Chapter 1: Breaking Atmosphere
Chapter Text
The day the Finalizer dropped into the atmosphere of Ajan Kloss was the day Armitage Hux realized his life was a force-cursed joke.
âThe General wants to see you.â The guard had seemed particularly ornery when he and his partner barged through his prison cell door that morning. There were plenty of reasons to explain their shortness of breath. No lack of inspiration for the wary hatred their stares seemed to contend. But despite it all, part of Hux still thrilled at seeing anyone that wasnât Poe Dameron, who was apparently the only person in this damned Resistance with too much free time, based on how often he came knocking on Huxâs cell door.
The guards escorted him through a labyrinthine maze of a centuries old fort, into a flood of sunlight Hux had never expected to see again. He blinked against the light, near staggering as if struck, even as his feet compelled him forward under an impulsive urge to keep pace with the guards. It had been weeks since his defection, or so he guessed. It wasnât like he had a datapad to track time, just the ability to count meals and guard rotations. But weeks were what he had gathered, and by the frenetic energy of the base those weeks had not been kind to the Resistance.
Surrounded by her commanding officers, Leia Organa greeted him with a cold nod. Stoic at her side flanked Renâs Jedi girl, the scavenger from Jakku, someone Hux had spent too much time hating to ever get a good look at. Now, he was suddenly struck with how small she was â so different from Ren, though the Force clung to her in the same way it had him. Hux had long ago tried removing her identity from Kylo Renâs, but his mind refused to separate the two. The connection, obsession, that Kylo Ren possessed for that girl was the whole reason he was here right now: defected, imprisoned, harrowed of his position within the First Order, and stripped of a purpose he'd spent his life in service to.
A life that had amounted to nothing more than a lonely cell, prisoner of the people he'd spent his life attempting to quell, all because Ren had been unable to see anymore value in the Order than how it could bring him closer to the Force. Hux caught himself frowning at the girl, as if it were Kylo Ren himself standing at his motherâs side.
Frustration tugged uneasy. Hux looked away before he said something stupid, but then his attention caught instead on Dameron. He was grinning at Hux, eyebrow raised, inquisitive, asking something of him Hux didnât understand, like there was some inside joke he was also supposed to be laughing at â like Hux was to supposed to know what the fuck was going on. and if he thought the words he wanted to say to the Jedi girl were stupid, none compared to those he'd say to Dameron-
It was Organa who broke the heavy tension in the room, âWe need your help, General Hux.â She looked as exhausted as she sounded, the thread of a plea turning Huxâs blood cold. âThe Finalizer has followed your lead and defected to our cause, and we now have a Resurgent class Star Destroyer with over fifty thousand First Order personal in our orbit requesting humanitarian aid.â
Hux knew then that this wasnât going to end well for him.
He was led to a washroom where he was directed to shower (a real shower, not a sonic like that in his prison cell), and instructed to await an officer who would come by to cut his hair, trim his beard, and escort him to the flight pad where, Hux assumed, he would be held at gun point and fed lines in order to barter the terms of surrender for his former crew.
They returned his uniform.
Hux stared at it, almost as if waiting for it to catch fire, burn to ashes right there on the bench it sat upon. It was the only possession he had with him the day he'd fled the Steadfast, and it was the first thing that had been taken from him when he stepped off the Millennium Falcon and onto enemy soil. The fact that they kept it didnât surprise him. That they had laundered it and folded it neatly into a stack atop his freshly polished boots did. But, he supposed, how would it look if the Resistanceâs pet First Order officer looked to be mistreated? Where would the narrative lead if it were found out that the good guys treated their prisoners the same as every other galactic regime?
The shower turned out to be a greater temptation than Hux could resist. He spent a good twenty standard minutes soaking under the hot spray before soap ever touched his skin. Another twenty minutes after that was spent pondering how he could smuggle the tube of soap out of the shower room and back to his cell, whether he would ever return to his cell, or if the Finalizer story was just a front for what was to be a long overdue and not necessarily unwelcome public execution.
When he finally turned the water off and stepped out from the shower stall he was once again met with Poe Dameronâs perfectly white bare-toothed smile. He was leaning against the sink, watching Hux closely â probably had been watching him closely for kriff knows how long â and suddenly Hux became consciously mindful of his body, as nude and pale as he was, untouched by even the vitamin lamps of a deep space luxury war cruiser.
âWhat do you want Dameron?â It wasnât so much a question as a threat.
âPlease, have a seat!â Dameron swung a folding chair out from beside him, settling it on the floor in front of the sink and its respective mirror, âIâll be your barber this afternoon, get you fixed up right pretty.â Dameronâs cheerful voice was a dead weight on Huxâs chest. The mocking tone, the casual friendliness, it was worse than a dressing down, worse than a force grip on his neck. Those who used kindness as a weapon were rare in the First Order. It was dishonest, childish, a method of manipulation meant to get a rise rather than get results. Hux closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He could do this, he just had to keep calm, stay in control of himself.
His control didnât last long.
âForgive me if I lack faith in yourââ Hux opened his eyes and made a point of eyeing Dameronâs appearance, as roguish and unrefined as it was, ââgrooming abilities.â
âWhy Hugs, is that a challenge?â Dameron approached him with a honed focus, and Hux drew to attention. It was a natural reaction, one burned into muscle memory from his Academy years, and he wanted to reprimand himself for the show of subordination. Instead he stood quiet and still as Dameron examined him with a comfortable confidence, utterly unthreatened, as if Hux posed him no danger whatsoever. Not to say Hux had any intention of starting a fight, that would be foolish in his position, but the arrogance of him was, was, astoundingâŠ
Hux drew into himself as he was eyed up and down. Dameron walked a slow circle around him, making a production of it. He stopped to tap his chin as he peered at Huxâs face, twisted his lips in thought as he circled around behind him, and finally stopped and made a show of staring at Huxâs penis which was, granted, nestled in an embarrassingly wild patch of pubic hair.
âWhat are you looking at?â Hux quickly dropped the towel around his shoulders to instead twist around his waist, which did nothing to hide the flush of red that started at his face and creeped down his neck.
âWell youâre quite the challenge but I think Iâm up for it,â Dameron fell back, his easy confidence unwavering, placing a hand on the chair again and beckoning Hux to sit.
Hux wanted to spit at Dameronâs feet, tasted the saliva collecting under his tongue, sick with the humiliation of standing naked in front the person who may as well be his captor. Dameron had dragged him from the Steadfast and to this stars-forsaken prison planet. Hux had demanded to be left behind, and when Dameron ignored him, when Dameron had grappled him up by the lapels because Huxâs leg wouldnât work right and he was slipping on all the blood he was losing â Hux had even begged for it.
He was under no illusions that Pryde would have believed his story; his ruse as a spy had been irreparably crippled. But Hux would have been executed quickly, efficiently. His sentence would not have been this slow decay of body and mind. Circumstance had left him without the agency of choice then as it did now, naked and unarmed within an enemy base, alive only because he could maybe be useful, unforgotten only because he had snuffed out billions in a glorious moment of megalomania.
And before him sat an empty chair at the feet of his enemy, a taunting reminder of how far he had fallen, of how much further he had to go. Maybe that was it, the thing which bothered Hux the most: that his thread of fate unraveled into the distance, but a fog had closed in and now he couldnât see the end approach. He was left waiting, his life suspended, at the whimsy of the Resistance who hadnât lifted a finger to so much as hold him accountable.
Hux no longer mattered. He was no longer relevant.
Well, at least until today.
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Poe thought he was going to have to force Hux into the chair. When he had become unresponsive, staring at the floor with an empty internal gaze that quirked at Poeâs conscious just enough to be concerning, he actually thought he was going to have to get help. He didnât need Hux having a mental breakdown now, not with thousands of enemy troops at their doorstep. What the Resistance needed was to have already made this man sympathetic to their cause. Instead, they had locked him away to be dealt with later, happy enough to push one more player off the war board.
When Hux could have been utilized for information, leadership had sat on their hands, choosing to instead assume he couldnât be trusted, no matter that every shred of intel he had passed on while operating upon the Steadfast and been good, had been tips that had turned the war in their favor. When they could have given Hux time with a therapist to deal with what was very obviously an extreme anxiety disorder, if only to keep him mentally fit enough to stand trial after all was said and done, they instead choose solitary confinement, a method as cruel as torture.
Poe couldnât help but feel some responsibility for that. After all, itâs not like he had made as much time as he could have to drop in on Hux, not since those first few days when heâd been under a medically induced coma in med bay and an overwhelming feeling of guilt kept bringing Poe to the foot of his bed. He had been the one to bring him to Ajan Kloss, he was the reason Hux was still alive.
He was still unsure what he expected from the Resistance. He was even more unsure of what he expected from himself. All he knew at the time was that he was pretty sure Hux was bleeding out, and he was positive the First Order would know he was the spy after he failed to keep them from escaping. Poe also knew he had a hero complex. That he couldnât leave Hux behind surprised no one, least of all himself. And of all the qualities Hux possessed, incompetency was not one. The First Order would have known; Kylo Ren would have known.
Poe had known, as it turned out.
He had suspected, when the first encrypted messages had started leaking through, that it was Hux. After Crait, Hux had fallen off their radar, just another name mentioned in the background static of the few messages they intercepted from First Order intergalactic communications. They knew he had been transferred to the Steadfast, command of the Finalizer stripped of him to instead serve under Allegiant General Pryde. They knew he was on Kylo Renâs war council, despite the loss of command. They also knew that Hux and Kylo Ren did not work well together, and that the ascension of Kylo Ren to supreme leader had surely put them even more at odds.
The tips started to trickle in soon after. What came through were never scraps of gossip or subversive misdirections. They were informative, ruthless in their exposure of First Order plans, hot like a vibro-blade slicing through the pillars that held together Kylo Renâs shaky command.
Information like that wasnât made privy to just anyone. No, Poe knew the spy had to be of some significant rank, and the only person that continued to come to mind had been the infamous General Hux.
Who now stood before him, wet and dripping like a dog that had been left out in the rain.
Hux surprised him when he approached the chair and sat down, shoulders drawn back, spine straight, eyes dropped almost demurely towards where his hands sat clasped in his lap. But the whites around his fingernails gave him away, his hands clasped so tight as to chase the blood from his cuticles, bite overgrown fingernails into the backs of his hands. Poe couldnât help but feel empathy for Hux. Poe knew what loss felt like, but heâd always had the support of his friends, his family. Hux had no one, not even the façade of the First Order to fall back on. He turned over the image of Hux laid comatose in a cot with the person who sat in a chair at his feet: just as pale, just as thin, the circles around his eyes just as dark as they were then.
Poe sighed, the amusement he felt earlier withering in the face of what was another personâs anguish. The least he could do, Poe decided, was make Hux look as close to his old self as possible. He moved to stand behind Hux, viewing his reflection in the mirror. The haze of steam obscured Poeâs face but he could see Hux clearly: golden red hair stuck at odd angles across his forehead, the even scruff of a beard filling in slower than Poeâs own beard grew, framing a downturned cupidâs bow of a mouth that was parted just slightly, soft, so unlike the expressions he was used to seeing on Huxâs face.
It struck Poe then, just how pretty he was.
Hux must have felt his stare because his mouth closed, his lips pressing together and his eyes raising to search the fog where Poeâs reflection should have been. Poe dropped his head, thankful that Hux couldnât see him, unsure what he would do if Hux saw the blush now creeping across his cheeks. Hux was pretty, not like a girl, but unlike what Poe was normally attracted to in a man. He wasnât particularly muscular, he didnât smell of engine grease, and his personality definitely left something to be desired â but there it was, a bloom of attraction deep in Poeâs chest, persistent to be acknowledged.
Taking a deep breath, Poe folded the feeling into itself, promising to revisit it later, because something was there that deserved more than he could spare at the moment. Instead, he carefully placed a hand on Huxâs shoulder, his fingers curling down to brush the bony protrusion of his collarbone. Hux stiffened at the touch, and Poe felt the pulse under his fingertips flutter to life. The steam was evaporating from the mirror enough to reveal Poeâs face, and he met Huxâs eyes in their shared reflection. The silence of the room ballooned around them, suffusing them in a bubble of calm, like that felt before a storm.
âIâm sorry, is this okay?â Poeâs voice sounded steadier than he felt. But the question hung between them unanswered, Hux staring at him, his pale eyes unreadable. âOf course itâs not,â Poe rasped a nervous laugh, apologizing again,â Sorry, Iâll try to be quick.â
Poe left his hand on Huxâs shoulder and reached with his free hand to gently pull his fingers through Huxâs hair, watching hisâs reflection closely, not trusting Hux to speak up if something he did was a problem and instead relied on his body language. Huxâs eyes were downcast again, pale lashes hiding his eyes but his mouth had gone soft once more, parted just so, lips wet and pink.
Ah ah â Poe reigned his thoughts in and focused on Huxâs hair, pushing his fingers through it again, finding itâs natural part and styling it from there into what he could remember his hair looking like in all those propaganda posters that had circulated around after Starkiller Base. Huxâs hair had grown long, the wet edges curling past his ears, and one errant strand refused to stay in place, falling forward over Huxâs brow. Poe caught it, smoothed it back with enough pressure that it might stay put, the pads of his fingers dragging over Huxâs temple and pausing there, holding the strand in place.
Thatâs when Poe caught Huxâs expression in the mirror: his face was frozen, gaze turned inward, lost in something Poe could not see, skin gone gray. It was quick, so fast even Poeâs piloting reflexes struggled to keep up, but suddenly Hux was jerking out of his reach, hunching over, a sharp inhale sucked through his open mouth as his body curled over his knees and his hands reached up to clench in his hair, fingers twisting tight and pulling.
âShit, sorryââ Poe panicked, hands up beside his head in a placating gesture, watching as Hux twisted his hair painfully, body hunched and shaking, wishing Hux would stop, âKriff, Hux, did I hurt you?â
âFuck you Dameron.â The bite in his words cut strange and deep into Poe.
âAlright, Iâm gonna get some help, okay? Just stay here andââ
âNo!â Hux spun in the chair, grabbing Poeâs arm before he moved out of reach. His grip was painful, fingers digging in hard into the fleshy cusp where bicep met forearm. âDonât. I donât need help.â
But everything inside Poe screamed that yes, Hux needed a lot of help, certainly more help than a haircut and shave, âIâll be quick, alright, just stay calm and Iâll be backââ
âPlease.â The plea washed cold over Poe, and suddenly he was back there on the Steadfast, a bleeding Hux in his arms begging to be left behind. Poe had fucked up, he had really really fucked up.
âOkay.â Poe dropped to his knees in front of Hux, prying the clawed fingers from his arm to instead grip his hand. âTell me what you need.â
But Huxâs head hung low, hair obscuring his face from Poeâs view. The hand in his clutched Poe in a vice like hold, bordering on painful, almost strong enough to hide the tremble in it. Poe let it happen, lifted his other hand to cover their shared grip, smoothing a thumb over the soft flesh of the top of Huxâs hand. Hux sucked in breath after breath, involuntary open mouth gasps that prevented him from speaking, not that Poe thought Hux would actually tell him what was wrong. It was an anxiety attack, that much was obvious, and not something he was entirely unfamiliar with himself. So, Poe did what he would have wanted someone to do for him, he stayed with Hux, murmured quiet affirmations that Hux was safe, what he felt was scary, and that was okay, but he was here, not there, he wasnât alone, he would be okay.
Gradually, as Huxâs breathing evened out and the slope of his shoulders became less acute, the grip on Poeâs hand relaxed, became lax â enough that Poe picked up on the hint and released the hold he had on Hux. The pale hand slipped from between his two browned ones to again curl up in Huxâs lap.
âI apologize,â Huxâs voice was quiet, but steady, his edges sewn shut and smoothed over.
Poe swallowed, shook by how quickly Hux had gone from broken to whole. He wondered how a person could mentally wield their emotions with such severe control.
âDamn, Hugs, donât apologize. Iâm sorry if I hurt you,â Poe still knelt at Huxâs feet, catching sight of his face as he peered at Poe from behind his fallen fringe. âWill you tell me, so I wonât do it again?â
Hux breathed out a harsh sigh, turning his face away, âMy temples.â
Poe waited, expecting more, but Hux was quiet, that was all Poe was getting, âOkay, your temples, got it. Iâll avoid them.â
The next several minutes he spent not touching Hux at all. Instead he laid out the shears and razor he had brought with him on the bench at his side, busying himself with the mundane so Hux didnât see how his hands shook, giving himself and Hux the space they both needed to collect themselves. When he finally turned around and approached the chair again, this time with the shears held loosely in his hand, he found Hux had styled his own hair into shape, each strand laid precisely into place.
âYou can trim it to here,â Hux indicated with his fingers where he wanted the edges to fall, âI like to keep it longer, even at the back and sides.â
âAlright,â Poe breathed out, wondering at the tiny bloom of warmth he felt, as if Hux had let him in on some secret about himself. This was how Hux liked something, something about himself, something maybe no one else in the Galaxy knew about him. âI can do that.â
He could do this.
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Do you have a problem with me, General?
No sir, not at all.
Sir?
Supreme Leader.
Tell me Hux, does my ascension to Supreme Leader bother you? Perhaps you think it should be yourself in my place.
Not at all, Supreme Leader.
Prove it to me then, let me see how you feel.
I have nothing to hide, Supreme Leader.
Then why is your mind closed to me Hux? Why wonât you let me inside?
Sir-
Let me in Hux. Why do you fight me?
Ren- donât.
Does it hurt? Youâre only hurting yourself Hux. Let me see.
No, stop-
Never.
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Hux scrutinized himself in the mirror, tilting his face to the side and examining the deep cut of his sideburns, trailing his fingers along his jawline, smooth and soft like he remembered. The beard had been uncomfortable, physically itchy, and so unlike himself, unnatural. Hux was glad to have it gone. Dameron had done a decent job with his hair too, close if not identical to the way he normally wore it. The hair pumice he used was thinner than what he preferred, and he couldnât imagine it capable of keeping his hair in place longer than several hours in the climate of the jungle planet they were on. Not that heâd seen Ajan Kloss for himself yet, no, Dameron himself had seen fit to share that information with him, along with the news of the fight with Palpatine on Exegol, and the apparent fall of Kylo Ren himself, which Hux had refused to smile about, not when Dameron was watching.
No, heâd already revealed enough about himself. The anxiety attack had taken him as much by surprise as it had Dameron. Like a strike of lightning during a sunny summer afternoon. The touch to his temple had triggered the reaction. The pressure put there stirred memories of Force fueled mind tricks expanding his skull to bursting; Kylo Renâs spectral fingers burying deep into the cracks and crevices of his brain matter. Hux had been unable to stop himself, the pain the memories brought to the surface had become overwhelming, all consuming.
That Dameron had stayedâŠ
Hux didnât want to think about that.
Instead he focused on his reflection, giving his uniform one last examination, noting the repaired blaster hole in the thigh, the patch made from a piece of fabric taken from the hem of his pant leg, the darning technique securing it in place as professional as a First Order tailorâs work. Smoothing his bare hands down his sleeves, Hux tugged the edges to his wrist before pulling the familiar soft leather gloves over his fingers. The familiarity of these clothes bolstered him, gave him strength where before he felt weak. The stiff texture of the weave, a synthetic gabberwool blend that he would likely regret once outside in the humidity of the jungle climate, instead felt like armor, like a reminder of who he was: a person that was strong, who had overcome the odds against him, thrived where a person should have withered.
The Resistance couldnât take that from him. No one could take that from him now.
Kylo Ren is dead.
He kept coming back to the thought, mulling over the relief he felt. That Kylo Ren still had such sway over him enraged Hux. He hadnât feared Ren, not like he had Snoke, nor his father. Ren was childish, an amateur wielding the force, and his attempts at getting into Huxâs head were easily thwarted, at least while Snoke had been alive.
After, though, there was no one to keep Kylo Ren under heel. He had gone manic, taking what he wanted from Hux and the rest of command, or at least trying to. Sometimes Hux wondering if the pain was the point, if Ren hadnât actually been trying to read his thoughts. If he had gained anything more than a superficial sort of sense then his stunt as a spy would have been over far faster than it ever began, so Hux could only suspect Renâs force attacks were fueled by his newfound permission to torment him, to make up for their years of shared animosity aboard the Finalizer. Without Snoke to reign Ren in, he had become the monster he always envisioned himself to be.
Hux still remembered being thrown across the throne room. The pain from the ribs he had broken lingered well after the bacta had healed them, the bruises never fading even after months of treatment, unable to heal because of the subsequent force beatings he was to endure. All of command suffered from Renâs abuse, that Hux suffered the most surprised no one.
Nothing hurt as much as having the Finalizer stripped from him, though.
And nowâŠ
Hux closed his eyes, straightened his back and pursed his lips. When he opened his eyes, the man reflected in the mirror was one he knew well: strong, powerful, in control.
Hux turned on his heal, his polished boots squeaking on the tile floor, and opened the door to exit the bathroom, acknowledging Dameron with a curt dip of his chin.
âLookin good Hugs,â Dameron smiled at him, not the bare toothed grin from earlier, but something softer, more genuine. Hux hated it. âReady to do this?â
âWere you planning to tell me precisely what this is,â Hux drawled, putting his height advantage over Dameron to use and leaning into his personal space, âOr were you hoping to surprise me?â
Un-phased, Dameron slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head to the side as he examined Huxâs face, âWhat, you think weâre lying about the Finalizer?â
Hux stayed silent. Dameron wasnât going to get him to talk, it wasnât Hux that owed him an explanation.
âFine,â Dameron sighed, âCome here.â
Dameron led him a short distance down the empty hallway to where a window opened out into a tree-filled skyline. Hovering there, above the tree line, gray and gloomy and far in the distance, was the faint shadow of a Resurgent class Star Destroyer.
âWhy are they this close?" Ice filled Huxâs belly, his eyes scanning the distant shape as his brain calculated the position of the ship and what he guessed was the planetâs atmospheric depth and gravitational density. âTheyâre too close, theyâll be pulled in by the planetâs gravity, what are they thinking.â
âTheyâre landing, is what theyâre doing.â Dameron was behind him, at his shoulder, breath vibrating the tiny hairs on the back of Huxâs neck. He failed to suppress his shiver.
âLanding.â Hux refused to believe his personally trained crew were stupid enough to land a Star Destroyer on a jungle planet.
âYeah, a water landing, weâve given them coordinates of a large salt water lake about forty clicks from here.â Dameron came to stand beside him, pointing in a direction beyond where the canopy of trees allowed him to see, âTheir ion drives went catastrophic during their last jump, they had to release the fuel from the ship to prevent a complete meltdown and have been cruising on crude fuel for the last week. Donât have enough left to stabilize in orbit so weâve got them coming down for a landing.â
âThat ship canât land on a planet,â Hux lost it, turning on Dameron and snarling into his face. âIf they donât have enough fuel to hold orbit then they donât have enough fuel to break gravitational velocity, and if their ion engines are down they donât have shields. They will crash.â
Dameron watched him quietly, searching his face before holding his eyes, âWe know, weâve deployed what ships we have with tractor capabilities. Cargo freighters, big ones, weâre hoping to break their fall.â
A strangled sound crawled out of Huxâs throat, pained, helpless, he swallowed around it, âDameron tell me what is going on here.â
âWeâre doing what we can to help them,â Dameron pushed a hand through his dark hair, the curls falling futile over his forehead, âWe received their distress signal about forty-eight hours ago, came into communications reach within the last twelve. A Lieutenant Mitaka has been our contact. He says they defected after the First Order announced you as a traitor. Youâve got a pretty big price on your head, Hugs.â
âThat doesnât matter,â Not as if he thought he was safe here, from the First Order, from bounty hunters, from the Resistance, âYou are just going to trust them, the idea that this is a trap has not occurred to you?â
âOf course it has,â Even Hux didnât think the Resistance was that stupid, Dameron on his own, maybe, but not the Resistance as a whole. âBut what are we gonna do? Theyâre here, we donât know how they found us, and our scans confirm everything they say about the state of their ship. Whether we help them or not doesnât change the fact that theyâre here on our doorstep. If they are loyal to the First Order, why send a crippled ship, why not just blast us out of the sky?â
Hux turned away, stared at the ship in the distance, unable to refute Dameronâs logic, unable to watch as his former command plummeted towards the planetâs surface. He watched the phantom shape of the ship in its slow descent, saw something large and dark moving away from it burn up in a bright flickering flash. Debris. The ship was coming apart in the atmosphere.
âIâll help you,â it came out as a whisper. Hux cleared his throat, tried again, âIâll help you, but my crew is going to need assurance that they will be safe with the Resistance.â Hux cut right to it, addressing the elephant in the room because no one else on this base had seen fit to, âThere could be over fifty thousand men on that ship, a ship without itâs reactor core, which means even if it survives the landing intact there will be no life sustaining systems, no food printers, no water recycling, no air scrubbers, no waste recycling. Theyâll need food, shelter, medical assistance.â
âTwo thousand four hundred and fifty-eight.â
âExcuse me?â Hux stared, that number was far too small.
âThatâs how many souls are aboard. We got the number about an hour ago.â
âThatâs less than a skeleton crew, where are the rest?â Hux couldnât believe that the ship had made it this far with so few, officers alone accounted for nineteen thousand men, fourteen if not at capacity, let alone the engineers, technicians, mechanics, and all the enlisted crew and storm troopers. No wonder the ship was falling apart upon entry.
Dameron was quiet, just shook his head, âWe gotta hurry, thereâs a transport waiting for us, we want you there when the ship lands.â He turned away.
âDameron.â The tone of his voice stopped Dameron short. He looked at Hux from over his shoulder, a weariness in his eyes that hadnât been there earlier. Hux felt it mirrored in himself, like this was something beyond both of them, something bigger than the war they'd spent years fighting. Hux's voice sounded small, when he asked, âWill you help them?â
âDoing everything we can, Hugs,â He had turned fully towards him, eyes holding his. âWill you help us? Theyâre here because they think youâve defected, switched sides, that we can offer them protection and safety like we have you.â
But they both knew that wasnât the situation, not nearly.
âWhat do you want from me,â the words didnât come easy.
âJust make this easy, donât do anything stupid,â Dameron lifted his arms, made a waving gesture at him. Dameron talked with his hands, what a strange quality. âAll I can tell you is that the First Order is on the run, ranks have been split and whoever survived Exegol is either in hiding or fighting amongst one another. We have no desire for more bloodshed, we want this war to end. But, youâre alive, and for whatever reason these people are following you.â
These ideas had already occurred to Hux. That he could take these men, rally them, take the Resistance base from within, gather what was left of the First Order and lead them to glory as he had always dreamed.
But Hux was tired. And his men had risked their lives to come licking at the enemyâs boots, for help, for safety, for protection, for him.
This would be betraying the First Order. Not like before, when he tried to save it by getting rid of Ren. But as a traitor, actively dismantling the very morals and codes he had committed to spreading across the galaxy.
Hux would be a traitor.
But hadnât the First Order already betrayed him? When it revealed itself as nothing more than the regurgitated dreams of a corrupt Empire, had that not been a betrayal? The First Order wasnât change and order for the galaxy, it was the dying breath of failed regime. It was the dream of his father and his cronies, the vision of some crazed Sith-aligned ghost, enraged they had all been forgotten to the far reaches of the galaxy.
What more did he owe his fatherâs dream? Why wouldnât his footsteps lead to his very same fate? And when Hux had done so much to step outside of them, what sense was there to follow their same path?
He could save his crew, protect what men he had left.
Hux could be different, he could be better.
âIf you aid my men, give amnesty to them and any other First Order who requests it, then you have my word I wonât betray that offer,â Hux affirmed, not only to Dameron, but to himself as well. âI will help you spread word to the Order, that the war can end, that they can stop fighting, stop running.â
Dameron was silent, lips pressed into a thin line, âAlright. I canât make any promises, thatâs for General Organa and the interim government, but I believe you. Iâll do everything I can to make this work. I trust your word. I hope you trust mine.â
Hux had never hoped for much of anything in his life, but he wondered if that was what this feeling was in his chest: a warm bloom of want, desperate and small and so very delicate.
âLead the way, Dameron,â Hux would have to find out if hope was all the Resistance claimed it to be.
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The transport was a basic personal carrier. A skeleton of a ship that had no space flight capabilities. While not a ground terrain vehicle, it maneuvered like one, hovering over and around obstacles with about as much finesse as a Rathtar. Poe gripped the straps of his safety apparatus, feet planted wide on the grilled floor to keep his body from lurching with every dip and shake. Hux was strapped in beside him, face green and lips pursed as if they were the last barrier between the floor and whatever he had for breakfast that morning.
Poeâs thoughts kept drifting to his conversation with Hux in the hallway. Call him naĂŻve but he believed Hux. Despite his history, Dameron prided himself on being able to read people, and everything he was getting from Hux affirmed that he was being truthful.
And the anxiety attack in the bathroomâŠThat was not something easily faked. It did not sit well with Poe. Whether the enemy or not, he did not like to watch anyone suffer. Hux deserved a lot of things, but the mental anguish he displayed was, Poe suspected, some leftover remnant of his past that had come to surface. Trauma. That was not justice, no one deserved it. A man needed a code and that was not in Poeâs.
My temples.
He remembered well his encounter with Kylo Ren aboard to Finalizer, strapped to a chair while Ren dug through his mind. It hadnât hurt, at first. It had been a pressure, as if Ren were physically filling his skull with an extra presence that would not fit. Very quickly the pressure had given over to pain, and the splitting, throbbing pulse of Renâs force had ripped through Poeâs thoughts in its search. The easiest way to alleviate that pain had been to let Ren in. Give him what he wanted. Poe had not lasted more than several seconds under Kylo Renâs assault.
His head had hurt for days after, a deep ache in his brain, spilling out through his temples, phantom feelings of that force attack lingering long after Ren was gone. He remembered Leia soothing him, her own force touch easing the pain from his mind. So different from her sonâs: filled with light and goodness and a gentle care.
So, Poe had his suspicions. He had his experience and he held that knowledge close. What had life been like with a man like Kylo Ren always at your heels? Hux had not reacted with the news of Kylo Renâs passing, but he didnât react to much of what Poe said. That in and of itself had Poe thinking he was right about his feelings.
Poeâs instincts had backfired on him enough times for him to stay weary, but he hadnât been a successful smuggler without the uncanny ability to read people and situations well. Likely, it was those same skills that allowed him to be as good of a pilot as he was.
Certainly a better pilot than whoever was driving this transport.
âHey, greenie, can you smooth the ride out?â Dameron yelled into the earpiece, a tiny device the linked him and all other short range Resistance personnel into a shared communications channel.
âSorry sir, the terrain here is swampy, the stabilizers are having a hard time keeping up,â the voice over the comm was familiar, a woman names Myn, not one of his pilots but someone he knew from reputation.
âTry hugging the western edge of the shrub line, where the larger trees grow, the forest floor should be more solid there,â Poe knew this swamp well, he rode his speeder through these parts during his free hours, when he needed to be alone, let off some of the energy that inevitably built up now that he wasnât engaged in weekly dogfights with First Order TIEs.
