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regrettablewritings · 7 years ago

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Soulmate AU: You Can’t Lie to Your Soulmate (Mobster!Ben Organa-Solo x Reader)

A/N: Holy shit, it’s been half a year and I’m only just now posting a Kylo Ren fic.

Ben Organa-Solo and Kylo Ren were not the same person. Sure, they were both very tall, dark-haired young men who expressed an air of intelligence and aloofness, and they were never seen in the same place at the same time, but that was to be expected: Ben Organa-Solo was the well to-do son of an adored senator, a self-proclaimed arts dealer by trade on top of that. Kylo Ren was a mask-wearing gang leader who terrorized an entire city doing God acknowledges what under the shade of night.

No, they certainly weren't the same . . . Because Ben Organa-Solo had the sense and decency to hide that side of himself from everyone else.

Nobody needed to know that his friends (?) Armitage Hux or Phasma Silverman were more like his righthand man and woman in crime. Nobody needed to know that an abundance of his money was actually linked to his involvement in black-and-grey market sales or back alley dealings with the indebted. And nobody really needed to know that he had been out on this particular evening, inflicting a hit on some deplorable who couldn't keep his mouth shut about a deal gone awry.

That's what made Ben's sudden visit to the hospital for a cut running down his left temple to the bottom of his cheek both unexpected but easier to get away with: nobody knew who he moonlighted as, so he could just lie about it.

"Okay," sighed a frustrated Hux. His grip on the steering wheel caused his knuckles to bleach white. "The story is that we were leaving your gallery and some muggers wanted Phasma's earrings – "

"Why are you making me out to sound like a damsel?" demanded Phasma coldly. She was multitasking from her place in the backseat, trying to press a worn towel to the bleeding cut lining Ben's face whilst also keeping the blood from daring to drop into Hux's "Corinthian leather" seats. "I'm a good two inches taller than you, have killed a man with a shoe before, and you think I couldn't handle some imaginary thugs?"

Hux grit his teeth, glaring into the rearview mirror. " – They were trying to take earrings that they thought you had" –Phasma rolled her eyes– "And Ben, being the brave gentleman he is, just had to step in and defend your honor." Hux didn't need to know that Ben was glaring at him through the towel; he could feel it. Oddly enough, the heavy dose sarcasm in that sentence did nothing to soothe the harsh, bloody sting streaking along his boss’ face. Good.

"I apologize," hissed Ben. "Next time you're going to hesitate on taking a shot, I'll just let you. We'll see where doing nothing goes – maybe with us to our graves after the bastard fires off a couple rounds into our bodies, but not before he takes a fucking knife to our faces." Even in pain, the sarcasm and bitterness was strong in him. It was an inheritance present in both Kylo and Ben.

As tempted as he was to end it all, to just swerve the getaway car off the nearby pier out of spite, Hux tried to remain as calm as possible. Eyes fixed on the night-slicked road, he chose to try and ignore his boss' comment. "What even possessed you to take off your mask when you knew he had a knife on him? Who does that?"

"Realize, Hux," Ben said through clenched teeth, "the empowerment looking your enemy in the eye and to be the last thing they see is a sign of dominance. For them to realize they were killed by a mere man is their final humiliation – "

"For fuck's sake, who asked you to bring that Shakespearean shite into a hit!?” Hux demanded, daring to look to the backseat with fury if only for a second. Scoffing, he retrained his attention back on the road. “It’s always the dramatics with you. You can’t just kill anyone anymore, there’s always got to be some ‘poeticism’ to it,” he reproached. “Whatever happened to just shooting someone, dumping the body on their boss’ doorstep or into the river, and sending flowers to the widow?"

“What is a prince in black without his theatrics?” Phasma asked rhetorically. Her expression remained just as bored as ever as she applied further pressure to Ben’s injury. Ben, however, seemed far more irritated by the fact that they were talking of and over him, rather than the pain of the wound.

