood.

     He can sense Rey as she enters, her Force signature a mix of anxiety and dread. Appreciative murmurs draw from the small crowd, but Kylo turns away. He can’t look, not until he knows he can wipe the emotions from his face. He won’t survive a repeat of the Supremacy footage, of his open adoration broadcast over the Holonet.

     He doesn’t turn until Rey sits down, even then bowing his head, reaching over to put his hand over hers. She clears her throat and the noise draws his eyes up, and he —

     — he stops breathing. The blood in his veins is no longer circulating. All brain functions cease. 

     “Are you alright?”

     He doesn’t know how, but he manages to nod, manages to keep his mouth shut so he preserves a bit of his dignity while he stares at the woman who’ll soon be his wife.  

     Her glossy hair is bundled at the nape of her neck, soft curls rolling over her shoulders, resting just above a hint of exposed cleavage. Gauzy blue fabric skims her curves in all the right places, cinching at her narrow waist, then flowing out to pool at her feet. His eyes trace the lines of her body, down and back up like his hands are itching to do, over her hips and breasts and the elegant cut of her décolletage, and then he’s looking at her face, the hazel of her eyes enhanced with dark cosmetics, her perfectly pouty cupid’s bow lips stained red and really, they just need to be kissed, he just needs to kiss them —

     “Kylo?”

     Right. He needs to say something. But he doesn't, because he can't, because his mouth shouldn't be used to form words right now, it should be tasting her skin...

     “Is it — do I not look okay?” Rey pulls at the shimmersilk across her chest, and how is he supposed to speak now, with the fabric pulled even tighter?

     “I might have shifted the top around on the walk over, basically nothing holds this thing together, nearly slipped right off my shoulders…”

     Kylo makes a noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a high-pitched wheeze.  He's saved from further embarrassment by Brell calling for the first question from the press.

     “Tell us where you first met,” a Geonosian in the back calls out, and even though he read the questions on the walk over, Kylo has no idea what he planned on saying in response. 

     “We met on Takodana,” Rey says, a shy smile forming on that beautiful face. He knows it's an act, that she's just playing her part, but she's just so lovely...

     I’ll  look straight ahead, Kylo decides. I can probably keep my hands off her if I stare at the holo-droids.

    “And what were your first impressions?”

     “I was drawn to her from the start,” Kylo admits, thinking back to the forest, how he chased her, her, and not the droid with the map to Skywalker. “I pursued her relentlessly. She tried to fight it, but I couldn’t let her go. She had to be mine.” 

     Rey stifles a gasp.

     Kylo squeezes her hand tighter as he waits for the next question. But there isn’t one. They’re waiting for Rey to add her thoughts, he realizes, and he holds his breath. He tries not to think about those first hours together from her point of view. She’d been terrified, frozen in a Force hold by a monster in a mask, then abducted and strapped to a torture chair. He doesn't regret it -- how can he, when it's led them here? But the path forward would be so much easier if she'd co-operated from the start, if he’d not scared her so badly. 

     Rey shifts in her chair and starts answering the question. “I was helpless to resist,” she says, and from the corner of his eye he sees her smile has turned playful, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks. “He swept me right off my feet. There was no going back after that.”  

     Kylo relaxes for the balance of the interview, a pleasant warmth stretching over his chest as he and Rey continue to answer with secret double-meanings. No matter how it came to pass, he really does have everything he ever wanted. Companionship. Shared experience. Trust. 

     “Did His Majesty propose with an engagement ring?” 

     That’s an off-script question. Kylo curses himself for not attending to the issue sooner. But he's barely had a moment alone with Rey, and what he's prepared shouldn't be rushed. 

     “I did,” he says. This is the first lie he'll tell during the press conference, but if Rey minds, she doesn't let on. “My fiancee took it off while we were sparring.”

     Brell walks back on stage, ready to cut off the interview before anyone else takes liberties. But she’s not quick enough to stop a particularly bold Mon Calamari. His chair squeaks a little as he rises to his feet. “When can the galaxy expect children? Any thoughts on how many?” 

     Kylo’s in too good a mood to stop himself from offering an unfiltered answer. “Probably four. Twins do run in the family, though, so we could end up with six.”  

     The attendees erupt in laughter. It’s a popular answer, one that's bound to garnish good press and go over well with everyone in the galaxy. Everyone except Rey, who’s gone very still. 

Chapter Text

     When the boy called Ben Solo was just over nine years old, he wandered too far into the forests of Dantooine and stumbled upon a pack of Kath hounds, so hungry for his flesh that saliva dripped from their fangs. No one had ever run as fast as he had in that moment.
     Until now. Because Rey was out of her chair, and out of the press room, before Kylo could so much as close his big, fat, stupid mouth.
     Six kids.
     What was he thinking?
     Well, he knew what he was thinking. And what he was thinking with. He’d been caught up in the spell of his fiancee’s coy smile, the delightful blush that spread farther across her cheeks with each question asked about their past, about their future. Kylo had long ago learned not to indulge in dreams, but Rey was no fantasy. She was sitting right next to him, living and breathing and engaging in playful banter. It was all going so well that he’d actually believed, just for a few moments, that it was real.
     And then he’d announced to the galaxy that they’d have half a dozen babies.
     Containing the instinct to once again chase down the girl, Kylo catches Brell’s eye and walks towards the private residence with her as slowly as his body allows. Rey needs time to cool off, and he needs time to formulate a sentence that won’t trigger her fight or flight response.
     “I believe you have a problem,” Brell says.
     “Oh? Is your belief based on my fiancee bolting down the hall at the mention of bearing my children?”
     “Actually no,” Brell replies. “That was smooth, by the way. Real smooth. But I’m referring to something else.”
     Another problem? Kylo holds back a groan. “What is it?”
     “Rey seems to think you and I are… together.”
     “Together?” Kylo blinks. “As in —”
     “Together-together.”
     “That’s absurd. I’ve never been less attracted to anyone in my life. No offence.”
     “None taken,” Brell says. “It’s entirely mutual. Plus there’s the matter of my wife.”
     Indeed. Bavara Ren was more than capable of running through any would-be challengers for Brell’s affection. Kylo would know — he’d trained her himself. She wasn’t particularly strong in the Force, but what she lacked in raw power she more than made up for with strategic thinking and brute skill.
     “Why does Rey think we’re…” Kylo lets his voice trail off. He can’t even say it without shuddering. This must be how my mother and Uncle Luke felt when they found out they were related.
     “How should I know? One minute I was showing her around the apartment like you asked, and the next she was promising we could continue our relationship.” Brell makes a fake-gagging gesture to emphasize her distaste. “I tried to clear things up, but I don’t think she’ll listen to me. You should spell it out.”
     “I’m not sure I can.” Kylo thinks back to Snoke’s throne room. To the tears sliding down Rey’s face when he’d tried to tell her so many things, only to fumble and say that she was nothing. To the hopeful warmth rising in his chest, smothered by betrayal when she reached for her weapon instead of his hand.
     To waking up alone, surrounded by fire and ash and the bitter truth of what he’d done. Kylo shook his head. “I’m not good at that.”
     “At what? Speaking? No kidding. But you need to figure it out. There’s a lot riding on this, and not just for you.”
     Kylo grabs Brell’s arm, yanking her back. He hasn’t told her about Batuu. Hasn’t told anyone who can’t resist mind probes and torture droids.
     “Not another word about that. To anyone.” His voice is low, deceptively calm; a tone his subordinates know to fear. “And tell Bavara to keep her mouth shut.”
     The last instruction is unnecessary. He’ll tell her himself.
     Brell swallows. The fear on her face is enough to ensure there won’t be a repeat. Kylo lets go of her arm and resumes walking. He needs to change the subject, fast. And that reminds him of another problem.
     “Find out why an outlying base had access to these,” he says, reaching behind his back to something hooked on his belt. He withdraws the Force binders he’d removed from Rey’s wrists and places them into Brell’s hands.    “Quietly,” he adds. He can’t deal with another indiscretion. “Get Krixus to help you.”
     Brell hates Krixus Ren. Many people do. But he knows more about ordinance and First Order policy than any other knight, almost as much as Hux and Pryde. He’s the most likely of his knights to be able to trace the cuffs and determine which of his High Command rivals were involved in their procurement. And whether there are any more of them.
     God, it was all so exhausting. Why did Kylo think ruling the galaxy would be a good idea?
     You didn’t think you’d have to do it alone.
     And that brings his mind right back to Rey. Rey, who now believes him to be an adulterous cad, on top of everything else.
     Then again, why wouldn’t she? He’s never said what she is to him. And there was no way good old Uncle Luke had explained the meaning of their Force connection. Luke probably spent the last six months turning her against him.
     It wouldn’t take much. Just the odd reminder that Kylo had ordered his fleet to turn the Falcon into space dust after Crait.
     Time to clarify matters.
     But first he has to find his fiancee, because when he makes it back to their residence, she’s not there.

