Ben happily takes whatever she hands him, something to do with carbon scoring, and he gets to work where Finn had left off, falling into the comfortable silence between them, with the sounds of everything else going on in the background. It's nice to be working on something, tending to something, healing something. Especially the Falcon. It does inspire a wellspring of guilt each time he sees it, as if somehow it is there to remind him of the atrocities of his past, instead of being a lasting reminder of the man who had owned it, who had loved him, who had died for him. He thinks maybe one day he'll get over it, but more importantly, he hopes he won't. It's painful but it's important.
The Falcon takes a beating every run, it seems, but it endures. It survives. Since the war against the Empire, it has flown and vested newer, seemingly better ships. It was the dedication and care that kept it in the sky and if part of his penance was to clean it over and over again, he'd do it. After a few minutes of silence, Ben glances over at Rey, whose simple clothes and windswept hair belie her beauty, which had never quite been as lost on him. "Plans for the day? Once we're done here, I mean." Truthfully, the Falcon is a task that could take them all day if it suited them. There were always things to be done. Somehow, he thinks Rey might be content in that, even if he itches to do something more tangible to help now that he has cast off the shackles of the dark side. While the First Order had taken a sufficient hit with the loss of Snoke, Kylo Ren, and many of the high command, it was not defeated. Crait had not put down the beast, only wounded it.
There is so much to be done and all the time feels borrowed. He wishes he could pause everything in this moment and be allowed to bask in it, but that isn't how was works. His mother was not allowed to do that. Neither had his father. To keep pressing forward, to reach for the final conquering of evil was the Solo Organa way. He would need a weapon though, and he'd trained for ten years in one specific art. It would be a shame to consign him to a gun when the elegance of the lightsaber had always found a home in his grasp. "I was thinking," he says, breaking the silence, his voice cracking slightly, though he powers through without acknowledging it, "That maybe it's never going to be a good time for me to get a kyber and maybe we should just do it. Get it done. And if you really don't want to go to one of the kyber mines, there are always synthetic kyber. They work fine. It's not traditional but nothing about anything I've done has been traditional."
"Pretty much any crystal is going to be an upgrade from the one I was using. It was cracked and distorted and.... largely symbolic of its owner, I guess." But he wasn't that now. He wasn't broken and scattered and lost. He had been found. Found by his family, found by Rey, and it was strange to think that all the years he'd spent searching for his place in the galaxy could have been answered simply by going home. He realizes he has stopped working and goes back to it, let's his thoughts hang in the air between them. He tries not to stare at her, expectant and waiting for her reaction. Give her a moment, he thinks, to process it.
They've got a hundred things to do and heading off to get his crystal isn't high on the list for obvious reasons. She won't be entirely wrong if she tells him they should wait. The enemy is out there. He wants to be equipped to fight but he will defer to her judgement. It's really the only way to do anything these days. The choices he's made in the past aren't convincing anyone of his rationality.