Within moments the transportâs shaking subsided, the dips and twists still jolting but the constant ricochet of being tossed around like a bouncing ball faded. Poe glanced at Hux. His eyes had closed, but the color had returned to his face. Well, whatever color Huxâs blood could muster. He was still pale, but at least he was a normal color.
âDoing okay Hugs?â His concern was genuine, for many reasons.
âJust swell,â Hux cracked an eye open to glare at him with a single withering stare.
Dameron grinned at him, reaching out and slapping his hand down on Huxâs knee without thought. Hux went rigid, his eyes flying open to stare at the hand, breath sucked between his teeth, face turning a whole new color, red.
âHey, sorry,â Awkwardly Poe removed his hand, but not without another gentle tap, because sure, keep touching the man who obviously didnât want to be touched, âDamn, itâs a habit Hugs, donât think Iâm weird, okay?â
âWeird would be a compliment compared to what I actually think of you,â The red in Huxâs face was not dissipating, rather growing deeper. But there was a twist at the corners of Huxâs lips, something akin to a smile-
Had Hux made a joke?
Poe tested his theory, chuckle breathy, leaning in close to Hux and wondering aloud, âDonât suppose you want to tell me how you really feel about me, eh?â
Hux continued to glare, but the pull at his lips didnât subside, âI wouldnât want to hurt your frail feelings.â
âHugs, Iâm touched you care,â Poe laughed outright, deep and loud. Hux turned away, hiding his red face in the shifting shadows of the transport.
âWeâre five minutes from the drop site, Sir,â Mynâs voice chimed into his ear.
Poe touched the comm, switching lines to that of Leiaâs- if they were five minutes out he should be in range of commandâs private channel, âDameron here, ETA is five minutes, weâre coming in hot.â
âWell done General,â Leiaâs voice was smooth and cool like water, washing calm through him as it always did. âThe bird is crippled but she can still glide. Let our guest know we have the situation under control.â
Poeâs eyes slid to Hux, who was watching him with calculated interest, likely trying to piece together clues to his conversation, âWill do, see you in a few.â
Cutting the line to the command channel, Poe turned to Hux again, all smiles, âSeems the tractor beams are working, weâve got the ship in a controlled descent.â
Huxâs eyes searched him, expression mute. Poe wondered at the lack of emotion, suspected it hid something far stronger under the surface. Where Poe would have sighed in relief or whooped with joy, Hux closed in on himself, tucked himself neatly into the perfect picture of control. Nudging his knee against Huxâs Poe smiled at him, hoping to get some sort of reaction, but Huxâs eyes slid away to stare into the space beyond, mouth just a fraction tighter. Well, it was something.
Those last five minutes stretched, the silence pervading, suspending them in a nervous tension Poe would do anything to break. He hated the quiet.
When the transport slowed and jumped to a sloppy stop, Poe was already unstrapping his safety apparatus, fingers flying over the buckles as if he were evacuating the cockpit of his fighter. Turning to Hux he leaned over him to do the same, not hesitating to reach for the strap across his hips, fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket just as Hux sucked in a breath and covered Poeâs hands with his own. Poe paused, lifted his eyes to find Hux staring at him, and froze with the intensity of what he saw there.
âI can do that,â Huxâs voice was quiet, still like water. His eyes bored up into Poe, dilated in the shifting light, whites just edging the pale ring of his irises. Poe realized how close they were, where his hands were, felt how Huxâs stomach pulled away from his fingertips with each exhale, felt the heat radiating from his body, hot from the weather, or from something else? And there was that feeling again, the one from earlier, but stronger, determined to not be ignored.
Poe swallowed, he swore it made a sound. Hux had not stopped staring.
His hands still covered Poeâs.
âSorry,â Poe smirked, coy, not one to back down even in the face of incredible odds, âThere I go, being weird again.â He released the mechanism of the buckle, twisted his wrists up to brush his fingertips along Huxâs gloved palms as he pulled his hands away, because why stop now when he was so close to the edge?
He swore he saw Hux shiver, could have imagined it, thought he might take the time to later, when he was alone in his quarters.
OhâŠ
Oh.
Shit.
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The Finalizer descended in slow motion, splitting the sky open like a raw wound. A monolithic wedge of black against the bright blue of the atmosphere, it hovered over the calm horizon line of a lake that looked more like an ocean, the searing white sphere of a noontime sun like a spotlight shining on the stage of some horrible theatre production.
Hux watched in awe. Struck by the uneasy witness of such a massive piece of human engineering caught in free fall. Forgetting for only a moment that over two thousand living souls were onboard, strapped in and praying for a rough landing rather than a crash.
Six tractor beams from five ships guided its descent. The largest of the freighters was at the Finalizerâs rear with a dual beam designed for deep space tugging. It was old tech, almost archaic now that hyper speed jump systems were equipped on even the smallest of ships. That the Resistance had a few of these freighters in its fleet did not surprise Hux. That they were using them to assist an enemy ship did.
The four other freighters surrounded the Finalizer on each side: two at the bow, keeping her from tilting dangerously into a complete nosedive, the other two at the wingtips, caught balancing her weight from falling into a spin. It was tricky work, the five freighters having to work in tandem to keep a ship easily twenty times the size of the largest of them balanced in free fall.
The Finalizer was a beast of a ship though, not easily corralled. Hux watched as she tipped and twisted, breath catching in his throat the moment one on the beams at the bow broke, the whole of her dipping so deeply as to pull the remaining freighter at her bow along with her. Those few harrowing seconds left his hands in a sweat, bile in the back of his throat, but then the freighter was back in place, swiftly restoring its connection and recovering the Finalizerâs fall.
Hux released the breath he had been holding, taking an anxious step forward, hands clasped tightly behind his back. His body was alight with nervous tension, a fire spreading up his spine, coalescing in the tightness of his throat, the racing of his heart, the pounding of blood in his veins.
The Finalizer was falling from the sky, and he stood on the bank of a foreign shore, with the enemy at his back while watching the only home he had ever truly known plummet to its death before him.
The bow touched the water first. Even with the freighters slowing her, she had to be traveling at thirty or forty knots per hour. The sound was shocking. A loud crack ripped over the water of the lake, followed by a series of sharp pops. A wave of water swelled around her as her body was swallowed, displaced water rising in one massive gentle wave over her sides, a moment of calm, before suddenly breaking, white water shooting high up into the sky with the force of her weight.
And then the groaning started. At first a quiet yawn, it quickly built into a deep moaning song as the mass of the ship dropped fully down into the water. The Finalizer bottomed out in a deep bob, rising above the water for just a moment before the lake snatched her back down again, sucking and lapping at her, sending tall violent waves to the shore, surging far past the tide lines of the beach.
Hux imagined he could see the structural damage traveling through her belly. Load-bearing beams built to diffuse energetic impacts of heavy cannon fire buckling under the pressure of a physical force. The durasteel plating of her keel peeling back as the interior framing collapsed, water rushing in through her seams to flood the docking bays, the gun turrets and cannon housings. The most vulnerable parts of her were located at the very center of the ship, protected within a reinforced cocoon: command quarters, the med bay, the engineering brain which controlled the ships life sustaining systems. If his crew was as smart as he gave them credit for that is where they would be holed up now. The cocoon was designed to survive catastrophic damage to the ship. In the case that an explosion did not take out the ships life support systems, the cocoon would be able to survive deep space and give those who could not evacuate a chance to be recovered.
No one inside an ordinary ship would survive a crash like this, but the Finalizer was special; she was designed for intergalactic warfare, designed to save the lives of those on board as well as she could take the lives of her enemies. Hux knew her limitations, knew her strengths and weaknesses, knew his crew. They would survive this.
Even as he watched water breach her hull. Watched her bow peak up from the water line before dipping down again never to resurface. She was sinking. She was drowning.
Standing here, alone on this foreign shore, Hux felt as if he were drowning with her.
âYou okay?â Dameronâs voice cut into him and Hux could not stop his body from jolting at the sound. Poe was right there, behind him, leaning in over his shoulder. His mouth was close to his ear and his voice pitched just loudly enough to be heard over the crashing waves of the water and the dying moans of his ship.
What do you think Dameron? was what he wanted to say but Hux knew if he tried to speak now the words would not come. Instead, he jerked his head in a sharp negative, hoping Dameron would get the message and back off, give him his space. Hux didnât want to talk right now, he didnât want to think. What he wanted was to walk into those swelling waves and get pulled into the undertow, wash away with the tide and sink to the cool depths of the lake floor, bury himself in sand and silt while water filled his lungs and chased away this pain.
Hux lifted his eyes from the sinking Finalizer to stare into the sun, the bright light prickling his eyes and stinging tears onto his eyelashes.
Dameron was saying something, but Hux did not hear what, wasnât even sure if he was talking to him. A moment later there was a hand at his elbow, firm but gentle, and he was being guided into the shade of a transport where a folding chair sat. Hux allowed himself to be led, unconcerned of the optics for what might be the first time in his life. Dameron pushed a canteen into his hands as he sat him down, the cap already removed and clear cool water splashing over the edge to wet his gloves. Hux was hot, sweat sticking his jacket to his back, the gloves slick between the leather and his palms. He lifted the canteen to wet his lips, sipping at the water slowly, his tunneling vision making him light headed.
Hux wondered for the first time, if he could do this. He was not the same man he was before, aboard the Finalizer. He understood that he was not well. Weak, pathetic boy. If his father saw him now, he would be playing right into his expectations. Poor little Armitage, so pathetic even his enemies pitied him. Went running to the other side the moment things got scary. So weak he had to be saved by the shining knight in armor.
Dameron.
â-Looked like he was about to pass outââ
Dameron was speaking to someone. Hux looked up and saw Renâs Jedi girl, a small compact thing that glowed as brightly as the sun in the glare of her desert garb. She was nodding her head at whatever Poe was telling her, but her eyes were on Hux, mouth relaxed and her gaze curious. She looked tired. How strange. Hux stared back and for a moment he felt calm suffuse him, the prickle of nerves receding in the presence a soothing mental touch-
âStop,â Hux snapped, dropping the canteen as he stood up from the chair, knocking it over in his haste to put distance between him and the girl. He was slow to recognize the feel of her force but now that he knew it for what it was Hux was sick with it, dizzy with unease.
The girl took a step back but did not retreat entirely, putting just enough space between herself and Hux that Dameron could swoop down and pick up the spilled canteen. âIâm sorry, I thought I could help.â The sensation had retreated but the ghost of anotherâs was left in its place.
Hux was shaking, it had to be visible to anyone who would look. He glanced around and saw that most everyone was preoccupied with the Finalizer, but he had caught the attention of a few: a small girl and a man who Hux recognized as FN-2187 were watching them, two medics that were prepping stretchers in the back of a transport had paused to observe the altercation, and Leia Organa, who was alone under a shade structure just a few meters away, was entirely focused on him.
The way Organa watched him, her expression muted but her focus sharp, made Huxâs skin crawl. Another force user, skilled like Snoke, not an amateur like Ren or his scavenger girl. Would he even know if she was touching his mind? Hux swallowed, looked away, squeezed his eyes shut for a brief, self-indulgent moment of weakness.
âHux.â The word breathed through him, quiet and close. Huxâs ever-frayed nerves were attuned to the source: Dameron. âSit down, come on. Youâre turning gray.â And then Hux was being lowered down into the chair again. Someone had righted it, Hux didnât know when. He didnât know why.
Rey, because that was her name and if Hux was going to be fighting her off like he had Ren then he may as well call her what she was, addressed him carefully, âI really am sorry. I wonât do that again without your permission.â
âI donât need help from the force,â Hux clarified, because it looked like the girl was about to insist. Dameron squeezed his shoulder, squatting down beside him and pressing the canteen back into his hands.
âIâve got this, Rey. I think itâs just heat exhaustion. Also donât think heâs much of a fan of the force.â Dameronâs hands were still on him, one on his shoulder, the other cradling his grip on the canteen, steadying it. Hux should slap his hands away, tell Dameron to fuck off, but something small and wretched inside him begged to let it be, to accept the help.
Rey cocked her head to the side and looked between the two of them, addressing Poe, âAlright, Iâm going in with the evacuation crew and we need to finish prepping the boats. Youâll be okay?â
âPeachy, thanks Rey." Dameron was all smiles. Hux closed his eyes.
He sat like that, with Dameron crouched at his side, drinking slow unsteady sips from a strangerâs canteen while the world around him spun out of his control.
Again, Hux felt compelled to tell Dameron to leave him be, to go away, that he didnât need help. But the unfortunate truth was that Dameron provided an unusual sense of comfort. Hux was not used to the careful way in which Dameron treated him. The kindness he had thought was a weapon, before, in the bathroom, was proving to be the genuine nature of the man. And Hux, after weeks without meaningful human interaction, was weak to it.
Weak to Dameron, who had set the canteen aside to instead take Huxâs hand in his own, fingers smoothing over the leather of his gloved palm.
âWhat are you doing,â Hux breathed even as his heart bottomed out in his stomach.
Dameron stared into him, fingers finding a seam and following it around the swell of his thumb mound. âThese gloves need to come off.â
âAbsolutely not.â At least, not without a token of a fight.
âDo you trust me?â Dameron was earnest, and something inside Hux was telling him this had nothing to do with his gloves.
âNo.â But that wasnât entirely true, was it?
Dameron breathed out a laugh that sounded more like a sigh, âOkay, I deserve that. Butââ and then Dameronâs thumb pushed up the fabric of Huxâs cuff, exposing the strip of his inner wrist, near white against the black of his cuff. Dameronâs thumb barely brushed over the delicate skin â Hux sucked in a breath. âYouâre too hot, we gotta cool you down. And hands,â Again, Dameron touched his wrist, this time following the dip between his tendons, pushing down the leather edge enough to slide his thumb between the fleshy mounds of his palm, âare one of the bodies heat regulating centers.â
Hux stared at Dameron, lost. âWhy do you care?â
Dameron laughed. The sound raced through Hux, settling somewhere deep in his chest. âJust trying to help, Hugs.â
âIt seems youâre trying to undress me.â The words only registered after Hux spoke them. Heâd lost his mind, or at least his filter.
âMaybe,â Dameron played along, his eyes crinkling at the edges with his smile, âjust a little.â
When Dameron proceeded to take off his gloves, he did not protest. Even when his fingers lingered on the delicate skin of Hux's wrist, the blatant intimate touch giving him good reason to jerk away, he let it happen. He could not stop the force that was Poe Dameron just as he could not stop the Finalizerâs fall from the sky. There were worse fates than this slow gentle disarming of his defenses. And, Hux thought, if all this led to was his execution for crimes committed, at least he'd had this moment of strange human kindness.
In the back of his mind he heard his fatherâs berating words: worthless disappointment â but Hux was too tired to fight that particular phantom. Not when he would soon be meeting the remnants of his former crew. They needed him strong, with his wits about him, able to advocate for their safety. After all, isnât that why they came all this way, because they needed him?
Hux would rise to the occasion.
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When the first refugees landed, Poe was shocked by what he saw. The only thing these people had in common with the First Order were their clothing, and even that was only an abstraction of what he remembered. These people were injured, many severely, and the evacuation team had prioritized their extraction so the med team could get them stabilized. Poe watched one by one as men and women were brought off the boat via stretcher, whoever could still walk being assisted by a Resistance team member. And it was surreal, after all these years, to watch friend and enemy walk arm in arm.
Hux was there to meet every one of them. Poe watched him from a short distance. Admired the way he met each stretcher with a curt nod, a quick word of encouragement, sometimes a good-natured reprimand which Poe knew was to relieve the heaviness of the mood. Poe used these tactics to engage his men as well. People needed a leader, and a good leader knew what their people needed, when they needed it. While compared to the comradery of the Resistance it all still felt incredible cold, clinical, it was a reminder that beyond whatever side of the war they were on, these were still people, no different from him, or Rey, or Finn.
âSo, General, what are we going to do with him?â Leia stood beside Poe, her small stature hiding a strength of character that had Poe wondering why she ever asked for his opinion.
âWell, heâs quite good at standing still for long periods so I was thinking coat rack, or human antennae,â Poe grinned down at Leia, happy to see her smirk back.
âHe did not look so well earlier,â Leiaâs eyes slipped away, settled on Hux again with an acute attention.
âNo,â Poe paused, glanced over to Hux who was bent over a stretcher, hand on a womanâs shoulder as he spoke to her. A hand, or rather an arm raise in a weak salute, and Poe saw the blood-soaked stump and tourniquet that was a telltale sign of a hastily amputated limb. Huxâs head turned as he watched the woman be taken away, pale eyes catching the sunlight as he stared after her. He looked tired. He looked alone. Poe felt his stomach twist with the desire to go to him.
â- But?â Oh, Leia.
âSorry, Princess, lost my train of thought,â Poe looked back to her, sheepish.
Leia grimaced at him, a smile playing at her lips, âYou know I hate it when you call me that.â
They shared a moment of comfortable congeniality, both happy to have these moments back, moments where everything wasnât so dire. Moments when the world could wait a while, when the fate of the galaxy didnât depend solely on their ability to save it.
Poe sighed, dropping his head and giving is a weak shake, âHeâs not well, Leia. But he has agreed to help.â
Their attention was drawn to Rey, who had just disembarked with the last of the injured evacuees and was speaking with Finn down on the beach. She looked tired, but thrummed with a haste of energy that seemed out of character. The situation onboard must not be good. Leia hummed in agreement, Poe wondered if sheâd read his thoughts. âAnd his conditions?â
âNot many. Political amnesty for his crew and any other First Order that asks. He wants to spread the word, offer them a way out.â Poe thought it was a great idea, but he was not the New Republic government, and he left the politics to Leia.
âReasonable enough, and you think heâs sincere? This is Starkiller weâre talking about,â Leia did not use the term lightly, she meant every ounce of implication the name suggested.
âI do. He didnât have any demands for himself,â And it was as if Poe was realizing that for the first time. Hux had not made any requests regarding his own treatment. âDoes the interim government still want to try him?â
Leia sighed, shook her head, âHonestly Poe they could not care less about the details of our dilemma. Itâs as if the war is over and they just want to go back to how things were before.â
Poe rolled the idea around in his mind, before. He could hardly remember a before.
âBut no. I donât think they have any interest in him. And his demands are in line with what I myself would like. So, we can all breathe easy now that at least we are in agreement.â Leia did let a sigh out then. They were all tired, even the strongest of them were ready for this to be over.
Rey approached them now, face unusually blank as she passed Hux and made her way to him and Leia.
Leiaâs demeanor changed immediately, the easy comfortable motherly woman of before being replaced with a highly alert, highly dangerous tactician, âRey, what is it.â
Reyâs breath was easy but her face broke down into something like pain, eyebrows drawn into a frown, like she might begin crying, âLeia, itâs Ben. Heâs onboard.â
âWhatââ Leia breathed. It was as if all the air had been swept from the surface of the planet. Ben Solo, Kylo Ren, was alive.
Rey was shaking her head, âI couldnât even feel him until I was on the ship. Heâs weakened and in a meditative stasis. But spoke with me through the force. He was able to get off Exegol, jumped to the nearest First Order waypoint and came upon the Finalizer while it was fleeing in-fighting.â
Poe reached for Leia as she lifted a trembling hand to her head, eyes closed. He steadied her as she withdrew, searching the force for answers, âI can feel him too. He is faint, but he is there.â
Tears were gathering in Reyâs eyes now, threatening to spill down her cheeks dirty with sand and dried blood and ash, âLeia, heâs alive.â Poe stepped back as the two women embraced, the moment shared between them for a man that Poe only knew as his torturer.
Hux was not going to be pleased.
Poe wondered if he knew. Realized that of course he did not. Hux thought these people came here because of him. Poe had told him as much that morning. Had believed it himself. As it turns out, they were nothing but a ferry for Kylo Renâs half dead corpse.
He wanted to go to him, be there for him when he found out.
He looked over to where Hux stood, golden red hair afire in the slow arch of the sun across the sky. Hux was watching them, keen to their conversation even though he was too far away to hear. Their eyes met over the embracing women, and Poe saw Hux falter, concern passing over his features as quickly as it melted away. Heâd put his gloves back on. Poe wondered if he should go over and take them off again, force Hux to drink from his canteen, whatever excuse he could think of to touch him again.
Force, what a mess heâd become.
Rey did not stay long. Leia made her promise to be careful, to not trust that Ben was wholly their friend now, no matter the events on Exegol. The sentiment felt personal, that Leia, who was so good at seeding hope amongst her people, would hold it back when it came to her own son. There is too much pain there. Poe understood, had seen Leia in the aftermath of Hanâs death. There were certain things people could not come back from, or so the world had tried to teach him.
Poe wasnât so sure of that anymore. Who among them was not responsible for another personâs death? Intentions only mattered so much, and Poe sometimes thought it was worse when your own delusions and ego were what got a person killed. At least Ben knew the consequences of what he did. Hux too. They didnât accidentally get their friends killed in some misguided attempt to prove themselves, theirs were acts of war.
Poeâs was a failure of his very character.
Hux was watching him again. Poe looked up at caught him staring, pale eyes holding his over the slope of Huxâs shoulder. The First Order uniform cut dark and sharp against the bright backdrop of the sky â the slim jacket cinched tight by a wide leather belt, the broadly tailored shoulder pads accentuating Huxâs slim waist and narrow hips, the bottom hem of the jacket barely brushed the very tops of his thighs, the single rear vent splitting just enough to suggest the swell of a small but perky butt beneath it. And those legs, those long, long legsâŠPoeâs eyes slid down Huxâs figure, indulging in the shape of him, laying this image over that of Hux this morning, wet and naked and so much smaller looking.
Failure of character indeed, what was wrong with him?
Hux had cocked his head to the side, brows furrowed. Frustration. Confusion? Poeâs attraction to Hux was over stepping a line here, that much was obvious. But the first step to recovery was admitting you had a problem, and Poe very much had a problem with his very sudden, and very consuming attraction to Armitage Hux.
Itâs not so sudden. Poe considered the thought, remembering the teasing comms he would send Hux during their frequent squabbles, enjoying how quickly he could get a rise out of him even then â laughing as he imagined a blushing Hux front and center of his commanding officers as Poe hailed a General Hugs and then played dumb to his responses. Poe remembered the look on Huxâs face, furious but terrified, when he had dragged him from the Steadfast. Remembered the way Hux had fought him before breaking down and clinging to his arms, face twisted in pain, as Poe tied off a makeshift tourniquet on his leg. Remembered how his lips parted and how his voice caught in a sharp gasp when Poe smeared cold bacta on the blackened blaster wound. Remembered the wild look in Huxâs eyes when Poe had clasped a hand to Huxâs neck and forced his chin up and told him in no uncertain words thank you.
Thank you, Hux. You saved all our lives.
So maybe Poeâs attraction to Hux was not such a sudden and surprising thing. Only, now it felt like it was something Poe could consider in a way that did not feel like he was betraying everyone he cared about. And HuxâŠ
Well, there was only one way for him to find out how Hux felt.
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By the time the last of the Finalizerâs crew disembarked on the beach, the sun had crept far down towards the horizon line. Hux had stood there for hours, resolute in his decision to be the first face every crew member saw when they reached the shore. What he had not expected was to barely recognize most of the faces that passed by him. He supposed he must have realized before â after all, he had spent years with these people under his command â but every woman and man who walked by him suddenly looked incredibly, helplessly young.
Baby faced men who could barely grow a beard passed with haunted shadows under their eyes. Two young women clung to each other as they made their way up the beach, pausing to greet him with firm salutes. Sisters, Hux realized. Triplets his mind supplied, and then the memories came flooding back. A rare phenomenon, born of a breeding program his fatherâs generation had spearheaded. Three identical sisters raised in the academy, ruthless and cunning and utterly perfect model soldiers. Hux had recruited them personally, offered them positions of authority upon the Finalizer weeks before their graduation. Now three were only two, and no one needed to ask the question to know what had happened. Hux saw the dried tracks on their soot covered faces, the tears they wept blown dry by the warm breeze and the hot sun. He tilted his head forward in acknowledgment, lifted his hand in a mirrored salute, remained calm and steady where they could not be.
The amount of loss apparent in the way these people held themselves together revealed more to Hux than just a crippled ship. These were the First Orderâs best and brightest. He had hand chosen his entire command from the ranks of the Academy, and in them had been the future of the Order.
They had been left behind, forgotten.
Yes, the ship had been damaged after Crait, and Hux had been reassigned, but what logic was there is allowing the crew to hemorrhage and the ship to fester? Leadership failed these people. The First Order had failed them. Now they came limping to enemy soil for help, following a man who was once their General and now a prisoner of warâŠHux swallowed, resolved once again.
Hux refused to fail them.
He stood tall as the final ship pulled to shore. Heâd been out on the sand for hours now, and there were several moments when the heat of the sun and the weight of what he saw were nearly too much. His body was at its limits, and heâd long ago sweat out whatever water heâd drank from Dameronâs canteen. Staring into the bright daylight had caused a throbbing headache to set in deep in his skull, which had not alleviated even with the creep of day into late afternoon. He needed to sit down, needed to eat something, needed to drink, but Hux would see this to the end. He had to.
Mitaka and the rest of the higher command would be aboard this ship, having overseen the full evacuation of the Finalizer had confirmed everyone had been accounted for. Hux peered down at the shoreline, the setting sun blowing the figures into obscurity, but he saw a flash of something metallic, a catch of red, a familiar shape. Impossible. Before he could think better of it, Hux was striding down the beach, his pace just short of a run, eyes squinting to see clearly. It is not possible. A figure emerged from the glare of the sun, tall, armored, beautiful.
Phasma.
Hux stopped several yards short of the boat, panting from that small amount of exertion or from nerves, he was not sure. But there she stood, back turned to him as her attention was on the person who she was assisting up from the lower deck of the boat. She was unmasked, her blond hair gleaming like liquid gold in the sun. It was her.
âPhasma,â He breathed her name into the wind, to himself, not loud enough for her to hear.
But she turned anyway, blue eyes meeting his over the heads of the rest of the people on board the rescue boat, and she grinned.
âGeneral Hux!â She called to him, voice booming over the beach and causing a Resistance member at her side to flinch and duck away.
Hux wanted to run to her. Wanted to push all those people out of the way and grab his friend by the arms and shake the kriff out of her. Phasma was alive. Instead Hux stood where he was as Phasma turned back to the person she was assisting. From the lower deck emerged first Thannison, followed by Lieutenant Mitaka. Adrenaline pulsed through Huxâs body as he watched the closest of his commanders disembark. Hux did not have friends, but these were people he trusted. These were people who came and went from his thoughts. These were people Hux was glad to see alive.
Dull footsteps pounded up the beach from behind him and Hux turned to see Dameron jog to an easy stop behind him, clouds of sand billowing around his feet, âEverything okay?â
Hux glared at Dameron, not caring to have his reunion spoiled by his strange presence, but he supposed heâd gone marching off without warning, and Dameron must have drawn the short straw today.
Dameron did not take long to notice what had drawn Huxâs attention, and he watched as Dameron drew to sharp attention, eyes widening just a fraction, âIs that Phasma?â And then, âPhasma is a woman?â
Hux did not allow his face to betray his emotions, instead he turned back toward the ship and was met with Phasma and Mitaka striding across the beach towards him. Suddenly, Hux was overwhelmed. These were his people, and despite that they were here on Ajan Kloss, meeting on enemy soil, he suddenly felt so much less alone.
When Phasma reached him there was a moment when Hux almost lost control. He stepped forward, hands lifting but hesitating, then dropping again to fist at his sides. She was smiling at him, that same shit eating grin he remembered, and suddenly Hux wanted nothing more than to break down on that beach, to give into the weakness that used to be so much easier to keep at bay. Phasma is alive.
Instead he sealed the feelings away. He pressed his lips together and hid their trembling with a frown and reached behind to clasp his hands at the small of his back, straightening to his full height, âCaptain Phasma, what a surprise.â
âItâs good to see you too, General,â She saluted, it was lazy, Hux didnât care.
Mitaka looked uncomfortable, his face pinched but his eyes darted between the two of them, as if he expected them to hug or something equally embarrassing, âGeneral, Sir, thank you for receiving us.â
Hux breathed, closing his eyes for a moment as he turned his full attention on his Lieutenant. He would deal with Phasma later. âLieutenant, I expect youâll have a good explanation as to why my ship is now sunk at the bottom of a lake?â
âOf course, Sir. Forgive me, Iâve a full report already prepared for you.â Mitaka looked white, the corner of Huxâs mouth twitched up.
âIâd expect nothing less,â Hux relaxed his posture, Phasma and Mitaka doing the same. Heâd break down just a bit for Dopheld, he was more sensitive than most First Order officers. âYouâve done well, Lieutenant. This canât have been an easy decision.â
Mitaka nodded his head in one sharp dip of affirmation. Hux had thought heâd looked nervous, but now he could tell he was exhausted. Dark circles ringed sunken eyes, and his uniform was in a state of disarray as badly as those of the severely injured. Phasma herself was not only without her helmet, but looked to be missing it completely. The unnatural disorder of his two most trusted commanders reminded Hux that they were not safe yet, that whatever their situation was before, they were now at the mercy of the Resistance. Any power that Hux possessed in the position would have to be wielded very carefully in order to protect these people.
Hux looked over his shoulder and saw that Dameron had backed off a respectable distance. He wondered at that unexpected show of trust. Wondered if it were just Dameron, or if the whole of the Resistance was reflected in his actions. Dameron was a General, after all, but the Resistance never seemed organized enough to put that much power in one manâs decision making ability. The reality, Hux expected, was that he was Leiaâs man and had been tasked to shadow Hux through all of this, to ensure his cooperation.
Where they went from here, Hux did not know.
Turning back to Mitaka to ask him how they had found the Resistanceâs base, Huxâs attention was instead drawn to a tall dark-cowled figure who had just disembarked from the boat with the assistance of Rey. Time slowed down, ticking to a monotonous drone. A rushing filled Huxâs headspace as he watched the lumbering figure step heavily through the sand.
No.
Hux was frozen in place, his body remembering what his mind tried so hard to smother away. All the pain and fatigue and endless sleepless hours bubbling up from his subconscious and rooting him in place. Heâs dead. Itâs not him.
But then the figure slowed to a stop. It lifted its head and it pushed back its cowl. And then it turned to match his stare.
It was Kylo Ren.
Kylo Ren was alive.
Hux could not move. He could not breathe. Renâs empty black stare sucked him dry. Every nerve ending in his body flared up and then died. His body that had been so hot suddenly became numb, and then cold, and then a bone deep chill set in. He was going into shock, Hux absently realized from what felt like a distance, as his knees buckled and his vision tunneled.
The last thing he remembered was the feeling of arms surrounding him, of someone catching him before he could hit the ground. Then his world went black.
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Chapter Text
Sometimes, Poe wonders what his life would have been like if he had never joined the Resistance. He remembers his life before: Poe Dameron, intergalactic spice smuggler, breaking the hearts of ladies and gentlemen at every port. It had been enough, for a while. But joining the New Republic as a pilot had been a lifelong dream and following in his motherâs footsteps felt like the natural path he should take. And it was there, in the New Republicâs fleet, that Poe found his wings, so to speak. He climbed the chain of command quickly, his skills as a pilot and his sense for people propelling him into the position of commander faster than any of his peers.