——————

     “I was wondering when you’d show up.” Rey rolls her eyes at the force ghost of Anakin Skywalker, who’s strolling the perimeter of the empty training room, his hands behind his back as he takes in the high ceiling and polished floor. He might have been padding through a forest, appreciating the flora.
     “You know,” he says, “my grandson built quite a nice palace. It’s not as showy as the one that the Empire levelled…”
      Rey’s in no mood to discuss the architectural talents of Kylo Ren. She moved quicker than a Corellian sand panther when leaving the press conference specifically to avoid him, to avoid so much as the thought of him. But she’d barely made it back to their apartment before realizing that lounging about was as appealing as taking a blaster bolt to the chest. She needed to do something.
     If she’d been with the Resistance, she’d have headed to the hangar to take apart a rust-bucket fighter. But tearing apart First Order vessels would hardly endear her to High Command. Settling for the next best thing, Rey accessed the palace directory to find a space to practice her forms, and threw on some workout gear.
     Somebody’s idea of workout gear, anyway. Not Rey’s. Rey did not generally slice her lightsaber through the air, levying precise swipes and controlled parries, while donning leggings so tight she could barely pull them up her thighs, and a crop top that plunged. But the contortions required to remove the outfit she’d worn to the press conference had left her too frustrated to rummage around her closet long enough to find a shirt that wasn’t bedazzled or bejewelled or be-whatevered. If she even had any. And it's not like anyone would see her.
     Anyone alive, at least.
     If Anakin’s surprised by Rey’s attire, he’s smart enough to stay quiet about it. She knows anxiety radiates off her in waves, perceptible even to someone existing on another plane of the Force. And not just over her clothing. Did Master Skywalker know what his grandson had said less than an hour ago, in front of the galactic press conference? How omniscient is he? Rey thinks she catches a glimpse of a smile cross his mouth, the same slight smirk she’d love to smack off a certain someone’s face…
     Six kids.
     Kylo Ren might have been playing to the audience. The galaxy’s citizens had fallen hard for the false construct of the Emperor as a dark prince charming, instead of the bloodthirsty autocrat he actually was. And fake kids are a natural extension of a fake marriage, Rey supposes. He’d clearly outlined the parameters of their arrangement, wanted nothing from her beyond proximity and public politeness. So he probably wasn’t serious.
     He’d looked serious though, hadn’t he? Not serious, Rey thinks. Sincere. And utterly tactless. So much for fine Alderaanian manners.
     Maybe he’d been plotting all along, consistent with his role as self-appointed ruler of the galaxy. Rey doesn’t know much about the genetics of Force sensitivity, but having two parents strong in the Force probably increases the odds it will manifest in a child. Kylo Ren could be power hungry enough to want a brood of Sith babies…
     There’s no chance at all that Rey would contribute to that scheme, though. He knows that, surely.
     None of it makes sense.
     Rey lights up the Skywalker lightsaber, eager for a distraction. She’ll even accept her master’s critique of her (perfectly adequate) posture if it pushes any more uncomfortable thoughts from her head.
     But they’ve barely started before Anakin’s white-blue image blinks out.
     “Hey,” she yells, seemingly into thin air. “We aren’t done yet.”
     “Done with what?”
     Rey spins around, lit lightsaber pointing at the man who’d just spoken. He’s tall, though not as tall as Kylo Ren, with soft brown hair and a face that seems far too friendly considering his vocation. Even without the helmet, Rey knows who this is. And who the two others are who walk in after him.
     “Knights of Ren, I presume?”
     The man nods, introducing himself as Jacen. “Kylo should have brought you over to say hello. He’s usually more formal when we receive guests.”
     Rey wouldn’t mind knowing about the visitors the Knights of Ren are called upon to entertain, but she’s not quick enough with her question. A second man, pale and wiry with yellow eyes, speaks first.
     “Where did you get that?”
      He gestures toward her lightsaber, which Rey realizes she hasn’t yet deactivated. She probably should now, but there’s something about this second knight’s voice that makes her tighten her grip on the hilt instead.
     “Tavic, stop antagonizing her,” says the only woman in the group. This, Rey knows, must be Bavara Ren. But she’s more interested in Tavic. Resistance intelligence has determined he’s the most volatile of the knights, and the last ninety seconds have proved it accurate. Rey senses no overt threat from Jacen or Bavara, but Tavic exudes hostility like he knows no other way to live.
     “I don’t mind,” Rey says, minding very much. “It was a gift.”
     “Lord Ren didn’t give you that lightsaber,” Tavic replies. “It’s a family relic.”
     He recognizes it on sight, Rey realizes. Interesting.
     She decides to skip over the “it called out to me in the cantina before I was abducted by your boss” narrative when she gives her reply. “It wasn’t his to give. I received it from Master Skywalker.”
     She may as well have activated a thermal detonator. Bavara recoils. Jacen’s hand flies to the lightsaber at his hip. And Tavic narrows his eyes.
     “Never speak of Luke Skywalker again.”
     She was referring to Anakin, who’d told her to keep his weapon once they’d repaired it together, but she’s not going to reveal that.
Because there it is. The challenge. Rey’s been through this a hundred times while standing on the sands of Jakku. She has to decide, in this moment, if she’ll accept the Rens’ authority over her, or assert her own.
     It’s an easy choice.
     “I’ll speak of whomever I like,” she says, twirling the Skywalker lightsaber in her hand. The bright blue light shimmers across the floor. “And if you don’t like that I possess this lightsaber, you’re welcome to remedy that by taking it from me.”
     Jacen and Bavara step back, their hands rising in placating gestures. They look like they’re about to capitulate and apologize, to maintain the polite distance that Rey suspects Kylo Ren has decreed be kept around her. He can’t marry a corpse, after all. But Tavic… Tavic Ren narrows his eyes and walks forward, summoning his lightsaber hilt into his hand with the Force.
     It’s an elegant weapon, with a blood red blade like his master’s, but traditional in design. Unlike the Emperor’s, it suffers from no instability, requires no cross guards to vent the additional output from the bled kyber. No, Tavic Ren is in full control of his corrupted crystal, completely entrenched in the dark side.
     “Don’t,” Jacen calls out, but Tavic keeps walking forward as though he can’t hear him, boots echoing until he stops and squares himself up, ready to fight.
     Jacen turns his attention to Rey, a sign of how dire the situation is, considering they’re strangers and she has no reason to listen to him. “You need to stop this. What if he kills you?”
    Rey slides into the opening defensive stance favoured by Master Kenobi, pulling her lightsaber back above her head with her dominant arm, thrusting her other hand in front. Three on one, she may have been in trouble. But in single combat, there’s no one in this room who’s close to her equal.
     “I won’t attack first,” she says. “But I will strike last.”

