Chapter Text
She was not there to be noticed, dressed in an outfit which guaranteed anonymity even at such glittering occasions as these. If anything were worthy of notice about her attire it would be her heels, which were high and sharp, worn expressly to deter encroaching paparazzo. Who now eyed them warily, from a respectful distance.
Her boss you see, didn’t like to be crowded, or touched, or ogled, or screamed at, or chased, or be in receipt of any of the manifestations pertaining to his perceived ‘hotness’ by his stans. He was there for the art, the communal sharing of a story whether on stage or screen. If, during the telling, he took his shirt off, or exposed his ass, what was that to do with anything? That was done in pursuit of his art, it was not an invitation to touch him. He hated grabby hands.
So it was, after certain ‘incidents’, enacted too publicly to be kept out the media and predictably encouraging further, more outrageous provocations, that Rey Johnson, a nobody, was appointed Girl Friday to Ben Solo, movie star, in the certain knowledge that she was at least the fifth choice for the post. But, hey, a girl’s gotta eat, and keep a roof over her head, Rey Johnson could not afford to be proud.
As it turned out, where the four Mr. Beefy’s preceding her had failed, the nobody was an undoubted success, although she no longer had a life of her own. Let her step out of her rôle for even an afternoon to get her hair fixed, and there would be another ‘incident’, or a meltdown, or whining complaint that she’d abandoned him. Gah, he was so needy.
So, she had her hair cut and styled at the same celebrity hairstylist as him, at the same time, sitting right beside him while his own cherished locks were carefully trimmed and burnished. Rolling her eyes at his obvious vanity.
Likewise, she was manicured and pedicured right along side him too, and was outfitted by his celebrity stylist. Not that his personal wardrobe choices were much of a stretch. Basically, order a half dozen of everything, as long as it’s black.
So Rose practiced her dark arts exclusively upon the nobody, with notable results, with one exception: she was never, under any circumstances, allowed to cover up the nobody’s freckles with makeup. Ever.
Rey, by this time used to Mr. Grumpy and his autocratic ways, and enamoured of his full to bursting refrigerator, rolled her eyes again and accepted this diktat, much to Rose’s fury and chagrin.
In truth, Rey was happy with just her lips slicked with gloss and her eyes minimally made up, on the relatively few occasions she was on public show. Otherwise it was hair scraped back in her signature three buns, and face scrubbed clean and glowing with health.
She owed her employed status directly to Mr. Grumpy himself. By some mischance, or a divine intervention, or the planets aligning in some freak cosmic event with her name on it, her petulant boss had snatched up the CV’s of the previously rejected applicants and hers had been on top.
Of course there were tests, the four previous hires, (recruited from the shallow end of the gene pool), who had preceded her had soured his mood to such an extent he would allow no-one to guard him who would prove unworthy of his trust, or test his patience to its limit.
‘Can you drive?’ She ignored the patronising tone. A girl’s gotta eat.
‘Yes, I can drive.’
‘No, can you drive, drive?’ He’d turned that intense gaze of his upon her, sneeringly anticipating her discomfiture. She couldn’t resist, ‘Can Batman fly?’
He looked down his nose at her and chose to ignore her levity. She was British therefore she talked back.
‘Come with me.’ He snatched up his keys, and she swore if he’d been wearing his Kylo Ren cape, (the franchise character he played to earn money to finance art), it would have swirled in dramatic folds about him.
He could be very actorish, or a big baby, depending how charitable she was feeling on any given day.
So off they drove to a test pad, an abandoned airfield owned by his dad and his Uncle Chewie where they kept their collection of cars and motorbikes in an otherwise deserted hangar, and hung out with their loyal but disreputable buddies.
She was new then, and susceptible to the sight of the big hands of her prospective employer moving confidently over steering wheel and gear shift, aware too of the scent of him, and the close quarters masculinity of him. It disturbed her, in a good but unfortunate way.
Yes, those were the early days, when she had a tendency to crush hard on her charge, entertaining thoughts about what might be. Before she learned what kind of girls he liked, and fully understood lightning didn’t strike the same place twice, and that eating regularly was better than not and made peace with never being The One.
He obviously loved his dad, and his dad loved him, but they were stiff with each other, hugs given grudgingly and briefly. Uncle Chewie was different. Ben Solo all but disappeared as the big man enfolded him in his arms, his nephew’s carefully styled hair a barely discernible tuft above the big man’s forearms.
Chewie’s nephew emerged from the big man’s bear hug looking shy and self-conscious, but not displeased by the warmth of his uncle’s welcome.
Some while later, strapped into the driver’s seat, a racing helmet on, visor down, Rey Johnson prepared to put a Falcon Charger through her paces. Hell, like she cared whether or not she got this job, this was living, this was one of her dreams come true. She was going to thrash this baby, have her beg for mercy. Beside her, similarly kitted out, sat Ben Solo, face impassive, arms folded across his chest.