Then Leia had discovered him, and his joining the Resistance had felt like coming home. Poe loved these people. Loved what they stood for. Loved what they could accomplish together. Every person in the Resistance had a story, had a past and a history that was so different from one another. It was a melting pot of people who had come together for one goal: Defeat the First Order.
And nowâŠ
âThank you all for your efforts this afternoon. We have quite a bit of work ahead of us but what I saw on the beach today proves that we can rise to the challenge and find a way forward with our new comrades.â Leia stood at the head of her war council table, addressing the gathered group as if it the mission they were about to embark upon would be the most dire yet.
Poe wasn't so sure it wouldn't turn out to be just that. Not after what he'd witnessed on that beach.
âLieutenant Connix has done a wonderful job arranging housing for our guests. Our current food stores will be able to feed us all for about two weeks, which is far too short a time in my opinion.â Leia read from her datapad, the requisitions list having been compiled that afternoon.
âGeneral, Iâve already been in touch with our supply chain, we will be able to transfer much of our stores here over the next week. With permission, I have plans to petition the New Republic for donations of food stuffs, clothing, toiletries, basically anything deemed essential.â
The conversation evolved from there, with Leia and Connix drilling down the details of how to house, cloth, feed, and maintain a population that had just doubled in size overnight.
Poe's mind wandered to Hux, and the detail that no one had yet spoken of: what they would do with the man who had both won the Resistance this war and near about ended them. Despite it all, Poe couldnât help but wonder if Hux was okay â if he had received the treatment he needed, or had been passed over for the sake of those more deserving of care. The image of Hux, gray and lifeless in his arms, kept fading in and out of his mind with the tide of his thoughts. Death could not have looked closer to how Hux appeared then: unseeing eyes hooded but not closed, mouth parted but breath so thin it could be mistaken for a warm breeze. And Poe had known then, when a panicked despair consumed him, that his attraction was no small thing. Even more, he recognized that his reaction to carry Hux to the medical transport, to ignore the paramedic team and lay him onto the gurney himself, was evidence of something that had taken root long before the fall of the Finalizer.
The memory of the Steadfast haunted â bloodied and broken â like Hux's body had been when he'd dragged him aboard the Falcon.
Poe swallowed the memory down, reassuring himself that Hux was okay.
He would help Hux, just as the Resistance would help these defectors. Because it wasnât just Hux who Poe had seen exposed and defenseless. Every single person who came off of the Finalizer carried with them a weight of trauma, of defeat. And in that moment, Poe had witnessed men and women of the First Order who looked no different from their Resistance counterparts. There, stripped of their uniforms and worn raw by their journey to Ajan Kloss, it had been hard to view those people as the enemy. Granted, Poe had been on the other side of the scale once. His roguish smuggling days had left him with plenty of enemies in good people. Heâd seen bad people do good things and vice versa. Poe knew that, in the end, people were people and whatever side of a political line you stood on was mostly just based on the cards life dealt you. These people â most had not chosen the First Order. It was where they had landed when fate threw them into the fray of life.
Leia had said something to him earlier along those lines, after heâd arrived back at base and seen Hux safely to the med bay. âWhat do you think brought them here?â She had asked Poe, and while his first thought had been Kylo Ren, he realized that these people had been in a dire position before their ship crossed paths with Ren, or Ben, or whatever they were calling him now. So he had said protection, food, shelter, medical care. But Leia had seen something different in them, âThey came here to have another chance. They can make their own choices now, Poe. They can choose who they want to be.â
Leia had stopped calling them First Order then. She didnât even call them refugees. She called them friends, comrades, and Poe understood completely why. This was a test, for the Resistance and the First Order. It was in the Galaxyâs best interest for everyone to make this work, and Leia was transitioning from General to diplomat as gracefully as she did anything she set her sights on.
And yet, while it was easy for people like Poe and Leia to look beyond a personâs actions and see hope, he knew they could not expect the whole of the New Republic to feel the same. The Resistance was in a position where they had seen war first hand, had lost people and killed people and in that, carried with themselves a tremendous burden of guilt that the average civilian would never know. Most of the New Republic had never been put in the position where they had to gamble the life of their friends, or take the life of an enemy. Poe was not sure they would understand forgiveness, or the desperate need these people had for a second chanceâŠ
And, Poe still wondered, how far was too far? Did these concepts apply to Hux, who had been responsible for the deaths of so many?
âPoe, you did well convincing General Hux to help us today. I still have my doubts regarding his loyalty to our cause, though.â Poeâs attention snapped to acute awareness, Leia was addressing him. âHis cooperation is vital to this operation succeeding, without his perceived loyalty this could very quickly devolve into bloodshed.â
When Poe met Leia's eyes, he had an idea of where this was headed. âWant me to keep my eye on him General?â He smirked, he couldnât help it.
âSomething tells me youâre the man for the job." Leia didnât smile, at least, not with her mouth. Poe saw it in her eyes. He supposed he would always be easy to read. âYou already seem to have a rapport with him, Poe. Pursue his cooperation in whatever way you see best, I have complete faith in you.â
âGeneral," Finn spoke up, frustration laid bare, "with all due respect, I donât think depending on Huxâs cooperation is the safest strategy." Poe knew Finn and Rose were not Huxâs biggest fans, and Poe had been aware of their quiet conversations, their constant proximity, throughout the day. âRose and I have discussed between us what we believe is the best way to disarm tensions among the First Order and the Resistance.â
Leia leaned forward, that sparkle in her eye, âPlease, Finn, Rose, share your ideas with us.â
Rose and Finn exchanged a look. It wavered between them; this was something important to Finn. âWe need to offer them a chance to return home if they want to. First Order territory or not. We canât deny them, or they will see us as their jailers, just another regime that knows whatâs best for them. Just another First Order,â Finn broke off, taking a breath, âFor those that want it, we need to assist their return home. The Stormtroopers likely wonât know where their home is, but their families may still be out there, looking for them, hoping. We can help them try to track down their families. And if they do not have a home to return to, we need to give them a path to one with the New Republic. I believe these choices are essential to allowing them the agency to break away from First Order conditioning.â
âFinn, we are of like minds,â Leia breathed, smiling openly. âWe will absolutely help these people reunite with their families, political affiliations aside.â
Chewie spoke up then, asking if that wasnât the same as what the New Republic did with the Empire, when their remnants were allowed to survive in the Outer Rim?
Leia had an answer at the ready, and Poe realized she had decades of time to consider her response.
âThe New Republic banished Imperial dissent to the Outer Rim and then chose to ignore them, assuming the lingering Imperials would burn themselves out surviving amongst themselves. They never even tried to plant a seed in those people, they squandered their opportunity to incite change.â Leia burned with a fervent energy, Poe could feel it, and observing his friends he saw they felt it too. âWe will plant that seed of change within these men and women. We will send them back out into the galaxy where that seed will root, germinate, and flower in worlds we could never otherwise reach.â
Rey spoke up, softly, âThis is the only path forward.â Leia and her shared a look, something private, the energy between the two making Poe feel like he wasnât even in the same room. âBut what of Ben, what is his path forward.â
âThat is up to him, is it not?â Leia spoke softly, tender, if not for her son then for the girl she viewed as a daughter.
âWhat if he wants to return home too?â Rey sounded almost broken, and suddenly, Poe was struck with the idea that this wasnât Rey speaking, but Kylo Ren â Ben Solo.
âThen he would be welcome.â Leia stood, hands planted on the table and head hung low, obscuring her face.
âI think we know what roles we play, what responsibilities we have. You are all dismissed. Thank you for your service.â
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When Hux had first come to, it had been while he was being laid out on a stretcher by none other than Poe Dameron. He remembered staring up at Dameron, trying to connect the dots of how he had gone from standing on the beach to being strapped to a gurney, and was left only with a vague shadow memory of arms circling around him. Heâd passed out, that much was clear, and if the ache in his head was any indication, he was also suffering from a fever and dehydration. Heat stroke, it seemed, had finally caught up to him.
He knew that heâd been loaded into the back of a vehicle, he also knew that Dameon and Phasma both had escorted his transport. But for the life of him he could not remember the ride, at least not in images. His memories only existed as sensations: an iciness in his armpits and groin, a pleasantly weighted cold press against his forehead, the taste of salty sweetness in his mouth and a softness against his lips, fingers soothing through his hair, a voice, low and gentle, close to his ear. And a hand holding his own, bare of his glove. It was as if these were the only things his mind felt worth remembering, and it had held onto them, replaying them in strange echoes across his skin even now, hours later.
Hux laid on that same gurney, except now he was under bright florescent lights, and the soft gentle voice had been replaced with the loud murmur of a very busy med bay deep in triage. Curled up on his side with his arm pulled up as a pillow, he lingered in that space between sleeping and wakening. His mind was resurfacing but kept leaving his body behind, the weight of sleep pulling him back into a strange half-wake that felt as though his spirit was about to separate from the physical plane. Hux had only ever felt this way when heâd gone too many consecutive sleepless days high on stims. His body would always reach a point of shut down while his brain would be unable to turn off, and he would crash hard in his quarters, usually on top of his desk because getting in his bed felt like giving into defeat.
Now he had nowhere to be, no fires to put out, no mission to plan, no enemy to hunt, and in that vacancy of purpose Hux was still unable to let go and allow his body the rest it so desperately wanted. A guiltiness haunted him. That he should sleep now when his crew had come so far, suffered so much, felt like the ultimate indignity â a purely selfish indulgence that exposed him for the coward and failure he was. He had vowed to be strong for these people, hadnât he? What would Brendol think now, seeing him like this. Weak boy, why did I even bother. Should have killed your mother when I found out about you.
That woke Hux, just a little bit. Like waking from a nightmare that kept pulling you back under, the effort of pushing away his fatherâs voice always required a certain level of will-power that left Hux wired and on edge. In this case, it had him pushing his body up from its prone position and discovering that an IV had been inserted into his arm. How had he missed that?
âHux, youâre awake?â
Hux nearly jumped, barely held himself steady, as Phasmaâs voice broke through the drone of the med bay. There she was, sitting in one of what were many hard plastic chairs bolted to a cement block wall, his gurney having been rolled into a secluded cubby off the main breezeway. Across from them the med bay expanded into a large open space where rows of cots had been set up and filled with the injured. Huxâs eyes scanned their heads, trying to pick out their faces, but here, in this unfamiliar space and amongst unfamiliar people, his crew looked no different from anyone else on the base. Hux stared at them, shook his head once, twice and then looked again, but nothing had changed. The room was the same, the people just as familiar as they were strange, now as they had been then. This is not right.
Disjointed memories came rushing to the surface. Phasma and the Finalizer falling and Dameron's smile stretching wide wide wide. Relief and unease warred for his attention and Hux felt his skin go hot and then cold, just like on the beach, and then waves of electrifying static crawled out of skin, creeping up his spine and collecting at the base of his skull.
âHux.â Phasma again, this time she was standing beside him, waving a hand in front of his face.
âI think Iâve suffered brain damage,â Hux slurred the words out, the gnawing panic swirling in his empty gut, rising to the surface.
Hux bent over the gurney and vomited.
Not much came up, but what did was putrid, thick and acidic. Body seizing, Hux gagged and coughed, dripping bile and saliva from his wide open mouth, gasping for breath between each convulsion. Phasma jumped away with a curse, and then from a great distance he heard her voice shouting for a medic. Unabated, Hux dry heaved up everything that might still be in his stomach and then some, like his body was trying to expel its very organs.
A medic appeared beside him, a woman in a white coat that Hux would not have recognized even if he had his wits about him. She was fiddling with his IV, injecting something into the line that hit his bloodstream faster than a Parnassos beetleâs poison. Like a man breaking the surface of water Hux sucked in a deep, bone rattling breath, adrenaline flooding his veins as the liquid drug worked its way through his heart and into his muscles. He was gripping the side of the gurney, arms shaking and head bowed, as his body fought to stay upright and not collapse over and onto the floor.
âHow is that, better?â The medic had her hand on his shoulder, was drawing him upwards and back so he leaned against the raised head of the gurney. Someone must have moved it into an upright position. âThere, thatâs good. You must feel better, those are some high grade steroids.â
Hux swallowed, his dry throat catching, sore and slightly slimy from the stomach acid. A large cup with a wide straw was lifted to his lips and he was instructed to sip. It was a testament to how awful he felt that Hux obeyed without question.
Leaning back, Hux struggled to control his breath, calm his racing pulse. Closing his eyes, he counted down from ten and then back up, finally feeling the swimming in his head subside some. Opening his eyes once more, he found Phasma hovering beside the medic who was reading through a chart that hung off of the side of the head rail.
âI take it he just woke up? How long has he had a fever?â
âYeah, heâs been in and out for about an hour. The fever has lasted around three. Is this normal?â Phasma, he kept having to remind himself, Phasma was here.
âI wouldnât call it normal, but itâs not entirely unusual.â A device was pointed at his forehead, a red light blinking in and out of his field of vision along with a series of soft beeps. Hux recognized it as a thermometer, the medic was taking his temperature. âOne oh two point one, thatâs not so bad. Let him sip from that cup, slowly, until itâs empty. If he can keep that down then heâll be fine with a little time. If he vomits again though we might have to run a brain scan, there could be cerebral swelling from the feverâs inflammation.â
âRun the scan,â Hux rasped, eyes sliding to the medic and observing her dark graying hair and small spectacles.
âDrink your electrolytes,â Her tone was firm, but kind, a lilt of amusement coloring her voice. âIf you vomit again, weâll run the scan then, no sooner. The radiation can exacerbate your fever and I donât want to chance your body going into shock again without a good reason.â
Hux did his best to sneer, because kriff his body, he was more worried about his brain.
âJust come find me if he gets worse, my name is Doctor Kalonia.â The medic had turned to Phasma, dismissing him. Hux bared his teeth.
Phasma met his eyes, lifted a brow at the twisted snarl marring his face, âHeâs already looking more like himself, thanks doc. Iâm Phasma,â Phasma said it as if introducing herself to a new friend. Of course she would take a liking to anyone who had the gumption to tell him what to do â Especially if it were a pretty woman.
âThank you, Phasma. Iâll send a droid over to clean up the mess.â
Hux watched the doctor leave, though she didnât get far before stopping beside another bed, assisting a medic that was checking vitals of a woman, a stromtrooper by the looks of her. Kalonia quickly chatted with that patient, too. Though she was close enough that Hux could hear the sound of her voice, she was too far for him to decipher the words, but it was that same lilting tone, laced with amusement. Hux recognized how she used it to placate her patients â If she was not so concerned then they should not be either, or some other psychoanalytical nonsense. But then Hux saw the expression of the trooperâs face, the heavy eyes, the relaxed face. He saw the way she laid back in her cot and nodded at the doctor with a small smile â Then he saw the stump arm, and suddenly he remembered.
A woman in a stretcher being carried across the beach, her arm, now a hastily amputated limb, lifted in a salute. Hux had spoken to her, reassured her then as doctor Kalonia did now. He did not know her name but he knew her designation. A sniper, first unit, one of their best. She would never shoot a rifle again. Hux turned away, heat filling his face as emotions caught up with him. Here he was, prone on a gurney from a little heat stroke while his crew suffered actual physical losses, suffered from death. Worthless brat, didnât anyone ever teach you to be grateful?
The touch of a straw to his lips drug Hux up out of his thoughts. Phasma. Phasma.
âYou heard the good doctor, drink.â Phasma held the cup up in one hand, steadied the straw in the other, and smiled when Hux took a sip.
While surrounded by so much death, here was Phasma, alive. The idea thrilled inside him, as if he were seeing her ghost, a phantom of a fever dream that had come to haunt him. She had been gone for over a year. He knew he should ask her what happened, how was she alive, where had she been. But right then, Hux didnât have the strength, wouldnât be able to maintain his composure. Phasma was alive, and for now, that was enough.
The straw slipped from his lips and Phasma moved the cup away, setting it aside on one of the plastic chairs. Then she was beside him again, hands braced on the thin mattress, her face peering into distance, searching the room, searching for something. Her armor was scratched, dented in places, the sheen worn thin and the metal pitted. It looked as if it had been through a firefight and then left out in the rain, uncared for in a way that was unlike the Phasma he knew, who took such pride in that armor. It made Hux wonder, it unnerved him. Phasma has changed. The thought struck him cold, because if he could see that she had changed then certainly that meant she could see that he had changed too.
âHow did these people win?â Phasma finally wondered aloud, but Hux didnât have the energy to educate her on things like hope and love and indeterminable amounts of insanity. Also, Poe Dameron, who had single handedly proven that one man could be an army unto himself. Instead, he closed his eyes, head tipped back to rest against the pillow behind him.
Time passed in silence. Phasma let him rest, only disturbing him to lift the straw to his mouth and insist he drink. Hux lost himself to his thoughts, forcing the fever to the back of his mind and running though the mental drills he used during his Academy days, the ones which occupied him during those endless days of marching and training and hiding from his father, who hunted him in the halls of the school as well as those of his mind. Eventually, he felt the panic of earlier subside, the ease of his thought patterns readjusting to normal, the fog over his memories lifting and revealing that he was here, on Ajan Kloss, on a Resistance base, joined by his former crew, and they were all safe.
He opened his eyes and breathed in deep, letting the air out in a slow controlled exhale. You're okay. The voice in his mind sounded strangely like Dameron. Hux frowned to himself.
"Feeling better I see?" Phasma was beside him again with that stupid cup, she always had taken her orders seriously.
"Phasma, you look like the dead." He smiled, just a little, when she grinned at him. She shrugged an armored shoulder and forced him to drink again. Hux took the cup from her hands, he could take care of himself now, thank you.
"No better than you, General."
The obvious words were left unspoken by them both, because that was not the nature of their relationship. Regret and hope and loss were notions they had both expelled from their hearts ages ago, though Hux felt them now, swallowed them down and pushed them aside in a furious attempt to remain in control. He allowed himself a single fleeting thought, I missed you, kept silent to himself, unspoken but heard, he suspected, in the way he and Phasma usually heard one another.
It was enough, for them both. Comfortable in their companionship, the two observed their situation from the quiet of their own minds, content to be together again, however the circumstances.
Eventually, Phasma pursed her lips, eyeing him in the way that meant she had something devious in mind. And then he watched as she fiddled with her armor, pulling something flat and smooth out of a hidden compartment and pressing it into his hands.
A First Order datapad.
âPhasma, you are truly a gift to the galaxy,â Hux breathed. The pad was small, black and slim, the newest model. His had been left behind on the Steadfast, lost now to stardust, but the familiar shape and weight of the device was a comfort to Hux. Activating the screen, he scanned the available services. FO net access was unavailable this far outside an active base station, and he would need an access code to connect to the Holonet over the Resistanceâs signal. But, the datapad had uses other than net access, and Hux swiped through the nested file structures until he found the folder he was looking for: Games and Leisure. Buried amongst system files, the Games and Leisure folder was something of an infamous joke amongst FO officers, an easter egg, if you will. If you could find the folder then it gave you access to a juvenile variety of card games, brain teasers, simulators, and Huxâs personal indulgence: Force: The Card Game.
The steroids and the electrolyte had helped clear his head, and Hux considered, then decided. He held up the datapad to Phasma, âCare for a game?â
Hux knew eventually they would have to talk about what happened. How did she survive the Supremacy? How did the First Order fall so quickly after he had been taken, kidnapped â defected was the story he was going with but his circumstances had become so convoluted in the last day that he didnât honestly know what to call his present situation anymore.
Why was Kylo Ren on the Finalizer?
The question that begged asking was the last thing Hux wanted to think about. So, he launched Force and passed the datapad to Phasma so she could choose her deck and force affiliation.
âIâll go easy on you, since, you know, the fever and possible brain damage.â Phasma lifted the pad so Hux could see sheâd chosen from one of the pre-built standard decks available, rather than her master deck which consisted of cards won from other FO players over what were years of playing. Hux knew Phasma to be a more than casual player. She liked the tactics and strategy of the game, and she said she used it as an evaluation tool for her command promotions, which Hux thought was taking it a little too seriously but he supposed the results spoke for themselves; Phasma had a track record of sniffing out the most skilled troopers from their ranks, those who on paper might have gone unnoticed. If she wanted to use a tactical card game sim to flush out talent, then Hux was not going to stop her.
So they played, and Hux fell into a calm tenor of which felt comfortable, like he and Phasma were back in the officerâs lounge on the Finalizer, relaxing during one of their increasingly scare periods of down time. He chose a droid deck which consisted of a small selection of card types that played off one another, without a particular affiliation to light or dark force and mostly utilized neutral energy sources. Hux knew Phasma preferred dark decks, her master deck was nearly pure dark force cards. Hux preferred the play style of droids, with maybe a smattering of dark side cards for their graveyard and deck search bonuses. Standard decks only allowed so much unpredictability during gameplay, but he and Phasmaâs game lasted well over a standard hour, with Hux claiming victory only after Phasmaâs final stand was thwarted when he pulled a dark side card that let him search his graveyard for his defeated commander. His victory had been sealed then.
âI swear you cheat,â Phasma reluctantly ended her turn and passed the datapad back to him, and he tapped his newly resurrected commander to give the final blow to Phasma force beast, effectively decimating the last of her army. The pad blinked in superfluous celebration, VICTORY flashing across the screen in a crude animation, obnoxious but familiar and Hux smiled.
âJust like the good old days,â Hux held up the screen next to his face for Phasma to see the flashing VICTORY paired with his grin. He loved to gloat, it made Phasma so mad.
âYouâre such a sore winner,â Phasma laughed, not mad in the least. Instead there was a softness in her eyes as they searched Huxâs face. He turned away, suddenly feeling exposed. âIâm glad weâre here together, Armitage.â
That struck something inside him, and just as quickly as Hux had decided to maintain his façade of defector for Phasma, he threw that decision to the ether, âWhat, here as prisoners of war?â
âIs that what we are?â Phasma did not say it accusingly, she was curious. Hux realized he had not addressed anything regarding their situation, about a plan the Resistance may have for them, about what had happened before â the events that had landed him in the hands of the enemy. He was a traitor, and Phasma had not even asked him why.
Memories of that morning surfaced: the guards escorting him from his jail cell, the meeting with Organa, the shower, the first heâd been allowed in weeks. But, also, his uniform returned washed and mended, the care Dameron showed him when trimming his hair, shaving his beard, giving him his canteen, caring for him on the transport. These diametrically opposed experiences left him fumbling to grasp the nature of his situation. Heâd been left tetherless in a wind storm.
âI do not know.â Hux felt broken, like there was a hole inside him where the person he used to be once was. Whatever nausea their game had distracted him from was churning to life in his stomach once again.
Phasma was quiet, then pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, âYou know, up until a month ago I was stranded moonside, in the care of a New Republic colony of miners.â She met his eyes as she told Hux her story, understanding he was not ready to share his. âI fled the Supremacy in an escape pod, but I was severely injured. The mining colony found me and cared for me. I wasâŠnot well. My injuries were severe, and I developed a blood infection. I should have died, but those miners went out of their way to help me. I survived, against all odds.â
Phasma paused, looking down at her lap, breathing deeply. Whatever she wanted to tell Hux was not coming easy. âI made a decision then, that I would abandon the First Order. I thought to myself, what would I have done if I found an escape pod containing an infamous enemy captain? Certainly I would not have helped them heal, and if I had, it would have been to turn them over for arrest and interrogation.â
Phasma looked back up, catching and holding his eyes. âThose people helped me from a place of kindness, for the sake that all life is precious. I could not have understood that concept before someone showed me firsthand what it meant. It put into perspective much of First Order doctrine, and exposed how much I didnât realize felt fundamentally wrong.â
Huxâs chest seized, twisting tight and shortening his breath. What Phasma could put words to were ideas that Hux had been actively avoiding for the last few weeksâŠmonths? Maybe years if he were honest with himself. He always wanted to change the First Order, mold it into what he imagined it could be, watch it evolve from the vision his father had helped shaped it into. But until Palpatine Hux had not realized how toxic its roots were. The failure of the First Order felt inevitable by that point. The poison was running its course and he would not have been able to stop it even if he had not been removed from his position of power.
Hux reached up, pressing his fingers to his lips to hide the way they trembled. He could not open his mouth to say what he wanted to Phasma, afraid of what else might come out, what truths about himself he might reveal. So instead he nodded his head in affirmation. He understood. He didnât blame her. So how come he could not stop blaming himself?
âWeâre survivors Hux, weâll be okay, youâll see.â Phasma's smile was tentative, as if she didn't quite believe it herself. Hope was such a strange and unnatural idea for them.
The quiet that followed Phasma's confession of defection was heavy with truth, with a confession that touched too deeply for him to admit. Phasma's honesty, her trust in him to divulge what would be seen as treason by any other First Order officer, was a complication of their relationship Hux was not ready to share, even if he commiserated with her experience. They had both abandoned the Order in different ways, but their paths had led them here together. Hux took a moment to try and imagine what Phasma's life might have been like had she stayed with the mining colony â would she have started a family? Become a mother, a miner herself? Every idea he came up with felt ridiculous, because Phasma was Phasma and envisioning her in a capacity outside the First Order seemed impossible. But she must have seen something for herself in those people. A potential, possibilities. Hux didn't dare put himself in her place, he knew what he would see â or rather could not see.
Composing himself he eventually asked, âHow did you end up back with the Finalizer?â
Phasma shrugged, lazy. âI had been monitoring the First Order's local channels from my datapad. When the Finalizer came into range I nearly cut comms, not wanting to be discovered, but on a whim I connected to the FO net and learned about your defection, and their's. I put a private message out to Mitaka. He picked me up from the moon colony,â Phasma paused, looked down at her hands â they were fisted in her lap, beguiling an emotion she didnât show on her face. She relaxed them. âI only rejoined because I knew I could not stay on the colony, not when there were defectors who could use my help. I thought I could be useful, see them survive.â
âYou were out, you could have disappeared, moved on.â His disbelief was plain. The idea was ludicrous to him, that any of them could disappear into the reaches of the galaxy, but fate had given Phasma that choice. That Phasma had then chosen to step right back into the fray to help people seemed the most ludicrous of it all.
âI suppose so, but it didnât feel right. It felt cowardly.â Phasma looked up at him, smiled. The irony not lost on either of them, âCommand painted you as a traitor but those loyal to you saw it as a final stand against a corrupt leadership. You inspired Mitaka and our crew to leave.â
To hear it put to words by Phasma herself made him sound heroic, and Hux scoffed at the idea. His reasons were as personal as they were calculated, but Hux admitted to himself that even he hadnât realized the extent the impact of his choices could have.
Phasma was watching him carefully, waiting, as if she expected him to have more to say. But Hux remained quiet, despite it. So she continued, âIâm sure we arenât the only ones, there are others still out there, hiding, fighting.â
It was an idea that had already occurred to Hux and he knew it to be true, had offered the Resistance his cooperation in reaching out to those people. But Phasma was fishing for him to reveal a plan, as if he had predicated all his choices to bring them to this moment, here in the grip of the enemy. For all the information she gave him, she also expected him to have answers to her unspoken questions, to divulge in her some greater scheme. But Hux, for once, had none. He was as lost as she had been on that moon colony, presented with an opportunity to change her fortune, but in his case he was floundering at every moment just trying to make sure he had any choices at all to make. Up until that day he had been failing miserably.
Eventually, he asked the question that was most weighing on him. âHow did you join with Kylo Ren?â He spoke the words carefully, as if by just saying his name he might summon the manâs presence. He had not revealed the extent of Renâs abuse even to Phasma, though he knew she suspected.
She tried to meet his eyes but Hux looked away, didn't want her to see how talk of Ren affected him. "He was in bad shape when we discovered the distress signal from his ship. He was broadcasting on neutral lines, Iâm sure he did not intend to be picked up by a First Order ship. There was no way for him to know if we were loyal to the Final Order.â
Phasma was careful to leave out why the Finalizer was answering neutral distress signals. Hux had his own idea of why. He would not put it past Ren to reach out through the force and manipulate his own rescuers into answering his signal, he would have been able to know they were traitors.
âHeâs who gave us the location of the Resistance base, and at that point we knew our ion drives were crippled and we only had a few jumps left. It seemed Ajan Kloss was our best chance for help.â
âI was not made aware of his existence until he disembarked,â Hux swallowed, remembering the look Ren had given him across the sands of the beach. It had weighed between them, the façade of co-commanders stripped raw to expose years of animosity.
âMitaka decided to not reveal his presence, he wanted to see how the Resistance would react to us alone. I suppose Ren could have reached out through the force, but he was injured, weak, maybe he couldnât manage it. Whatever Renâs motivation for giving us the coordinates, Mitaka was making his own call and wasnât about to let Ren decide what was best for our men.â
Hux was again unconvinced, but he kept those thoughts to himself. Despite Renâs motivation, it had brought Phasma to him, and of that he would count his blessings. Their conversation quieted after that, as Hux ruminated on everything Phasma had told him. He hadn't been sure, after his discovery of Kylo Ren, if the Finalizer had followed in his footsteps as Dameron had suggested or if Ren had been conducting the whole endeavor from the shadows. While he trusted Phasma, he also didnât believe Ren would leave his fate entirely up to chance. That Ren might have wanted to return âhomeâ after his own traitorous actions against Palpatine made sense. Maybe he found his first opportunity with the Finalizer, or maybe he saw in it a chance to regain his place in the Order if he was not welcomed home, after all.
That Kylo Ren was alive and here left Hux with that same bone deep unease he thought he had escaped. Despite Renâs actions against Palpatine, Hux had actively tried to sabotage his power within the Order. Ren was not his ally then and he certainly was not one now, here, on the grounds of the Resistance led by Renâs own mother. And if the Resistance welcomed Ren with open arms as Hux suspected they would, his opinion of Hux would outweigh any civility Huxâs spying ever afforded him. Huxâs good graces amongst the Resistance were quickly running thin, his purpose once again served and rendered moot.
A trill of beeps alerted Hux and Phasma to the presence of a droid â not a medical droid â but a curiously colored astromech that Hux belated recognized as Dameronâs BB unit. Hux blinked down at the droid as it rolled around at the base of his gurney. Its droidspeak was a hesitant hello. Obviously the droid was as confused as he was about why it was there.
âDid Dameron send you to find us?â Hux asked, and the BB unit happily answered yes.
âThatâs Dameronâs Astromech?â Phasma questioned and Hux nodded in response. âHe seems to have a vested interest in you, hmm?â
He knew what she was implying. And he felt himself blushing and wracking his brain for any moments Phasma might have borne witness to, anything that would incriminate him. The transport ride. Of course, she had been there the entire time.
âPhasma, donât start.â Hux definitely didnât want Phasma getting any ideas, she tended to meddle when she put her mind to something. âHeâs only following orders, which I am sure are âkeep Starkiller from getting any bright ideasâ.â
âIs that what they call you?â Phasma's eyebrows were raised, grinning, âBrutal, I like it.â
Hux bristled, prickly with annoyance. âIt would make my father proud, so I hate it. But itâs better than General Hugsââ
Phasma cut him off, âGeneral Hugs? Now that is comedic genius.â Of course she would think that.