——----------

     Something is wrong. Whether it’s because Rey’s in closer proximity or because she’s drawing on the Force, Kylo doesn’t know, but he can sense her more strongly than he ever has before, and what he senses is violence.
A moment later, his comm device alerts him to an incoming message from Bavara Ren. And then he runs.
     He runs until he reaches the training room, power and turmoil warring within him. He slams through the doors with the Force, igniting his lightsaber as he reaches out with his other hand, seeking a target to crush, but he sees —-
     —- he sees Rey, her bare midriff glistening with sweat, strands of loose hair framing her face like an avenging angel, towering over Tavic Ren. She’s reaching her hand out to help him up, and they’re ——
     “Are you laughing?”
     “Kylo,” Tavic says as he stands, clapping his other hand on Rey’s arm in a gesture that looks almost like affection, “she’s wonderful. Well done. Truly.”
     Rey’s pink cheeks turn vermillion as she mutters an embarrassed thanks. “You’ll have to teach me that side-step lunge. I’ve never seen it before.”
     “Please no, never again,” Jacen says from the far wall. He and Bavara are paler than Tavic. “We won’t survive watching a rematch. Kylo, stop them, please.”
     But Kylo is only just figuring out what happened, his pulse and dark power still raging through his body. “You were sparring?”
     “Of course,” Tavic says. “What did you think we were doing?”

      I thought you were trying to kill my fiancee.
     “Bavara, did you comm him?” Tavic rolls his eyes. “You’re almost as dramatic as your wife.”
     “Brell’s way worse,” Jacen says. “She would’ve paged a battalion of stormtroopers.”
     “Brell’s your wife?” Rey turns to Bavara, who looks about as overwhelmed as Kylo feels by the events of the last few minutes. He watches, amazed, as the two women start to chat with the easy rhythm of people who’ve known each other for years. He tunes them out after a while, continuing to calm his nerves and gather his thoughts.
     He’s prompted back to reality when he hears Jacen and Tavic suggest it’s time to hit the showers. Bavara runs to catch up while still talking to Rey over her shoulder, inviting her to a “girls night” the following weekend.
     And then he’s alone with Rey, who’s skin is delightfully flushed from thrashing his most-feared knight in a sparring match. The skin of her face. The skin of her neck. Her chest. Her stomach.
     “What are you wearing?”
     “Nice to see you too,” Rey says. “I couldn’t find any training shirts.”
     “You could’ve taken one of mine,” Kylo replies, before he thinks better of it. Then his mind conjures the image of Rey wearing his shirt, only his shirt, and he needs to focus. There was something important he needed to say, something he’d been thinking about before his comm went off and he was scared out of his mind that this beautiful, powerful woman needed to be rescued, which was absurd…
     “Are you alright?”
     Is he?
     “I think so,” he says. “You?”
     “I’m fine.”
     Kylo doubts that, but he’s no longer able to pick up Rey’s feelings without invading her mind, and he intends on respecting her boundaries as much as he can. It’s the least he can do, considering his PR team essentially cornered her into being his Empress.
     That’s right. Kylo remembers what he’d been ruminating on. He’d resolved to be more forthright with Rey. He doesn’t need to now, though. She must realize that he and Brell are only friends, that whatever she’d misinterpreted had been just that.
     But he does want to say something, does need to ensure there are no further misunderstandings.

     He looks around and runs his hands through his hair. He’d intended to do this in the arboretum, with the scent of wild flowers heavy in the air, but he’s put this off long enough. Best do it now, before he loses his nerve.
     He tries to casually manoeuvre closer to Rey, who’s standing awkwardly, probably waiting for a chance to return to their suite so she can take a shower of her own. He banishes that thought. Later.
     “Rey,” he starts, looking down so he can hold her eyes. “I just want to say, I know this isn’t the best start, this whole contrived marriage thing. But even so, I’m —” he pauses, wondering how far his confession should go, “— I’m so glad that today has gone so well. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to spend the rest of my life with.”
     It’s not a declaration of undying love, but it’s a start, right? He doesn’t get the chance to parse his words further, though, because he realizes he must have leaned into her as he was speaking. His mouth seems very close to hers. Very close. It’s so close that her breath ghosts across his lips. A few more millimetres and he’d be able to —-
     “Did you just say the rest of your life?”
      Kylo freezes. He pulls back to study her face. “Marriage is a lifetime commitment. Did — did you not know that?”
     “I know what marriage is,” Rey says, in a tone that lets him know she’s from backwater Jakku, but she’s not an idiot. “But there’s annulment, divorce. Legal separation. I thought we’d move on, once the galaxy stabilizes.”
     “Move on?” Kylo steps away like she’s shoved him, hard. “There’s no moving on, Rey. The galaxy will never be stable. We’ll need to stay married for the rest of our lives.”

