Chapter Text
It all started when Rey decided to keep chickens in their backyard, a further push toward self-sustainability. She started off in a small way, three chickens and a smart plastic igloo type thingummy bought online secondhand. It had a stand and a cute little ladder for her girls to stalk down come morning or run up in the evening to roost.
That they had invited in a delinquent neighbour was soon evident. Rey walked wordlessly into the kitchen one morning after going to let ‘the girls’ out and wrapped her arms around his waist, thin shoulders heaving as she silently wept.
Later, when he’d settled her down with a mug of hot sweet tea, and wrapped her in the big ol’ quilt she’d found in a thrift store, he went down and viewed the carnage. Whatever had done this had gotten in under the chicken wire, and the plastic lock on the igloo had been no stretch at all to open - or rather chew off. He did the right thing by the girls.
The thing about Rey, she went down, but then she got back up again and kept coming at ya. Next day she was out in her truck bright and early waiting outside the town library, built by his grandparents and maintained by their daughter, his mom. Because, yes, slap him up the side of his head why dontcha, they’d moved back to his hometown once they were married.
It could have been worse, they had moved in with his folks temporarily, very temporarily, until closing on this place. His mom had wanted them all to live under the same roof, there was room and to spare, but he liked to chase his wife around the furniture every once in a while and, god bless her, she liked to be chased occasionally too.
Although his wife was something of a techno nerd she shared his love of books, preferring to gain knowledge the old fashioned way by turning an actual page rather than tapping at a screen. Plus, there was empirical knowledge to be drawn on. Once folks heard of the massacre they came up with all sorts of sure fire ways to stop it happening again - for Rey would not be deterred. Mr. Fox or Mr. Coyote were going down.
The upshot was a delivery of lumber and the buckling on of his wife’s tool belt around her waist, which added an alluring curve to her hips. He began to think of pagan rites, droit de seigneur, helpless village maidens, that type of thing. He anticipated a fun evening all to no avail, his wife practically sparked out eating her dinner.
He carried her to bed, softly snoring, and lovingly tucked her in. She was up next morning before him, before the sun even. When she came at ya she came at ya good.
He had his part to play too, apart from childcare and housekeeping, digging a ditch so the coop’s chicken wire extended underground, Rey was going for federal reserve level critter deterrence.
His mom offered to take the kids for a sleepover, and he gloomily anticipated reclaiming them later transformed into two tiny social justice warriors. His mom was as militant as ever.
Still, it was best not to look gift horses in the mouth and he showed up willing with shovel and pick axe, the dimensions of the new coop all laid out. His dad and Uncle Chewie showed a tendency to linger, offering up good but conflicting advice. He gritted his teeth and dug his pick axe into the sod, putting his back into it. As the sun rose so did his temperature, his dad and uncle having finally taken the hint to be off, and he stripped off his tee shirt and wiped his sweaty brow and torso with it. This action attracted the attention of Mrs Solo, who granted them fifteen minutes off the clock in the rickety old shanty she hadn’t got around to fixing up yet.
He returned to work with renewed vigor, delighting in making his muscles ripple and tense for the benefit of his wife, who was looking at him like she’d like to eat him. However, she had a schedule to keep, and with the absence of their two kids he was free to chase her around the furniture later so was content to ramp up the anticipation with some gratuitous flexing.
Uncle Chewie arrived bright and early next morning to help with the fixings of the hen house, his height and mighty muscles invaluable. Rey awoke with a squeak, scrambling into clean clothes, hair a rat’s nest, and in all other ways looking completely dishevelled. Like a woman who’d been chased around the furniture the previous evening and gotten herself caught.
Ben stretched out his own muscles, slightly tight, taking his wife’s reproaches at keeping her up all night and making her late with lazy good humor. Sliding out from between the sheets and making his way to the bathroom in all the pale glory of his birthday suit. His wife’s reproaches ceased, except for a defiant, ‘You asshole, Solo.’
He turned in the doorway of the en suite, stretching up his arms to just below the door’s lintel, leaning into the doorframe, he smiled lazily at her, ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’
She turned pink and scuttled out the room. He laughed softly, remembering their early days together, before their kids came along. She never believed she could keep him. Too skinny, too wiry, too feisty, not realising it was her uniqueness which drew him to her, doubting he could keep her. Too damaged, too brittle, a monster. He guessed they were just meant to be.
Uncle Chewie greeted him with a knowing look, turning those humorus dark eyes of his on Rey, who turned pink under the big man’s scrutiny. Chewie took his breakfast plate from his nephew’s hand, but not before ruffling his hair and kissing him on the forehead. Uncle Chewie never changed, that knowledge had been an anchor that held him together even in his worst days, before Rey.
By late afternoon the bespoke hen house had been assembled, the coop fortified and lacking only occupants. His mom and dad had come over, Han firing up the grill and Uncle Chewie handing out cold beers. Reunited with their children, Ben and Rey kicked back a little, enjoying rare family time.
Ben’s folks having stayed over, with Uncle Chewie, the Solo’s examined with fresh eyes the labors of yesterday. It was all too obvious, something had tried to get in. Rey’s gaze narrowed, her lips thinned - challenge accepted.
Ben was mildly surprised to find a pot in every bathroom and half bathroom in the house, shortly after the coop was finished and before ‘the girls’ arrived. He was bemused to find he was expected to pee in them, not use the facilities. He uttered a mild protest, aware of his wife’s leanings toward eccentricity, a result no doubt of her Britishness.
‘No, Ben,’ she had her palms flattened against his chest, ‘I need you to cooperate. It’s for the benefit of our chickens.’
‘No, Rey, really,’ he gave a helpless little laugh at at her intensity. She couldn’t be serious?
‘No, Ben, you must. I need an Alpha.’
That word, combined with the pressure of her palms against his chest, and those mesmerising eyes of hers caused his resistance to crazy Ms. Kanata’s homespun wisdom to falter. He’d followed the allure of those eyes before, not knowing if they led to shipwreck or salvation, and yet here they were. He was Rey’s husband and lover. He could be her Alpha too.
His acquiescence caused her to purr, her voice low and sultry, ‘Did you notice the kids are at your mom’s?’
What! Of course he knew where his kids were. Oh, oh! The kids were at his mom’s.
They got started on producing their third child that day, a tiny, delicate creature with a spine of steel, Padmé.
Just as quickly Rey got down to collecting his pee in a watering can, carefully monitoring his daily fluid intake. Determinedly leaving an olfactory threat throughout their yard for would be predators. For hawks, there were two smokin’ barrels and buckshot.
Ben Solo was so glad Rey Solo was on his side.