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“What the fuck, So-” is all the warning Ben gets before he’s knocked face down.
He scrabbles to his hands and knees before Hux kicks him in the kidney and the pain sends him crashing back down onto the school yard grass. There’s dirt in his mouth and he tries to expectorate, but a blow connects with his nose with a gory-sounding crunch, snapping his head back and sending a blinding flash of white light and agony shooting directly into what feels like his brain. He instinctively brings his arms up to protect his head as Hux fists a hand into his uniform shirtfront.
“Why can’t you keep your damn mouth shut, huh? We had a nice little arrangement and you had to fucking go and ruin it!” Fury improves Hux’s strength and accuracy and Ben’s attempts to block his strikes are ineffectual. Hux’s knuckles crash into the angle of his jaw just under his ear and Ben thinks he hears his jaw pop.
He manages to land an open-handed slap against the side of Hux’s head, and when the other teen rears back with a stunned yawp of pain, he scrambles to his feet and assumes a defensive posture just like his father’s taught him. What’s dripping from his nose doesn’t feel like snot. “I don't know what you’re talking about,” he grits out.
At that, Hux’s visage flushes red, almost obliterating the outline of the heel of Ben’s hand on his cheek. One hand clutching his ear, Hux points the index finger of his other hand accusatorily at Ben. The redhead shouts, “You’re a shit liar, Solo! I heard your cunt bitch mother talking to my dad on the phone, so don’t try to pretend like it wasn’t you!” Spittle sprays out of his mouth and lands on Ben’s face.
As Ben processes this revelation, he wipes at his face with a shirt cuff, and the white polyester-cotton blend comes away stained with blood, snot, and mud. Crap. When his mom threatened to call Brendol Hux herself about the Ziploc baggie of pills, he hadn’t taken it too seriously. After all, it probably was gonna slip her mind the way the B+ on his eighth grade report card had, the way his fifteenth birthday had. It’s just his luck that this is what she remembers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Phasma standing on the schoolyard steps, looking down at them as they grapple in the dirt. “You probably broke his nose,” Phasma says to Hux in a bored tone of voice. “He’s gonna run home to Mommy and cry about that, too.” She picks at her chipped black nail polish.
Even though he sees Hux pull his fist back, Ben somehow doesn’t quite manage to totally duck Hux’s next punch, which lands on his ribs and knocks him off balance. Hux seizes him by the stupid tie Uncle Luke mandates as part of the St. Aloysius uniform and makes to hit him again.
All of a sudden, there’s a blur of motion and Hux bellows in pain. Ben takes the opportunity to tear free of Hux’s grasp. A tiny girl in a white puffer coat is flailing her arms, furiously hitting Hux in the thighs and low back and yelling, “Get offa him! You animal!”
Ben’s brain short-circuits with surprise. What the… Dimly, he sees that Hux seems as shocked as he is. Hux shoves the girl away and swings at Ben again - he ducks this time - but the girl attacks again.
“Stop! Being! A meanie!” She punctuates her shouts with blows to Hux’s hamstrings. Hux howls and tries to slap away the kid’s flying fists. She dodges with practiced ease and punches Hux in the abs. Ben feels lightheaded with disbelief. She’s actually getting the better of him. How is this even happening?
The redhead hunches over, trying to protect his belly, but the girl suddenly jerks her knee up to smash Hux in the balls. He makes a sound halfway between a wheeze and a croak and topples to the ground. The girl stands over him, glaring daggers at his collapsed form.
Phasma is staring down at them like she’s just been forced to watch starving rats fight over the greasy cardboard-and-cheese the cafeteria serves as pizza. “This is dumb.” She hops down the last two concrete steps to the pavement and exasperatedly flips her platinum-blond hair over her shoulder. “I’m going home. I’m not staying here to watch you guys get beaten up by a preschooler-”
At that, the girl whips her head around. Her eyes are wide with indignation. “I’m not in preschool! I’m in first grade!”
To be honest, Ben’s kind of annoyed at Phasma, too. There’s only one person here who was bested by an ankle-biter, and it’s not him.
Phasma rolls her eyes and hikes the strap of her Jansport backpack higher on her shoulder as she walks off. “Whatever. Bye, losers.”
As Phasma stalks away, the girl turns her attention back to Hux, who’s still curled up on his side in the fetal position. She kicks him in the gut, and Hux moans incoherently.
Holy crap. Ben’s getting a little nervous. This tiny girl might actually hurt Hux. She’s preparing to kick him again when Ben reaches out, throwing his arms around her chest, to haul her away.
“Hey! Hey! Lemme at him!” she screeches. She thrashes in his arms, but Ben manages to hold on and drag her towards the swings, up until the point when she bites his forearm right through the sleeve of his shirt.
“Ow!” Ben drops her like a hot potato and she tumbles to the ground. Several meters away, Hux gets to his feet and starts staggering away.
The girl bounces up, cups her hands around her mouth, and starts heckling him at the top of her lungs as the redhead retreats with his metaphorical tail between his legs. “That’s right, run! Run, you wimp! Don’t let me catch you again!” She turns to face Ben, hands on her hips.