Chapter Text

     It’s her own fault, Rey knows. Ignoring the obvious is a skill she’s not just cultivated, she’s polished it to a fine shine.
     Sometimes it’s worked to her benefit. If she’d accepted that her parents were never returning, she’d have lost the will to live long before she had a means of leaving Jakku. And if she’d accepted Luke’s rejection when he chucked his lightsaber into the sea, she’d be helping the Resistance as a faceless mechanic.
     But ignoring reality is maladaptive, too. Failing to face facts tethered Rey to a wasteland for over a decade, her head almost literally in the sand, and later, to Master Skywalker’s scorn until a group of Jedi ghosts deigned her worthy of their legacy.
     Some might call it patience. Another word for it is denial. Or procrastination. Whatever the label, for all her nights spent staring at horizons, Rey’s mind has always been on where she is, what she’s doing. She’s never had the need, or ability, to form long-term plans.
     A more current example? Despite its cultural variations, “marriage” generally denotes a permanent union. So when someone — say, the Emperor of the galaxy — becomes your fiancé, you’re going to be tied to him long-term. Doubly so when your wedding anchors a multi-systems peace treaty.
     Yes, Rey should have realized the depth of this commitment as soon as Kylo Ren appeared through their bond on Ahch-To, offering an awkward apology for accidentally stealing her freedom. So this similarly awkward silence, the Emperor staring her down with his mouth slightly open, is entirely her fault.
     “It’s fine,” she tells Kylo, fighting the impulse to look at the floor instead of his face. And it is fine, really. Rey is nothing if not adaptable. She can still do the things she wants. She can open a Jedi academy as soon as she’s not geographically proximate to Emperor Ren. And traditionally, Jedi don’t marry anyway. Plus who’s to say the First Order’s Empire won’t fall? Her husband to be is far too volatile to hold on to galactic power. He can think whatever he likes about the prospects of his reign lasting through the decades, but Rey knows better. She’s here because, right now, his regime is better than the alternatives. That won’t always be the case.
     So yes, it’s fine.
     But Ren doesn’t look like he agrees. He looks even paler than usual. In fact, he looks — hurt? That can’t be right. Stunned, more likely. Struck dumb that they even need to have this conversation, that Rey's so daft she didn’t pick up on the enduring nature of what is, by definition, an enduring arrangement.
     Rey runs her hands down her sides, smoothing out her non-existent shirt. The beads of sweat on her stomach have cooled and gone tacky. She needs a shower and a change of clothes, not to continue with this non-conversation. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and clears her throat, hoping it prompts Kylo to speak.
     But Kylo just blinks. And then he sighs. He’s still standing so close that his breath stirs the hairs framing Rey’s face.
     “Nothing about this is fine,” Kylo says. “We need to fix this.”
     He grabs Rey’s hand and pulls her towards the training room’s exit.
     Fix this? Other than the miscommunication responsible for the last few minutes of silence, Rey has no idea what Kylo thinks has gone wrong. Not on a micro-level, anyway. In broad strokes, of course he’s upset. This entire situation is a disaster. But she’s the one who started the day restrained on a First Order prisoner transport, who gave up her friends and second family and postponed her entire life’s calling to — what? Wear fancy clothes and smile at photo calls? Photo calls that, by design, increase Emperor Ren’s popularity with the galaxy’s citizens, so they’ll feel less inclined to rise up against him and die. Meanwhile, the only thing he’s given up is the ability to marry someone else, and Brell’s already married, so he can’t even have her. Doesn’t actually seem to want her, given her spouse is one of his knights. So yeah, what’s happened to him that needs fixing?
     Kylo’s fingers are tight around Rey’s wrist as he pulls her down the halls, and the bite of his grip reminds her that he’s being pretty high-handed about this, tugging her around like she’s a doll.
     Rey keeps walking but yanks her hand free. She’s self-aware enough to realize her foul mood springs from a well of stress, and exhaustion, and hunger — do they not feed people in this Palace? — but she’s too far gone to govern her temper. Too annoyed to realize Kylo’s stopped moving until she’s a dozen steps ahead of him. And she really should turn around and let him lead her to whatever’s next on their agenda — her role here is to smile and play nice — but she just can’t. So she keeps walking, alone, until she’s back in her bedroom. For the first time in a long time, she misses her AT-AT.

——————

     Kylo knows there are worse ways to spend an evening. Laid up in the infirmary, recovering from Snoke’s tutelage. Marooned on an unstable planet, surrounded by hostile forces. Hosting a dinner party. But staring at Rey’s bedroom door, knowing he’s not welcome to walk through it, is a miserable way to pass the time.
     It shouldn't even be her bedroom door. She shouldn’t have a bedroom. He’d designed the residence to have a single, massive master chamber, indulging in the delusion that Rey would change her mind and come back to him. And now she is back, but reality has diverged so far from fantasy that sharing a bedroom, let alone a bed, would probably drive his fiancee back to the Resistance, peace treaty be damned. So Kylo had swallowed his pride and issued a work order dividing the space. Temporarily. And now he’s staring at her door because he has no idea how to navigate this situation. He doesn’t even know how long he’s supposed to wait before asking her to come out. Or should he try to talk to her from the hallway?
     “This is ridiculous,” he mutters aloud, cringing at his petulant tone when he realizes Rey probably heard him. She can probably hear his pacing, too. Could he be more pathetic? The entire galaxy is his to command, and he can’t have a conversation with his fiancee.
     Maybe she’s just fallen asleep, exhausted from the day’s events. He considers coming up with an excuse to walk in, a convenient pretence in case she’s awake. And if she's not, he could step towards the bed. He wouldn’t touch her, of course, but if he could just look, just satisfy the urge to confirm that yes, she’s here, finally, home…
     Kylo shakes his head, annoyed by another ridiculous dream. He needs a distraction, maybe do some work that gives him a legitimate reason to knock on Rey’s door.
     An hour later, Kylo’s pleased enough with his progress to return to Rey’s door. Besides, he’s waited long enough to let her cool down. He never waits for anyone. Ever. Confidence returned, the Emperor of the First Order calls out for Rey to come eat on the terrace.
     The door opens before he finishes his sentence.
     “You said there’s food?”
     Dammit. He should have remembered to offer her something earlier. He nods and ushers her outside, pleased to see the setting sun softening the hard skyline of Coruscant. He’s relieved when Rey smiles at the trays of meat and cheese and bread, the bowls of fruits and nuts. He pulls out her chair, taking in her change of clothes as she sits down.
     Rey’s put on a beige tunic and trousers, probably the closest she could find to what he’s seen her wear. The conservative cuts glance over her body, and Kylo’s equal parts disappointed and relieved to not see a distracting midriff, a plunging neckline. But then the evening lights flicker on, and under the extra illumination, Kylo realizes that the cloth isn’t beige, it’s sheer, and he can see everything not hidden by Rey’s undergarments, every dip and jut and contour…
     He swallows.
     He really should have reviewed Rey’s wardrobe. Every item he’s seen — the workout clothes, the dress from the press conference — this invisible loungewear — it all has to go. Nobody should see Rey in outfits like this except him. He’ll have to tell Brell to focus on tasteful attire. Conservative. Like what his mother would wear.
     No, no, definitely not that.
     Kylo averts his eyes — he is a gentleman — and eats in silence for a few minutes, before deciding not to mention the fabric’s unique feature. This conversation will be hard enough without Rey being uncomfortable. He’ll just have to keep looking at her face, like he did at the press conference. It’s not much of a hardship.
     “I made a mistake,” he says once Rey’s starting to slow down. He wants to reach out, grasp the hand that’s not holding a piece of melon, but even if she wasn’t still eating, he wouldn’t attempt it, not after she yanked herself free from him when they left the training room. “But I’d like to fix it, as much as I can.”
     Kylo pauses, reaching out with the Force to ensure no one — an assistant or a meddling knight, for instance — has placed a recording device in a shrub. He will not suffer another clip being released to the public of him making a fool of himself.
     Satisfied, the Emperor of the Galaxy pivots out of his seat and sinks to one knee. A posture he will never adopt for anyone else ever again.
     “I would like you to wear this,” Kylo says, producing a ring from his pocket. He holds it up by its delicate platinum band, the brilliant blue gem gleaming like a lit lightsaber.
Rey furrows her brow, her mouth shaped into a polite, confused smile, and Kylo realizes his hints at the press conference weren’t simply brushed off. His fiancee doesn’t know what he’s doing.
     “It’s an engagement ring,” he says, and when he reaches for Rey’s hand and slides the ring up her finger, she lets him.
     “It’s beautiful. Should I get one for you?”
Kylo shakes his head, bemused. Trust him to fall for the only girl in the galaxy who neither knows nor cares about non-essential wealth.        

