AN: This sat in a notebook for actual years, just a snippet, but I still want the original point of it out there.

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Her rapid heartbeat was pounding in her temples and she could hear the sounds of shouting, blaster bolts, and crashing from the remnants of battle all around them, but she'd managed to back him into a corner. She had been circling him, driving him away from the centre and into isolation, for what felt like hours. Now they were alone, pressed into the hollow below an embankment and shielded from view on three sides.

The tip of his red lightsabre hovered just above the ground- crackling and throwing off sparks which smouldered in the dry leaves before winking out- as if he were too tired to lift it. She knew he wasn't. She could feel the engulfing throb of his power all around her, the living pulse of his will, and she knew he could turn this tide nearly single-handedly if only he'd decide that he wanted to.

"Why did you do this," she demanded, panting, ignoring the way her own weapon drooped at her side. Her fatigue was very real, pausing even for a moment was allowing stiffness to set in on her weary limbs. "Why put yourself here, put me here when you didn't want it! Ben! Tell me why!"

He held up a hand, as if to ward her off, the black glove covering it profoundly offensive to her. Somehow it seemed a more intimate barrier than the mask, sealing him off more thoroughly from her influence. His fingers flexed and trembled under her scrutiny, but he said nothing.

Suspicious, she tried stepping nearer, feeling resistance in the air. His passive desire to keep her away had recruited the Force, and the energy tingled against her skin as it held her back. Rey deactivated her lightsabre and threw it down.

"Let me," she said. Not gently, but not quite a demand.

The mask slowly shifted back and forth in mute refusal.

"Ben," she repeated. "Please."

The hilt of his lightsabre slipped from nerveless fingers and its volatile blade fizzled twice before going out. The smoke from the scorched under brush curled up between them like a visible sigh.

She reached for him then, keeping her palms upward in supplication as she crossed the few metres separating them. She made contact first with his own outstretched hand and then his elbow, pulling his arm towards her chest as she stepped close and tipped her head well back to look up at him. Her fingers could not close around his wrist and she glanced down again to dig under his sleeve for the edge of the glove, burrowing beneath the leather for warm flesh.

Her movements were slow and deliberate as she peeled off his glove and twined their fingers together, giving him every chance to rebuke her. Watching him carefully for signs of discontent. He returned a squeeze around her knuckles when she pressed their joined hands over her heart and she took that as a concession.

"Let me help you," she said.

His neck bent and his back bowed, his whole towering form wilting slightly towards her as if a great weight were bearing down on his broad shoulders. The quilted material of his doublet was surprisingly soft where it brushed her cheek and she had to swallow hard against a fluttering sensation rising in her throat.

"I'm going to…" Her warning trailed off as she felt for the release catch on the mask, her voice failing her. The hollow black eye sockets which had seemed to stare with an accusatory sorrow were out of sight over her shoulder and she couldn't help being grateful she didn't need to face them as she gathered her courage.

Some secret inner clasp gave way and the helmet sprang open, now loose enough for her to reach up with both hands and pull it very carefully and tentatively free.

It thudded to the ground somewhere behind her and all she could immediately see was his mop of wavy black hair, mussed and damp with sweat, but gorgeously human and irresistibly inviting to the touch. Hesitant, she held her breath as she watched the progress of her hand sliding along his arm to his shoulder, ghosting across his trapezius to the column of his throat, and finally allowed herself to bury her fingers in the silk-soft strands. Guided by instinct, she let her palm curve around the base of his skull just behind his ear and held his head against her neck for a long moment, feeling the heat of his breath on her skin.

When he finally lifted his head she was unprepared for the look in his wide, dark eyes. She was unprepared for the bruise at the corner of his full lips and the smudges of exhaustion marring his pale face. She had thought she was prepared for the thin, but still angry, red line which cut across the flat of his cheekbone and over his brow. The sinking feeling in her gut told her she was not.

Her free hand rose to brush a lock of hair back from his forehead and she let her index finger trace along the scar with a touch so tenuous she was sure he could have only barely felt it. Still, she could sense his warmth, the slight vibration of his shudder under her scrutiny; she could feel that he was alive and real and suffering.

"I'm so sorry," she announced with a blunt abruptness that startled them both.

Ben's eyebrows pressed together, forming a crease of confusion between them. "You're sorry...?" but then she could see him understand, see him ready to protest.

Impulsively, she gripped his shoulders and rocked onto her tip toes to press two clumsy kisses at the widest point of the scar right around the middle of his cheek. Unable to hold his gaze, her eyes flicked from his to a spot somewhere in the middle of his chest. "Don't say I shouldn't be, because I am sorry and you can believe that. You can believe me, Ben. Please. I don't want you to be hurt, I don't want to be one of the ones who hurt you."

"Rey." His arms came around her very tight and his nose pressed into her hair and if she felt a hot trickle of tears she would say nothing about it.