The Art of Broken Pieces

211 Porgs

They'd given her black boots, and worn her down about the heel until she relented to something around five centimeters. It was still taller than she would have liked, and she found herself tapping into the Force for balance as they exited the shop with her old clothes tucked away in a parcel.

The second they were out of sight, she pulled her arm from Ben's, skin prickling where she'd been touching him. Betrayal still made nauseating ripples down her back, and she couldn't decide if she wanted to hit him or not. What she really wanted, in a twisted, unreasonable, incongruous way, was to tuck herself into his arms and cry. His arms were strong, and his chest was warm, and even though he'd been the one to rip away her feeling of safety, he was also her only shelter in this place.

She veered away from him, heading straight for the first establishment that wasn't the Twilek's shop. She ripped open the door and ducked inside, immediately finding herself surrounded by a series of dark walls, studded with elaborate earrings. She blew past them, ignoring the shopkeeper's greeting and offer of help, and arrowed for the back of the store, where she located a conveniently small alcove beneath a series of apocalyptic looking opal earrings.

Ben followed her, pausing just long enough to convince the shop owner that yes, they were going to buy something and no, nothing was wrong, his wife simply wasn't feeling well. He slowed as he neared the impromptu hiding place she had found for herself, hesitating. They were the last people either of them needed to be around at the moment, but their situation didn't really allow for the distance they required.

He took up a post just outside the small space, half waiting, half guarding. He really wasn't sure which.

She stood there, leaning against the velvet, with silvery pins and gemstones prickling into her back, and counted her heartbeats. The shop's air was cool against her feverish face, and Ben—having followed her—took up post with his back to her. Rey swallowed, sensing the insecurity in his presence. For some reason, that insecurity made it easier.

Rey breathed in, then let herself feel the sick, heavy wash of misery, all the way through her. She let it run its course, drawing more tears and hiccupping breaths from her before it began to subside, and she felt too wrung out to care that her face probably looked like it had been blasted by a Krayt dragon.

She rolled herself along the velvet wall cover and found Ben's back, then leaned against it. Shaky fingers curled over the top of his wide leather belt, resting there tentatively.

"Can we stop this?" she asked, voice reedy. "We're even now, please, please can we stop?"

Her weight against his back was familiar and warm, but the walls that he had built were too strong. He wasn't sure anymore if he could take them down, even if he wanted to, they were safe, and he was done being hurt by others.

"I went too far." he said quietly, though he did not move to face her, or to touch her. "But there is no 'even', Rey. Let's simply do what we do best. Let's stick to the mission we gave ourselves." He knew his voice was cold, but he had nothing more he was capable of offering her right now.

"There's one more stop I need to make before this evening, one of my contacts recommended a good mechanic who won't ask questions."

Rey took in the words, acknowledged the sting of them, and tried to let them go. He was right—they needed to forget everything but the mission. It had taken months to win each other's trust before, and it was stupid to expect it back now, from either of them.

She sniffed a little and pushed away from his back, forcing herself to balance on the stupid heels. "What do you need a mechanic for?" she asked. "I'm right here."