“Hah, I showed him! Wanna go sit on the swings?”
***
They’ve been gently rocking back and forth on the swingset in peaceable silence for a few minutes when the girl pipes up. “So, what was that about?” she asks.
Ben’s still taking stock of his injuries and focusing on taking deep, even breaths. The adrenaline that was coursing through his veins earlier is trickling away. He gingerly fingers the bridge of his nose. He can’t breathe through it and it’s dripping blood. He wonders if it’s broken.
The girl interprets his silence as refusal to answer her question. “Don’t want to talk about it? That’s okay. I know how that is.”
Ben experimentally tries to blow his nose and has to smother a yelp of pain that makes his eyes water. He blinks rapidly. He’s too old to be crying over, well, anything really. “It’s not that,” he says, once he’s mastered himself. “It’s- it’s complicated, okay?” He tries to change the subject. “Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to hit people?”
“You guys were hitting each other first! I was helping you. You’re supposed to say thank you when someone helps you.” She glares at him.
To this he snorts and says sarcastically, “Thanks for nothing. I was doing just fine before you came along-“
Now it’s the girl’s turn to snort. “He was kicking your butt.”
Okay, that stings a bit. He can’t think of a rejoinder that’ll adequately defend his pride. “Whatever, kid.” He tilts his head back - maybe that’ll help clear the stuffiness.
The girl folds her arms across her chest and stares determinedly at him. “Does this have to do with Hux being a drug dealer?”
There’s a gob of what feels like blood and mucus sliding down the back of his throat when she says that, and he makes an undignified sound as he choke-gags with surprise. “What? No! Hux isn’t a- Who told you that?”
She meets his eyes with a delighted little smile of triumph. “Come on, everyone knows Hux sells drugs. He’s part of that gang, Crimson Dawn. Even the kindergarteners know that.”
Ben rolls his eyes - this girl thinks she knows everything. Hux acts like he’s a badass, but the truth is that he’s too afraid of his domineering father to set a foot wrong or even be seen with the wrong crowd. “Don’t be stupid, kid. If Armitage’s dad ever found out he was associating with-” he clears his throat and drops his tone of voice to match Brendol Hux’s patrician cadence and diction, “‘such riffraff,’ he’d beat his ass.”
The girl doesn’t back down. “So if Hux doesn’t sell drugs, then what were you and him doing in the bushes back there on Monday?” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the scrubby hedges with their half-bare branches across the street. “I saw you. He gave you something and then you gave him something back.”
Suddenly, Ben is annoyed. He and Hux are usually so careful, but Hux couldn’t meet up on Saturday and then Ben’s mom had thrown that fancy party on Sunday and Ben hadn’t been able to get away all day. He’d told Hux that they couldn’t do these handoffs at school but Hux had insisted. “That’s none of your business.” He pauses. “What were you doing watching us, anyway?”
“I wasn’t watching you,” she retorts. “Okay, I was, but it’s not like I was trying. You guys are so tall,” she reaches a hand up high to approximate their height, “that you stick out like giraffes.”
The annoyance drains out of him to be replaced with something like resignation. Obviously the Monday handoff was a mistake since this peewee’s onto their little arrangement. He heaves out a sigh, which makes his ribs hurt. “It’s not like that, kid.” He casts about in his mind, trying to decide what’s an age appropriate explanation for a first grader, but she interjects.
“Stop calling me kid. I have a name, you know. I’m Rey.”
“Okay, Rey,” he huffs. “It’s still not like whatever you’re thinking it is.”
“So what is it? ‘Cuz it looks like he’s your dealer, you’re a druggie-”
Ben’s mouth drops open and he sputters, “What the- I do not look like a druggie!” His jaw is throbbing, but even this isn’t enough to stop him from rising to his own defense or hold back the rising tide of outraged feeling within him. “I am not a druggie!” he snaps again. “I help Hux with his homework, and he gives me his leftover Vyvanse!”
Rey grins triumphantly. “You are a druggie! You’re taking someone else’s pills!”
“They’re not drugs like- like heroin or cocaine, okay? I’m not using them to get high or have a good time! They’re a study aid! They help me concentrate.” Ben’s starting to feel a little agitated. How is he letting this six-year-old bust his chops?
“Why do you have to concentrate so much for?” She cocks her head to the side. Her expression is open and unabashedly curious.
Ben throws up his hands in frustration and then runs his fingers through his mussed hair. He pulls a twig from a tangled lock and tosses it on the asphalt. Where to begin? How to explain the pressures of high school and college prep to a kid who probably just stopped using diapers? The scramble for the next A, the stress of trying to find another extracurricular activity that won’t interfere with any of the other extracurriculars he’s already signed up for, the tension of knowing that Ivy League schools like Harvard can extend only so many offers of admission to students from St. Aloysius, the knowing eyes of all the teachers as they weigh who’s worthy of a coveted letter of recommendation, his mother’s insistence that he start researching universities and programs of study...