"Whatever. He was dealt with in the end. Can we move on now?" Ben snipped, wincing as a pearl of blood ventured a little too close to his eye for his liking.

Hux groused, "We can if you can repeat the story."

Normally, Ben would sneer and brutally deconstruct Hux with a silvery tongue lashing. Unfortunately, a searing pain in one's face can often rob you of the passions required to do so. He exhaled heavily, swatting Phasma's hand away from the towel as he took it on his own. "Some deplorables assumed Phasma had jewelry. I stepped in because you were too much of a pussy to do anything about it."

The remaining part of the drive was mostly silent, aside from the growly hiss Hux tried to contain in his throat in response to Ben's comment. Every few blocks, over the hum of the engine, there was a quieted creak of the steering wheel's leather being strangled by the driver’s increasingly tightening fingers.

The wait hadn't been long at all, due to Ben's relation to Senator Organa. One of the few perks Ben could bear to enjoy about his public position.

After a process of cleaning the cut, Ben using his charm to constantly insist that neither his mother nor the authorities need be made aware of his whereabouts, advising that the situation be kept within the confines of this room, and a good bit of an hour placing stitches into his face, golden boy Ben Organa-Solo was ready to be discharged. At least, he readily assumed such. But, to both his and his cronies' dismay, there was one last thing.

"Wait right here," instructed the doctor as she removed her gloves to dump into the sanitation bin. "You can leave in a bit but first, we need prescribe you some antibiotics to keep that wound clean. Keeping the stitches in is only half the battle.” She flashed an assuring smile. “But it won't be long at all and you'll be right on your way, Mr. Organa-Solo," she insisted. Inwardly, Ben was irritated. To hell with antibiotics, there was nothing he couldn't keep at bay with a good alcoholic rub down or perhaps even downing a bottle of aged scotch. This was just a waste of time.

But he had to remember: She was speaking to Ben, not Kylo. Kylo might have received the scar out of sheer carelessness, but it was now Ben's cross to carry as well. He had to play pleasantries, at least until he was out of this place.

He smiled that of a son of a renowned politician would have been brought up knowing how to give: kind, patient, and understanding; the sort of beaming that makes viewers who weren't Phasma or Hux want to smile back. The doctor was no exception.

"Someone will be with you in a moment," she grinned as she walked out of the room and shut the door. The moment the lock clicked into place, Ben’s smile dropped like a weight. Similarly, his own giant mass seemed to lose some of its composure as well, becoming loosened and irritated as if under some burden of sorts.

Releasing a thick sigh, Ben muttered, “And I couldn’t just have one of you sew me up because . . .?”

Phasma, forcing entertainment out of a daily health magazine she’d swiped from the waiting room, kept her eyes trained on its literature.

“Because while you’ll feign patience in public, with us, you pitch a fit,” she responded. She flipped a page, “Also, neither Hux nor I enjoy stitching headwounds. It’s too risky, too unsanitary, and it’d be all too easy to just stab you and end it all there. And then we’d be out of the job.” From his position behind her, glaring at his phone, Hux nodded once in agreement.

Ben narrowed his eyes as much as he possibly could through all the soreness, but offered no vocal response. He didn’t doubt Phasma’s capacity to end him under the right circumstances, and therefore had no desire to orchestrate such conditions.

“What I meant,” Ben spoke carefully, “is that it would have caused less of a commotion had we just used one of our own resources to fix this, rather than dragging it out into the public. I highly doubt any of this visit will be kept under wraps, given the oh-so realistic details of the story, we could’ve just avoided this all if we’d just – ”

“Oh, we could have. In fact, we could have avoided this entirely,” Hux spoke. Ben rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what was coming. “This could have all been avoided, had someone just kept. His damn. Mask on.” His cold, blue eyes glared at the dark-haired man for emphasis, beyond tired from this hellish evening.

“Don’t you mean if a certain someone had just manned up and saved Phasma from the muggers?” Ben said.