âDonât tell Dameron, that man doesnât need any more strokes to his ego,â Hux sighed, imagining Dameronâs grinning face as his idiotic nickname caught on and spread to use across the galaxy. Forever being remembered as General Hugs was almost a fate worse than public execution. But his astromech was a clever droid, and Hux had an idea. Reaching out to show it the datapad, he asked, âCan you connect us to the Holonet?â
The BB unit made a low whistling whoop, rolling back and tilting its body to and fro, it was unsure.
âJust read access, if you can â thereâs no harm in that,â Hux didnât actually expect the droid to agree, and it rolled around again, hesitant, until Phasma offered it a small glowing power cell.
The BB unitâs optical lens focused on the little bit of tech, and it creeped forward to run a scan on the hardware, recognizing what it was instantly: a portable recharge unit that Hux himself had designed. It stored enough energy to continuously power weapons for years, fuel a small sub light speed transport or fighter for several hundred miles, or recharge droids dozens of times over. The BB unit trilled with a question as it opened its tool bay and extended its plier grips.
Phasma held the power cell up just out of its reach, âGive us Holonet access and Iâll give you this power cell.â
The BB unit made a sad sound, as if it knew what it was doing was wrong, but turned to Hux despite what trouble it thought it might get into. He held the datapad out and the droid connected via the fireport, taking only a moment to connect the pad to the network and program it. When the droid was finished Hux swiped through the changes and viewed the access permissions. Read only access had been granted to the Holonet, with the rest of the local network permissions restricted. It would do.
âThank you, that was very kind,â Hux pulled up the Holonet browser, visiting one of the First Order news sites he knew transmitted over the Holonet. It would be entirely propaganda but Hux knew how to pick out the threads of truth from even the best lies.
Phasma held the power cell out, as promised, and the droid snatched it out of her hands quick as lightening. Pulling the small device into its tool bay, Hux watched with curiosity as a zap of electrostatic energy rippled over the droidâs housing. The BB unit trilled with an excited sound, nearly bouncing in place. The power cell must provide a more refined energy source than what the unit got from the baseâs charge stations.
âBe careful, you do not want to burn out your battery,â Hux admonished as the droid rolled around at Phasmaâs feet, tool bay open as it swapped between various devices. When it pulled out its lighter and the flame engaged and shot up nearly a foot tall, the BB unit squealed.
âDo you think we made a mistake?â Phasma wondered aloud, both watching as the BB unit waved the flame around excitedly and then zipped off to maker knew where.
âOh no, this is precisely what Dameron deserves,â Hux smiled, leaning back in his gurney and turning his attention back to the datapad.
Dameron could deal with the fallout of his over energized droid, Hux mused. He would sit back and enjoy the show.
Â
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The med bay was just as busy as when Poe left it, the only difference that the rows of beds were now filled with even more bandaged and bleeding patients than before. Poe wandered through the gurneys and the cots, looking for that familiar shade of golden red hair and becoming increasingly concerned when he did not find it. Among the chaos of the facility Poe wondered if Hux had been overlooked. Was he even a high enough medical priority to receive the care he needed? Was he okay? Had he died and his body been removed?
A distant panic rooted in Poeâs mind, and suddenly he felt sick with worry, with responsibility. He should have stayed with Hux and made sure he was stable before leaving med bay. Heâd sent BB-8 in his stead, but he wasnât sure if the droid was successful. Certainly BB-8 would have been useless in the case Hux was having a medical emergency, but Poe hoped it would have alerted him. Heat stroke could quickly become dangerous, but Hux had been mostly conscious by the time they made it to med bay so Poe thought he was past the worst of it. The forty-minute ride in the transport had felt harrowing, however. There had been no A/C, so all he had to bring down Hux's body temperature were the cold packs given to him by a med droid. He and Phasma had tucked them under Huxâs neck and in his armpits, in his groin, near all the major blood vessels, and hoped for the best. Poe spent the ride at Huxâs side, watching him struggle in fever, able to do nothing but murmur reassurances and hold his hand.
Phasma had spent the entire time watching Poe more than watching Hux. Every time he looked up he would find her staring at him, face serious and eyes sharp. She suspected something, and Poe could not blame her.
He wondered after them, did they have a history? Was it romance of friendship that set the lines of Phasmaâs face into furrowed concern. Phasma wore her emotions openly on her face, unlike the rest of the First Order officers Poe had encountered that day (except maybe Mitaka, though he always looked scared). It was refreshing to Poe, even when those emotions were directed at him for some reason, as if it was his fault Hux refused to keep his gloves off and insisted he stand under the blazing sun without respite all afternoon.
After escorting Phasma and Hux to med bay he'd left them there, trusting Phasma to see that Hux had received the treatment he needed. In that moment all he had wanted was to stay, but Leia had called him away and now he regretted that choice. What if the medics had ignored Phasma? What if they had kicked her out? What if someone with a grudge against Hux and had interfered with his treatment? Poe didnât want to think the worst of his fellows but these werenât your average First Order refugees, these were well-known and well-hated faces of the First Order command.
A familiar string of beeps arose over the rabble of voices and triage sounds, followed by a familiar shape weaving its way through the busy med bay, âBB-8!â Poe slipped past a nurse whose arms were filled fresh bandages and she shouted at him to watch where he was going. Waving a hasty apology, he met BB-8 in the middle of the main aisle that divided the stable patients from the unstable. âHey BB, were you able to find Hugs?â
BB-8 whistled at him, and then rolled in the direction of the stabilized patients, asking Poe to follow. There were so many injured. Men and women filled the beds in equal numbers, and while most were asleep or in an artificial recovery state, there were pockets of those who were awake and huddled together, and it was these people that watched him with a wary curiosity â Not hostile, but neither friendly. Poe tried to smile at them and be the reassuring confident commander he was, but it didnât work. Instead, most turned away and hid their faces. A few saluted, and that was as awkward for Poe as it obviously was for them.
Following BB-8, the droid led him along the far wall and to the main atrium, to where the corridor connected triage to surgery. There, tucked into a cubby across the main aisle, were Phasma and Hux.
Poe released a deep sigh, relief loosening the hold his nerves had on his chest. Hux was okay.
The gurney they brought him here in was adjusted into an upright position and Hux was leaning back against it. His sleeve was rolled up and a bandage was on his arm where an IV had been inserted into his slender, fine boned forearm. His red hair fanned about his face in windswept disarray. It framed his high cheek bones in a way Poe found incredibly attractive, and though his face was pale and gaunt, there was a smile playing at his lips as he spoke with Phasma, an easiness in his posture Poe obsessed over, committed to memory. The curve of his neck, the gesture of a hand, the soft murmur of his voiceâŠPoe was being taken out with the tide of his emotions, drowning in this version of Hux he wanted to experience for himself.
Poe took one step forward, then another, suddenly afraid to interrupt this moment â enter this place where he was an outsider, unwelcome.
Then he saw the datapad in Huxâs lap, and just as suddenly as Poe felt that swarming warmth, panic set back in. Hux wasnât supposed to have access to a datapad, at least, he wasnât before. Poe didnât know what sort of restrictions were in place for him now but he assumed they remained essentially the same-
âDonât worry Dameron, weâve only been given read permissions, we arenât posting our location to the Orderâs social boards,â Huxâs eyes hadnât moved from the screen, but he lifted his voice, loud enough to let Poe know his presence had been noted.
Phasma had lifted her head to grin at him, or maybe she was baring her teeth? It was not friendly, whatever it was. Poe shifted his weight, thinking he should just leave. Phasma was terrifying. Maybe the Resistance had made a really really big mistakeâŠ
âUh, sure.â But retreat just wasnât in his vocabulary. Poe approached carefully, feeling his way with his words, âWhere did the datapad come from?â He lifted his brows as BB-8 rolled right up to Phasma and opened its tool bay to extend its plier grips. Phasma reached into a pocket and pulled, well something out and placed it into BBâs grip, it snatched it up fast and rolled up to Poe, squealing at him. What the-
âI brought the datapad, your droid gave us Holonet access,â Phasma drawled, rolling another one of those small somethings between her fingers as she watched Poe. âThese are First Order power cells, guess we make them a little better than the New Republic, your BB unit canât get enough.â
âYouâre getting my droid high in exchange for access to the Holonet,â Poe couldnât decide if he wanted to yell about it or laugh. âBB what are you thinking?â
BB-8 chirped sheepishly at him, tool bay opening up again as it offered the power cell to Poe. Curious, Poe bent down and peered at the device. About the size of his thumb, it glowed a feint blue and had a universal adaptor for BBâs battery charger. It was essentially a tiny mobile recharge unit, and Poe had never seen that kind of tech in such a compact design, âItâs so small, how many charges will he get from one cell?â
âOnly about thirty for a BB unit, theyâre very inefficient,â Hux swiped down on his pad, typing something into the search bar, âOur droids and energy weapons run off them, theyâll last for years in an electrostatic gun or riot baton.â
âThis is First Order tech?â He was impressed, actually.
âThat is General Huxâs tech,â Phasma said this proudly, while Hux frowned, eyes still engrossed in whatever was on the datapad. He was blushing, just a little. Poe would have missed it if he hadnât been looking for it, but there it was, a pink at the tips of his ears, a feint flush across his cheeks. From a compliment? From praise? Poe was staring at Hux now, a want so deeply rooted in his very being nearly suffocating him. He wanted more of these small secrets, wanted to know him, wanted to take Hux apart and discover what made him him. He wanted to fuck him, but at this point that almost felt like an afterthought.
They came here to have another chance. Leiaâs words resonated. Poe was going to make sure Hux got a second chance, heâd fight to the end to ensure it.
âPhasma, did you get a bunk assignment already or do you need me to look it up?â Most of the FO officer assignments had been divided among the requisitioned cargo holds of their larger grounded ships and the underground tunnel of bunkers beneath the base. The Resistance had wanted to keep some semblance of a command structure, mostly because they didnât have the man power to enforce any sort of standard of policing. They hoped the presence of familiar commanders would keep everyoneâŠwell, in line? This is a great experiment, Poe. Leia would not get out of his head.
âI have, yes. General Hux has not, though,â Phasma was watching Poe closely, stare unwavering. Like on the transport, she watched him as if she knew.
It was Poeâs turn to flush, thankfully he was not as pale as Hux and he didnât think either could notice, âHeâs with me, weâve got a lot of details to work out. You know, meal planning for two thousand, team building activities, maybe weâll knock out the details for a beach week.â He always fell back on humor, it was easy, disarming in a good way. He hated tension, well, the awkward kind. âThat is, if the doctor clears him to leave med bay.â
Truthfully, Kylo Ren was currently occupying the only prison cell they had, but Poe wasnât about to tell Hux that. The Resistance had not planned on ever having a high profile prisoner, let alone two, at once. And it was Leia who suggested he take Hux under his wing. They couldnât leave him to his own devices, but they also couldnât throw him back into a prison cell. You already seem to have a rapport with him, Poe. That was one way to put it, Poe hadnât thought he was that obvious.
Phasma was quiet, but raised an eyebrow. Poe wasnât fooling anyone, apparently. Then, âHeâs been cleared, you just missed Doc Kalonia.â
Poe shifted his weight again, bit his lip and smiled that smile, the really good one he saved for those occasions when he needed to skip out fast, lest he get his face punched in.
Hux sighed while looking between the two of them and then turned the datapadâs screen off and held the device out to Phasma, âPhasma, I suppose this is good night.â
Phasma waved the datapad away, grinning, âYou can keep it, Iâll just take Mitakaâs.â
Phasma had come to stand beside the gurney while Hux carefully placed his feet on the floor. She hovered over him, hands lifted away from her sides, following him as he moved. She was as ready for the worst as Poe had been on the beach when Hux had collapsed. These two were close in a way that maddened Poe, he wanted â he wanted so much.
âWe'll meet tomorrow, when you can?â Phasma reached out and tapped the datapad, âI want a rematch, you cheated.â
âItâs a computer game, you canât cheat,â Hux demurred, turning towards Poe, side stepping around him to put Poe between him and Phasma. The effect was lost, because they were both taller than himâŠ
âThatâs what you said last time, when we played Rhodian Dice,â Phasma crossed her arms over her chest, staring down her nose at Hux but it just looked like she was glaring at Poe. How had he gotten caught in the middle of this?
âExploiting a bug isnât the same as cheating,â Hux sounded salty, Poe wanted to scream what the kriff is going on.
âActually thatâs the definition of cheating,â And Poe was looking to BB-8 for help now, but he was too busy rolling around Phasmaâs feet chirping brightly to notice Poeâs unfortunate position. âFine fine, little droid, one more and that is it.â
Poe walked out of med bay suddenly feeling deeply in over his head. Hux followed a step behind him, just in sight of Poeâs peripheral vision. Poe kept him there, hyper aware of the way Hux moved, the length of his stride, the quality of his gait. Hux moved with a tightly controlled purpose which bespoke his military background â shoulders back, arms clasped behind him, head tilted ever so slightly forward as if he were watching the floor rather than where he was going. He didnât look like he was about to collapse. The steps he took were shortened, Poe suspected, Hux having to adjust his gait to match Poe's which was admittedly not as long and striding as he imagined Hux's was. The man was all long lean lines and Poe visualized what he must have looked like sweeping down the hall of a star destroyer, face in a snarl and barking orders at every crew member he passed. Now he looked distant, defeated. Poe ached with empathy.
BB-8 kept rolling ahead out of sight before doubling back to them, chirping sweetly to itself. Those power cells had really wound it up. Poe would have to get Rose to look at its circuit board and make sure they were safe for it to use. Not that he actually thought Hux would go out of his way to harm his droid. The thought caught Poe by surprise, wondered at the trust it suggested. Only then, belatedly, did it occur to Poe that Hux was also following him without an explanation of where they were going. Again, Poe wondered at the trust displayed, as he slid his eyes to the side to observe Hux with a newfound curiosity.
As if reading his thoughts, âWhere are we going?â Hux finally queried as Poe led him outside and into the cool night air. The med bay was located in an auxiliary building off of the general dorms, and they would have to walk around the perimeter to reach the officerâs housing unit in the main hub.
âTo the main hub,â Poe gestured ahead. âMed bay is separate from the rest of the facilities, itâs faster to get around the base by walking the perimeter rather than through it.â
They passed by few Resistance members, the late hour and long day must have sent most to retire early. While Poeâs stint in the New Republic air force had given him only a taste of traditional military life, even Poe recognized that the Resistance operated less by military ideals and were something more like a large commune. The structure of command was loose, and people seemed to fill rolls based on need, not by skill. That there were not guard rotations patrolling the main corridors had even Poe wondering at their lax security. Heâd have to address it with Finn tomorrow, create some sort of schedule for the guards, maybe even pair of a Resistance member with a First Order counterpart, get everyone involved and build some camaraderie.
When Poe reached his door he came to a quick stop, nerves suddenly high. He was so abrupt Hux almost walked into his back. The sound of Hux sucking in a breath lingered in Poeâs ears and he watched as Hux righted himself, back straight but breath frayed. Poe wondered if the medics had fed him, because his unsteadiness suggested they had not. He was still dressed in his uniform, even those infuriating gloves were back on his hands. Hux looked exhausted, his hair falling over his forehead, dark circles deepening under his eyes, and the drawn look in his face spoke as much to his need for sleep as it did to his dehydration.
But those were easy things for Poe to take care of. Turning to the door he pressed his hand to the lock, the hydraulic door sliding open. The lights flickered on, illuminating his living area. Poe turned to Hux to beckon him inside but the look on the manâs face stopped him short â it was wide-eyed, almost scared.
âHux, you okay?â Poe stepped forward, placed a hand at his elbow in case he collapsed again, âCome on, letâs get you set up. Iâm sure youâre exhaustedââ
âWhat is this?â Hux stood his ground, refusing to enter the space. âWhere is my cell?â
That stopped them both short, and they stood there in the hallway, staring at one another as each tried to parse what was happening.
âDameron, are those your living quarters?â Hux stared at Poe, the expression on his face plain for the first time, disbelief.
âOK, hey, so this definitely isnât how it seems,â The words flew out of Poeâs mouth, his hand coming up to push his hair out of his face. It was a nervous gesture, Poe wasnât sure how to explain to Hux that Hey, weâre roomies now, get hyped. âWeâre a little short on space, as you can imagine, and the bunker has been turned into dorms for the time being. They had to commandeer your, uh, jail cell? For Kylo Ren. Yeah.â
Hux stared at him, chose his words carefully. âWhen you said we would be together,â Hux shifted his weight, pursed his lips and then smoothed out his features. âThis is not what I expected.â
âWould you rather be back in a cell?â Poe regretted the words, because they almost sounded like a threat, and that was not the impression Poe wanted Hux to have. As Hux eyed him he wondered how he ever thought this was a good idea. Bunking with the enemy? Maybe Hux would consider the jail cell as the more desirable option.
Hux wasnât the enemy, though? Not anymore â at least. He certainly didnât feel like it, even though Hux had killed billions â
âYou are serious,â Hux stated as much for himself as for Poe.
âCome in, please?â Poe stepped backwards into the room, standing in the frame so the door couldnât close between them. Hux looked past him, took notice of the threadbare couch where his leather jacket was thrown over an arm, the old beat up leather trunk that served as his coffee table where a mini holo projector sat. The darkened windows overlooking the jungle beyond stretched up into a curved half-dome of a ceiling â the space was simple but it was home. Poeâs home, and he was opening up his space to Hux. It suddenly felt incredibly personal, intimate, and Poe understood Huxâs hesitation.
âThis is â itâs just temporary. Weâll sort out your living arrangements, I promise.â Poe suddenly felt incredibly stupid, like a runaway train that had run off its tracks. He could fix this, he would fix this.
Then Hux gave in. Poe saw it in his face first â the subtle change, the release of all those tense tiny muscles. For just a passing moment Hux looked scared, then his features returned to that same controlled apathy Poe recognized as Huxâs poker face. âYou could have at least taken me out for a drink first.â
Poe was quiet, stared at Hux as he replayed the words in his head just to make sure he heard right. Had he just... Then Poe started to laugh. The sound that came out of him was like warm honey. Poe laughed like a man who had nothing to lose, because he actually had so much to lose, so much worth protecting that sometimes it became overwhelming, and all he could do was laugh.
Just then, he'd thought heâd lost it all.
âYouâre going to have to try harder than this Dameron,â Hux continued, he was joking. Poe could not stop grinning, the world felt like it had stopped turning.
âI wishââ Poe coughed out, forcing a straight face, ââI wish I knew you were funny before. You never laughed at any of my jokes.â
âJokes?â Hux paused, head tilted to the side, and Poe wondered if they were thinking of the same thing: all those impromptu communiques during their skirmishes, where Poe would tease Hux relentlesslyâ âI didnât realize calling a person pale and skinny was supposed to be funny.â
Poe just beamed, he knew he must have looked stupid, he knew how he got when he was infatuated. Youâre infatuated with the General of the First Order. Maybe Leia had made a mistake putting him in charge of HuxâŠ
Just as suddenly as Hux had begun joking with him he stopped, that weighted anxiety returning to his posture. Hux could not keep his guard down, it seemed. But Poe had seen a glimpse.
I want to see more.
As if he heard his thoughts, Hux ducked his head, slipping by Poe and entering his living quarters. Poe saw the way his step faltered as he crossed the threshold, as if there were a disconnect between his body and brain, a stumble of his reflexes. A quiet whoop of concern from BB-8 made Poe look down, and he smiled at the astromech, wishing he could say something reassuring but finding himself at a loss for words. They entered the room and the door shushed shut behind them, and Poe felt some of the tension leave his body. This was home.
Inside Hux stood idle, looking around with a blank expression, body taunt. Poe stepped up beside him and placed a hand on the small of his back, tentative, careful, waiting for Hux to react. When he did not draw away Poe counted his victories, however small they were. Hux allowed Poe to lead him to the couch and sit him down, where he proceeded to tip his head back against the wall and close his eyes. His throat was long and lean and Poe watched the bob of his adam's apple as he swallowed, the flex of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest. Only after BB-8 bumped his leg did he realize we was staring, and Poe pushed his hair out of his face again, chewing his lip. He needed to get a hold of himself.
But first he needed to get Hux set up, because it looked like he was about to pass out on his couch.
âJust sit here, okay? Iâm going to get some things ready for you.â Poe moved about his room tidying what he could. He grabbed his jacket and threw it into the bedroom, pushing BB-8 out before closing the door and hiding what Finn called his âhoarderâs nestâ from Huxâs view. Then he went into the fresher and poured Hux a glass of water, because you were supposed to serve guests drinks right? It was the polite thing to do. He wasnât a savage, whatever Hux might think about the Resistance. Hux opened his eyes when Poe pressed the cool glass into his hand, he stared at it, uncomprehending â
âDonât want any repeats of earlier,â Poe was all smiles, he couldnât help it. Hux sipped the water carefully, watching him. âDid they feed you in med bay?â
âJust an IV, and some electrolyte drink.â
âThatâs not â neither of those count as food,â Poe was horrified, he couldnât tell if Hux was joking again or if he thought an IV counted as actual sustenance.
âThey did not feed me,â Hux took mercy on him, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall again, cup of water sitting half full on the trunk.
Poe crossed the short breadth of space to what was his kitchen efficiency, pulling yesterdayâs mess hall to-go container out of the refrigeration unit and peeling back the plastiwrap. Sniffing it quickly out of habit, he put it into the ion oven. Glancing over he saw Hux watching, an open look of distaste on his face.
âDonât worry, Iâm not going to poison you,â Poe laughed.
Hux smoothed his features out, averting his eyes, âPerhaps not intentionally.â
âTheyâre just leftover dumplings, not more than a day old. Theyâre good, youâll see.â The ion oven pinged loudly and Poe turned and pulled the container out, placing it on a plate and bringing it over to Hux along with a set of chopsticks.
He placed the plate on the coffee table and slid it closer to the couch, then handed Hux the chopsticks. Hux stared at the food, then licked his lips. The wrinkled little pockets of dough steamed on the plate, and Poe wondered what they fed Hux in the prison cell â he had a feeling it wasnât anything close to a hot meal. Still, Hux was hesitating, so Poe encouraged him.
âGo ahead, eat what you want. Iâll put your room together.â
Poe left him alone then, the plate of food steaming on the trunk, chopsticks held loosely in his fingers. Hux looked lost sitting there on his couch, suddenly so small, like he would be swallowed whole by the soft cushion and lumpy pillows. So strange. Poe couldnât help thinking. It was as if Hux was incapable of understanding someone could be kind or generous towards him. What had Hux experienced to leave his faith in the human condition so irrevocably tarnished? Poe wanted to know.
There was a sitting area off the main living space that Poe had been using for storage, but he figured Hux could use as a room. Heâd sent a protocol droid over earlier to move out the contents, which were really just a handful of boxes full of sentimental stuff Poe had collected over the last few years during his time travelling with the Resistance, along with his fatherâs rifle case and some spare parts for BB-8. Now the room was empty except for a tatami mat and the floor futon the droid had left, a pillow, a spare blanket, and a space conditioner that could heat or cool the room (heâd insisted on that, after the whole heat stroke fiasco). The same half dome windows in the living space took up most of one wall in this room too, but there was a control unit mounted beside the door frame so Hux could dim the tint as he liked. Poe loved sunlight, lived in it, but Hux was acclimated to life aboard a starship, and the big windows didnât offer a whole lot of privacy.
Not that he was worried about Huxâs privacy. In fact, maybe he needed extra observation? Poe considered the logistics of mounting a security cam, just for, you know, safetyâs sake.
Force, he needed to reign it in.
Re-entering the living space, Poe saw Hux had set aside the plate of dumplings and was working on taking his boots off. Poe poked his head into the refresher to make sure the extra towels had been put there by the protocol droid and then met Hux at the couch, crouching down at his feet. The boots were no longer the polished leather of that morning. Sand and sun had worn most of their finish away, and Hux was working on wiggling one of his feet out from the heel grip without much success. Frustration was plain on his face, and he kept dropping his heel to the ground and rolling his ankle, as if the joint itself was giving him trouble. Poe took a moment to take in the turn of Huxâs mouth, the furrow in his brow, the flush of exertion on his face. Then he made his move.
âNeed some help?â Poe smiled up at Hux, he hoped he looked charming because he might actually sound like a creep.
But Huxâs face hid whatever thoughts were in his head, so Poe was particularly surprised when he lifted his foot and placed it on Poeâs thigh. The movement was slow, careful, as if Hux were giving Poe the opportunity to back out of his offer, as if it were Poeâs limits that were being pushed. Oh, kriff, okay. Poe could not fuck this up.
âGuess these arenât meant for field duty,â Poe placed his hands on Huxâs foot, one smoothing lightly down the tongue to rest on the upper vamp, the other curling loosely around the back heel. Poe watched Hux the entire time, looking for a sign of discomfort, a small part of him waiting for the man to maybe kick him in the teeth because if Poe were honest, of all the shit he dealt with today this was by far the most surreal, and heâd brought it entirely upon himself.
But, though Hux was quiet and his expression closed off, his foot felt relaxed in Poeâs grip. Hux was allowing Poe to do this. Donât fuck this up was the mantra going through Poeâs mind.
The boot reached up over Huxâs calf, stopping right below his knee, where the fabric of his pants tucked in under the leather. Poe pressed his luck, removing his hand from Huxâs heel to reach up and run it down along the back of his calf, as if he were getting a better grip. His eyes never left Huxâs face. Huxâs brow twitch down, so quick he almost missed it, and his lips parted, just barely. His chest was rising in slow but shallow breaths, and his eyes had dropped to watch Poeâs hands.
Poe looked down, feeling a blush creep up his chest. He wondered if Hux would notice. This wasâŠa lot, for him and for Hux. They barely knew one another, but what they shared was rooted in a duality of extremes. Both generals on opposing sides of a galaxy wide conflict, a conflict that they were both born into, a conflict they inherited from their parentâs generation. They were like planets on the opposite ends of a shared orbit around the same sun, forever blinded to one another by circumstances larger than their lives alone.
Poe released a breath, it came out loud, the sound catching in the back of his throat. Hux was looking at him now, a brush of something like concern softening his features, and then he opened his mouthâ âDameronââ
âHux.â Poe dropped his head again, bit his lip, âJust...let me help, is that okay?â
A pause, just for a beat. âYes,â It came out quiet, and the look on Huxâs face was disarming, open in a way Poe had never seen before. Heâs gorgeous.
He would not fuck this up.
Poe slid Huxâs boot off then. He took his time, revealing Huxâs leg inch by inch, cradling the heel in the palm of his hand as Huxâs foot slipped free, pushing the boot off to the side. One hand on his heel, one on his calf, Poe took a moment and breathed. He could hear the sound of Hux's breath above his, a little louder, a little faster, but still he allowed Poe to continue. The fabric of Huxâs pants was damp with sweat, wrinkled and pressed into hard ridges where the stiff wool had been warped into shapes. Poe massaged into the calf muscles there, his hand on Huxâs heel a firm pressure as he manipulated Huxâs leg further into his lap.
He was toeing a line here, and he waited for Hux to snap to reality and finally kick him in the teeth. Instead Hux had closed his eyes, head falling forward so his chin rested on his chest, breath catching as his hands squeezed into fists on his thighs.
âTicklish?â Poe pushed a thumb up into the inner arch of Huxâs foot. Pressing with a firm pressure, fingers curving up over the top of his foot, he dragged his thumb slowly along, pressing deep into the space between the connecting muscles of his great and second toes, to roll small circles into the void there. The texture of Hux's sock was thick and rough, gabberwool like the rest of his uniform. No wonder he had passed out on the beachâŠ
A sound emerged from Hux then, low and broken, and they both froze, staring at one another. Hux looked stricken â embarrassed â and Poe watched as he lifted his hand to press the back of his glove against his mouth. But still, his eyes remained on Poe. They were gray green, like the sea foam on Yavin-IV.
Okay, maybe this is too much. Carefully, Poe placed Huxâs foot on the floor at the outside of his thigh, reaching for his other leg and guiding it onto his knee. He performed the same motions, more sure this time, but with no less care. This boot came off easier than the first. Poe placed it to the side and returned to Huxâs foot, with every intention of continuing with the massage, and he wondered if Hux would make that sound again. But Hux drew his legs up, knees bending into his chest as he swung his legs to the side and slid off the couch.
Poe froze as Hux settled onto the floor next to Poe, his hip touching Poeâs thigh, his knees drawn into his chest, his head hung forward so his hair hid his eyes. He was trembling. It was nearly imperceptible, but Poe was so attuned to Hux in that moment that he noticed it easily. He reached out-
âDonât â Donât touch me,â Huxâs voice cut through the silence and held Poe in place. Fuck-
âIâm okay,â Hux quickly added, voice soft but unbroken. He'd turned his head, just enough, to eye Poe over the line of his arm. He held Poe's gaze. âYou didnât do anything wrong.â
Poeâs mouth gaped, struggling to parse Huxâs words with his body language and finally putting it together, âToo much?â
Hux dropped his forehead to rest on his knees, but he nodded his head there, confirming what Poe suspected, while drawing away from him to internalize whatever was going through his mind. Poe swallowed, shifting his weight to stand, deciding to give Hux his space-
âStay. Please.â Hux hadnât lifted his head but he must have read Poeâs body language, felt the swift dilation of energy between them.
Hux wasâŠthere. And Hux wanted him there, with him.
âOkay.â Poe relaxed, settling back into the easy kneel he had before. The quiet felt tense, but not in that bad way he hated. Hux wasâŠincredible. Poe watched him, observed the way the man gathered into himself, weakness so exposed but shielded, as if this were a position Hux was familiar with, a place of comfort even though it looked so incredibly helpless. There was something important here, something Poe needed more of to puzzle together. But for now, he watched Hux breathe. He watched the way his back rose and fell with those breaths, watched the way his slim body moved under the weft of his clothes, and he watched as Hux incrementally drew himself back together, putting whole the pieces Poe had pushed out of place, but not perfectly â not exactly how they were before.
Poe was suddenly overwhelmed with the gravity of what he'd chosen to pursue, what he was offering Hux, offering himself.Â
When Hux reached out and took his hand, Poe understood it was as much for him as it was for Hux.
Â
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Notes:
This chapter killed me. I love parts and hate others. I apologize if some of Hux & Phasma's conversation felt like an info dump, I just needed to get some stuff cleared out so we can jump into the gritty good bits. Chapter three is complete and in editing and will be a more wild ride, I promise!
PS: Force is 100% a shameless rip off of Magic the Gathering :D
As always, thank you so much for reading â„
Chapter 3: Negotiations
Notes:
Warnings: Hux is in a bad way during a conversation with Phasma towards the second half of this and what could be considered suicidal thoughts are a part of it, not graphic, only suggested, but wanted to warn yâall.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Waking to the sensation of sunlight on his skin was something Hux remembered from his childhood. On the nights his mother worked late in the big house, she would bring him along. But there was nothing for a boy of his age to do while she toiled away in the kitchen, so she would send him on his way, up the servantâs staircase and into the hidden places behind the walls. Here he explored, found adventures with cave trolls in the storage cubbies, chased spiders through their sticky cobweb traps, and discovered his secret place in the vaulted beams of the attic. Brimming with treasures, the attic was his haven, a place filled with cabinets of silken fabrics, boxes of shiny metal baubles Hux likened to pirate treasure, and a staircase that spiraled up, leading to a tiny nook at the top of the highest spire in the tallest tower of the sky castle in Armitageâs head.