“Because.” Clearing his throat, he says, “My uncle has a PhD in educational psychology, and my mom’s a senator with a law degree. I can’t embarrass them by screwing up my grades or flunking the SAT. I have to get into a good college. They have expectations.”
“What are expectations?” she asks innocently. The breeze picks up and a few dried leaves go tumbling by.
Ben flounders. “It’s like when people think you should do something, so you feel like you have to.” He clarifies, “People in my family are distinguished and important. They’re high functioning members of society. They have- they have noteworthy lives. This kind of stuff runs in our blood. And I have to live up to that.” He tries not to sound bitter - he’s aware that his life is practically the definition of first world problems.
“Oh. That sounds hard,” Rey says thoughtfully, but then she turns her face away from his. “At least you have a family, though, even if they have,” she pauses as if turning over the word in her mouth, “expectations. I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
He’s not following this line of conversation. “What?”
She stares straight ahead, her hands firmly grasping the chains holding up the swing. “Unkar says kids like me won’t ever amount to anything. That we’re useless and a drag on society.” She says it casually but her eyes are flinty.
It’s Ben’s turn to look at Rey. “Unkar? Like Plutt? Why are you talking to Unkar Plutt?”
She pushes off the asphalt to get the swing moving. “He’s my foster dad.”
Startled by this revelation, Ben looks more closely at the girl. Unkar Plutt, the scumbag who owns the U-Pull-It Auto Yard, has a foster kid? He never would have guessed. He’s accompanied his father many a time to Plutt’s place of business for parts for the sorry piece of junk his father calls a car, but he can’t recall seeing anything to suggest that there’s a little girl living there, too.
Seeing her in a new light, he frowns at Rey. Her hair is frizzy and tangled despite being pulled into three weird little buns stacked on top of one another on the back of her head. The puffer coat she’s wearing is actually off-white because it’s stained, and it looks at least one size too big for her. As she pumps her legs back and forth to keep the swing moving, he can see that the hems of her jeans are ratty and she’s wearing a battered pair of sneakers that clearly are past their prime.
It’s like Rey can read his mind, because before he can open his mouth to start asking questions, she strikes.
“So, Ben Solo, I could tell on you to Principal Skywalker,” she says nonchalantly.
Ben jerks back. “You can’t do that!” His voice is a little- okay, a lot higher pitched than he wants it to be. “And how do you know my name, anyway?” he tries to deflect. It doesn’t feel like his nose is bleeding any more, and when he wipes at his nostrils, there’s only a faint crusting of dried blood on the fabric.
Rey gives him a sly half-smile. “Everyone knows who you are, dummy. You’re Principal Skywalker’s nephew. Just like the guy who was beating you up is General Hux’s son.” She adds, “If I tell Principal Skywalker that you and that guy were fighting, I bet you’ll get in big trouble. You could be sus-pend-ed.” She drags the last word out in a sing-song, taking advantage of all three syllables.
He looks incredulously down at Rey. “Did you just threaten to snitch on me?” This brat’s got nerve - he’ll give her that.
To her credit, Rey doesn’t even flinch. “I’m not a snitch. If I was, I’d just tell on you. I can keep a secret - but secrets aren’t free.”
He stifles a groan under his breath. His mind is going a mile a minute. She’s probably right about the penalty for fighting on school grounds. A suspension on his permanent record will torpedo his college applications. And he doesn’t want to face his uncle in his office - not again.
“What do you want?” he says quickly.
Rey taps her chin with a grubby finger. “Hmmmm… what’ll you give me?”
“How about this?” He takes in her skinny frame and wonders what she gets to eat at Plutt’s. “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll take you to Maz’s Diner for milkshakes.”
She brings her swing to a stop by dragging the toes of her shoes across the blacktop and fixes him with a beady look. “A milkshake’s not enough. You have to buy me a cheeseburger and fries, too,” she counters.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ben mutters under his breath. He’s being extorted by someone less than half his age.
Rey narrows her eyes at him. “And I want them now.”
Ben exhales. It’s not like anyone will notice if he takes a little detour before walking home. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone,” he emphasizes the last word, “what you saw. Today or on Monday. Ever.”
Rey considers him for a moment and Ben almost squirms under her too-serious gaze. Then, she reaches out for his hand and extends her little finger. “Deal. Pinky swear on it.”
He locks pinky fingers with her. “Deal.” Her bony hand looks so small against his.
Rey withdraws her hand with a toothy grin. She clearly can’t quite suppress her glee at having wheedled more out of him. “Aww yes!” she crows and pumps her fist in the air. She hops off the swing. “Let’s go, I’m hungry!”
Clapping dust and drying mud off his pants, he stands up and pulls the strap of his messenger bag over his head. Rey’s dancing in a looping excited circle around him, chanting milkshakes! milkshakes! over and over. He knows he should be annoyed that she’s gotten the best of him but he can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy (and maybe a little respect) for this crafty half-feral brat. “Alright alright, come on.”
The girl bolts for the entrance to the schoolyard, then turns to look over her shoulder. “Last one there is a doodyhead!” She darts out the gate giggling with glee.
“You little-” He can’t let her keep winning. Without a second thought, Ben dashes to follow.