“It’s not too late to pop those stitches open, Ben,” Phasma warned. If she wasn’t tired from the evening’s occurrences, she was definitely done with being a fake prop.

It was uncertain who benefitted from your arrival the most, but whatever the case, they all recomposed themselves accordingly: Phasma remained “enthralled” with the boring magazine, lifting her sights only to give you a polite nod; Hux, in a struggling effort to not let his anger translate through his features, forced an appearance of neutrality; and Ben, rehearsed in his methods, expressed an air of a good person, his darkened eyes rounded like the average innocent. As if a switch inside of him had been flicked.

You smiled shyly as you ushered yourself into the room. “Thanks for waiting,” you said, gingerly shutting the door behind you. You tried to keep a calm demeanor. One screw up with a beloved senator’s son and who knew what this would mean for your career. (Not to mention that he wasn’t bad to look at, even with that scar . . .) “Oh, and my name is (Y/N), by the way.”

Ben gave you the smile he reserved for no one. “Good evening,” he replied in a warm tone. He had used it so often, perfected it to an art, that even Hux and Phasma were beginning to believe it on occasion. They were reminded of its cheesiness by your subtle attempt at hiding a small shiver from hearing Ben’s deep voice say your name.

“Well, I can assure right back to you that this won’t take long at all,” you murmured, directing your attention to the paperwork on the clipboard you’d arrived with. “I know it’s late and frankly, a cut on the face would be enough to make anyone want to head home for some rest, so let’s get you squared away . . .�� As you made fast work with the regarded antibiotics, you attempted to make chitchat, praying that your turned-down expression could potentially hide your growing fluster.

“So what exactly did happen to you anyway, Mr. – ”

“Ben,” he offered. “Please, call me Ben.” If you weren’t too focused on trying not to outwardly gush at the shining smile on Ben’s face, you would’ve possibly noticed his two companions in the background, rolling their eyes or trying to stifle a bitter laugh. One of Ben’s many methods of putting on the charm. Judging by the wobbly smile threatening to slip on your face, they were assured that this technique had, once again and without fail, worked yet another poor soul.

“Well, Ben,” you spoke, “my coworkers and I are sorta being kept in the dark about what all went on. And my boss won’t say anything so . . .” You bit your lip. “You mind telling me what ‘upstanding citizenship’ you’ve done that’s gotten you cut up? I’m sure the guys in the back would love to hear about it!” You momentarily froze before retracting your excitement. “I – I mean, if you want,” you quickly threw in.

A corner of Ben’s political smile twitched. He failed to see what was so impressive about Hux’s bullshit story. But, then again, the average person didn’t see nearly half as much action as he did on a regular basis. It made some bit of sense that someone – even someone in the medical field – would find something intriguing about his “courageous act.” Might as well humor you just this once.

“I was trying to kill someone and he pulled a knife on me at last minute,” Ben grinned.

The silence was so deafening that you could hear a cotton ball hit the floor.

Hux could practically hear his bones creaking as he slowly turned his head up. If it were possible, his face would have gone paler. Phasma herself didn’t seem to notice her grip on her magazine pierce tiny crescent-shaped marks into the paper. The stare she shot above the pages could simultaneously freeze and melt a solid.

Ben only knew this because he could feel both sensations encasing his spine, causing his smile to falter. That, and the realization of what had just flown from his mouth surely did nothing to keep his false warmth kindled.

It was therefore a godsend of sorts when you finally broke the awkward silence with an equally awkward fit of laughter.

“O-oh! Wow, Ben, that’s, um . . . That’s quite a sense of humor you’ve got going on there,” you forced a giggle. Though it was more so just a wobbly, shaken delivery of your sentence. Maybe rich people just had a sense of humor you couldn’t quite understand? Or maybe Ben was just trying to make light of his situation and just went about it wrong from shock and exhaustion?