It was here he would hoard his favorite discoveries: a blanket of the softest weave that smelled like cookies, a book of drawings featuring ancient creatures he couldnât pronounce the names of, his favorite picture that of a giant ball of light filling the sky, the towering creatures silhouetted against the jungle backdrop of a lost planet, wonderstruck in a moment of awe. And then, of course, Millicent.
The little porcelain feline figurine was forever frozen in a sitting posture, tail curled round her dainty paws, one of which was lifted to her mouth so her tiny pink tongue could lick, what Armitage guessed, was milk from her claws. She was missing most of her orange paint and an ear was chipped, but Armitage could tell she had been well loved once, and he was happy to take up the mantle of her former keeper. He knew her name was Millicent because someone had wrote it on the bottom of her bum, but he called her Millie, because they were friends.
âMillie,â he would breathe while under his blanket, the edges held down with boxes and the center slung over one of the beams above his head, the trianglular wedge open to a window that overlooked the grand homeâs grounds. âWhere do you think the stars go during the day?â Millicent would mew her response, which was always wherever the sun had gone during the night. And Armitage would fall asleep waiting to see if he could catch a glimpse of where that was.
When we would open his eyes it was always to the sun struggling to break through the morning rain clouds, filling the sky for fleeting moments, her warm rays flickering like kisses across his face, and Armitage would wrap himself in his blanket of cookies while Millicent would tell him he had just missed it.
Next time, Armitage promised himself, he would stay awake, and he wouldnât miss out on a thing.
Hux had then spent his entire adult life chasing the stars across the sky, sucking suns dry of their light, and blackening silhouettes against the backdrop of a burning column of fire.
Turning away from the too bright sunlight that warmed across his face, Hux frowned into his pillow. His body was tangled in a roughshod military-issued blanket, now slightly damp with his sweat, his fever having broken over and over again during the course of the night. His mouth was parched and his back ached and his toes curled with the overwhelming urge to take a piss, but Hux wasnât ready yet. He wasnât ready to wake to this new reality, where the Finalizer was sunk at the bottom of an ancient lake, the First Order was scattered across the far reaches of the galaxy, and he was asleep in a futon on the floor of the enemyâs guest room.
Poe Dameron, his mind advised, is not your enemy.
Hux swallowed at the thought, suddenly awake, more than ever before. Poe Dameron is not my enemy.
The memories of Dameron, on his knees at his feet, hands touching him in places no one had ever touched him before, caught Hux in a loop like a systems glitch. He couldnât escape it. The sensations played over his skin and in his muscles, burned there by Dameronâs rough hands. Rough hands that Hux had spent all night imagining touching him in other places, until heâd fallen asleep feverish and tangled in his clothing and blanket, unsatisfied on a physical level he never knew existed. Hux placed his hand over his mouth, fingertips soft against the even softer swell of his lips, as he remembered. Fantasies of Dameronâs mouth on his, opening him up and trapping Huxâs tongue in the cage of his teeth, those rough hands on his sides, sliding down, gentle where his mouth was not, calloused thumbs pushing at his waistband, pressing into the hollow of his hips-
Hux pushed himself up, hand over his face as he tore the blanket from his shaking body. Dameron is not my enemy.
So what was he? What did he want him to be?
What did Dameron want from him?
Hux looked up, stared into the sun barely breaching the top of the tree line, its bright rays spilling over the cloud capped mountains in the distance, and wondered where it was he went from here.
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Poe was a morning person, always had been. Even during his spice running days when he was up through all hours of the evening, greeting the dawn at the end of some heist with his friends, he could never go home and sleep. Heâd lay awake while the sun crawled her way up the sky, the desire to get up and get going overwhelming any fatigue he should have felt, and he could do nothing but obey the demands of his nature. Now, as a general for the Resistance, the early schedule he kept provided him a few hours of down time alone, something he had never valued so much as a younger man, but which now felt like the most precious hours of his life. He enjoyed these quiet moments where it was just him and BB-8, his caf, and whatever space he happened to call home.
This morning was no different. He awoke early, while the sun was just barely breaking light across the sky, and smiled.
Today was going to be a good day, he could feel it.
Caf in hand, Poe settled onto his couch in the same place Hux had sat last night. Poe imagined he could feel the shape of him in the cushions still, and he sank into them, closing his eyes and remembering. When Hux had slid from the couch to the floor Poe was convinced he had pushed him too far, that Hux was going to close him out, reject his advance and leave him to wallow in his mistake, but heâd surprised Poe. Theyâd sat there on the floor together, side by side, hand in hand. Poe had watched over Hux until his legs relaxed and his back straightened and heâd slipped his hand from Poeâs and stared at him, before finally getting up. But there had been a moment, as Hux stood, where heâd looked down at Poe and then reached out, slowly, until his fingertips brushed Poeâs hair, just enough to right a curl that had fallen at an odd angle, before he turned to head to the fresher.
Poe had dwelt on that moment all night, laid awake replaying it, pressed his face into his pillow as he said to himself: you are attracted to Armitage Hux, and Armitage Hux might be attracted to you.
Poeâs smile deepened, and though no one was looking, he hid it behind the curve of his cup.
A knock at the door interrupted his reverie.
Though Ajan Kloss had a longer day cycle than most planets he'd lived on, the Resistance kept standard hours and it was still early, too early for most of the base to be awake. Running through a list of people who could be calling him at this hour, he came up empty. Definitely it was not Finn, who was never up before ten if it could be helped, and BB-8 was off who knew where and would never knock regardless. That left Rey, but Poe suspected she was with Kylo Ren and not wandering the halls looking for him.
He opened his door and was met with a First Order protocol droid.
Curiously, the droid was less of a surprise than the trunk it was delivering: a sleek heavy gunmetal gray thing that looked more like a weapons cache than a trunk full of Huxâs personal affects, which was what it was. Poe knew, because there stamped into the very metal itself was the name Armitage B. Hux, and then a Lieutenant symbol embossed beside it.
Dive crews had spent the rest of the prior day and evening unloading the Finalizer of what was salvageable, and the trunk must have been recovered from the storage units for the officers. Poe imagined theyâd be clearing the wreck for weeks to come, and that this trunk had been one of the first things recovered was peculiar. Even more, was that the trunk had made its way here, and not to some intake facility where the contents would be inspected and sorted.
Running his hand along the metal Poe guessed the reason behind that, the thing was seamless, sealed tight. Maybe they had given up trying to open it, or maybe the protocol droid was programmed to only deliver it to its rightful owner. Either way, Poe was giddy with an excitement befit his smuggler past. Anything sealed this well held the best stuff. Or a weapon. It could just be a bomb, tbecause his was Hux after all.
Poe considered waking Hux, but knew he needed to let him sleep. Instead, he sat back on his couch and went back to sipping his caf and made a mental list of all the potential things that might be locked in the trunk. At the top of that list was another uniform for Hux, because heâd already thrown his current one into the sonic and while it wasâŠcleaner - clean enough for Poe - he had a feeling Hux held his laundering to a much higher standard.
Also towards the top of the list were embarrassing holos of Hux when he was young, a childhood trinket that would reveal more about him than he would ever let on, a box full of holoporn because that definitely seemed like something Hux would seal away tight for no other eyes to see, and of course an item of incredible monetary value, because no treasure chest was complete without the payout of cold hard credits.
By the time the door to Huxâs room shushed open, Poe was nearly salivating at the possibilities.
âMorning!â Poe said brightly, heedless of the bags under Huxâs eyes and the rumpled state of his underclothes. The pair of pants and shirt he had lent Hux were ill-fitting to the point of being comical. The too big shirt hung off his bony shoulders in a cascade of loose fabric, while the pants were too short and cut off several inches above his ankles. Huxâs ankles were nearly as delicate as his wrists, and Poe was suddenly again struck with the memories of the previous night, when heâd had his hands all over those legs and Hux had let him.
Poe proceeded to devour Hux with his eyes, because though he had seen him naked, seeing him like this â sleep mussed and grumpy â felt so much more revealing.
Hux moved like molasses, as if his body ached all over, unsurprising considering the events of the day past. Still, Poe admired the way Hux moved, the flex of his calf muscles, the wiry length of his pale arm, the spread of his bare toes on the tiled floor. There was a feint pink across his cheeks and nose that Poe belatedly realized was a sunburn, setting upon Hux what was essentially a permanent blush. It looked cute and Poe smiled at Hux with a bright and endearing affection of which Hux returned with a twisted sneer.
Passing beside him on his way to the refresher Poe could hear Hux mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like âof kriffing course he would be a morning personâ before the fresher door closed behind him and Poe heard the sound of urine hitting the toilet bowl. Poe slipped to the edge of the couch, consciously keeping his leg from bouncing and restraining himself from pouring another cup of caf, he knew heâd already had enough.
The sound of running water alerted Poe to the fact that Hux was using the shower, and Poe grew all the more anxious. Hux had spent over thirty minutes showering yesterday and Poe was not sure he would last that long right now. Not when a literal chest full of treasure was sitting in the middle of his living room. Poe needed it open.
By the time Hux reemerged, fully dressed in his uniform from the previous day, Poe was brewing another pot of caf because heâd finished the first. âDo you like caf or tea?â
Hux looked up, struck surprised, at the question, âExcuse me?â
âCaf or tea? Or water? Thatâs all Iâve got at the moment.â Poe pulled open a drawer, shuffling through it to find where heâd stuffed his tea bags, but Hux interrupted him.
âWhere the stars did this come from?â
Hux was standing over the chest, fingertips resting gently on top, sliding over the smooth metal as he stared down at the trunk as if he were seeing a ghost.
Oh this was going to be good.
âA droid dropped it off about an hour ago. Weâve got dive teams salvaging what they can from the Finalizer.â Poe couldnât find his tea, so he poured Hux a cup of caf. âWhatâs inside?â Poe applauded himself at how casual he sounded.
Hux shot him a look that said he wasnât fooling anyone. âWouldnât you like to know Dameron.â But there was a smile there. Poe almost missed it, but the pull at the corner of his lips gave it all away. âIt must be killing you, not knowing.â
Everyone always told Poe he was easy to read, but it seemed Hux could literally see right through him. âYou got me Hugs,â he laughed, âBut letâs be honest, that thing looks like a weapons cache, I need to know whatâs inside. Call it a professional interest.âÂ
âA professional interest?â Poe felt the weight in Huxâs words. A weight that dragged at him, like the gravity well of a sun. âSo that is what this is?â Hux had not looked away, no, he was watching Poe more closely than ever.
As if Poe could hear the words Hux really wanted to say, he matched Huxâs stare, held it. âWell, maybe not entirely professional.â
A momentary quiet settled between them, pulsed with unspoken curiosity. Poe held steady, refused to be the first to back down, but like hell he would say more than he already had. Hux would come to the right conclusion. Poe knew he would, hoped he would â but what he did with that information was up to him. Poe had pushed him far, the night before. Too much, too fast, and heâd known it at the time. He had been unable to resist. But Hux had not dismissed him, had not kicked him in the teeth and stabbed him with Poeâs own chopsticks. No, instead heâd let Poe touch him â had felt comfortable telling him when it was too much â had wanted Poe to stay after.
So Poe counted his victories, however small, and had a feeling this would be how it was with Hux: A slow meandering dance through the complications of their history, with Poe guiding the way while Hux only had to choose to trust him, to follow his lead.
Hux hung his head then, gaze dropped down to his trunk while his fingertips dragged across the engraved H of his name. Whatever thoughts were in his head Poe could only guess, but he liked to think they were about him, about them, about what they could be if he only allowed it. You can do this, Hux. Poe kept his mouth shut. He would figure it out, Poe knew he would.
When Hux lifted his hand to tug his glove off, Poe inched forward, at the edge of his curiosity. Hux flexed his hand, then smoothed his fingertips together, wicking away the moisture that had gathered there. Then, he dropped his hand to the top of the trunk, pressing his palm over the Lieutenant emblem. The internal mechanics hissed as the lid slid back on hidden hinges, opening just enough that Hux could get his fingertips under the seam and pull it fully open.
In the ambient temperature of the room the cool air inside the trunk spilled over in a gentle mist. Poe almost laughed out loud. It was something straight out of a holo and he suddenly imagined that it were a person inside the trunk, kept in cryogenic stasis only to awaken in a new and different world hundreds of years and millions of light-years away from what they once knew. Or maybe it was the corpse of Huxâs own childhood, the mantle of his youth shucked like a creature grown out of their exoskeleton, only kept around as proof that once, long ago, heâd been young and innocent. Poe shivered at the thought.
âWell, Dameron? Care to sate your curiosity?â
Hux was already pulling his glove back on when Poe approached. Stepping up to the trunk Poe peered down into it, nothing of immediate value standing out to him. The trunk must have been gravitationally secured because the contents had not moved from where Hux had once, long ago, placed them. There was indeed some clothing, none of which looked like a uniform, but rather training sweats that Poe hoped actually still fit Hux because those would be helpful. Folded on top of the clothing was a carefully preserved piece of flimsi that struck Poe as oddly sentimental, even for Hux. Beside the clothing was a leather datapad case, and it was this that Hux reached for, picking up the device with such care that Poeâs attention was immediately drawn from the trunk and to the pad.
Poe watched as Hux smoothed his hand over the leather, face relaxed and consumed in thoughts Poe wanted to know. The leather was pristine, well cared for. Obviously whatever was stored on the datapad was something precious to Hux. Poe shifted his weight, restrained himself from asking, which turned out to be the right decision, because Hux flipped the protective cover back and activated the screen.
The First Order emblem flared to life, along with a battery symbol â it was nearly depleted â and Poe was surprised that it had activated at all.
âHow is that not dead?â Poe was curious, he didnât think First Order tech was that advanced. The datapad had obviously been in storage for many years.
âRemote charging, from this,â Hux pulled one of his power cells from his pocket, showing Poe briefly before turning from him to take a seat on the couch. âWell, Dameron?â
Oh- kriff- âYouâre gonna show me whatâs on that thing?â It only took Poe a total of three steps to reach the couch and seat himself next to Hux. They were close, nearly touching, Poeâs greater weight dipping the cushion in his favor and he saw Hux shift just enough to keep him from sliding into Poeâs hip.
âI thought you needed to know, for your professional integrity?â Hux was teasing him, Poe delighted in the butterflies it alighted in his stomach. Hux was excited about whatever this datapad held, and for some reason he was excited to show it to him. Poe rifled through all the things it could be: weapons blueprints, plans for energy devices similar to his power cells, childhood holos the likes of which Poe knew were on his datapads from years younger â the list went on.
But as the device booted up and ran through the BIOS, binary strings flashing across the screen, Poe realized this was a programming codepad. Different from normal datapads, codepads were used by engineers and designers in the building of complex computer systems and user interface modules. Whatever this held was something more complicated than Poe could guess.
When the home screen loaded, Hux navigated to a folder titled Force and Poe felt his eyebrows raise when a game launched. The title screen illuminated with a scene of deep space, stars fading in and out in a frame by frame rendition of twinkling, the word FORCE fading into life overtop the starscape. Hux tapped the title and another screen loaded, this one offering a tutorial walk-through, which Hux skipped to proceed to what, Poe gathered, was a selection screen for what appeared to be a card game.
âA game Hux? Thatâs whatâs got you so excited?â Poe kept the smile off his face but could not keep it from the inflection of his voice. He was surprised in a delighted sort of way. This was so left field of what he imagined that he couldnât help but look at Hux - look for some remnant of something that would have suggested a game sim was important to him.
âNot just a game, a game I designed.â Hux had not moved past the selection screen, instead he set the pad in his lap, hands resting on his thighs at either side of it. A game. Hux had designed a game?
Poe wanted to make a joke, gently tease from Hux an explanation why, but something stopped him, something that said not to put Hux on the spot like that, not right then. Instead he let his eyebrow creep up and gave Hux a look that said he didn't quite believe what he was hearing.
âDonât look so surprised Dameron, I can have fun.â Hux said fun as if it were the most detestable word he had ever uttered.
âOh yeah? Iâll be the judge of fun." Then he dropped his voice, just by an octave. "Show me how to play your game, Hux.â The smirk was slow to bloom but as he held Huxâs eyes he saw the words hit home. There was a blush across Huxâs nose that deepened the pink of his sunburn.
âYouâre incorrigible.â Huxâs face twisted with what Poe hoped was mock affront, then softened as he said, âIâll teach you.â
Force, as it was, turned out to be far more strategic than what Poe would describe as fun. But the mechanics were sharp, quick and endlessly complicated, and the design was charming in a way that baffled Poe. That Hux had designed a game sim was strange enough, that Hux had included such things as crude animations, cheeky phrases like TWARTED, DODGED, CRITICAL HIT, and THE END IS NIGH, and an obnoxious VICTORY screen literally had Poe looking at Hux as if everything he thought he knew about him had been rewritten in the span of a barely begun morning.
And Hux was invested in this game. The way he described the gameplay, diving deep into the strategic advantage each affiliation had over another, how mixing card types could make or break a deck, how something as simple as what order of cards you played on your first turn could impact the game for dozens of rounds ahead, it left Poe reeling with amusement. When Hux went on a tangent about the mechanics of the droid deck and how everyone underestimates droids in favor of force cards and then continued to tell Poe precisely why they were making such an unforgivable tactical mistake, Poe felt a smile splitting his face from ear to ear.
âHux,â he jumped at a lull in Huxâs speech about Light versus Dark and how creating a balanced deck between the two was more difficult than just committing to one side, âLetâs play, yeah? Iâm a hands on learner, but I think Iâve got this.â
Huxâs mouth had snapped shut, and he was looking at Poe as if he just realized heâd been speaking non-stop for the last hour. He swallowed, shifted his weight, moved his eyes to stare at something over Poeâs shoulder. The pieces were being put back into place, whatever guard Hux had let down rising again, higher than before. But, Poe had seen a glimpse â more than a glimpse â heâd seen the man beneath Hux. Armitage. Heâd seen Armitage.
The game they played was short lived. Hux took no mercy on Poe. He destroyed his army of light force creatures with a swift calculated efficiency, countering every move Poe made without pause. By the end of their twenty standard minute affair, Poeâs deck was mostly a graveyard of cards with a smattering of high level creatures and starships in his hand he didnât have enough energy sources to put into play. Hux ended the game with an overzealous attack that included every creature card he had in play that seemed oddly out of character, taking Poeâs life points deep into the negative. As the numbers counted down to Poeâs defeat, VICTORY flashed across the screen in that same obnoxious way he had observed earlier. Where Poe expected Hux to relish in his defeat, he instead stared down at the flashing screen, eyes distant, lips pressed together.
âSeems I need some practice,â Poe laughed, trying to break this strange tension, unable to get a read on Huxâs thoughts as he sat there and let an opportunity to gloat pass him by. âBut youâre right, that was a lot of fun.â
Hux was entirely silent, and for a moment Poe thought he had said something wrong, offended Hux with an unknown slight. But then Hux spoke up, slow and careful. âI can put it on your datapad,â the offer came quiet, spoken over the hum of the environmental conditioning unit kicking on. Poe almost didnât hear him.
âYeah, you can do that?â
âNow that I have this codepad, yes.â Hux exited the game screen, tapping through the files folders until he reached a package of what were program files that Poe only recognized from the few times he had gone into BB-8âs programming to sniff out a bug. âOnly if you want it. Donât feel obligated Dameron, itâs just a game.â
Like kriff this was just a game.
Poe didnât hesitate. He retrieved his datapad from his bedroom and handed it to Hux without a second thought. That Hux's programming skills also afforded him the ability to hack into Poeâs pad and steal Resistance secrets he didnât even know were hidden there was only a fleeting thought in the back of his mind. This was important to Hux, and that meant it was important to Poe too. He watched as Hux transferred the files and pulled up the terminal window, executing a line of code that installed Force into the system, then proceeded to create an icon on his Home screen.
âThanks Hux, do you care if I show my friends how to play?â He thumbed open the game, saw an account creation option along with local and network play options. Heâd figure that stuff out later, maybe see if Finn was familiar with the game. Maybe he could teach him some strategy he could use to impress Hux.
Hux was watching him carefully now, codepad set aside and his cold caf in his hands instead. âYou may show them, but leave out that I designed it, please. Not even the First Order knows where the game came from.â
That was almost as curious as the fact that Hux had designed the game at all â but Poe heard something in Huxâs words, an unspoken admission that was still, all this time later, shameful with pain. âEveryone in the First Order knows about Force?â
âI canât say everyone, but the clever ones would have found it on their datapads, yes. It was quite popular on the Finalizer in any case, even Phasma plays.â
Poe tried to imagine it: the whole of the Finalizer engaged in an ongoing Force competition, challenging one another to battles during whatever free time they were given. Collecting and trading and winning cards from one another with ever increasing stakes. It was wild, that Hux had gone ahead and included the game with the critical system files on every FO datapad, and then kept its existence a secret â kept its creator a secret. But, he supposed it wouldnât look that great if their fearsome General had designed a charmingly cheesy, incredibly complicated game sim.
âYour secrets are safe with me,â Poe promised.
Yes, because Poe was keeping this version of Hux for himself.
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The last place Hux had ever envisioned himself was seated at the war table of the Resistance, General Organa across from him in some affectation of friendly co-command.
Sitting upon Snokeâs throne, ruling as Supreme Leader over the First Order? All the time. Drowning to death in the Arkanis rain after being dumped into an open grave dug by one of his fatherâs few remaining supporters? Frequently enough. Bleeding out over a control console as Ren stormed through his ship, ripping the thing apart before his very eyes while waxing on about Mommy and Daddy not loving him enough? Too often to admit.
But here he was, sitting at this table for the second time in almost twenty-four standard hours. The message had come over Dameronâs datapad shortly after heâd loaded Force onto it. Dameron had shrugged at Hux when he asked him what Leia wanted to discuss, âShe probably just wants to talk about your crew, get a feel of how you think we should proceed with them.â
How wrong Dameron had been.
âGeneral Hux, Iâm glad to see you well.â Organa was all business, and for that Hux was grateful. He was not sure if he could stomach anything else from the woman. Not with their history. It would be insulting to the both of them. âYour help yesterday was invaluable, but I fear we have left out some details as to our agreement.â
Dameron sat beside him, all easy swaggers even seated in a chair. Heâd leaned back on the things wheels, balancing precariously on the edge of falling over himself. Hux resisted the urge to reach out and give him just a tiny push.
Instead, he nodded at Organa, walking his own line between subservient and commanding. He refused to call her general, instead opting for Princess, which he could tell affected the woman the way he intended, considering she could not technically correct him â âI agree, Princess. We have much to discuss regarding my crew.â
âOh, Iâm not so sure we do. You will be happy to know that, while you were incapacitated yesterday, my men and women were able to arrange most of the particulars regarding housing and feeding our new friends in common.â Leia leaned forward, hands folded neatly atop of the table. âWhat I am most concerned with is you. Hux. Whatever are we going to do with you?â
He wasâŠnot expecting this, âIâm not sure I follow, Princess.â
âOf course not. You are far too magnanimous to be thinking of yourself in this moment,â Leia smiled at him, and Hux suddenly understood where Ren got it, his ability to switch moods on a dime, turn the tables against you faster than you could blink. âWhat do you want out of this Hux, for your cooperation. I think you will find I am in a generous mood, so please humor me and be honest.â
He didnât- neither him nor Dameron had expected this when he said Organa wanted to meet with him. He knew a conversation with the woman was inevitable, but not this one, and not in so cavalier a manner. Hux glanced over at Poe, who seemed just as shocked as he was. Their eyes met for a brief moment, but Hux couldnât read Poe, or maybe he could, but didnât like what he found there.
âGeneral, Iâm to understand that Dameron passed on my requests yesterday.â Hux licked his lips, carefully placing his hands to rest flat on the table. The change in title along with the act of revealing he was unarmed were both precognitive reflexes borne from the way heâd learn to deal with Ren, when he was in one of those moods.
âHe did, but you only asked for the fair treatment of your crew, their acceptance into the New Republic, and the chance to reach out to the rest of the First Order and offer them the same opportunity.â Organa did not blink, as if she were staring straight into him, but neither did he feel the brush of her Force. It would have been at this point that Ren dug into his brain, threw him into the ceiling, tossed him across the bridge, choked him within a thread of his life.
âIââ Hux trailed off, honestly taken aback by Organaâs question. What did he want for himself? Heâd been dwelling on the idea all morning, and he still didnât have an answer. The fabric of his life had unraveled so completely that there were more loose threads than weave, and Hux didnât know where to begin putting it back together. âI suppose Iâd like to be able to interact with my crew. Iâd like free roam planetside to go where I please. Unrestricted Holonet accessâŠâ Hux trailed off again. He sounded like a child. Please daddy, can I go outside and play?
But whatever he said seemed to please Organa. She visibly softened at his requests. âThe freedom to interact with your crew is pivotal to our arrangement working, so that is not a problem. The ability to roam the base at your leisure is also not a problem, but if you wish to travel beyond and explore Ajan Kloss you will need to be joined by a Resistance member. I am sure Poe would be happy to escort you. As far as Holonet access goes, that is more complicated, for security reasons, but I donât see why we canât consider getting you a restricted datapad at some point in the future. Perhaps in exchange for access to First Order net.â
Hux shook his head, âOrder net is down, the Finalizerâs base station is not receiving a signal.â
Organa narrowed her eyes at that, connecting the dots as fast as Hux realized his slip up. âSomeone gave you an Order datapad?â
âCaptain Phasma.â Hux reached up to the hidden pocket in his jacket, then paused, because it could be mistaken for reaching for a weapon. âI have her datapad, Dameronâs BB unit gave it access to the Holonet. Read permissions only. Iâll show you, if I may.â
Organa nodded at him and he reached into his jacket to pull out the datapad, placing it on the table beside him for the protocol droid who had approached. The droid took the pad and walked it over to Organa. The black datapad looked large in her hands, and Hux was struck by how small this woman was. He wondered if Kylo Ren came out full sized kicking and screaming like the overgrown man child he was. I wonder if she has spoken with Ren yet? He was unsure why that thought crossed his mind.
âThis is fine tech, General Hux. BB-8 also showed me one of the power cells you gave it.â Organa handed the pad back to the droid with a nod, satisfied with whatever she saw there. The droid walked back over and placed the datapad on the table beside Hux. âI believe there is more you can offer us Hux, and more we can offer you. I do feel it is important to let you know that, with the current political climate, the New Republicâs interim government has left your fate to us. They have no intentions of pressing charges against you for war crimes committed. I donât believe I need to stress how lucky you are, do I?â
âNo, General,â Hux wasnât sure he was lucky. He had killed billions, split families, severed business alliances. If the New Republic wouldnât try him in court, then some individual was bound to take matters into their own hands
âLeiaââ Dameron plopped his chair down fully onto the floor, the sound loud and grating as the wheels squeaked and the frame groaned. He leaned forward over the table, eyes earnest. âWe have no intentions of pressing charges either.â
The stare Organa levered on Dameron was cold, heâd crossed a line with her. Not that Dameron cared. âNo, General Dameron, not as it stands.â Dameron turned to Hux, that infuriating smile back in place, but Hux felt the cold washing through the room. Maybe it was his experience with Ren, but Hux could feel the woman across the table observe them. Perhaps her force touch was more delicate than he believed, but Hux shivered with the sensation of someone looking through him and seeing every secret he had to hide.
âWhile I believe a military tribunal would provide fairer justice than a public civilian jury, at this point the only justice to be served tastes far too much like revenge for me. Closure for the surviving families of the Hosnian system will not be found in the death of one man,â Organa paused, and Hux tore his eyes from Dameronâs indulgent smile, which seemed to be what she was waiting for.
âGeneral Hux, you have shown me that you do possess the ability to care for the lives of others, and in some capacity place those lives above your own. And while your direct actions with regards to Starkiller Base resulted in death of an unimaginable magnitude, and ended our cold war and launched us into a full-scale military engagement, I believe every person at this table has taken at least one life in the name of that conflict. I am not about to start handing out death sentences unless my hand is forced.â
Because that would mean Kylo Ren would also have to be held accountable, and what would Organa do then.
Regardless, Hux understood the meaning of her words. If he co-operated, he might be able to walk away from this a living man. Organa would field the New Republicâs interim government while he dismantled the Order from the inside out. Likely, this would be his only chance. Organa would only protect him for so long.
Hux left the war room feeling like he would have rather been told he was headed to Coruscant for a trial.
Dameron kept pace beside him, hands in his pockets, his gait loose and at ease. âThat went well, Iâd say. Sorry for not warning you, I assumed she meant to talk about the arrangements for your crew.â
âShe reminds me of Kylo Ren.â The words spilled out of Hux faster than he could stop them, and he saw the way Dameron looked at him, as if he had sprouted a second head.
âReally? I donât see it.â Of course he wouldnât, Dameron was enamored with her, that much was obvious.
âItâs in the way they can both command a room. Ren must have learned it from her,â Hux sighed, stopping at the cross section of the base that led to the mess hall and stepping off to the side. A pair of Resistance members were staring at him and Dameron, caught between shock and curiosity. Hux supposed the two of them strolling the base together must make for a strange sight. âHave you heard anything about him, about Ren?â
Dameron leaned against the wall beside Hux, his wider bulk shielding them from the prying eyes across the opposite side of the corridor. âOnly that Rey is with him. I guess heâs in a bad way, with the force, whatever that means. Sheâs trying to help.â
So that meant Kylo Ren wouldnât be wandering the base any time soon. Hux felt the tension in his body release, just a little.
âHey, listen, I have some stuff I gotta take care of â you know how it is being a General and all that, no one can get on without us.â Dameron spewed words like a Wookie spewed threats. âIâll only be a couple hours, so youâre free to do, well, whatever I guess. What will you do?â
Hux bristled at the question, as if he had to report to Dameron of all people, but then he realized he was only curious; the question completely innocent. âPhasma sent me a message, Iâm supposed to meet her for lunch if Iâm free.â
The quiet that fell between them was not the same easy quiet Hux was growing used to with Dameron. A weight hung between them, and then Hux realized his slip for the second time. Damn. His father's voice filled his head, Where is your control boy?
âHow did Phasma send you a message?â Dameron wasnâtâŠaccusing, he sounded disappointed. Hux had broken a trust here, and he wondered at the feeling of loss that settled in his chest.
âIt is not what you think,â Hux sighed while he took out his datapad, browsing through the file structure until he came to the Games and Leisure folder and opened Force: The Card Game.
He lifted the datapad so Dameron could see, âThere is an option in Force that lets you display three featured cards on your profile.â Hux tapped the appropriate setting and pulled up Phasmaâs profile, which he was using at the moment. There, heâd chosen to display the droid emperor card, followed by a lich knight card, and last a light side energy card that was a picture of berries.
âOkay?â Dameron was not following, yet.