    “Traditionally, in my family’s culture, the person who proposes gives an engagement ring, something they put a great deal of thought into choosing. The recipient wears it if they accept.”
     “Oh,” Rey says. “That’s really lovely.” She smiles more widely now, looking down at the ring. But then the frown returns. “You don’t have to,” she says. “I mean, I guess you do, if people expect it. But it’s okay if you don’t want to. Since you didn’t really mean to ask.”
      And there it is, confirmation Kylo’s suspicions are correct.
     “I did ask,” Kylo insists, and before Rey can argue with him, he adds, “on the Supremacy. I did ask. You didn’t say yes,” he says, lowering his eyes to the ring on Rey’s hand before looking back up, hoping she’s not about to rip it off and throw it in his face at the reminder, “but I thought — for a moment I thought you were going to. Was I wrong?”  He’s dwelled on this for endless hours, wondered what she’d have said if he’d just asked her differently, asked her properly. And now the moment is here and he’s suddenly more afraid than he was when he woke up to his uncle hovering over him with a lightsaber.
     “You weren’t wrong,” Rey murmurs, and she looks so sad, and this, this is what he’s done wrong. This is the mistake he needs to fix.
     “I shouldn't have kept firing on the Resistance,” he says. He knows what it cost him. Half a year by himself, resigned to living the rest of his life alone, to waiting for the moment when Rey came to kill him. Knowing he would let her. “I should’ve let them go. So — I’m letting them go now.”
      And now Kylo hands her a small data pad, a draft clause in the peace treaty that he’d polished while Rey was in her bedroom, before sending it to circulate amongst members of the High Command. She takes a moment to read it. 
     “You’re granting pardons to the Resistance?”
     “Provisionally, until we’re married. Clemency for crimes committed against the Empire before the final document is ratified.”
     “The entire Resistance?”
     “Mhm.” Oh, how that had hurt. His mother doesn’t deserve that kind of generosity. Neither does the defected storm trooper. And Luke - well, Kylo’s consoled himself with the knowledge that Luke will come after him again, and then he’ll be free to retaliate and kill him.
     But he pushes those thoughts aside. Feeling bold, Kylo dares to place a delicate kiss on the tip of Rey’s ring finger, along the knuckle, before turning her hand in his and resting his mouth on the inside of her wrist.
He feels her pulse jump.
     “Why are you doing this?” Rey clears her throat. “The pardons, I mean.”
     His eyes drop to the engagement ring again. A complicated question. He wishes he could answer with the full truth.
     “Because I don’t want politics to ruin our marriage. I want to marry you,” he says, and he means it, truly he does. “Not because it’s good for my Empire, or good for the galaxy.” Encouraged by her response to his affection so far, he pulls her hand to his face, allows himself to smile when he feels her thumb caress his cheek. “I want to marry you because I’m in love with you. ”
     This is it. The moment Rey will say she loves him, too. Or the moment she tells him to give up, to accept that an arms-length arrangement is the most she’s willing to offer. He’s promised himself he’ll understand if that’s all she can give him, if he’s ruined his chance for more. But he can’t help himself, he’s allowed himself to hope… so Kylo waits, holding his breath, all his senses screaming at him that something extremely important is about to happen, is seconds away, and Rey’s opening her mouth to tell him, she’s just about to speak —-
— when everything explodes.

——————-

     Finn’s turning a dial on the Falcon’s instrument panel, fist hovering, ready to bang this godforsaken contraption into compliance, when an indicator flashes red. “Get General Organa up here,” he says, turning to C3PO.   “We have an incoming transmission.” He turns to Poe as the droid teeters away, adding, “No audio. Just a written communique.”
     Poe nods. There can be only one source. Their spy in First Order High Command. He, or she, never sends audio or visual messages, just text, for fear of interception. “Do you think they’re triggering the rescue protocol for Rey?”
     “I doubt it,” says Finn, shifting in his seat. “You saw Ren at the press conference. He’s infatuated. And Rey seemed fine.” Fine, and primped, and manicured, and rather like a show-pony, while the stupid Emperor stared at her with stars in his eyes.
     “Looked a little weird to me,” Poe said. “Maybe it was that dress she was wearing.”
     Finn has no interest in discussing his best friend’s new outfit, or anything else he saw on the broadcast. The banner running below the feed nearly made him lose his lunch. True Love — How the Emperor Captured the Heart of his Empress. Gross.
     Poe looks like he’s about to say something else that Finn probably doesn’t want to hear, but he’s spared by General Organa’s approach. She doesn’t bother exchanging pleasantries. If their spy is reaching out, the news must be big.
     “Go ahead, Finn. What does the message say?”
     Finn clears his throat and pulls up the text. His voice catches in his throat as he reads it aloud. “Coup in progress. Preparing for contingency.”

—————-
     Smoke and fire encircle the terrace, the smell of singed bark heavy in the air. Stonework has come loose around the doorway into the residence, bits of brick and glass scattered on the ground, but the Palace itself seems fine. A targeted attack, then. Kylo braces himself onto his feet. Rey’s already standing, sweeping dust off her trousers, lightsaber drawn but not yet ignited. She gives him a quick once-over.
     “You alright?”
     “Never better,” Kylo replies, calling his own lightsaber to his hand, moving to an opening stance as his eyes scan the sky.
     “That felt like an introduction,” Rey says, “not the main conversation.”
     “Agreed.” Bombing the terrace could throw its occupants off their feet, but it would have little hope of wiping out two Force users — something he expects this unknown attacker to realize.
     Moments later, Kylo’s pointing to a dozen figures flying across the near black sky towards them.
     Battle droids.
     “Don’t suppose they’re yours?”
Kylo can’t make out the model, but the heavily-armed machines are too sleek to be part of the palace’s defence protocol.
     “Afraid not.”
     The droids slow their approach, blood-red propulsory jets pulsing through the air as they pull upright to land in attack formation. It’s enough of a delay for Kylo to reach out with the Force and crush two of them, sending their sparking bodies into a third. Rey throws her lightsaber — did she learn that from a holo-vid of my grandfather? — taking off the head of a fourth. Kylo’s never been more turned on in his life. 
     The attackers split off, still hovering above their heads, four focused on Rey as she retreats towards the far wall, stone crunching under her feet. She lunges into her opening stance. The other four circle Kylo. He waits for them to start blasting, prepared to stop the firepower and turn it back, but these droids aren’t outfitted with blasters. They land simultaneously, the force of their weight shaking what’s left of the terrace, their arms shifting to reveal purple vibro-blades in the place of hands.
     “Guess they know you can freeze laser bolts.”
     Kylo smiles, a combination of excitement and relief. He loves freezing bolts, but it’s not his greatest strength. After spending a decade practicing forms with Luke Skywalker, Kylo’s an expert-level swordsman. But only his closest associates — and Uncle Luke — are aware of that. At least whoever who sent the droids isn’t among his inner circle.
     Kylo parries his four attackers, crimson crashing against violet again and again. He’s reminded of his workout routine enough that part of him wouldn’t mind drawing this out. But he’s not alone. Rey had somehow held her own against Tavic while sparring, but her lightsaber skills on the Supremacy were impressive but unrefined. She’ll need his help. With one wide sweep of his lightsaber, he neatly cuts through his half of the attackers, the blood red light of their eyes blinking out.
     But when he turns to Rey, Kylo sees she doesn’t need his help. She’s destroyed one droid already, busying herself with slicing the arms off a second, when he feels it start to well up inside him, the rage that he’d tried so hard to suppress since Crait.
     He expects his rule to be challenged. Attempts on his life are part of proclaiming himself Emperor. Sometimes they’re even amusing. But attack Rey? He’ll burn down the entire Palace, the entire planet to keep her safe. Kylo gives in to the darkness surging within him, the power of the Force flowing down his arms and through his fingers, the surge of electricity shooting into the remaining droids. They spasm and crumple like dead insects.
     “Are you alright?”
      Rey’s breathing hard but he doesn’t see any injuries.
     “I’m fine,” she says, but she’s staring at him oddly. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“It’s called Force Lightning,” he says. “It’s a dark side ability.”
“Yes,” Rey says. “Very dark.”