On the inside, Ben was, indeed, startled. But not for what you thought. Nevertheless, he was never one to miss an opportunity. Seeing your laughter as a place to put a foothold in, Ben forced a crooked smile back onto his features.

“Sorry about that; I guess the evening’s just getting to me. I apologize.” That was what he’d wanted to say. He wanted to say these things so incredibly badly, with the force and effort of everything in his being.

But alas, Ben, with an adorable smirk present, said nothing of the sort.

“No, actually, I mean it,” Ben began. He couldn’t stop himself from delving in further. “I was out on a hit because a traitor cheated me out of my money and he slashed the side of my face!” The smile stuck to Ben’s face for only a fraction of a second. But the look of horror present in those eyes of his remained for an eternity.

You didn’t awkwardly giggle. You didn’t even make a stiff smile in response to Ben’s statement. Instead, all you could do was stare. Just . . . stare. Into those deep, dark eyes that, when you’d first entered, looked so warm and welcoming. Now, when you focused on them, all you could see was the visual expression of, “Oh, shit.” Neither of which were what you would ever have expected from Ben Organa-Solo.

“Uh – Ben,” Hux barged in, pushing himself away from the window and to his companion’s side. Leaning forward to the man’s ear, he hissed through clenched teeth, “A bit late and inappropriate for dark humor, isn’t it?”

“Well, you know me, Hux,” Ben whispered back. “You know I can’t help myself.” From the emphasis, the structure of the man’s tone, Hux was cued in that something was wrong.

Hux had to fight to keep his eye from twitching with annoyance. The entire damn plan – the one that had been flying on broken wings and the grace of God already – was about to fall apart become this manchild couldn’t keep together for some nurse!?

Nevertheless, he fought to keep a frustrated flush from blossoming on his pale skin. “Well, Ben,” Hux attempted to smother his terseness with an air of friendliness. “We all know how you can be a little excitable when around pretty things,” his voice trailed, trying to make it sound as though he were referring to his associate’s “job” as an arts dealer. “But really: I’m sure everyone here has had a very. Long. Night. I’m sure that (Y/N) here has had enough excitement this shift and would just like to close off the evening with a nice, assuring story about the city’s golden boy.” Hux’s teeth gritted themselves into a tight smile. “But of course, perhaps it would just be better to put everything to rest and leave things be.”

All the while, you stood there, eyes flickering with growing perplexity. And all the while you were doing this, Phasma was staring both at you and her two male colleagues.

This wasn’t how she’d wanted to spend her Saturday night: She’d planned to run the damn errand then go home and treat herself to some sushi. It was bad enough that her night included going to the hospital because Reversed Hamlet over here had to be dramatic during a killing; now it was looking like she was going to either spend it in jail, or trying to hide your body – which would also end in jail. And a slightly guilted conscience.

Judging by the fear present in your face, it was only a matter of time before you fled the scene. And, sure enough, one of your feet took a step backwards and towards the door.

Dammit, Phasma hissed in her mind. Why the hell couldn’t he just lie!? It was this thought that stopped Phasma from making a proper list of how many ways one could incapacitate somebody with a tongue depressor.

“Wait . . .” Phasma whispered. Her eyes had finally remained settled on you. You weren’t too happy about that.

You tried not to foolishly make a shield out of your clipboard, obviously intimidated by the statuesque woman. You were already in a room with a scary-looking man with cold, blue eyes and a man who may or may not have killed someone but was sounding way too serious to be joking about it. You weren’t in any position to assume that the woman wouldn’t do you any type of harm.

The blonde Amazon of a woman, however, appeared to be undeterred, taking the steps needed to get between both you and her cohorts.

“(Y/N), be a dear and tell Ben his hair is red,” Phasma instructed.

Once again, she appeared unfazed in the face of your furrowed brows. But, once again, you literally weren’t in a position to press her.

Tongue heavy, you whispered shakily, “H-his hair is red.”

“No,” Phasma said. “Don’t tell me; tell him.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the man in question.