âThe droid emperor is me, Phasma is the lich knight. The berries mean Iâm hungry.â
Dameron was silent, for a beat, âYouâve got to be kidding me.â Dameronâs posture changed immediately, the tension resolving into the buoyant ease Hux was beginning to associate with him. Hux, in turn, also felt himself relax. âYou two have a secret code within your game sim?â
âWe had to, before. Ren was relentless. It was the only secure way to communicate.â Hux pulled up Mitakaâs profile and showed Dameron what was displayed: Again the lich knight card which was instead first, followed by the droid emperor, and lastly a light side energy card with a sun at high noon. âIt is juvenile but works in a pinch, when you donât want certain Dark Lords breathing down your neck.â
âIs it just you and Phasma who use the code?â Dameron had taken the pad from Hux and was examining the cards, he grinned, âOf course youâd be the droid emperor.â
Hux hesitated. If he let Dameron in on the extent of his code, he would be jeopardizing its very purpose. Except this wasnât the Finalizer, and Dameron wasnât Kylo Ren. But, Dameron had the game on his datapad, and now, if he was clever, he knew Phasmaâs player id and could use it to stalk his profileâŠthat could prove a complication. But something small and delicate inside Hux insisted he be honest, that it was the right choice to make. âWe all use it, Mitaka, Phasma, everyone in my direct command.â
âDamn Hugs, how devious.â The relief Hux felt at the smile Dameron flashed him left Hux reeling.
I donât want to disappoint him.
The idea was so foreign that Hux drew into himself, suddenly reminded of his youth, and all the people he failed to prove his worth to. Had he had made the wrong choice? The wrong choices? Dameron was disarming him in a way he didnât know was possible. His congeniality cutting Hux to his very core and leaving him raw and wounded.
Dameron noticed him drawing away, and he held the datapad out, âI think itâs harmless, I wonât snitch.â
Hux reached for the pad, but when his fingers closed on it Dameron took that moment to lean forward, head bowed toward him conspiratorially, âLike I said, your secrets are safe with me.â His voice was low, as if he were speaking of something else, something Hux couldnât grasp but was obvious to Dameron. Still, Hux barely suppressed his shiver.
Instead, he took the pad, thumbed the screen off and tucked it back into his pocket. Turning on his heel he looked over his shoulder at Dameron, pausing long enough to respond, âI hope so, Dameron."Â
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Strolling the halls of the base, Poe went through his roster of responsibilities and checked off what was left. Non-active duty days were slow to start and easy to go, and Poeâs daily chores consisted of checking in with the flight crew and making sure their fighters were serviced and ready for deploymentâŠand that the bickering which was so common amongst hot headed pilots was being kept to a minimum. He also ensured each pilot was fit for flight duty and not drunk from a night out â or in, as was the case here on Ajan Kloss. Because it wasnât as if there was anywhere else to get a drink on the whole of the kriffing planet or anything.
He was also responsible for checking in with the engineers who worked on their fighters, and today it was Rose and her direct team, so Poe knew he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. Rose held all of her engineers to a high degree, so high that even when she wasnât on duty they tended to perform above and beyond. Not that the Resistance was structured to enforce a minimum standard of efficiency among its members, but Poe played the part of overseer despite that. His charm made him an easy commander to report to, but his reputation proceeded him, so much so that people went out of their way to impress him. Usually that meant everyone performed their duties to the best of their abilities.
But today he was getting an earful from Rose, who was upset that half her crew had been commandeered to assist with the Finalizer and had been given the day off without her notification.
âIâm sorry Rose, I thought I sent you a message last night.â Poe had taken Rose aside so their disagreement wasnât front and center of the hangar bay.
âThis is not the first time you have kept me in the dark Poe Dameron, and it wonât be the last.â Rose stood her ground, her tiny stature beguiling a force of personality that no one on base wanted to be on the wrong side of. âYou didnât even let Finn know. I went to him first, you know, gave you the benefit of the doubt.â
âWait, what does that mean?â Poe felt like he was six again and his mom was reprimanding him for getting into her fighter without permission. You knew better than this Poe, youâve disappointed me.
âYou know exactly what it means.â Rose was not backing down, Poe needed to figure this out.
âIs Finn upset with me?â Poe was slowly putting the pieces together, this wasnât about Rose, this was about Finn.
Roseâs cross expression confirmed his suspicions.
âGot it, Iâll go talk to him okay? You have everything under control here?â Poe took a step back, hands out to the side. Unthreatening, donât run, sheâll sense your fear.
âLucky for you after yesterday even your pilots are too tired to cause a ruckus, so yeah, Iâve got things under control.â
âIf you need anythingââ
âIâll reach out to Finn. Get out of my hangar Dameron.â And with that, somehow Poe Dameron, General of the Resistance, was dismissed from his own hangar bay.
Not like stranger things hadnât happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Such as learning that a certain First Order general had a knack for designing game sims.
The memory of Hux sitting beside him while running through the mechanics of Force was a welcome distraction from the idea that Finn was upset with him. He wondered what Hux and Phasma were talking about over their lunch date, if Hux was telling Phasma all about last night. Of course Hux would embellish the story: And then he got on his knees and polished my boots with his tongue â And the two would laugh over their caf and play Force and pass secret coded notes to one another making fun of the love struck Resistance general that Hux had twisted around his little gloved finger.
The idea that Hux had an honest to god friend actually brought him some bit of comfort. During the war it had been easier to imagine that everyone in the First Order were brain-washed human shells who didnât have friends, families, relationships, or like, a sense of humor. But every crack in Huxâs emotional armor revealed more of the man beneath: a person like any other, with trauma and interests and talents. What had driven him so far as to build something like Starkiller Base? Poe was finding it difficult to reconcile the Hux from that morning with the version of Hux in the Holovid who stood atop a dais rallying his troops before firing a superweapon that destroyed worlds.
Part of Poe really wanted to ask Hux about it, yet that same part was also terrified of the answer he would get.
Poe left the hangar bay in Roseâs capable hands and sent a message to Finn, forgoing asking if he was free and simply asking where he was. If his hunch was right he was shadowing Rey, who was obsessing over Kylo Ren, because Finn was one of the only other people on the base who understood what a kriffed up mess that relationship was. Compared to Kylo Ren, Hux was a walk in a park. That park might be located on the dark side of a dead moon filled with Rathtars and poisonous man eating plants, but a park, nonetheless.
When Finnâs message came back Poe knew his hunch was right. Down with Rey. Help me. Sheâs gone crazy. Making his way down the stairs and into the labyrinth of subterranean tunnels, Poe nearly stopped short. Someone had taken florescent neon colored tape to the walls in an attempt to make sense of the maze. Lines of bright green, pink, yellow and orange ran along the tunnels, splitting off in different directions in some semblance of aâŠmap? Poe wasnât sure what it meant when the green tape he was following suddenly switched to blue, so he typed another message to Finn: Was this rainbow of tape your idea or do I have to go to upper management?
Finnâs response came almost immediately: I thought our Order friends could use a little fun in their life.
If by fun you mean throwing them an underground bunker rave Iâm 100% in.
You know me, Iâm always on board for a good theme. Follow the green/blue tape. We ran out of green after Connix used most of it to make a welcome sign for the mess hall.
Blue it is. Howâs our Sith Lord doing?
Weâll find out soon enough.
It occurred to Poe that Finn wouldnât realize he knew precisely where he was going, or how to navigate these tunnels. That even his closest friend had no idea of the many visits Poe had made to Hux in his prison cell over the last several weeks.
Poe continued along the blue tape, passing by more and more First Order crew the deeper he went. Theyâd transformed the underground tunnel network into overflow housing, which actually worked out really well considering Poeâs suspicion that these tunnels were originally a housing complex for the fort above. Shower rooms were scattered along each segment of the tunnel system, along with large open halls and smaller singular self-contained living spaces which were probably meant as officerâs quarters but were now dilapidated beyond use. When the Resistance had moved into the fort they hadnât the numbers to fill these rooms, most everyone bunked up in the primary housing, or on their own ships. But, theyâd recognized the value of having an underground shelter of sorts. They had repaired what plumbing they could and cleared out a number of the rooms to use as supply storage and their brig was mostly a âdrunk tankâ, of which Poe had only thrown three people into over the course of the last six months. Until Hux that was. Then it was an actual prison cell.
Now, it had been commandeered into a Kylo Ren cage. Poe rounded the corner to find Finn standing in the hallway beyond, typing furiously into his datapad.
âHeya buddy!â Poe announced his presence, waving as he approached. Finn looked up, the expression of relief so plain on his face that Poe had to force the smile to stay on his face. Oh no.
âThank the force youâre here Poe. I need your help. Rey has lost her mind.â Finn sounded desperate.
Poe resisted the urge to laugh, âYouâre gonna have to be more specific bud.â Because Rey was already kind of crazy, in that endearing force sensitive kind of way.
âSheâs in there. With him. Has been all night.â
Oh, right. Poe shrugged, felt his face lift in a dopey kind of smile, âHave you been here all night?â
âOf course I have!â As the words left Finnâs mouth Poe saw the realization dawn on him. They both fell quiet, staring at one another, before Poe broke down into gasping laughter. Finn followed a moment later.
The sound of their laughter echoed down the hallway, catching the attention of a group of First Order passing through. They paused at the cross section, staring at them with apprehensive concern. Poe gathered himself together and turned towards them, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, grin still splitting his face. The group quickly continued on their way, just one man falling behind and lifting a half-hearted arm in response. He was quickly pulled out of sight by his companions.
âNot the friendliest bunch, are they?â Poe wondered aloud, turning back to Finn who was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.
Finn shook his head, shoulder lifting in a shrug, âTheyâve been like that all day. I think theyâre scared of Kylo Ren.â
âIâm scared of Kylo Ren,â Poe clarified, faking an aghast expression.
âHeâs got nothing on Rose.â And Finnâs face was so deadpan that even as Poe burst into another round of laughter the memory of his encounter with Rose in the hangar bay replayed in his mind and Poe realized Finn might not be joking.
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry,â Poe gathered himself together, smoothing out his face and stifling his laughs. âThis is serious. I can be serious.â
Finn grinned at him. This time the relief on his face looked like it might stay put, âThanks for coming down here, I canât just leave her in there, you know?â
Poe nodded, turning and throwing his arm around his friendâs shoulders, âHas she sent you any messages at all?â
âYeah, here, I just sent her another.â And Finn lifted his datapad and showed Poe the mostly one-sided conversation that consisted of Finn asking things like: Are you okay? Are you still okay? How many fingers am I holding up? Five. Are you sure youâre okay?
Rey had responded, of course, except during a few hour span between the hours of 2:30am and 7am where Poe assumed she was asleep because thatâs what normal healthy people did in the dead of night.
Reyâs responses were gentle and concerned: Yes, Iâm fine. Iâm fine. Three â how about me? Good job :) Go to bed Finn, Iâll be okay!
The last message Finn sent was Poe is coming down here and youâre in big trouble now. Of which Rey just responded Oh no not Poe Iâm sooo scared.
âWhy am I a joke?â Poe feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart, âI can be scary!â
âNo, you really canât be.â And though Finn smiled when he said so his tone was pitying.
At that moment, the hydraulic door to the former drunk tank now Kylo Ren cage clicked and slid open, revealing Rey framed in the dim light of the room beyond. Finn jumped to attention, turning and stepping forward to place his hands on her shoulders, looking her up and down.
âOh my stars, Finn, Iâm fine,â Rey smiled up at him, expression tender and soft, but tired. Rey looked exhausted. She looked exhausted a lot lately. Empathy allowed him to imagine all the things that might keep Rey up at night â It had not been an easy time for any of them.
Rey stepped out from the threshold and into Finnâs arms, the door closing behind her faster than Poe could catch a glimpse of whatever was going on beyond. If Kylo Ren was in there he must not be awake, or aware.
âBen is sleeping, itâs been a long night,â Rey sighed, body sagging against Finn. He looked happy enough to help hold her up. âHeâs weak in the force. We were working through our bond, trying to repair the ley lines in his body. Itâs slow going but weâve made some progress.â
Poe pretended he understood what she was talking about by quickly layering a serious expression over his face, âOh yeah? So heâs gonna be okay?â
âYeah. Heâs gonna be okay,â She said it was such a profound solace that Poe couldnât help but feel a little guilty of his apprehension at the idea of Kylo Renâs recovery. But he also understood, how could he not?
âIâmâŠglad. Thatâs good Rey, I know what he means to you,â Poe smiled at her, reaching out and cuffing her across the cheek. To go from believing that someone so important to you was dead to finding them alive againâŠPoe could only imagine that lightspeed-skipping ride of emotions. âIs he, how to put this lightlyâŠstill an evil bastard?â
âPoe!â Rey admonished, laughing. Finn caught his eyes though and the two exchanged a look, because it wasnât like that wasnât the question of the hour or anything.
Rey looked between the two of them, realization dawning. âSorry, sometimes I forget that no one saw him how I did on Exegol. HeâsâŠheâs changed now. He wants to be called Ben again.â
âSometimes I forget that Iâm the only one who lived on a star destroyer with him during his terrible tantrum years,â Finn joked, but the thread of truth was there, dangling out in the open.
"So did Hux?â The words spilled out before his brain caught on. Poe cringed as his friends both leveled their full attention on him.
The moment wavered - Poe shifted his weight to his other hip, looking between his two friends and realizing that whatever secrets he might be harboring, he would never be able to keep from these two. Force powers or not.
Rey's eyes, when they met his, betrayed only a curious warmth, though Poe felt her force touch brush against him, not searching, but comforting. I understand you, it said. Poe found strength in that.
âYeah, Poe, but he was no walk in the park either,â Finn sighed, suddenly weary again.
âCompared to Ren he may be a Rathtar infested, poisonous man eating plant park, but still a park, nonetheless,â Poe joked. Disarming, disarming, disarming.
Finn looked worried, âItâs almost as if youâve given this some thought.â
Poe only smiled, afraid to say anything else lest he incriminate himself further.
Rey took the opportunity to slip her arms around Finn and give him a hug. âThank you for watching out for me, Iâm gonna get some food and some sleep. You should too, yeah?â
âYeah, yeah, me too,â Finn sighed, returning Reyâs hug. They parted ways there, Rey slipping off by herself and leaving Finn and Poe to make their own way up to the main base above.
They walked in companionable silence. The few FO they passed by paid them just enough attention to acknowledge that he and Finn held some level of rank, but were not their commanders, so to speak. Poe wasnât sure what would happen if he had to break up a fight, or hand out a reprimand to a First Order. Would they even listen to him? Theyâd probably laugh in his face. Finn was right, Poe did not exactly spark fear in the hearts of his fellows. His leadership style was far more inspiring. Hux, however - Hux might be the only person capable of making sure these men and woman abided by the rules.
He and Finn emerged from the tunnels and into the far busier and brighter main compound. Lunch hours were nearly over and most everyone was finding their way back to their duties or their quarters, or out into Ajan Klossâ countryside for some leisure time. Poe assumed this would be where he and Finn parted ways, but Finn asked if he wanted to grab something to eat before mess shut down for the afternoon, and Poe agreed.
He still wasnât sure if Finn was alright about all of this. They hadnât yet had the chance to talk about Finnâs feelings, considering these were formerly his peers, maybe even his friends. It was so easy to forget sometimes, Finnâs history. It was even easier to forget that history in the face of a war, where changing sides was never as simple as having a change of heart. Of anyone on the base, Finn was the closest mirror for these people. And where Hux could maybe direct them, it could be Finn who truly reached them.
The mess hall was mostly cleared out and the food picked over, but what people remained were split down the middle. First Order were off to the right against the interior cement wall, huddled together around the banquet tables set up there. Resistance members were more spread out but keeping to the two story window wall opposite, light flooding the space in a hospitable warmth. Connixâs sign hung over the buffet bar, the green WELCOME large and looming and just awkward enough to be comical. But the tension was there, hanging heavy over the space.
He and Finn scrounged up some leftover scraps and headed towards one of the tables by the window. The tall glass overlooked the dense canopy of trees and provided a miles long vista of the horizon beyond. The mess hall itself was suspended over a cliff side that dropped several hundred meters down into a ravine of bramble where the remains of an old canal fed by the distant mountains had dried up into a shallow creek. Ajan Kloss was beautiful, in a wild untamed way that suited Poe just fine, and the base theyâd made out of the ruins here felt more like a home than anywhere else heâd lived in the last decade. It reminded him of Yavin-IV, and that made it easy for Poe to settle into the routine heâd found here.
Finn wolfed down his plate of food while Poe sat back and picked at his, eyes scanning the hall looking for that shock of red hair, wondering where Hux was, what he was doing, what he was thinking. He wondered how heâd find him, after this. If it had been such a good idea to leave him alone. Was it a mistake, trusting Hux? Poe didnât feel like he had a choice, not if he wanted this thing to work out between them. But just like it was easy for Poe to forget Finnâs history, Poe found it so easy to look past Huxâs, especially now that he was seeing the person beyond the propaganda posters.
âPenny for your thoughts?â Finnâs mouth was full and his words were muffled, but he was watching Poe closely, âOr I can try to guess, three chances?â
âCheater, I know you and Rey have been training together.â He raised an eyebrow at Finn when he rolled his eyes.
âIâm not that good, doubt I ever will be.â Finn swallowed down the last of his food, pushing the plate away, licked his lips. Poe saw his gaze turn internal, and now he wanted a penny for Finnâs thoughts.
But Poe also had a pretty good idea where they lay.
âYou know Rey will be fine, right?â Poe said the words softly, because Finn looked like he needed that right now. âShe and Ren, thereâs something there. I donât think he could really hurt her if he wanted.â
âI know.â Finn turned his head to gaze out the window, his deep brown eyes nearly golden in the light of the sun. âBut what else can I do? Someone needs to watch her back. These peopleâŠPoe when I went with you, when I helped you escape the Finalizer, that was the most difficult day of my life. And now a ship full of people have made that same decision, when it was so difficult for me as one individual.â
âYou donât trust them?â Poe asked, because he had to.
âItâs not a matter of trust, itâs a matter of survival. What motivated them? Were they really out of options? I canât help but think weâre inviting the enemy into our home.â Finn sighed, lifting a hand to drag it down his face, âBut I donât feel that way. My feelings say to help them, to trust them. But itâs kriffing scary.â
Scary was the only way to put it. Trusting Hux was one of the scariest things heâd ever asked of himself.
âI feel ya,â Poe breathed.
âHow you holding up? Bitten off more than you can chew with Starkiller?â Finn grinned at him, and Poe felt his stomach twist. You donât know the half of it.
Poe pursed his lips, wondering how much he should reveal to Finn. They were friends, and Poe was never good at keeping his feelings to himself. He wanted to confide in Finn, but it felt selfish. Hux was not a pleasant part of Finnâs past. And while Finn wasnât the type to hold a grudge, he might be the type to forget and not forgive. âI donât know bud, heâs pretty messed up right now. Itâs hard to watch, Iâve just been trying to help.â
âI saw you two yesterday, at the beach,â Finn didnât elaborate, but looked at Poe as if there was more to be said.
Poe had wondered, he knew Rey had been there but he hadnât seen Finn, âYou saw when he collapsed?â
âHe collapsed?â Ah, so not then. âWell, I mean he looked like he was about to â When he freaked out on Rey, right before the evac.â
âOh yeah,â Poe paused, remembering kneeling at Huxâs side and pressing the canteen into his hands, carefully stripping him of his gloves, all soft words and gentle touches. Looking into Finnâs eyes, he saw he knew. He was just waiting for Poe to say it. Poe felt a sheepish smile split his face, âAm I really that obvious?â
âOh, obvious is an understatement,â Finnâs eyebrows were raised, his tone aghast. âBetween you and Rey Iâve got my work cut out for me.â
Damn. Poe hung his head, âI can't forget how he saved our lives, Finn. I just want to help.â
âI get it. It's just hard, for me. To forget what he's done, or even think of forgiving him. But I don't fault you for caring.â And Finn was smiling, it was small and tight and a little bit forced, but he was trying to understand.
Poe smiled back, carefully holding onto this moment, when Finn proved yet again he was a better man than anyone else Poe had ever known. They sat there together, quiet and companionable, the sounds of the mess hall fading into the background. Poe felt the brush of peace against his subconscious, not as light and refined as Leia, or as soft and knowing as Rey, but breezy and warm, a gentle buffer of calm that chased away the shadows of his thoughts.
âBullshit man, youâre catching onto this force stuff just fine.â Poe looked up at Finn from beneath the curls of his hair and saw his friend smiling back at him just like he had dozens and dozens of times.
Maybe everything would work out okay, after all.
But then he saw Hux stalking his way across the hall, headed for the exit, his gait long, the line of his shoulders hard, the heaviness of his step forced, and Poe knew there was still more work to be done before anything was okay.
Â
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Hux stood at the threshold of the mess hall, the double doors propped open and a stream of people filing past him inside. The Resistance members that brushed by him either ignored him with a resolute determination or outright sneered at him. Hux was unbothered, these peopleâs opinions of him did not matter, and the obvious displays of displeasure at his presence bolstered him in a way that scorn usually did. Heâd grown comfortable being despised, he knew how to maneuver through it.
As always, he was prompt for his appointment with Phasma, but now he was wondering how he would find her in this great mass of people. The room was large enough to seat well over two thousand, but Hux could not help but note the First Order men and women who had decided to take their food with them to eat elsewhere. He nodded to these people, his presence by the door more like a herald of safety for his crew than the awkward impotence of action it actually was. They glanced up at him, most mute of reaction, some with a look of relief, others with an emptiness Hux found worrisome.
A ruckus of voices echoed from behind him, and Hux turned to observe Mitaka and Phasma caught up in an altercation amongst a number of First Order and Resistance members. Well, Phasma was caught up in it. Mitaka was off to the side, arms clasped behind him, frozen at attention as the disagreement before him quickly devolved into an actual fight. Phasma, meanwhile, had a Resistance member caught in a sleeper hold and a First Order lifted off his feet by the collar of his uniform.
If anyone would stand out in a crowd, he could count on Phasma, of course.
Hux swept into action, abandoning his place by the doors and striding towards where Phasma stood. The hall fell silent, attention on Hux as he moved through the room, whispers rising above the sound of his boots. Is that him? General Hux. Starkiller.
Hux breathed it in. Let them stare.
Hux leveled a look at Mitaka because really, he could be doing something, and barked at his men to stand down. Six First Order men, including the one hanging from Phasmaâs fist, flinched as Hux stalked up to them. He recognized several from the trooper program, but there were an equal number of officers. While Hux might expect a stormtrooper to lack the personal discipline to avoid a public fight, his officers were held to a higher standard.
âWhat is the meaning of this?â The men had scrambled to line up in attention, each one staring at a spot over Huxâs right shoulder, hands by their sides and heels together. None of them volunteered an answer, which pleased Hux enough because as far as he was concerned, there was no answer that would excuse their behavior. âCaptain Phasma, you may release those men.â
The officer hanging from her fist hit the ground with a grunt, losing his footing and landing on his ass. He looked embarrassed, but quickly regained his feet and schooled his face into an innocuous expression as he joined the others at attention. The Resistance member Phasma released stumbled to the opposite side, where Hux now saw a gaggle of people who were obviously this manâs friends, clapping him on the shoulder and laughing obnoxiously. Huxâs stare was withering. He was no fool to what was going on here.
Turning back to his men, he barked, âIf I ever see any one of you engaged in a fight on neutral ground again I will send you back to the outer rim in a casket.â He paused, making sure the words sank in. They knew better than to think he would make an empty threat. Good. âGet to your quarters and donât show your face until first meal tomorrow. Dismissed.â His men broke from attention, eyes downcast as they filed past Hux, except for the man who had been in Phasmaâs grip, who looked over his shoulder to get one last glance at the Resistance member he had been fighting.
Hux caught his eyes, âMove along, soldier.â The man jumped and scrambled off.
Turning back to the group of Resistance, who had unfortunately not taken that moment to slink off themselves, Hux considered his options. He could not discipline these men, no matter how appealing the idea of demonstrating to the Resistance how a well-run military functioned, which left him with de-escalation, logic insisted. These were not his men. Hux knew if he tried to assert any semblance of control over them it would cause nothing but trouble for his crew. He would have to rise above, be the better man, as it were. Oh what irony.
So Hux turned away, dismissing them in all ways but words, and aimed his focus on Mitaka, who was still frozen but looked like he was about to bolt and follow his men out of the mess hall.
And then that Resistance member had to go and open his mouth.
âTold you they were a bunch of uptight prudes,â laughter, dark with malice. "So what do ya say, ma'am, care to reconsider? I'm not really used to taking no for an answer." The man was gripping his dick through his pants in an obscene gesture, his meaning obvious.
They were after Phasma?
Hux didnât move, but he slid his eyes to the side, locked them with Phasmaâs. She grinned at him, all teeth. Violent, and bloodthirsty.
Slowly, Hux turned around. Slower yet he walked up to the group of Resistance. He had his eyes on all of them but as he expected, the one who had been in Phasmaâs hold, the one who said those words, stepped in front of the rest to confront him. Hux stopped, just inches from the manâs face, met his stare, narrowed his eyes. Hux was taller, but this man didnât seem intimidated. He stood his ground and grinned like the fool he was. But Hux knew men like this, hated men like this. Men who were nothing but small words and big egos, who had to threaten the basic sanctity of a person to make themselves feel strong. Hux knew how to deal with men like this, he had been doing it his whole life.
So he leaned forward, tipped his body into the manâs personal space. He watched the bravado falter, then and there, when Huxâs head dropped beside his - when he turned his face just enough to whisper into his ear, âConsider this a lesson in respect,â and then he pulled his knee up into the manâs ballsack and dropped him like a bag of spare parts. He withered on the ground, clutching his groin, a strangled sound barely working its way free of his throat.
âYou should be thankful you're not one of my men, or you would be walking away with far less than your ability to use sexual assault as a threat." He said this loud enough that everyone within sight could hear. To let them know this was the quality of person who they might think to defend, to side with, Resistance or not.
As the man glared up at him and the room avoided his eyes, it became clear that he could not do this without Dameron. That they needed to present a unified front, because Hux could see how quickly this all could turn. Tension curdled even now, as insidious as an infection. Good will and honest intentions would only get them so far when decades of war divided the men and women in this room. And as precarious as his own position felt, his crew only had him for protection. Hux would protect them, and as loathe as he was to admit, he needed Dameron's help to do so.
Hux and Phasma walked away, Mitaka at their heels, passing by the group of Resistance as they helped their man to his feet. Hux looked into their eyes and saw what they were, made a note of their appearance, burned their faces into his mind. Heâd let Dameron know what had occurred here, let him know what kind of thoughts were going through the minds of the men in their midst.
Finding a table against the far wall, deep in the shadows of a corner of the hall, Hux slid into the seat furthest to the wall so he could have a clear view of the room. Phasma sat to his right and Mitaka took the seat that put his back to the other tables. The three sat there, like that, silent and considering. Granted, he was fuming on the inside, but hid it well enough, as he always did. Phasma looked completely at ease, as if nothing had happened at all, and Mitaka looked like he was about to burst with anxiety.
âMitaka, pull yourself together," Hux murmured. Sometimes he had to remind himself of why he had promoted Mitaka so far up the chain of command. It certainly wasnât for his ability to control the crew. Rather, it was his ability to maintain that crude understanding of tactics and make sound decisions under pressure. Hux would never second-guess leaving Mitaka in charge of a Star Destroyer in the heat of battle. Put him wit to wit with another man and ask him to come out on top and Mitaka would always leave him wanting.
âYes, sir. Sorry, sir,â Mitaka blurted the apology, hanging his head and staring at the stained plastic tabletop.
Hux sighed, wishing he had something more reassuring to say than, âChin up. Phasmaâs honor is still intact, as I expect it always will be.â
âOh, now there is a line even he didnât cross.â Phasma grinned at him, kicking at Huxâs ankle under the table. âLucky for him he wasnât my type, or heâd be eating more than his own balls for lunch.â
Mitaka didnât look any less uncomfortable, in fact he looked profoundly out of his element, as he always did when Phasma and Hux bantered with each other. The pitfalls of climbing the ladder into the big leagues was you found out your commanders were just people and the pedestal was all in your head.
âIâll go get us something to eat, excuse me." Mitaka scooted his chair back, the sound of metal grating across tile making Huxâs skin crawl, and then Mitaka was one pace short of running away from the table.
âYou think heâll be back?â Phasma mused out loud, watching Mitakaâs back until it disappeared beyond a table of troopers.
âHe better, Iâm famished,â Hux crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, felt the furrow in his brow, the turn of his mouth. Relax. It was easier said than done. âBe sure our men get their meal tonight. I donât want them to think I donât appreciate their intentions.â
âHux.â Phasmaâs voice lacked the amusement of before, instead serious, firm. Hux looked up, saw how she leaned forward over the table, in his space. âThank you, youâre a good man.â
Hux felt his stomach drop at the words, felt the wrongness of them, the lie in their truth. âHardly.â
But Phasma was smiling at him, still close, voice low, âI donât care what they call you here.â Starkiller. âI know you, and I know your worth.â I see you.
Hux closed his eyes, briefly. Only giving himself a moment. His throat was tightening, some sort of emotion trying to work its way out but Hux refused, sighed instead. Which was its own mistake, because then words spilled out, âThey say they wonât try me, if I help.â
Phasma stayed quiet, watched him. Her eyes had gone cold, âArmitage, that sounds like blackmail.â
Hux drew in a breath, released it, and with it came the words he had dared not speak aloud, had not allowed himself to even think, âWhat does it mean if I want a trial?â
âWhat?â Phasma had gone rigid, her eyes wide and the lines of her body all sharp edges. âWhat are you talking about.â Was it really so inconceivable a concept? Hux didnât think so.
âStarkiller Base.â
âWhere is this coming from?â She had leaned completely into his space now, blocking him from view of the hall. Hux was grateful.
Closing his eyes, he imagined himself on the that dais, overlooking thousands of troops, bright red ripping through the sky.
âStarkiller Base was a mistake.â If he wasnât already a traitor these words would have sealed his fate.
Phasma looked feral, like she was about to fly into a panic, âStop this. Armitage. This is not who you are.â
âIt is,â Hux hissed it, all the rage and despair he kept constantly at bay threatening to spill out. âI destroyed an entire system, Phasma. And now what, I get to walk away from that? Where is the justice in that?â
âJustice?" she spat the word, disgusted. "We were at war-"Â she cut off, regrouped. âIf it meant we would win. Would you do it again? If you could go back?" Phasmaâs voice was flat, emotionless. The question heavy, important to her.
And Hux knew the answer. Had known it for a long time. âNo.â
Phasma breathed out, her breath hot and forced, like a beast being held in a cage, fuming to be released. She fidgeted in her seat, chewed her lip. Hux watched her carefully, understood she had something to confess herself, something she too struggled with.
âI let the shields down.â The words came fast, un-embellished, but Hux understood. âIt wasnât Rivas.â
Hux knew, he had always known. âI know.â
âKriffing hell, Hux.â Phasma slammed her fist down on the table top, drawing it back quickly, apologetically.
They sat there like that, the silence punching through the muted echo of hundreds of voices, consuming them like a dying star imploding upon itself.
Eventually, âWeâre quite good at being traitors, arenât we?â Hux meant it as a joke, but the delivery fell flat. Phasma was hunched over, hair hanging in waves over her cheek, hiding her face.
âWe do what we have to. To survive," she said the words, words sheâd said a hundred times.
Survive. He wondered now, if it was worth all the trouble.