Chapter Text

      Silence.
      Kylo Ren lives for the quiet in his mind, the freedom to hear nothing, think nothing. He will never take it for granted, not after years of Snoke humming and pressing and pushing just below his own consciousness, screaming to the forefront whenever the old master wished it.
      Now Kylo has peace. 
      But sometimes — right now, for instance — he would like to hear someone else’s voice, be it inside his head via their bond, or through the more traditional out-loud method. Because Kylo said a lot of things out loud, just before the terrace he and Rey were sitting on hosted an attack on their lives. Things like I’m sorry and I love you. And he’d like a response that isn’t a commentary on his dark side Force powers, or an assessment of the technical specifications of the droids sent to kill them. But he knows he won’t get one. Not now, anyway. Because Rey’s wrist-deep in the circuits of their least-demolished foe, scraping bits of char off an identification plate.
      “This doesn’t make sense,” she says.“Their weaponry’s state of the art, but the core of them is old. Really old.” 
      A shiver runs up Kylo’s spine. He can’t tell if the unease is caused by a Force warning or his own fear.
      “How old?”
      Rey stands, brushing her hands across her thighs. She’s still wearing the ring, the sparkle of its stone catching Kylo’s eye. “These wiring techniques haven’t been used in five, six hundred years? But they could be older than that. A lot older.” 
      “Are you certain?” It’s not meant as criticism, but if there’s any chance that she’s wrong, Kylo needs to know. 
      Rey looks away before she answers. “Some of the wrecks on Jakku had partially functioning computers. Most scavengers didn’t bother with them. The parts are worthless and sensitive files auto-delete on impact.”
      “But general archives don’t,” Kylo says, struck by the wealth of content Rey had access to. Languages, history, engineering — all of it at her disposal. This girl continues to amaze him. She had no one to teach her, so she taught herself. He steps towards her, closing the distance until their bodies are almost flush, placing a hand along her cheek to gently turn her face towards him, so that his lips are hovering over hers. “That’s —“
      “Rather sad,” says General Hux, stepping through the undamaged door of their apartment, kicking a loose brick with the toe of his impeccably polished boot. “But I’m happy to hear you’ve had the benefit of an Imperially-designed education. You’ll make a fine Empress. If we manage to keep you alive, that is.”
      Rey steps back from Kylo, regaining a polite distance between them, but otherwise makes no response. There’s no trace of sarcasm in Hux’s praise, no hint of deception on the surface of his mind, but Kylo’s suspicious regardless. He expected his general to be hostile towards Rey, toning it down barely enough to ensure he doesn’t get decapitated with a lightsaber. “You arrived just in time to not help us.”
      “Did you need help?” Hux walks farther onto the damaged terrace, adjusting the waist coat of his pristine black uniform as though the mere sight of the dirt and grime on Rey and Kylo has sullied his attire. “You usually thwart assassination attempts without assistance. And without destroying such lovely outdoor living space.” 
      “Your concern for our well-being is heart-warming.” 
      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Hux says. “You don’t have a heart to warm. And I’m hardly concerned about Pryde’s ancient droids. A culinary unit has more chance of taking you out. He’s already been arrested, by the way. And the rest of the palace is fine. Briefing’s in an hour.” 
      Kylo nods. This information should be taken as good news. Allegiant General Pryde has finally made his move — presuming Hux is telling the truth, that Pryde really is the responsible party, that the age of the crumpled heaps of junk on his terrace is coincidence. But unease continues to swell inside Kylo, an unsettling feeling churning in the pit of his gut like the swirls of dust still rising around them from the attack. He looks at Rey. Does she feel it, too? Then he’s struck with another uncomfortable thought. Or could the Force warning him about her? He’s just offered his whole heart up to her, again, and again, he’s received nothing in return. She jumped back from him the moment Hux stepped onto the terrace. He doesn’t expect blanket forgiveness and a swell of infatuation, but this needs to stop. He needs to find out where she stands, or at least whether it will ever be with him. Short of penetrating her mind, there’s only one way he can think of to do that.
      Kylo dismisses Hux with a terse thank you, following him inside to reactivate the locks on the residence, overridden by the attack. Rey trails behind him. Time to to talk. 