You had no choice, sighing and trying once more: “Ben, your hair is black.” It startled you to hear yourself say that; to say “black” in a manner so weak and unexpected that it tumbled from your mouth with none of the confidence as the preceding words had took to the air with. It felt to the floor like a baby bird.

Your eyebrows rose in accordance to your widening eyes before creasing yet again. “I mean, your hair is rreeeeblack!” Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing your fingers curiously against your lips. It wasn’t as if you weren’t trying (you really were). But every effort always felt as though it was being bolstered to the side, making way for new words, words you had tried not to focus on. The longer you tried to drag out the thoughts you had wanted, the more awkward it felt in your mouth, in your mind. Not even awkward in the sense of being aware that what you said was a lie, but a physical discomfort, one that couldn’t be ignored. One that refused to be ignored.

It was as though you’d lost any inhibitions you had over your own body, becoming hijacked by the subconscious and spilling out without any reserves. It was puzzling to say the least.

The confusion became infectious, spreading in different strains to all present but Phasma herself.

“Phasma, what is the point to all of this?” Hux quietly demanded. Ben, however, remained quiet, focusing instead on you. Phasma ignored Hux’s query, however. Aside from her height giving her a physical advantage, apparently being the most level-headed of the trio allowed her to have the best foresight and understanding.

Passing over Hux, Phasma continued, “Ben: Tell (Y/N) what you do.”

Ben, however, remained silent. In fact, he was biting the inside of his mouth in an attempt to keep some kind of neutral or bemused countenance. Maybe he couldn’t outright act like a child but he sure as hell could stick to his guns and remain silent for once. Like hell he was going to risk anything at this point.

Phasma, on the other hand, wasn’t having it. Confident in her suspicions, she pressed, “Come on, we haven’t got all night. Now tell her what it is you do or else those won’t be the only stitches you’ll end up with.”

Ben didn’t doubt her. He inhaled begrudgingly and said, calculatedly, “I am an arts dealer.” He would’ve been entirely satisfied with leaving it at that, had the tall woman not been glaring at him as she had done before. Apparently, his own satisfaction wasn’t enough to amount to Phasma’s own.

“Ben,” she said in an eerily quite voice. “What else do you do? Do you walk dogs? Bartend? ” You shivered at her tone, reconsidering if hiding behind the clipboard was really such a bad idea.

Nothing, Ben thought. “No . . .” he found himself murmuring. “I do . . . things.”

“Look at (Y/N) when you’re speaking,” the blonde demanded. Begrudgingly, Ben directed his eyes at the startled little nurse before him. His eyes, already dark by nature, appeared to be almost black, enhancing his fervent glaring. Behind those eyes, he was formulating the words he wanted to say, the words that would tell a decent lie like, “I also bet money on horses.” But, when staring at you, your fingers gripping your clipboard as your eyes and mouth opened wider, they just wouldn’t form.

“I . . . do . . . illegal things.” If he squeezed his eyes shut any further, you would’ve thought it possible for his face to swallow into itself. Inside his own head, that was exactly what Ben was hoping for. Why did he say that? How could he say that!? It wasn’t as though he’d wanted to, and yet there it was now, out in the open air. It was like some unknown force had pulled it from his throat and contorted his intentions.

“Illegal things like . . .?”

“I pirate muuuussssiiiiiccccI sell weapons and do dealings and hits I am essentially the mafia.” God. Fucking. Dammit.

“And why are you telling Nurse (Y/N) this?” Phasma said, a hint of being pleased with her findings present in her tone.

“Be . . . Because – ” Ben’s voice floated up a strangled octave as he tried to contain himself. His face grew red and discomforted, but not out of embarrassment. There was a physical discomfort boiling inside of Ben as he struggled to keep his real words at bay. He could feel them forming, the letters taking shape in his mouth. His mind was flooded with the words, the thoughts he knew deep down would come out. Still, he just had to try and fight this. He just had to try, and maybe, just maybe, he can beat this – “BecauseImunabletocontrolwhatIsayIcantlienomatterwhatItryanddoanditsextremelyfrustrating!”

