You asked for this sappy nonsense.

She’s sitting in front of the vanity, hair pins in her teeth as she scowls at her own reflection. That in of itself isn’t so odd anymore, Rey has been experimenting more with her hair, her makeup, her clothes, recently. What is odd is that it’s only mid-morning and she’s usually out in the garden around this time. Hair experimentation is usually an after dinner activity. 

“Rey? What are you doing?” 

She jumps. A single pin falling from her lips, “Ben! I didn’t hear you come in,” she says around the others. She fusses with the fly away strands around her ears and continues to stare resolutely into the mirror. 

Ben steps into the room – she hates it when he lurks in the doorways – and eyes the work she’s done. A section of her hair lays flat, pinned behind what he can only guess is an attempt at another braid, though the sections of hair she has ready for it are uneven.

“It’s a disaster, I know,” Rey says. 

“Depends on what you were going for,” Ben says. He’s behind her now, watching her reflection in the mirror. She’s got tears in her eyes, and though he understands it’s probably due to her own frustration, it makes his heart ache. 

Rey rolls her eyes. “It’s awful, Ben.” Discomfort rolls off her strong enough to make him queasy, echoing in the force around them.

“What were you trying to do?” He asks, two fingers through her hair. It’s always so soft. 

“Remember when we were on Birren?” 

“Of course.” 

“There was a girl there with this long braid and flowers in her hair. It was kind of,” she scrunches her hands in the air, “puffy. But not? And she had part of her hair loose and a braid around the top, too? I was trying to do that.” 

He swallows, stilling his fingers. “It’s Alderannian,” he says. 

“Do you know it?” 

He looks down at the vanity top, unwilling to meet her eyes. Oh yes, he knows it. He’s seen in all of his mother’s wedding holos. He nods. 

“Could you help me? Please?” She tips her head up, imploring with those wet hazel eyes in only the way she can. He wants to tell her no. He wants to tell her that she can’t because it’s not just a hair style – it’s a significant symbol. Unengaged women are not supposed to wear their hair like brides… but who’s going to know? Anyone who might understand it’s meaning is planet’s away and he’d sooner cut his own leg off than deny her anything. 

“Of course,” he says. She calms, though the undercurrent of anxiety still jitters around the two of them.

She shoves the hair brush and pins in his hand and he takes her hair down – an act that makes his heart skip a bit on it’s own – even though they’ve grown far past the point where simple acts of innocent intimacy should make him nervous. 

He’s finished with the braid that wraps around the top of her head before she speaks again. 

“Why didn’t they write all this down? It’d be much easier to do on my own if there were instructions,” she says. He chin is cradled in her hand, elbow resting on the vanity top, like a bored teenager. 

“It’s supposed to be passed down,” Ben says, “mothers to daughters, aunts to nieces.” 

“Mothers to sons?” 

Ben cracks half a smile. “More through observation than practice.” 

“I’m glad you observed, then,” Rey says, her voice soft. 

It takes him half and hour to get it finished. Rey’s hair is longer, but short enough that the end of the braid barely touches her back. He steps back, taking in his work. 

“Is it done?” She asks. 

“Sans flowers, but yes, it’s done.” 

“Are flowers required? Should we get flowers?” She turns to look at him, her face as stern and serious as if she were contemplating war strategy. 

“…no.” If she were getting married then yes, she should have starflowers in her hair. 

“I want it to look right, Ben. It needs to look right,” she huffs. 

“It does look right. I looks lovely,” he says. 

She rolls her eyes. “But it’s finished? The way it should be?” She stands, jerking her head every which way as if expecting some flaw to present itself. 

“Yes,” he says, coming to stand behind her. 

He strokes her arms as she takes a deep breath, stilling herself now. “Good,” she says, “okay.” 

She spins around in his arms, looking up at him with fiery determination in her eyes. But she doesn’t speak. She just keeps looking at him like he’s a thing to be conquered – as if she hadn’t managed that long ago. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says, finally. 

“Do what?” 

“No one does this on Jakku,” she says. “I don’t know how it works so, I’ll just say it,” she swallows, “I want you to marry me.” 

“You… what?” 

“Marry me. I was going to – “ she throws her hands out and huffs “I had a thing planned,” she shakes her head, “but I can’t take it anymore and you had to step in and help so just tell me you’ll be mine before the anxiety wins and I throw up.” 

She squeaks when he lifts her up by the waist and kisses her with all he’s worth. “I’ve always been yours.” 

Trope Mash-Up