————————-

      Rey takes in the contents of the apartment, amazed that it’s untouched by the blast that interrupted their conversation.
      And what a conversation it was. As far as stall tactics are concerned, Rey would’ve preferred something other than being attacked, but at least she was afforded a few moments of quiet while ripping into the chest cavity of one of the fallen droids. Not that she could process much, given the need to look for clues into its origin.
      That’s still a mystery to her, as is the spike of concern in Kylo’s force signature when she mentioned how old they are. It’s perplexing. He didn’t seem bothered by the news that Pryde — one of his own inner circle — was behind the attempt on their lives. No, Rey felt a distinct, but brief, wave of relief coming off her fiancé, before unease settled around him again. 
      Rey knows it’s not polite to start a conversation this way, but too many people — and Force ghosts — speak in riddles for her to be anything but direct. So she settles herself on a comfortable-looking couch and goes ahead and asks. “What’s going on?”
      Kylo sighs and sits close to her. “I could ask you the same, you know?”
     “Actually I don’t." Rey tries to keep an even tone of voice, but it's hard. Barely moments ago, this man was down on one knee, professing his love and promising to pardon her friends. Earlier this same day he’d said she wasn’t his enemy. Now it sounds like he’s accusing her of something, but that can’t be right. Can it?
      “What do you know about General Hux, Rey?”
      Not the question she was expecting. Rey’s spent most of the last six months training; she’s not well-briefed on the biographies of Kylo’s military leaders. Good thing, apparently, because she’s too tired — physically, emotionally, and in every other meaning of that word — to fend off a sweep of her memory, if that’s what Kylo intends. She barely has the energy to wonder where this is coming from, whether he’ll always be so damned quixotic, telling her he loves her one minute and accusing her of who knows what the next. This is exactly why she has to stay guarded. 
      With a deep breath, Rey starts rhyming off the harmless tidbits she’s been told about Armitage Hux, mostly in passing from Poe. “He’s a member of High Command. A hardline Imperial. He led the team responsible for hyperspace tracking technology —“ 
      “And he’s a Resistance spy.” 
      Rey can’t help herself. She gasps. “The spy is Hux?" 
      “So you know there’s a spy,” Kylo says. “What else?”
      “What do you mean, what else? This arrangement doesn’t including sharing information,” Rey says, attempting to stand. She is so over this day. But Kylo pushes on her shoulder with a heavy hand, pinning her in place.
      “Does it include sharing affection? Will it ever? Because you didn’t seem to mind when I was about to kiss you, not until Hux showed up, and now you’re radiating so much anger I’m surprised your irises aren’t yellow. So which is it, Rey?”
      “Why choose?” She snaps, grabbing at Kylo’s arm, but unless she uses the Force, she can’t break free of his grasp, and she doesn’t want to cross that line, doesn’t want the day to end with one of them holding a lightsaber at the other’s throat. “You’re the one constantly changing your mind! You tell me you love me, then you accuse me of I don’t even know what. Espionage? Which you should expect, even though it’s not true, considering I was with the Resistance until yesterday.” Rey keeps trying to jostle herself free, but Kylo leans across her, and he’s pinning her with both arms now. His face is inches from hers, eyes frantic. There can be no doubt, there is no Ben Solo here now. Rey is staring straight into the face of Emperor Ren.
      “Then why didn’t you want him to see me kiss you? Is it because he’d tell your friends? Your boyfriend?”
      “My what?” 
      “A girlfriend then? Who is it, Rey?” Kylo’s nearly yelling now, his breathing uneven. “Who keeps holding you back from me?” 
      “You do, you ass! Every time you act like this!”
      “What?” Kylo lets go of Rey’s shoulders, and she thinks he’s going to pull back, stand up. But he doesn’t. His expression shifts from frustration to hunger and he presses his lips to hers, desperate and raw, his tongue pushing into her mouth. It’s pure instinct to wrap her hands around his neck, to pull him closer. 
      “Finally,” he groans, still kissing her, consuming her, his hands running down the length of her body before grabbing her sides and turning her at the waist. For a few moments they’re a tangle of limbs, mouths still locked together, and then she’s lying on her back, her legs bracketing him, and he’s everywhere, he’s everything.   

Chapter Text

Kylo stares at Tavic Ren, making sure that even across the war room, his knight sees him fisting and unfisting his hand. He’s not putting any Force power behind it, not actually closing the knight’s windpipe, yet, but it’s a terrifying precursor.
It should be, anyway. But right now it’s an empty threat. The Emperor can’t risk adding to his reputation for capriciousness, especially not in a room full of the people not involved in the newest attempt on his life.
Tavic knows it, too. He ignores his master, continuing to dress-down the First Order brass from the front of the room, even though most of them have nothing to do with palace security and are themselves little more than guests. Multi-level security breaches, he all but spits at them, yellow eyes burning like a predator in the night, and they all have the good sense to look chastised. Non-randomized shield generators, a total lack of airborne response…
Kylo regrets bowing out of Pryde’s interrogation, excusing Hux from this debrief along with Jacen and Bavara for that purpose. At the rate this is going, they’ll be finished and cleaning his blood off the floor before he’s out of this room. And it’s a job Kylo would relish doing himself. But that’s the problem. He doubts he can restrain himself. Even he can’t read the minds of the dead.
But he can read the minds of the men and women in this room just fine. Bored, and fearful of looking bored.
Tavic, oblivious, continues to recount how the knights sliced through encrypted channels, reverse-locating the transmission controlling the battle droids, tracing it back to the Allegiant General’s private quarters. Admiral Djem, a stout, officious human who circulates memoranda every quarter asserting the start of the night cycle should mean the end of work for the day, stifles a yawn.
Ordinarily, Kylo would be amused, watching the brass struggle to feign concern about the assassination attempt, marshalling whatever enthusiasm for Tavic they can muster while suppressing the urge to shudder.
But Kylo is not amused. No. Kylo is tired, and angry, and extremely sexually frustrated.
Judging by the smile that again slips onto Tavic’s face — a sight as rare as rain on Tattooine — Tavic knows it, too. Of course he does. He’d been the one to collect Kylo for this emergency meeting, just moments after he’d finally found out what it felt like to have Rey’s warm, lithe body underneath his own, his tongue licking at the top of her mouth, her hands running up the ladder of his ribs, gripping his shirt and about to tear it off —
And now the bastard’s stretching a twenty minute debrief past the hour mark, pulling up a holo-projection of the palace. The former palace.
“I thought we should capitalize on the opportunity to pause here,” Tavic says, barely suppressing a full-mouth grin, and Kylo has never seen this side of him before, a side he’d find refreshing if he wasn’t suffering from the worst case of blue balls in the galaxy — “to study the building as it was before the Republic fell. We should ensure that any renovations, even those undertaken with the intent of enhancing security, don’t bring the prior design to mind…”
Bantha shit. Tavic’s appreciation of historical architecture has been invaluable on Batuu, but his specialization, and only area of interest, is ancient Force relics, not Imperial design.
No, this is about Rey, and though he’s pretty sure this cock-blocking is good-humoured, Kylo has had enough. He flexes his fingers, this time letting the leash on his power slip. The projection of the palace starts to flicker. Nervous murmuring fills the room.
But Tavic carries on, supposedly oblivious to the rest of the meeting’s attendants rolling back their chairs, readying themselves to duck under the table or bolt for the door.
“… the public relations staff have specifically asked me to remind everyone to be mindful of the First Order aesthetic when implementing new designs…”
Tavic turns towards the Emperor, eyebrow raised in playful challenge.
The holo-projection disappears.
“You should check the power grid for weaknesses,” Kylo announces to the room, staring straight at the knight. “Ensure the capacitors are fully charged.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Tavic replies, squaring his shoulders to return to his lecture even though everyone else has taken the opportunity to rise to their feet. “But I can dispatch a technical team if you’d like. Now, if we could turn our attention to —”
Kylo has something else in mind. “I’m assigning you that task. Personally. Meeting dismissed.”

——————

Kylo hadn’t been able to take Rey’s clothes off before being called away, but as he approaches their residence, he finds himself hoping she’s done the job for him. Is she lounging across the couch, dressed in one of the scandalous negligees he’d picked out in a moment of insane optimism? Maybe she’s found her way to his bed, and she’s lying under his sheets, wearing nothing at all…
Or maybe, he thinks ruefully as he walks into the entryway, she’s fulling clothed, leaning against the kitchen counter, whispering into a data pad.
“Oh hey,” she says, turning toward him and clearing her throat, at the same time turning off the screen in a gesture he’s not supposed to notice, but definitely does. “I was just talking to someone —“
“Someone?”
“Just my friend,” she says, placing the data pad face down. “How was your meeting?”
Kylo doesn’t bother answering. He’s seen Rey angry, and scared, and foolhardy, and many other things — but she’s never been outwardly deceptive. “Which friend?”
“Oh, someone from the Resistance. I was just catching up on a few things.”
“You’ve been gone less than a day,” Kylo says, reaching around her to snatch the data pad. “What’s there to catch up on?”
Rey blinks. 
“Fair enough,” he concedes, but he continues to grab at the device, too, thwarting her attempts to swat his hand until he has his fist around it, holding it beyond her reach while he swipes at the screen.
And he should let it go — he knows he should. But whether it’s because he’s disappointed, or over-tired, or maybe just overwhelmed, he’s not able to stop himself. A man doesn’t routinely survive attempts on his life — including by family and friends — without developing a psychotically-entrenched level of suspicion. So he taps away, accessing Rey’s user history, and stops, holding it away from him as though he’d been burnt.
He’d recognize the image of the man displayed even if he was still wearing his old stormtrooper helmet.
“You were talking to FN2187.”
“To Finn, yes.”
“Finn. That’s a nice name. Finn.”