Mitaka returned to a table far different than the one he left. He looked between them, carefully, as if he was the reason for the somber mood. He had two trays, and he slid one onto the table between Hux and Phasma, but kept the other in his hands as he stood their awkwardly, waiting.
âDopheld, you are under no obligation to eat with us,â Hux sighed the words, waving a hand.
âUnderstood, sir. Can I get you anything else?â Mitaka was earnest, of that there was no doubt.
âNo, thank you.â Hux almost said dismissed, but he knew that would hurt his feelings.
âIâll take my leave now. Thank you, sirs.â Then he backed away, as if Hux had ascended to the status of Emperor and no one had told him. Hux watched as he retreated to a table of First Order officers, Thannison and Unamo among them. They were quiet, heads bowed together, but welcomed Mitaka with a readiness Hux was happy to see.
âIâm going to eat this meal and then I am going to go find something to punch." Phasma dragged the tray towards her, picking through the food before choosing a pre-packaged honey cake.
Hux cringed, watching as she tore the plastiwrap apart and shoved the whole thing in her mouth in one bite. âPhasma, of everything on that tray empty calories are what you eat first?â
âI donât kriffing care, it tastes good.â Crumbs flew from her mouth, and Hux pulled the tray away before they landed on the actual nutritious food.
The options were simple, but wholesome. The vegetables had been sub frozen at some point, but were now rehydrated into their original shapes, if not taste. There was a small sandwich with a meat patty of unknown origin and a single petal of a leafy green, and a hunk of dense bread set in a delicate soup of some sort, the thickness of the bread soaking up the oils and juices. Hux chose that, slowly biting into the bread and savoring the taste. It was good, flavorful. Hux cleaned the bowl, metal clinking lightly as he spooned the soup into his mouth and used the bread to sop up the excess, watching as Phasma reached for the other packaged honey cake, his honey cake. He smacked her hand away.
âWhat are you, a child?" Hux pushed the plate towards her and Phasma snarled something that sounded like bastard but Hux wasnât mad, because this was normal. Their normal.
Survivors.
Would they survive this?
They cleared the tray of food, except for Huxâs honey cake, which he planned to save for later when he felt he could actually enjoy it. Neither of them made a move to abandon their table and leave the mess hall. Phasma was quiet, observing the room beyond them, eyes scanning the heads, lingering on an exchange of words here, a gesture there. Hux worried she was looking for another fight, but only briefly. Phasma was a good Captain and she was just doing what she did best, which was watch over her soldiers.
When her eyes narrowed Hux followed her gaze to see Dameron and FN-2187 walking across the hall towards the windows. Hux suddenly wanted to flee the room â he feared Dameron would see him, sense his mood, reach out and touch him and ask if he was okay. No, Dameron, I am certainly not okay.
But Phasma had that look on her face.
âLeave it, Phasma,â Hux said the words quietly, but he knew she heard. He followed Dameron, watching the way he sat back in his chair, the easy comfortable way he spoke with his friend. âFN-2187 is not your responsibility any longer.â
âMmm,â She acknowledged him, at least. He knew she wouldnât do anything stupid. âDameron needs to know about his men.â Ah, maybe not.
âIâll take care of Dameron,â Hux dismissed the thread of conversation before it began.
Phasma, it seemed, had other plans. Hux felt her watching, her stare heavy and suffocating. âLike Dameron takes care of you?â
Hux went cold. âPhasma, donât,â His voice was hard, like durasteel.
âI was there yesterday, on the transport.â Hux refused to acknowledge her, refused to entertain the idea that Dameronâs obsession with him was anything more than the manâs overactive hero complex. All those too soft touches, knowing looks, insidious wordsâŠDameron wasnât interested in him, he was doing his job. It was the only logic that made sense, because Poe Dameron could not be attracted to him.
He could not be attracted to Poe Dameron.
But Phasma continued, changing tactics quickly, finding another nerve and pinching.
"I watched the footage Hux, Pryde released it.â She could not mean what he thought she did.
âWhat footage?â He knew the footage. Replayed it every night in his head.
She paused, licked her lips, leaned forward. âWhen he took you. They spun it like you fled with them, but I saw it, saw what it was. I saw what you were trying to do.â
He hissed then, thin and breathy, face twisted into a snarl. âStop. Phasma, do not.â
She never listened to him though, not unless he pulled rank on her â which was cowardly, but he almost did it. He almost stood from the table and snapped her to attention, turned her on her heel and marched her overly armored ass right out of the mess hall.
âYou knew Pryde would kill you.â The words hit him, tearing a hole in his composure, and she knew, she saw it and still Phasma prodded him. Hux felt his walls building up at light speed. âYou wanted Pryde to kill you.â
âSo they left in the part where I begged to be left behind?â He drowned in the memory, burned black into his mindâs eye, like a holo left on pause for far too long. The fear he had felt, the panic and desperation. Let me stay, let me die.
Death was the rightful fate for a traitor. And he could have died quickly, on his own terms. With the belief he had made his last mark on the world. That at least something he did mattered. His life would have made sense then. And now all of it, everything he had done in the name of the First Order had been for nothing. And he was still alive.
âHe saved your life.â He did. And Hux hated him for it.
âMaybe I didnât want my life saved, Phasma. Maybe that was my choice to make.â Hux felt hollow inside, like someone had come and scooped out everything that made sense, left him with nothing but an aching hunger for something he didnât have a name for. Weâre survivors, Hux.
Not me. He wanted to say. Iâm ruined.
And then Phasma reached into that empty core and wrenched, âHe cares for you Armitage.â
âShut up.â Hux unraveled, barking at Phasma like a caged dog. Rabid cur. Heads turned, whispers arose. Hux didnât care. He stood, palms pressed to the table, head hung low, the chair he was in sliding across the floor with a bone grinding whine. For just a moment he lingered there, gathering himself together, or trying to. He was shaking. He needed to leave. Needed to regroup, re-evaluate. Needed to get away from Phasma, who knew too much.
He stalked from the dining hall, spine straight, shoulders back, his step weighted with the urge to run but without anywhere to go. Youâre a coward, boy. Spineless and weak. Filled with secrets, let me see.
Beams of red, tearing through his head, choking him. Coward coward coward.
Hux fled.
Â
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Something was wrong.
It was Finn who told him to go after Hux. Poe had watched him leave the room, sweeping past the tables of First Order and Resistance alike, drawing glances and whispers in equal measure. Starkiller he heard rise above the hum of conversations, whispered among the Resistance like an omen, a curse. Poe swallowed, at the edge of his seat.
âPoe, go.â Finn gave him the push he needed, releasing him like a hound who had caught the foxâs scent. Poe flashed an apology at his friend, his smile just guilty enough, and then he was off, slipping between the tables on Huxâs trail.
He knew how it must look, how anyone with half a brain would put two and two together, but that had never stopped Poe in the past and it wasnât about to now. Let them see him care. Let them watch him chase after Starkiller. If he was going to set an example for his men then this was the lesson he wanted them to learn: that not one among them was beyond empathy.
Hux disappeared beyond the mess hall doors before Poe could catch up, but he saw the way people glanced over their shoulders to stare down the corridor. Poe strained to see past the heads around him, to catch a glimpse of that red hair, that black uniform, before it was lost to the undulating miasma of bodies. But what he couldnât see in the flesh he saw in the aftershocks of his presence, the ripples of his presence in the very atmosphere of the hallway. He saw how the bodies had parted in a fault line along the route he had taken, Resistance and First Order alike parting like the sea for a man they all feared. Poe broke into a jog, dodging through the crowd and reaching the wake Hux left behind him, followed it deeper into the base. People got out of the way for Hux, why not him.
â-âScuse me, sorry!â Poe stepped to the side, nearly colliding with a towering Abenedo as he rounded a corner. He nearly lost Hux in that moment, nearly watched his path fade from grasp. No. Not again, not again-
And then he realized where he was, saw the familiar walls and arching windows. The officerâs quarters. Hux was in front of a door Poe knew well, âHux!â But Hux had already stepped inside, out of sight. Poe slowed, urged his beating heart to ease, his breath to even, his gut to untwist. He approached the door, his door. His home was just beyond that durasteel door but he paused, preparing for what he would find on the other side. Hux.
The door slid open on silent tracks and Poe stepped over the threshold. Inside, the room was dim. Bright mid-afternoon sun filtered weakly through the tinted glass and bathed the room in a veil of light that felt heavy, melting off familiar objects in strange shadows, dust motes floating through the air like a thousand glittering stars. Hux stood in the middle of the room, his back to Poe, a burned out silhouette. The whole of him eluded the light, left behind an empty void in the shape of a man, an echo of what might have once been.
âWhat do you want, Dameron?â The words turned his veins icy, dropped him into an ocean of freezing tethers that threatened to pull him under. The room grew unnaturally quiet, Huxâs question hanging there, begging an answer. Poe didnât have one, had too many. Didnât know which was right.
Hux turned his head, light catching just enough he could see the profile of his face, the tilt of his down-turned mouth. He was waiting, watching. Poe was failing.
âAre you oââ
âAm I okay?â Hux snarled the words, turning whip fast to face Poe, stepping into his space. âAm I okay, Dameron?â Poe felt his eyes widened, knew it was easier for Hux to see him than for him to see Hux. Knew what his face must have revealed: shock, concern, a thread of fear. But not for me. For Hux, Poe was scared for Hux.
âWhat do you want, Dameron?â He asked again, his voice a hard hiss, dripping with poison. His face twisted into something monstrous. Poe watched, frozen, caught like a prey animal in the hunterâs trap. He swallowed, opened his mouth, closed it again. Watched the silken way Hux moved, watched as he reached to tug the gloves from his hands, dropping them to the ground between them. The irreverence of it was like a slap, and the thought crossed his mind that this was where Hux hit him.
But then Hux sank to his knees.
âIt this it? Is this what you want?â Hux tipped his head back, stared up at Poe with unhinged eyes. And then he reached up to his collar, long pale fingers catching at the clasp there, unhooking it â two, three, four clasps and then a pale wedge of skin was exposed, all sharp collarbones and a heaving pulse.
âIs this what you want from me?â The words cut through Poe, exposed the supernova center of his core. Exploded him into a million tiny fragmented pieces that burned out hot and bright and fast.
Yes yes yes-
Then the light caught, in the way it tends to, and Poe saw the glint of moisture on Huxâs face, wet with tears, and Poe drowned.
âHux.â Poe followed him down, falling to his knees and reaching. In the span of an instant, Hux was on him, hands clutching at his shirt, pulling himself into Poeâs lap, his body all jagged edges and a trembling weight. Poe grabbed at his waist, fingers flexing around the slim width of him, a reaction more than a thought as Hux cupped both hands around Poeâs jaw and descended. Breath spilled over Poe's lips, Hux's mouth open and hot as he pressed them into something Poe couldnât quite call a kiss. He gasped into it, was consumed by it, swept to sea by the force of Huxâs desperation. Clawed hands held him steady, pressed into the juncture of his jaw to open his mouth, and then Hux was licking into him, all tongue and teeth and saliva, their lips slipping over one another, wet and sloppy. Hux bit at his lips and panted into his mouth and pressed into his body as he devoured Poe.
He could taste the salt of Huxâs tears.
âStop- stop, Hux.â Poe came to his senses then, pulled his mind to the surface and realized what was happening, what this was. He put his hands on Huxâs shoulders, pushed gently at first and then firmer when Hux clutched even harder at him. Kriff, come on. Hux was stronger than he looked, his skinny limbs sliding through Poeâs grip to twine and untwine around his shoulders, his weigh shifting to wedge their hips together before drawing back away, his teeth sinking into Poeâs lower lip as his hands dragged over his stubbled cheeks. There was a slickness there, wet and warm, and Poe realized in that moment that he too had begun crying. Hux must have felt it, tasted it, because he drew away, quickly, moving only far enough back to stare at him.
âHux, not like this.â Poeâs voice caught on the words - couldnât get out more, but he didnât need to, knew it was the right thing to say because Hux broke.
Faster than should be possible, Hux's tears turned to sobs, his face contorting as his body collapsed upon itself. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in wretched abandon, Hux came apart.
Poe caught him, pulled him close, held him tightly - held him together.
Hux trembled in his arms, the shaking in his shoulders mirroring the shattering sound of his shallow sobs. Poe felt Huxâs face against the bare skin of his neck, warm with his tears and his breath, voice muffled by the bunched fabric of his shirt. AsHux unraveled Poe closed his eyes and listened, absorbed the soft sounds of a sniffling nose, the small breathy gasps, the little catches of his voice in his throat. Listened to the way the sounds worked their way free against Huxâs will, his walls down, cracks laid bare.
And through it all, Poeâs own tears fell wet and plentiful. He could not stop them, did not want to. Why should Hux suffer alone, when he had been alone his whole life? Poe knew his history, he had read his files. He had seen his suffering. So he turned his face into Huxâs hair, breathed in his scent, and heard the way his own breath hitched on his inhale. How could he not break for Hux, when Hux sat trembling in his arms with an emotion Poe had never before witnessed in anyone?
But Hux ached for something Poe thought he might be able to give, if only Hux would let him. This artificial bravado â this violent push towards something he wasnât ready for â was Huxâs attempt to self-destruct. Poe saw it clearly. Saw how Hux propelled them towards the edge together, ready to jump, just as he had as a spy, quick to embrace the futility, the morbidity of his plight. But Poe did not operate like that. He might be a smoking gun in the seat of an X-wing, but in matters of the heart Poe was always careful, considerate, mindful of a personâs fragility.
Poe suspected Hux had never know a careful, considerate touch in his entire life.
Smoothing a hand down Huxâs spine, he let it come to rest at the small of his back, briefly, testing, before wrapping it around the near-nothing circumference of his waist. Hux responded, pressing closer, squeezing Poeâs shoulders and bringing their bodies together, edge to edge, seam to seam. Then the whole of Huxâs weight settled into him, legs splayed on either side of Poe's thighs, hips resting closer to Poe's knees. Hux didn't weight much, for all his height, and as Poe guided Hux into place against him, he thought he could stay like this forever â subsumed by Hux's desire for a kind physical touch. Because it was apparent now, how desperate Hux's need for affection was, at least from Poe. And suddenly, it all made so much sense: that Hux would crave this from him, that Poe might have been the first to ever give him a taste â that all Hux was asking was for Poe to kriffing follow through with whatever it was he had started.
Because Poe had started this, he'd started it the moment he dragged Hux from the Steadfast. The moment he'd watched over his unconscious body healing in med bay. The moment he'd taken Hux's hands into his own and shown him a careful questioning tenderness. It had all culminated in this, pushed Hux to this moment, and Poe would take that responsibility, felt something inside him thrill at the idea of it.
Overwhelmed, Poe turned his face into Hux's hair, free hand coming up to thread fingers through the fine strands. Red and gold in the low light, as delicate as the gossamer wings of a silk worm. He carded through it, the pads of his fingers dragging along Huxâs scalp, drawing out whimpers that mixed with his sobs in a beautiful mess of sound Poe committed to memory. Cupping the back of Huxâs head, he drew him deeper in their embrace. Hux took the cue, turned his face further into the crook of Poeâs neck and breathed. His mouth made shapes against the skin there, between sobs, words Poe couldnât understand, so close to his pulse he wondered if Hux could feel how fast it was racing.
Oh, Hux. Drawing in his own shuddering breath, Poe pressed his lips to Hux's temple, briefly, remembering, and then dropped his forehead onto his shoulder, closed his eyes.
They held each other, cocooned together in the darkness of the room, protected from everything but one another.
I'm here. Poe said the words to himself, then mouthed them into Huxâs shoulder. It wasn't the answer Hux had so desperately sought, and a shadow of the words he really wanted to say, but didnât dare set free. Those were words he wanted to run through the halls of the base shouting, words he wanted to carve into the flesh of the universe itself.
Words he wanted to tell Hux, but knew he would not understand, not yet. Not when he could hardly parse the feelings he had for Poe â what was so plain and obvious to him eluded Hux, drove him to this. He could not expect Hux to understand the depth of Poeâs emotions, the extent of his desire. Not yet. But Poe had hope, now.
Hux was the first to draw away, though not completely. Long after his sobs had tapered off and his eyes had dried out, he pulled his face from Poeâs neck, head hung low but eyes finding Poeâs. He didnât apologize, as Poe thought he might, and for that Poe was grateful. If Hux believed he owed Poe an apology forâŠfor this, Poe thought he might start crying again. Instead he held Poeâs gaze and licked his lips and placed a hand on Poeâs neck, smoothing his thumb over the wet spot left there.
Hux was perfect like this, simple as that. His face was red, his eyes puffy, his mouth swollen, and he was beautiful. Poe wanted, desperately, to kiss Hux â a real kiss. Wanted to lean forward and touch their lips in a gentle press, to drag them together and savor the velvety softness, to lick his way around that down-turned mouth until he found his way in and then burrow deep, make a home there for himself.
Instead he touched Huxâs cheek, flutter light. Would have brushed away his tears if there were any left to fall. Hux closed his eyes, released a breath and then slid out of Poeâs lap. They sat there on the floor together, knees touching, neither ready to break away completely, but neither knowing where to go from here. Poe watched as Hux opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, his adams apple dipping as he swallowed whatever words he wanted to say. But still, he didn't pull further away. He sat there in the quiet, still and waiting.
Waiting for Poe.
Beside them lay Hux's discarded gloves, black shapes cut from the floor. Poe took them, brought them to his lap and smoothed them out atop his thighs. They were soft, calfskin, thick but supple, the leather a higher quality than anything Poe had ever felt. Poe placed his palm over the shape of one, his hand too large, thick and wide where Huxâs was long and slim. It made him smile, the juxtaposition so simple and curious.
Hux watched him, expression open. His mouth was parted, his eyes hooded, but his brows were drawn together in thought, likely trying to figure out what Poeâs fascination was with his gloves. Poe searched his face, absorbed what he saw, then flipped his hand over palm side up.
âGive me your hand?â He asked quietly, the first words spoken in a time Poe had lost track of. Huxâs eyes lifted to meet his, then he placed his hand in Poeâs.
His skin was so soft. It was the first thing Poe noticed. While his own hands were rough and calloused, Huxâs were delicate, bone fine and pretty, all elegant joints and long tendons moving underneath a thin layer of milk white skin. Poe smoothed his thumb over the top, over the knuckles, dipping into the soft spaces between his fingers. Then he turned Huxâs hand over, palm up, and repeated the motions. Here his skin was thicker, but only just, the mounds of his palms faintly blotched by the blood vessels underneath, the pads of his fingertips soft and spongy. Poe ran his fingernails lightly over his hand, from the thin bundle of tendons at his wrist over his palm and to his fingertips. Huxâs breath caught, shuddered out in a long sigh and Poe looked up, found Hux had leaned forward towards him, head tipped down as he watched.
âYou have beautiful hands," Poe said the words softly, watching for Huxâs reaction and smiling when he saw it. The change was small, a turn of his face away, a flutter of his lashes as he briefly lifted his eyes, a shift in his weight as he drew in on himself, but his fingers curled up and caught at Poeâs, lightly held them there. It was as if Hux could not decide if he were embarrassed or touched by the compliment and this made Poe smile wider, nearly grin. Hux bit his lip, watching Poe through the fall of his hair.
And then Poe took the glove and guided it onto Huxâs hand, slid it over his fingers and tugged it up his palm to his wrist. Smoothing his fingers again over the now covered skin, he wondered how much or how little Hux could actually feel through the leather. Huxâs breath hitched again, a tiny sound escaping this time and Poe drank it in, twined Huxâs fingers with his own, then he lifted Huxâs hand to his mouth. Pressing his lips into his fingers, Poe lingered there, watching as Huxâs chest heaved and mouth parted and eyes searched.
Iâve got you. Poe didnât say the words, but he hoped Hux understood. Poe would not hurt him, would protect him, from any and everyone, even if that person was Hux himself.
Poe repeated the motions with Huxâs other hand with no less care. Sliding the glove back into its rightful place and this time when kissing his knuckles, he saw how Huxâs expression softened, felt the gentle sigh of breath leave him as it ghosted over his lips. Poe breathed it in, breathed Hux in, savoring him in whatever way was offered, content to exist in this moment outside time and in this space, together. Pale lashes dropped over colorless eyes, the gloom of the room still obscuring details, leaving nothing but the sensation of these small touches. It was affecting Hux, drawing him out into a reaching want that allowed Poe to maneuver through his defenses.
When he placed Huxâs hands down on his thighs and instead reached for his collar, the moment slowed. He had to lean in close, over Huxâs knees. The space between them pulsed, the energy contracting in upon itself as Poeâs hands brushed past Huxâs jaw and descended upon his bared neck. He watched Hux the entire time, saw when his eyes closed and his head tipped forward to rest their foreheads together. Poe swallowed, breathed heavy with this slow undoing of Huxâs defenses, thrilling with the trust Hux extended him. Beneath his fingertips, Huxâs pulse thrummed, a trembling quake below the surface of his pale skin. Poe didnât linger here, this wasnât his goal, but as he moved past his neck to his collar, he took that moment to trace the boney protrusions of his collarbones, dipped his fingertips into the cusp where they met. Huxâs breath stuttered and he leaned into Poe, exhaling in little warm puffs against Poeâs lips, small sounds escaping with every breath, so quiet Poe almost missed them over the sounds of his own blood rushing in his ears.
As he buttoned up Huxâs jacket, clasp by clasp, he took pleasure in putting Hux back together in this small way. That he could find and repair what kinks in his armor he could see, and that Hux allowed it, welcomed it? Poe drowned in it. Iâll protect you, if you let me.
They stayed like that, bent over one another, Poeâs hands resting alongside Huxâs neck, thumbs stroking over the edge where his collar pressed into his skin.
What do you want, Hux?
Poe wanted to ask, though he thought he knew the answer, now.
âDameron.â His name, whisper soft, broke into the space between them. Poe trembled.
âIâm here,â Poe murmured, giving in, âWhat do you need?â
Hux opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed thickly as he struggled to put voice to his thoughts. His face was twisting again, brows drawn together and mouth pressed into a down turned line.
âItâs okay,â Poe moved a little bit closer, hands sliding up to cup Huxâs jaw. âYouâre okay.â
The breath Hux sucked in gave Poe pause, but then he felt Huxâs hands on his thighs, felt his weight shift over him, and this time, when Huxâs lips met his own, it was in that soft gentle press Poe had yearned for.
It was a small thing, a brief brush that lingered just enough to ask for so much more. Poe chased after it, following Huxâs lead, pressing into him with an assiduous understanding as Hux showed him what his words would not say. He could feel the tremble in Huxâs body, the grip he had on Poeâs thighs baring his unsteady weight, as if his body were held aloft only by the hold Poe had on him. Huxâs shallow breath spilled against Poeâs mouth, his lips soft where they moved against his, parted just enough that if Poe angled his head just so - he gambled a single slow lick against Huxâs lips.
It was light, testing, a question but Hux opened to him, breath catching as his own tongue touched Poeâs with a tentative permissiveness. Poe eased them into it, leading Hux into a deeper kiss that edged them closer together, Poe sliding his knee between Huxâs thighs as he settled against him. Even here, Hux acquiesced, the hands on Poeâs thighs sliding up to grip Poeâs waist, his mouth parting so Poe could move deeper, enter inside him. When Poe curled his tongue over Huxâs, slipping past it to lick into Huxâs mouth, Hux moaned. The sound wavered, broken and desperate in the silence of the space around them, and Poe grinned into the kiss.
And he marveled at this carefully controlled submission that restrained whatever desire Hux must be struggling with. The yearning for more poured from him, and Poe understood that if he allowed it, Hux would abandon himself to this, would go wherever Poe took him â that it was up to him to stop this before it went further than what Hux was ready for.
But stars he was only a man.
Poe smoothed his thumbs over Huxâs cheeks, hands still cradling his face, as he drew back just enough to ask âIs this too much?â The words were more breath than sound. But Hux heard them, answered by pressing into Poe, lips catching against his stubble in a delicious drag as he sought him out again. Where before had been all biting teeth and clawed hands and Hux taking, this was hesitant, obsequious and tender. It was perfect.
And it had to end now or Poe might lose himself completely. He wondered, fleetingly, if that had been Huxâs plan all along.
Pulling away from the kiss, Poe moved a hand to card back through Huxâs hair while keeping the other cradling his face, fingers curving into the dip of his jaw below his ear, stroking, watching as Huxâs hooded eyes peered at him from beneath pale feathery lashes. He saw an understanding there, that this would go no further, not then, not yet, and the relief that released from Poe then brought with it a bone deep ease.
Still, as Huxâs eyes slipped shut and he turned his face into Poeâs hand, as his body sagged into Poeâs with a release that bespoke so much more than a physical weariness, Poe wondered at what further meant for them, because he understood now it was so much more than this simple implacable attraction they shared.
Poe couldnât help but smile at the possibilities.
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Notes:
That kiss ended up clocking in at 3k so I'm sorry and you're welcome.
The last scene was written to The Silicone Veil by Susanne Sundfor and I suggest you all look up the lyrics because it is so my head canon for Hux its painful.
Chapter 4: Surrender
Notes:
Couple warnings â Mentions of abuse and death to children in Poe's first segment. Also, some light smut towards the end, nothing too graphic, but I promised to warn y'all!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hux dropped the holo call just as Captain Peavey began the long and tedious task of listing off his fatherâs achievements and why Hux was not, in his estimable opinion, worth the matter he was made of, let alone his fatherâs name. As Peaveyâs image flickered out, the sigh that left Hux was a deflation of his very ego. Whatever position he might have held within the Order had long since spoilt, and the failed negotiations with his former peers were proof. Captain Peavey was just one more tally against his efforts to reach an understanding with the scattered remnants of the Order. Those of his fatherâs generation, like Peavey, had rallied together their resources and continued, if not in action than in vision, the ideals of Palpatineâs Final Order. Huxâs own contemporaries, the younger men and women of the order, had gone dark. Hux could only imagine the in-fighting that had devolved from his defection and Palpatineâs death. What he could not imagine was where the younger factions had scattered, and how he was to reach out to themâparticularly when men like Peavey were acting as literal gatekeeperâs to any dialogue Hux might open amongst them.
Five standard days had passed since the Resistance had linked into the First Order Holonet. The Finalizerâs subspace antennae had survived its sinking along with the communications system brain, and with Huxâs guidance, the Resistance had been able to rig a local uplink which allowed them access to the Orderâs net. His negotiations, as Organa called them, had been forthcoming, and overwhelmingly without success. Of all the officers Hux had reached out to, those who accepted his hails only seemed to be interested in telling Hux how much of a worthless failure he was.
Hux did not necessarily disagree with them.
âChin up, General, youâll reach them with time.â Leia Organa sat across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her attention a heavy bough looming over the room. She had overseen every holo call he had made, the tickling tendrils of her scrutiny crawling shivers down his spine. No wonder his former compatriots laughed in his face and called him a dog; Hux could not help feeling as much himself as he sat across from Organa and begged these Order men and woman to abandon their pride and surrender to the Resistance, because it was the smart and safe and noble thing to do for the sake of their crews.
Because what were storm troopers, if not fodder for their cannons? What were their officers, but fellow true believers who would die for the cause? Hux had been that man once, not so long ago. He wondered where that man was now, because he certainly wasnât here in this room holo-calling the chain of First Order command.
Hux dropped his head, stared at the datapad in his lap, the contacts glowing up at him in a dim blue phosphorescence. Ghosts of names haunted the list, Pryde and Griss having perished along with their crews during Exegol â The rest either unresponsive or their command turned over to newcomers like Peavey. Of all the names, Parnadee was who Hux suspected the most likely to be receptive to his offer, but her line had rang cold, lost to deep space or something more sinister. Futility gnawed at his frayed edges, carving out eddies of doubt that reached into the very seat of his logical brain. If he failed in this task, if he could not produce satisfactory resultsâŠHux shivered as he considered the implications.
A gnat buzzed at his ear and he lifted his hand to swat at it, frowning as the buzz darted away. âPeavey was the last of them. If I could speak down the chain we might have better luck reaching the Order en masse, but it wonât be through what remains of high command.â
Organa hummed, eyes narrowed, gaze molten with a crude intelligence that bespoke decades of dealing with political fallout. Hux respected that, in this instance, she might have something to teach him. Of all Huxâs skills and achievements, there were too many of his fatherâs compeers left within the Orderâs high command, and they all knew who he was, what he was.
âThe Order responds to propaganda,â Organa mused thoughts that had already come and gone from Hux, âWe might launch our own program and see if it does not take?â
âMaybe,â Hux demurred, âBut our content algorithms are designed to find and eliminate patterns that originate outside high commandâs channels. My credentials are certainly already blacklisted, I doubt weâd get anything through successfully.â
âWell it would still be worth the effort to try, wouldnât it?â Organaâs smile was twisted with that thing she called hope.
âOf course, General.â Hux shivered as the weight of her attention left him cold and exposed, stripped down to chalk and bones. The gnat was back, and Hux frowned and gave his head a sharp shake to spook it off.
Together they exited the transport that currently served as their comms station. Parked alongside the brush line that separated the sloping dunes of the beach from the denser foliage of the jungle, the transport connected to the Finalizer via an uplink cable that ran the length of the beach and into the lake where it connected with the communications brain aboard the ship. It was rudimentary, a quick fix until the Resistance was able to slice into the system and copy the necessary protocols that would allow them local access to Order net. Unfortunately for them, nothing would replace the subspace antennae. So unless their engineers were able to successfully remove that piece of hardware from the Finalizer, this umbilical cord was their only option for communication with the remnants of the First Order.
Droids drove tracks through the sand, the dismemberment of the Finalizer now several days underway. The medical supplies, armor and weapons had long since been salvaged, and now the Resistance had moved onto harvesting the very durasteel and tech components that made the ship what she was.
It had been one day since her lights had gone out. After running for days off ion energy reserves, Hux had stood on the beach and watched as she went dark. The nose of her thrust up out of the water like the honed edge of a great spear, the lights running along her hull winking in the rolling brownout before finally fading to black as her systems gave way to a slow decaying death.
It had been three days since the first corpse had washed ashore, the forgotten crew member having died days or weeks before the ship ever reached Ajan Kloss. The bodies of the dead had been stored in one of the damaged hanger bays, awaiting a funerary process that would never come. Now, bloated with gasses and half eaten by the fauna, the beached bodies came in with the waves, two or three washing up together. The droids had taken to covering them with the durasteel panels they stripped from the ship until the mass grave was dug deep enough to hold them all.
It had been ten days since Dameron had left on a mission to the Unknown Regions to hunt down the location of the Academy, the coordinates scrubbed from the Finalizerâs log and passed onto Organa by Mitaka himself without Hux ever the wiser.
It had been eleven days since Hux had debased himself at Dameronâs feet. Eleven days since he admitted to himself that whatever he wanted from Dameron was in the least sexual, and at the most something far more insidious. He cares for you. Phasmaâs words haunted his dreams and waking moments in equal measure.
They had not parted ways on good terms.
When Hux realized where Dameron was headed, he had frozen up, dread spearing its sharp needling fingers directly into his veins. The Academy. Dameron had no idea what he was walking into, and Hux, who knew too well, was to be been left behind. They had fought, Hux demanding that he join the raid and Dameron telling him in no uncertain terms, not even if kriffing hell froze over. Hux did not have the heart to tell him what he would find. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Dameronâs luck was stronger than fate herself.
