The Art of Broken Pieces

Four Score and Seven Porgs

Ben could think of nothing in his life that had ever felt better than the long shower he took as soon as they were back on the falcon. Definitely more important than food, than sleep, and at the moment he was fairly convinced it was even better than sex.

He hadn't been chivalrous enough to offer that Rey go first, so they had drawn straws with a determined competitiveness. Rather, they had reached into the dark space under the bunk in the lounge, and he had drawn out the smaller porg. It was as good a way to settle things as any, and he didn't like the porgs nesting there—it brought them dangerously close to several of the power lines of the ship that ran nose to tail under the floorboards.

Scrubbing grit out of his hair and out from under his nails, Ben did try at least a bit to hurry, knowing Rey doubtless wanted to be clean every bit as much as he did. His wound was healing well enough, though it still pulled uncomfortably when he stretched too far. It was Rey's that concerned him more. As soon as they had the time, he wanted to find a truly civilized planet to set down on and have someone take a look at it before she lost feeling or range of motion in the arm.

Reluctantly shutting off the water, Ben triggered the dryer to whisk the water from his skin and pulled on new clothes, his last pair. That was another thing to deal with when they had the time.

Pulling his fingers roughly through dark curls that were now horridly tangled, Ben wondered out into the living area to wave Rey in for her turn.

Rey stroked the downy feathers between her porg's eyes, grinning as it fought to keep them open. It was either purring or growling, and had slumped into a decidedly fat squidge on the holo table, barely aware of the game monsters committing holographic murder through its body. She hadn't tried to get the most massive porg in existence, but he'd seemed to fling himself into her hand, ruining her chances at first shower.

Or maybe it was a she-porg, and she was preparing to drop a dozen eggs next to the warmth of the machinery.

"Is that how you reproduce?" She asked. "Or do you just split into seven smaller porgs once you've got big enough?"

The porg was spared having to answer when Ben emerged from the refresher, scrubbed and dressed in gloriously fresh-looking clothes. Rey started to rise, but stopped as he lifted his head and looked at her. His hair was a disaster. A shiny, curly, tangled, thick, beautiful wreck, and Rey wanted to put her hands in it.

Instead, she picked up her porg and lobbed it underhanded toward his chest.

"Watch that one," she said. "I think they reproduce by mitosis."

She passed him, forcing as much space as possible in the narrow opening between Chewie's bunk and the viewport. She ducked into her bunk and snatched up a clean tunic, trousers, and underthings.

She was an efficient washer. There was no lingering in clean water on Jakku, and though she'd certainly learned to let herself scrub and rinse thoroughly, she found it difficult to justify standing in the hot water once she was done. Today, she looked down at herself and mapped the still-healing bruises and injuries she'd sustained over the past four standard months, and forced herself to stay an extra three minutes.

A million messages had pinged onto her comm the second they'd risen above the sandstorm, most of them from Finn. A record three missives from Poe had arrived as well, the last of which had included with it an explicit order to report in. She sensed fear in it, rather than anger. He wanted to confirm she was alive, and he likely knew that everyone else needed to confirm it too.

Home. It was his word, not hers, but that didn't make it less true. Home was where she could hug Finn and laugh over a gutted X-wing engine with Rose, and feel cared for without any effort at all. But strangely, it was also the Falcon. It was days of surly silence and moments of desperate warmth, fumbling to find solid ground in an uncertain universe. It was big hands on the co-pilot's controls, and a head of wrecked black curls.