Rey wrinkles her nose. “It suits him I guess.”
Kylo hasn’t looked up from the screen. “And what were you and Finn catching up about, that you didn’t want me to hear?”
“It’s really nothing,” Rey says too quickly, trying again to retrieve the data pad from his grip. She fails. “Nothing about the peace treaty. Mostly I just wanted to tell him I was okay, after the attack, and some personal things.”
Deep in the recesses of his mind, too deep to influence his behaviour in this moment, Kylo’s aware that what Rey has said makes sense. The First Order-controlled media will have been fed a soundbite about the attack by now, understated but enough to cause Rey’s friends alarm. And the Resistance will have heard the full story from Hux or one of their other spies, too. But Kylo spent his early life being raised by a master politician and a galactic-class con artist. He doesn’t need the Force to know when someone is being deliberately vague.
Rey had said and some personal things.
What he’s about to do will cost him dearly. There will be no prospect of finishing what he and Rey had started on the couch if he continues, but some impulses Kylo still can’t control. He delves further into the file containing Rey’s conversation with the traitor, knowing, yet failing to grasp, that not setting the device to auto-delete likely means the content is innocuous.
Innocuous, but private.
Rey gives up trying to stop him at the sound of her own voice playing, but a last-effort reach has pushed the recording to mid-conversation. Kylo stares at her, stone-faced, while they hear her asking her friend, “—- so I should do what with my tongue, exactly?“

————
Rey is going to die.
First, because Kylo Ren looks murderous, more murderous than she has ever seen him, and she has literally seen him commit murder.
Second, because her limited medical knowledge might tell her embarrassment can’t kill her, but it absolutely can, and it’s going to kill her right now. She wraps her arms around herself, pressing her body against the kitchen counter. Maybe if she shrinks herself small enough, she can just disappear?
Except she can’t, because the air is thick with the dark side of the Force, plates in the cupboards are rattling, glasses breaking behind the closed doors. 
She intends to deescalate, but her voice is harsh. “That was a private conversation —“
“I can tell,” Kylo says, and did his eyes flash amber? “Sorry to have interrupted your personal discussion. The two of you must be very close.”
“We are close,” she bites back, “but not the way you’re thinking. It’s not what it sounds like.”
“That’s good, Rey, because it sounds like you’re planning a hook-up with the First Order fugitive I just pardoned. For you.”
“I’m not —“
Kylo cuts her off, looming so far over her that her back arches into the cold stone that her fiance salvaged from the remnants of Alderaan. And that’s a red flag in a field of red flags — only a man with no emotional insight would decorate with rock from a blown-up planet.

“I granted pardons to the entire resistance for you,” he says, the kitchen stools rising with his temper, the data pad joining them and a variety of knickknacks in a swirl around their heads. “People I hate, Rey. People who have tried to kill me.”
“Maybe you deserved it,” Rey snaps, which she knows won’t help matters, but lashing out feels too good to resist. “Most of the time you’re an absolute prick. Including right now, by the way.”
“Explain what I just heard,” Kylo says, and his voice has grown lower, more dangerous, his arms bracketing Rey on either side of her waist. “Tell me what it was, if it wasn’t what it sounded like.”
Rey swallows, looking past Kylo at the objects flying above them, knowing he’s moments from losing what little hold on his temper he has left. She really does have to tell him, it’s the only way to stop him from destroying their entire apartment, from one of his legendary tantrums putting the battle droid attack to shame.
Face flushing redder than Praetorian armour, she closes her eyes. It’s not enough. She covers her face with her hands, too, because she can’t possibly look at Kylo Ren while she says this. “I was asking for tips.”
“Tips.”
This is mortifying. “Tips, for — you know,” Rey gestures between them, but he doesn’t know, apparently, because when she dares to glance at him, his eyes are still burning, glints of angry orange mixing with his usual brown.
She tries again. “Finn is my closest male friend, so I figured he would know the best ways to…” she trails off, again hoping her insane fiance can fill in the gaps.
He can’t.
“Best ways to—?”
“To — on the couch — and you said, earlier today, that you’re — very experienced, and I’m not, so —- oh hell. You may as well just listen to the whole thing now. Over there,” she gestures, pointing towards the alcove that leads to the bedrooms,“so I don’t have to hear it.”
Rey didn’t really mean to make the offer, so much as say the words so Kylo would back off.
But he nods, recalling the data pad with the Force as the rest of the furniture settles back down, and walks away to do as invited.
Moments later, Rey’s trying to drown out the replay, grateful that she can’t make out the words over the raging beat of her heart from when, just minutes ago, she’s asked one of her closest friends not how to have sex, because she’s not stupid, she understands the mechanics, but how to do sex well, as though that was even how to phrase the question, and his burst of laughter, followed by his own mortification, and frankly, from the grimace, disgust — they didn’t once mention who she might be thinking of having sex with, no no no, they approached it thoughtfully, academically — and then a patient play-by-play, outlining the various ways to bring a man to climax, and —
“Rey?”
She’d been so caught up in her spiralling thoughts she hadn’t heard Kylo return. She still doesn’t want to look at him, actually. No, she’ll just stare at the kitchen floor forever.
But Kylo’s not satisfied with that, of course he isn’t, he’s not satisfied with anything, is he?
“Can you look at me please?”
Nope, she can’t, she’s on the verge of tears actually, and isn’t that strange, that this is what would finally tip her over, after the day she’s had? She has political marriages and covert attacks and galactic peace treaties to worry about, but this, this is her limit.
“I’m sorry,” Kylo says, when he accepts she really isn’t going to look at him. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t — had never —“
“Well, now you know,” Rey says. “Can I have that datapad back? Or are you not done utterly invading my privacy?”
Kylo lets her take it. Rey turns, intending to retreat to her room, to lock the door and never come out, at least not until breakfast, but he takes hold of her other hand.
“I shouldn’t have pressed,” he says, and Rey nods, because obviously. “But you should’ve asked me, not some other guy, about —“
“About sex?” Yep, line crossed. Funny how anger can override Rey’s insecurities, has brought her back to her usual, fiery self. Because seriously? And Finn, some other guy? She’s not even going to acknowledge the absurdity of that. But it is time to set Kylo Ren straight.
“Actually no, Emperor Ren, I shouldn’t have to ask you about sex, or about anything else. I shouldn't even have to be here. But since I am, we need to clear a few things up. I can ask anybody I like about whatever I like. And while my lack of experience might have come up at some point, when and how was entirely up to me. Contrary to what you believe, you cannot take whatever you want from me.”
This time when Rey storms towards her bedroom, Kylo lets her go.

——
It was only a matter of time before those words came back to bite him.