‘Let her rip, sweetheart,’ Han’s voice crackled inside her helmet, Han sat with Chewie before a console which monitored the Falcon’s vitals, and Rey let the hammer drop and did just that.
Sure the Falcon was a bit ‘ornery at first, her brakes needing to be red hot to be really effective, there was a little drift when braking, a little skittering while cornering, but the transmission was a dream. Rey changed up from third directly to fifth and heard a distinct gulp from beside her above the Falcon’s big cat roar. By this time she had the feel of the pavement beneath her, the Falcon carrying her bullet fast to wherever she would, her torque hugging the corners and negotiating the chicanes of Han and Chewie’s home made test pad like a dream, the brakes now hot and tight, and she forgot all about Ben Solo.
She would have emptied the tank, but in no time at all Han’s voice crackled again in her ears, ‘Bring her home, sweetheart’.
Brake applied, engine cut, she practically fell out the driver’s seat, ripping off her helmet, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, and began to gush about the whole experience, Han’s grin getting wider and wider with the telling.
She felt a presence at her side, Mr. Grumpy wearing a more than usual austere face. He listened, standing stiffly at her side his hair somewhat tousled, like it was standing on end, as she thanked Han yet again for the privilege of driving his legendary car.
‘Well,’ said Han, in his usual understated manner, ‘if Ben doesn’t want you, I’m hiring.’
She felt like she was going to burst her buttons at the offer of a job with Han Solo, numero uno race champ, winner of more silverware than you could shake a stick at. Then a tight, irritated voice sounded right beside her, ‘I think not, she belongs to me.’
Of course, back then his words had equally thrilled her. Back when she was new, before enlightenment came.
Han gave one of his quick, sideways looks at his son, ‘Sure, son, but he lets you go, here’s my number.’ Han was fishing in the pockets of his coveralls, ‘Chewie, you got a business card,’ he yelled.
Chewie came round from the passenger side of the Falcon, a dripping hose in his hand, grunting something like, ‘Wait a minute, why don’t ya?’
In her absorption driving the Falcon she had completely missed she’d made Ben Solo car sick.
They took a dignified leave of Han and Chewie, Rey behind the wheel, outwardly subdued but inwardly exultant. She drove them at a speed likely to suit a maiden aunt going to Sunday service - Mr. Grumpy still looked a little peaky.
They took awkward leave of each other in his apartment block’s subterranean car park. She wondered if she should apologise for before, but decided his pride was too tender a thing and didn’t wish to wound it. He stalked off to the elevator and she let out a regretful sigh, but immediately brightened. Surely the chance to drive a Falcon Charger meant her luck was turning? And she would pursue Han’s offer, even if he didn’t really mean it, for the chance to hang out.
She turned to walk to her own car, an elderly but reliable relic of yesteryear, from an age when they: ‘really knew how to make ‘em.’ Her phone beeped and she pulled it out her pocket. There were two notifications, one from Mr. Grumpy ordering her to be at his apartment’s workout suite tomorrow, fortunately at a sane and reasonable hour, and her bank, notifying her five hundred dollars had been deposited into her checking account.
She had a little quibble over the morality of accepting such a huge sum unearned. She then decided it was hush money over the ‘Rey Johnson made me sick’ story never seeing the light of day, and graciously made peace with it. She was not cheap, but she could be bought. She’d also eat well tonight.
She had an idea Mr. Grumpy wanted to see her moves, and turned up on the morrow with hair scraped back in her three buns style and wearing loose fitting grey sweat pants and shirt. She was a little surprised at the deference shown her by the concierge and his staff, and was ushered into where Ben Solo awaited her with quite the martial light in his eye. Payback, she reckoned, for yesterday, and therefore forbore to thank him for the unexpected largesse. Not that he seemed to look for any.
Hardly had he remarked on her changed hair style, she putting up a nervous hand to pat it, suddenly feeling a little exposed as the style was pretty singular, than he assured her that he liked it and then he rushed her. Whatever fancy fighting style he’d been taught she had no idea. Her own fighting style could be summed up in three words, ‘get it done’, learned at the Academy of Hard Knocks.
Whatever he expected, it wasn’t to find himself pinned to the mat, face down as she straddled him, a knee against the back of his neck, one of his arms twisted back and a pinky finger likewise painfully bent backwards establishing control over him. He tapped out and she swiftly moved out of range, retrieving her retractable baton from where it lay discarded on his ass.
It was as he peeled himself off the mat they discovered she’d bloodied his nose too.
She signed a contract of employment later that afternoon, and an NDA, for an insane amount of money. It was official, she was Ben Solo’s Girl Friday. Ben Solo with a splint on his nose, an arm in a sling, an immobilised pinky finger, a black eye and sore balls. At some future time, over a convivial glass of Corellian whiskey, when Ms. Johnson’s temperament and ability was fully comprehended by him, they could agree, it could have been so much worse.