Hux’s burning features contorted with an assortment of negativity. The most basic summation of them all would’ve been “a vortex of pisstivity” mixed with a mind scampering around to think of how to silence you to keep this from ever getting passed the door.

Phasma, however, remained just as composed as she’d been under even some of the worst circumstances. The only difference (one that not only confused Hux, but caused an unnerved tingle to travel down his spine) was the rather pleased smile that grazed her features. She folded her arms, satisfied that her theory had been officially proven correct.

“Well,” Phasma said. “I believe we have the answer to our problem. Perhaps coming here was a good idea after all, Ben: You got to find your soulmate. Maybe now you’ll stop your incessant whining.”

At the sound of that word – that “s” word – Ben’s eyes popped open. Erstwhile, you tensed up even more than what you thought possible for the evening.

That was the case?

Apparently, Hux had been thinking the same, uttering a low, “Unbelievable.” Not one born out of amazement, but more so extracted from a feeling of, “Are you absolutely shitting me right now?” Only he could live a life where he’d be dragged out on a hit on what should have been his night off, stuck driving the getaway car, and his whining, overly dramatic boss would still find a way to make the evening even stranger and more problematic than necessary by finding the one person he couldn’t lie to. Hux had given up.

And yet, he was nowhere near as gone as Ben was: The black-haired man sat quietly, not even slack-jawed, but just staring at you with a blank expression. You stared back, frantically trying to compose yourself at the sudden and immense influx of information.

This wasn’t how you thought your shift was going to go . . .

Reading the room, the only sane person left decided to take the initiative to put the pieces in place. “Come along, Hux.” Phasma effortlessly began to usher out the redhaired man. Hux himself put up no struggle, too befuddled at the realization of the circumstances to truly put up a fuss. “Let’s leave these two to their own devices . . .”

The clicking of the door only just barely reminded Ben to return back to reality. In reality, you were still very much startled. By what exactly, he couldn’t quite place. Was it the fact that he, Ben Organa-Solo, son of Senator Leia Organa, was your soulmate? The fact that Ben Organa-Solo was a mobster in his spare time? Or the fact that Ben Organa-Solo, part-time mobster, was your soulmate? All options were viable.

“S-so . . .” you stammered. “Um . . . About your prescriptions . . .”

Ben had to admit it to himself: You were quite a trooper for sticking to the previously intended subject. Even if it was a bit lackluster, given the new understanding between you two.

“You’re gonna need some bacitracin . . .” You nervously clicked your pen as you began to scribble down your instructions with a shaking hand. “You’ll – you’ll also need some pain medication. Regular ibuprofen should do the trick, so you needn’t look for anything heavy-hitting.” You tried your damndest not to stammer, to make yourself appear even weaker than before. At this point, you wished that your biggest worry was still over prescribing medication to a handsome son of a politician.

Anxiety flowed off you and concealed the room in a thickness so strong that even Ben could feel it.

In a weak attempt at humor, he questioned, “Will downing some scotch do the trick instead?” If it weren’t for the dull throb of his stitches and the fact that he would look quite silly doing so, Ben would have slapped a hand to his face in self-deprecation. Instead, he opted for a small, frail apology that quivered out in a small, whispering stammer.

“Actually . . .” you replied slowly as you lowered the clipboard, “Actually, I think a drink might do the both of us some good right about now . . . You ever been to the cantina down the street?”

At first, Ben wasn’t quite certain how honest you were being. The irony being that you couldn’t lie to him even if you wanted to. But judging by the small, demure smirk that you formed with your lips – one almost entirely akin to the one you’d presented before the whole revelation – you were positively sincere.

And for that, Ben couldn’t help but smile right back. Awkward and crooked, it was the first, honest smile he had made in a very long while.

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