Mitaka had acted without his knowledge for a reason. Why Mitaka even thought to share the Academyâs location in the first placeâŠ
âI asked him, if you must know.â Organaâs voice cut deep into his mind, she may as well have not spoken a word. Hux felt his world converge into a sharp, precise focus. âAnd it was me who decided that you would not be a part of the team. Poe requested your assistance, I thought Captain Phasma would prove more capable for this particular task.â
Hux swallowed, turning to stare Organa in the eye. Unwavering, she gazed back. He could not feel her force, had not felt it in days, and as that knowledge rooted itself in the rotten pit of him, Hux felt all the paranoid desperation he constantly kept at bay swell to the surface and break loose. He took a singular step back, it was all the weakness he allowed himself.
Organa sighed, tipped her head to the side like a predator already fat from a meal, more curious than threatening. âDo not worry General, youâre quite good at sensing force probes, Iâve had to brush up on my technique.â
âHow longââ but he caught it then, the barest brush of her against his thoughts, like a tiny buzzing insect flitting around his ear. Hux went cold.
âNot long, and not often. To my own surprise youâve proved quite truthful, and I have no interest in whatever thoughts you might have beyond what directly affects our work together.â I know about you and Dameron and I donât give one wit. âCome now, I think weâve worked hard enough for one afternoon, donât you?â
The ride back to the base was one of the most uncomfortable forty minutes of Huxâs life. He had sat himself in the furthest corner at the back of the transport and Organa had chosen not to take the hint, sitting across from him in what he supposed was one more way for her to assert power over him. When she reached out with her force it was the buoyant brush he readily recognized. It did not feel invasive â but it felt uncomfortable, if only because its nature was gentle, easeful.
âWhat do you want?â Hux almost broke down and begged her to stop. He was empty of secrets, empty of information, heâd given everything away and what was left was a husk of the person he had once been. What more could he give this woman?
âMay I share an observation with you?â Organaâs force touch pulled away, leaving Hux shivering with a lingering nausea.
âDo I have a choice?â
âNo,â She smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deeply creviced. âBut what you do with the information is up to you.â
Hux remained silent, waiting. The space around Organa throbbed with a mournful energy, her eyes just distant enough that he knew part of her was elsewhere, lost in a moment of her own.
âHeâs left marks on you, scars if you will.â There was not a doubt in Huxâs mind of who he was. âAlong the pathways he took into your mind. There are not many, but those that are there are quiteâŠdeeply rutted, for lack of a better term.â
The filtered air of the transport filled his lungs with a dry itching burn, he turned his head to cough into his hand, clearing his throat to hide the shortness of his breath. A perverse sense of violation filled him, that this woman could so easily see through him, into him.
âI can heal them, it would not be the first time," she continued, heedless of his his discomfort. "Ben was never skilled with this aspect of the force, his methods have always been crude, but in this case that is to your benefit.â
Hux felt his body betray him system by system, starting with his breath and culminating the nerve endings at the edge of his body. He could feel every hair move in its follicle, every bead of sweat swell across the surface of his skin, âNo, Iââ Hux bit off what he wanted to say, swallowing it down with the rest of his thoughts, ââno. Iâm fine, thank you.â
âThe offer stands, if you change your mind. I was able to help Poe after his encounter with Ren, and while not as deeply scarred as yours, his mind was still quite damaged.â
Hux knew he never actually heard Dameronâs screams, but he thought he could imagine what they sounded like, thought they must sound like what his did, even if they were only ever let free in his head.
Ren was a slumbering beast, and Hux knew his days were numbered. The moment was coming when Ren would walk the halls of the base as freely as Hux, and when that moment came Hux had no idea what he would do.
Not for the first time over the last week did Hux find himself wishing Dameron were there, had never left him behind. It was not a feeling that sat well with him. Hux recognized his natural need for companionship, had always sought it in the structured relationships command provided him â the acceptable leisure hours spent in the officerâs lounge, sharing a drink with a visiting commandant, conversing with Phasma over a game of Force, joining Mitaka on the training deck for his weekly physical exercise hours â but never this, this desire for a physical connection, the yearning for another personâs very presence. Dameron haunted him at every moment, memories triggered by the simplest actions, the most mundane objects, as if Huxâs mind were only finding excuses to think of him.
Granted, he had not moved out of Dameronâs quarters as Hux had promised himself he would. Heâd gone so far as to put the request in, had been assigned a bed number and a locker down in the bunker below. But Hux had stood frozen at the top of the staircase, wary of returning to anything like the prison of before, wary of voluntarily abandoning what little freedom he had been allowed.
Wary of being any closer to Ren.
Hux stepped into Dameronâs quarters and felt the knots in his shoulders release, just a little; recognized that, in this space, he felt safe. It was a strange idea, one that Hux could not reliably say heâd ever felt before. Certainly not aboard the Steadfast, where he knew his very life was on borrowed time â and neither on the Finalizer, when the idea of safety was in how many uprisings they could put down, how many systems surrendered to Order control, how many hours he could go without Snoke summoning him or Ren destroying something.
But here, in Dameronâs rooms, Hux felt he could let go, just a little. So he stayed, and he waited, and he wondered what Dameron would say when he got back and saw that Hux, given the opportunity, had decided to remain.
Mess would be opening for evening hours and Hux considered taking his meal with Mitaka, if only to assuage this desire for companionship, but he knew he would be foul company. Mitaka was never fully at ease with him, and Hux was never one to impose himself on his crew like that. No, perhaps he could convince a droid to bring him a tray again, or he could wait until midnight meal and avoid the crowds altogether, as he had been doing for the majority of his meals.
A knock at the door felled his plans.
Rey stood on the other side, large eyes locking onto his and she didnât even need to say a word because Hux knew.
Dameron was back.
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Never before had Poe felt as relieved as he did in that moment, when Ajan Klossâs familiar green and blue marbled horizon appeared in his viewport. The carrier, named Old Sailor, dropped from lightspeed and into a smooth cruise through orbit, main thrusters cutting out as gravity did most of the work of bringing him in. Poe switched over to the auxiliary engines, stabilizing the ship as they hit the thermosphere and began their descent. The carrier maneuvered differently from the ships he was used to flying, but heâd given Collins leave to collect himself for the landing, and Poe had flown enough craft in his days that he picked up the nuance of piloting new ships with the ease years of experience beget.
Theyâd chosen this ship for its personnel carrying capacity, the cargo decks already outfitted to transport what would amount to a small army. According to Mitakaâs intel they had assessed a need for about 4600 seats, and Old Sailor was equipped to carry almost twice that. The extra mouths to feed would have certainly pushed Resistance resources to their limit, but the New Republic had promised immediate assistance in the feeding and care and relocation of the children they were to bring back with them.
The carrier was returning home empty.
Poe landed the carrier in the large craft landing field located several kilometers off the eastern edge of home base. Evening was descending slowly on this side of the planet, the sun barely dipping behind the tree tops at their southern back, its deep orange light spilling over the canopy of trees in a fiery glow. Lights from the transports arriving to collect them gathered at the edge of the landing field â far too few than what theyâd planned for â just enough to get his men back to base along with the supplies theyâd brought along in preparation.
Theyâd left the bodies behind. There had been a moment, surrounded by the gray clad corpses of girls and boys as young as five and as old as seventeen, when theyâd considered the manpower it would take to provide a proper burial. Poe had made the call, in the end, that the walls of the Academy would be mausoleum enough, that if the universe was kind it would pulverize the asteroid that the Academy was built upon, would send it into the systems sun, drop it into a black hole and rend the halls as lifeless as they were then for the rest of time.
Instead, theyâd documented each and every child, officer and servant, compiling a disjointed database of images and a list of names that held no identity in any meaningful way, beyond that someoneâs son or daughter, someoneâs brother or sister or friend or family member had been there, died there, in a mass suicide that felt so much more like genocide.
Poe wondered, on the way home, if Hux had known. He thought he might, had asked Phasma as much, but she had shrugged at him, eyes dark with an emotion Poe gambled to call loss.
The hum of warmed up transport engines, the smell of oil and fuel and grass and thick muggy air were all familiar comforts Poe clung to. And as he oversaw his crew into the transports, clapping a shoulder here, patting a back there, a small smile for Kaydel who had requested this particular mission and had spent the trip back crying into his shoulder, he considered what this meant for the Resistance â what this meant for the Order. The loss was monumental for both sides; a whole generation of talent wiped out, innocent lives snuffed for the sake of some overzealous agenda to bring order to the galaxy.
Phasma brought up the rear along with the trooper Kayvee Nine and Lieutenant Trig, both of which had specialized in data reconnaissance and had been able to access the video logs that had recorded the last hours of the Academy and the fate which befell it. Poe had not watched the footage. Heâd known enough when heâd seen the purpled blotches around their mouths and eyes, the sallow skin, the empty cups that littered the room. Still, Phasma had insisted, had directed her men to document what they could, that even this, for the First Order, was a step too far, that it was the work of the Final Order.
Poe hadnât been able to see the difference, didnât see why it mattered.
The ride back to base was spent in silence. Phasma sat beside Poe, her armor filling the space and wedging him into the back wall. She had muscled her way into the seat and Poe wasnât about to complain. Phasma, he had decided on the journey out, was a person he liked. She was no-nonsense in that military way that reminded him of his navy days. She was also ferociously protective of Hux, to the point where sheâd told Poe, point blank, in graphic detail what she would do to him if he so much as laid one of Huxâs pretty little hairs out of place. Before Poe had gotten a single word out, let alone a whole sentence, to tell her what he and Hux were or were not â as if he knew â he realized that had never really been her concern.
He had managed to get some tips on playing Force. Heâd even won a game, much to both their chagrin.
âAre you going to tell Hux or am I?â Phasma muttered, voice low and barely audible over the rumble of the transport. Her pale eyes watched his in the deepening shadows, orange light from sunset flashing across the platinum sheen of her hair and setting it alight. There was a hardness there, in her face and eyes, that said so much more than her words ever would. Poe imagined his face must be a mirror, could feel the unnatural twist to his mouth, the deepening crevice in his brow. Everyone on the Old Sailor had brought something back with them, something dark and blighted.
Poe sighed, pushed a hand through his hair. Heâd already reported to Leia over holo, and she didnât expect him for a debriefing until the next morning, which meant he was bound to run into Hux sooner rather than later. âIâll tell him, unless you think heâll take it better from you?â
âHeâs not going to take it well at all, but youâll never be the wiser.â Phasma looked off, chewing on her bottom lip as Poe wondered if she had ever seen Hux as he had, on his knees, face wet with tears, begging for something he couldnât put voice to.
Poe hesitated, then agreed, âIâll tell him, then.â Phasma nodded, not meeting his eyes, instead she swept her gaze over the faces of his crew, lingering on Kaydel who was curled up against Collins's shoulder before returning to him.
âHux isââ She broke off, chewed at her lip again, and Poe finally noticed the split in it where sheâd bitten through the skin. Poe licked his own lips, felt how dry and chapped they were, his tears having left them raw. âHux isnât well right now.â
Poe nearly laughed out loud, was glad when he held back because whatever Phasma was trying to tell him seemed important, âYeah, I gathered as much.â
âDameron.â She was staring right at him again, eyes catching and holding him at attention. Poe understood, suddenly, why Phasma and Hux were so close â they both had an intensity about them. âDonât be a hero.â
It was the frankest thing sheâd said yet, underneath all the layers of implication. âI know.â It came out just above a whisper, guilty with self-awareness, âIâm not gonna hurt him.â Poe meant it, hoped Phasma trusted him, hoped Hux trusted him. Poe knew he had a hero complex, he also knew that this thing between him and Hux had morphed into something far more complicated than that.
Phasmaâs eyes searched his face, finally relenting when she found what she was looking for. Her chin dipped in a sharp nod, âOkay.â
The transport door lifted in a hissing decompression as the hydraulics pushed the pistons up and out. Poe followed on Phasmaâs heels after the rest of the crew disembarked. Greeted by a small swarm of friends and comrades, the base seemed quiet in the deepening evening. It would be meal hours right now, which helped explained the lack of fanfare at their arrival, and Poe was glad for it. What should have been a joyful rescue mission had turned into a funeral procession and Poe wasnât sure he would have been able to handle more than this small crowd of a reception.
Rey and Finn were on him before Poe had barely stepped off the transport, Rey taking his hand and Finn throwing an arm over his shoulders. They were saying something to him, but Poe wasnât following. Instead he found comfort in their touch, their closeness and the sound of their voices. Poe felt himself responding to something Finn said, some teasing joke heâd made, the smile on his face a thoughtless reaction, the catch of his laugh a habit. Reyâs force touch brushed against him, said words neither of them spoke out loud, thinking Poe didnât want to hear them, didnât want to talk about it â what heâd left behind, what heâd brought back with him.
Maybe they were right, but maybe they were wrong. What they thought of him, what they saw in him:Â the go-lucky good guy, the hero from the storybooks, always on and always up and up and up â sometimes it felt like a burden. Sure, maybe he was that guy, he felt like it often enough. But right then, all Poe wanted was to be back in his room wrapped up with Hux, safe in a moment of weakness neither one of them faulted the other for.
Poe chanced a glance up to scan the faces around him. Disappointment licked at the edge of his thoughts when he didnât see that familiar shade of red or the black silhouette of a too-dark uniform. But then, there, further away than he expected, hidden in the shadows of a large weeping palm, eyes on no one else but him â Hux.
âPoe, Iâm sorry. Leia told us, that had to be tough.â Finn broke through to him, and Poe pulled his eyes from Hux with an effort that felt exhaustive.
âYeahâŠyeah.â Poe didnât know what to say, didnât know what could be said. âKaydelâs not handling it well, we should probably give her a few days leave, Collins too.â
Rey was watching him closely, âYou too, Poe. You can take time if you need it, you know that right?â And thank the force for Rey.
âMaybe,â Poe smiled at her, small and fleeting, shrugging out from under Finnâs arm and clasping his shoulder instead. âIâll see how I feel tomorrow. Iâm already better, being back here with you two.â
âOh, Poe,â Rey sighed at him, linking her arm around his and laying her head on his shoulder, a brief touch that would have lingered had it been any other circumstance. But there was an understanding in her affection, a cautious letting go that bespoke her knowledge that Poe yearned to be elsewhere, in the company of another, and that was an empathy she could commiserate with.
The moment passed and they broke apart, Rey stepping back beside Finn instead. They exchanged a glance, fleetingly, but Poe caught it, and he knew they understood. âWeâre going to grab food from the mess, if youâre hungry?â Finn left the question open, and it was an easy out, one Poe was grateful for.
âNah, not much of an appetite right now. I gotta take care of a few things anyway, you two go on without me.â Poeâs eyes darted back to the palm. Hux remained where he was, still watching him. âIâll see you in the morning, at debriefing?â
Rey nodded an affirmation and Finn reached out and gave him one more hug, which Poe returned with an enthusiasm that was genuine. âThanks, bud.â Finn squeezed him tighter.
As Poe watched his friends slip into the small crowd headed back to base, he felt the chasm between them rift wider. He wasnât sure when the cracks first formed, but they were there now, had been there for some time â long before the Finalizer fell. It made sense, in the way shared trauma bonded people together, that they would drift apart when wounds began to heal. But Poe could feel clearly that what heâd seen at the Academy had driven that wedge deeper. How could a person explain in words the scale of what he'd seen? How could a holo and a lone manâs report describe the smell of rot, the taste of decay, the cold hand of indelible death that still permeated his very senses? How could he tell them how he had stumbled to his knees and retched up bile beside the corpse of a six-year-old girl frozen with her fingers half stuck down her throat, her last moments spent clawing the poison from her tongue, fear a heavy shadow across her open staring eyes?
Poe shivered in the warm air, pushed a hand through his hair and watched as one by one, the transports emptied and his crew wandered towards the base, mere ghosts of the people they once thought they were.
When the last person had gone and the transport engines had grown cold, Hux stepped out from the shadows of the palm. Poe watched his approach, resisted the urge to turn and meet him half way, pull him into an embrace and ask him all the questions he had: Did you know? Why didnât you warn me? Why did they do it? Instead he let his eyes roam Huxâs face, indulged himself in the turn of his mouth, the furrow in his brow, the sharp edge of his cheekbones in the blood tinged approach of twilight.
âDameron.â Hux said in way of greeting, and Poe tried, he tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace and Hux stepped closer, hands unclasping from behind his back and reaching â hesitating â then finally settling one on his upper arm. It was awkward, he could tell Hux was not accustomed to casual touch, but the gesture was clear, and Poe found himself leaning incrementally closer, just enough that he could feel the press of Huxâs palm into his bicep.
âHey.â Poe reached up himself, fingers brushing along Huxâs jaw before he could stop himself, before Hux realized what he was doing. There was a moment where they froze like that, Poeâs fingers against Huxâs jaw, Huxâs hand on his arm, all small familiar touches that represented to Poe everything right and good in the world. He needed this from Hux, and if the expression on Huxâs face said anything, it was that he might need it too. But then a gloved hand caught his hand before it could move any further, cold gray green eyes closing briefly, as if savoring the touch, and then he removed Poeâs hand from his face.
âDonâtânot here,â Hux said the words softly and Poe drowned in the sound of his voice, the feel of their fingers twined together because Poe had taken the opportunity to pull Huxâs hand into a firm hold. Hux stared at him, eyes searching his face, sliding to stare at their hands, head cocked to the side as if he couldnât quite understand how that had happened. When Huxâs face relaxed and his hand returned his grip, Poe felt something inside him unravel. âCome with me.â
Hux led him away from the base, past the shrub line and into the denser span of forest that ran along the ridge overlooking the gorge below. Where Hux was headed, Poe couldnât say â didnât care â because Hux hadnât pulled his hand away.
Light picked its way through the trees, speckling their path in a wavering dance of shadows. Sunset on Ajan Kloss was a slow thing, a lazy metamorphosis of light to dark that transformed the atmosphere into a kaleidoscope of chroma and showered the surface in a saturation that made everything appear as if it were the still smoldering remains of a burned out inferno. Hux moved smoothly over the soft loam of the forest floor, his step careful, meticulously plotted. Poe ambled along behind him, happy to follow his lead, happy to let someone else take charge, if only in this small way. Huxâs hand was a firm pressure in his and Poe committed the sensations to memory: the little squeezes that kept their hands together when Huxâs longer gait took him further ahead than what Poe could keep up with â the soft rub of the leather against his palm and between his fingers and the sensual slide of Huxâs hand beneath it. Poe marveled as these small touches, these tiny details, however simple and insignificant.
When Hux brought them to a stop it was at the edge of the ridge. Here the forest grew thin, the ground barren and hard with an outcropping of striated rock. The drop down to the gorge was yet several meters ahead of them, the ridge overlooking the sun as it creeped down the sky, the shape of it amplified as it approached the horizon line. Huxâs back was to him and the deep orange glow of the sun set his hair afire in a halo of gold. Poe couldnât help but want. Hux was striking in a way that felt untouchable, a perfect poise of control and calm, but it was the person beneath that drove Poe to obsession.
Heâs beautiful. As if heâd heard the words, Hux looked over and caught Poe staring. Their eyes met, caught on one another and held briefly, suspended in unspoken admissions. It was almost peculiar, the feeling that settled into Poe, a cloying thing in his chest he didn't know how to assuage, so he moved closer to Hux, smoothed his thumb over the back of his hand and savored how it flexed in his hold. Huxâs lips pressed into a line as he quickly looked away and slipped his hand free, but not without a brief squeeze. Poe didnât fight to get it back, instead he stepped up beside Hux â close enough to touch but staying his own hands â turning his gaze back towards the setting sun, comfortable in this quiet understanding of each other.
Together they stood, watching as the day was swallowed by night, the frail glow of the stars emerging from a sun bleached sky.
âDameron,â Hux spoke first, his voice cutting the silence with the swift steadiness of a surgeonâs knife, âThis is not your fault, you could not have stopped them.â
Poe could do nothing as his heart stuttered to a near stop, his breath coming shallow and strained, his eyes staring unseeing into the half crest of a bleeding sun. So he had known. âWe might have, if weâd had the coordinates sooner.â
âThey would have drunk the poison as soon as Palpatineâs death was confirmed; Protocol would have demanded it, so that Order talent would not fall into enemy hands.â
The gravity of Hux's unbosoming smothered Poe, left him aching. âBut they were children.â The words rent him to pieces, his need to defend the most innocent, the most vulnerable among them â it consumed him.
âThey were our most precious resource,â Hux whispered the words, and Poe felt them drill down to the crux of it, expose the truth of what the Order was â a fanatical cult, yes, obviously â but also a shunned people who were forced to scrape the dredges of the universe for whatever scraps they could salvage, where a child was the harbinger of a future where they would not be cowed into submission, where they would rise again to a power they would spread across the galaxy for the sake of order.
They were always the underdog. While his wily Resistance had always felt like the scrappy long shot of hope, with their menagerie of peoples and patchwork ships and fluid chain of command â it was the First Order who rose from the ashes of a failed regime, who had no resources, no allies, nothing but their blood and children to rise above their circumstances and theyâd done it.
And here was the very man of that first generation of children, who had nearly seen the Order to glory â who would have â if not for the hamstrung efforts of Kylo Ren and his obsession with his own personal quest to follow in his familyâs shadow.
âHux,â Poe breathed out his name, suddenly overwhelmed, needing him desperately, consumed with the understanding of the extent of his pain, what heâd lost, what heâd given up. âIâm so sorry.â
Hux barked out a mirthless laugh, face twisting, âDonât apologize to me. Those children are dead Dameron, and if the world were just I would be dead too.â As the setting sun cast Hux in blood red, the words poured out of him, a confession Poe had suspected was coming, but not then, not like this. Â
âStarkiller haunts me. Every time I close my eyes I can see it, I canât escape it. I donât deserve to escape it. Iâm responsible, it was my design.â Hux paused, licked his lips, as if steeling himself. âLife has taught me many things, and forgiveness has never been one of them. Itâs a weakness, and weakness gets you killed. So why am I taunted with it? Why do I want it so much when I know that if I accept it, that death will come for me? Why am I afraid of death, when itâs all Iâve ever known?â
âHuxââ
âIâm ruined, Dameron. Iâm broken, and I donât think I can be fixed.â Huxâs cheeks were wet with tears, but his voice held steady, calm in the face of this strange cry for help. âBut I want it. I want it desperately.â
When Poe took his hand again, it was trembling. Poe held it steady, cradled it with a care as if it were Huxâs heart bleeding out in the cup of his palm. Poe saw, in the image of that girl, clawing her life back from a slow poisoned decay, Hux instead. Hux as a boy, and how easily that could have been his fate â but also Hux now, as he clawed his way through a world that had turned its back on him, a world that had failed him, a world that had forced him to carry the crippling burden of a generation of children just like himself.
I donât want to fix you. Poe confessed to himself, silent, but bold, a fire in the dark of his thoughts. But Iâll protect you while you fix yourself.
If Poe had anything left to give, he would give it to Hux, and hopefully it would be enough.
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Sometimes stories are told to entertain: Like the tale of two star crossed lovers finding each other against the odds, or the journey of a boy discovering within himself what it means to be a man â stories retold over and over through the lens of culture and class, that reveal the bucolic nature of the human condition when under the halcyon scope of order. More often, stories are told to teach: age old tales passed down from parent to child, the lessons wrought from their words a historical map of success and failure, all culminating in a moral agenda based on survival.
Tragedy was a tale Hux knew well, was the story he had lived. Even when it wore the bloodied skins of the heroâs journey, or the haunting visage of overcoming the monster, the golden gilt edge of rags to riches â in the end, Hux had always known tragedy was the archetype of his tale, would be the story he told to the next generation, would be the lesson he passed on to whomever remembered him.
That the Academyâs story ended in tragedy felt inevitable, now that fate had unfurled her heavy albatross wing of cosmic justice. Still, Hux wondered if there was something he could have done. As he swiped through the images of the dead on his datapad, Dameronâs voice reciting a report Hux knew heâd spent all night compiling into thoughts that could be voiced with words rather than tears, Hux wondered if this too were his fault. Heâd known of the safeguards in place at the Academy. Heâd known Amret Engell had been put in charge of the acquisition, care, and training of the children. And heâd also known that she was Prydeâs man, loyal to the old guard, fanatical in her observation of First Order covenant.
And yet still, Hux had also seen, first hand, the ramifications of such observances. Had almost himself become victim to their practice, first at the Battle of Jakku, and again in their retreat to the Unknown Regions, when capture by the New Republic had licked at their heels. Hux first learned then, as a boy of five, of the pact kept by his father and his peers â that surrender was not on their horizon, even if it meant they would become the engineers of their own self-destruction.
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ââWe left the Academy how we found it, disturbing only what we had to, and documenting what we thought could help identify the dead.â Dameronâs voice didnât shake, as Hux thought it might, and he knew it was only because he had said those words so many times, out loud, into the darkness of the night as he paced scars into the floor of his quarters.
Silence permeated the space, thick with the heady taste of trauma, a disease that spread like a plague.
Organa was the first to speak. âThank you Poe, for your service and your sacrifice.â The words sounded empty, and Hux felt them reflected in the shape of his thoughts. This was a loss, for him and for the Resistance â and Hux was struck by that, at how here, in this moment, they were not so different from one another. When Dameron retook his seat beside him, Hux noted how he inched his chair a little closer as he settled in. Even here, amongst his friends, Dameron sought comfort from him and Hux wondered at that, and how he understood why. That he had to resist the urge to reach out and offer that comfort was even more of a wonder. Hux swallowed, unsure of his own emotions, treading a ground that had no foundation to hold him.
âGeneral Hux.â At the sound of his name Hux looked up, the cast of Organaâs tone catching him in the twining tendrils of her net. He did not feel her force, now that he knew what to look for, though surely she had changed her tactics already. Hux wet his lips, met her eyes and waited for the questions that had haunted him since Dameron left on this curse-ridden mission. He would take the responsibility of this as deservedly as he had taken that of Starkiller, for what were another few thousand added to his personal death toll?
âI am sorry for your loss, I understand that for all of the First Orderâs technological and military strength, it was children you invested the most in. While you can guess my feelings regarding the way those children were treated, I can also recognize that this is a loss for you, and that this predicates the fall of First Order as it exists today. That said, Iâd like for you to touch on the work weâve done reaching out to what remains of Order command, so that others might weigh in with any ideas of how we might approach establishing a line of communication.â
The words wereâŠunexpected. Hux had thought he would take the fall for this mission, that Organa would accuse him of withholding information, of orchestrating the loss for his own agenda that certainly must be nefarious still, even after all that he had given up.
Hux resisted the urge to look at Dameron, whose attention he could feel as keenly as if he were up on a pedestal under a blinding spotlight, exposed for all to judge.
âWhat is left of First Orderâs high command, including Kylo Renâs Supreme Council, has been unresponsive. General Amret Engell would have arranged the Academyâsââ Hux broke off, considered how to frame the death of these children, which was certainly murder in cold blood, and not the mass suicide it was meant to resembled, âThe Academyâs fulfillment of protocol that demanded death in the face of surrender.â He paused again, here, gathering his thoughts as he entertained the possibility that he could not reach some of command because they had also, in fact, followed that same protocol.
âOf the commanders I have spoken with, none have expressed interest in defection or surrender. Of the old guard, which would have included Engell, most perished in the battle on Exegol. What is left are captains and self-proclaimed generals who would have arose to power in the face of a void in command. We can assume they are consolidating what power they have left, but without clear leadership they only have First Order bylaws to guide them, and the infighting resulting from the lack of a strong leader will continue to allow the breakdown of whatever command structure is left. They will be retreating, likely hunting down what First Order ships and tech are left to commandeer for themselves.â
Which brought him to his greatest fear, âWhile it is possible that other factions of the First Order have also followed protocol as the Academy did, from my experience, it would be the old guard who would abide by these standards of conduct. Which leaves the younger generation of First Order officers and crew, and they should be where our resources are directed. Unfortunately, these men and women have gone dark, their comms unreachable, and I can only assume it is because they are fleeing from internal conflict.â
As Hux voiced the conclusions he and Organa had already discussed, he realized then, that the First Orderâs fall had been inevitable. The design had always been in place, that it would end like this, in a futile last stand amongst itself, as Palpatine arose to fill the gap left in command, patch the holes with his own Sith fleet to rule the galaxy under an iron fist of terror. Hux had never stood a chance. None of them had â dreams of a galaxy united by order, the First Order, were the line his generation had been fed. It had all been a lie.
Hux looked around the room, noted the faces at the table, how most would not meet his eyes, how others did with a defiance Hux was no longer sure he deserved. For the first time since his decision to spy, Hux felt like his and Resistance goals had aligned, and now he needed their help, because he could not do this on his own.
âI am not well versed in what resources the Resistance has to offer, but if we have any hope to reach out to what is left of the First Order, it will be in those ships that have disappeared from the fray. They will be hunted, on the run or hiding, and unlikely to trust, but I do believe they, like the Finalizer, are looking for safety and will be open to negotiation.â Help me, he wanted to ask, but the words that came out were convoluted, cloaked in a façade of command that tasted stale on his tongue.
Those at the table remained silent, but more had looked up to glance at him â Rey with her young face and too-wise eyes, particularly ardent to his words, watched him now with an acute awareness that made him feel exposed â but also the stormtrooper defector, FN-2187 â Finn â whose gaze had narrowed into a strained visage of concentration, as if he couldnât parse Huxâs words with the man he knew. It was with him that Hux felt the most kinship, because even he could not say when he had gone from General Hux of the First Order to reluctant Resistance defector, but thatâs how he felt then, in that moment. The truth of it crashed upon him, suddenly, as he sat at the table surrounded by former enemies, and Hux had to remove his hands from the table top lest everyone see how they trembled.
âThank you, General.â Organaâs voice was a soft touch against his thoughts, force tinged, but mindful. Desperately, Hux wanted to accept the comfort, but he drew away from the sensation, drew further into himself. âI believe that amongst all the talent present here, weâll be able to find a way to successfully reach those in the Order most likely to accept our aid. If any of you have an idea, please feel free to approach me or General Hux, either of us will be happy to hear your proposal. With that, you are all dismissed, thank you as always for your service.â
The silence in the room that had begun to feel so oppressive broke in the burst of an instant. In the commotion of the space he felt Dameronâs hand reach for his under the table, a knowing touch that Hux clung to, literally and metaphorically. Dameron leaned closer still, voice pitched low and breath tickling his ear, âYou sounded good, I think you got through to them.â
Hux dropped his head, stared at the hands clasped together in his lap, watched as much as felt how Dameronâs thumb rubbed small circles into the leather between thumb and palm. âMy public speaking ability is hardly an ineptitude,â Hux murmured the words, felt his face grow warm from Dameronâs offhand compliment. âYou also presented yourself well, Dameron.â
âWow, thanks Hugs, I mean it.â Dameronâs grin split Hux open and settled into his cracks, filling them with a blinding luminescence he was momentarily afraid the others could see. âLeia asked that we wait behind after the debriefing, she has something to discuss with us.â
Though Hux was no force user, he had in inkling of the conversation that was coming, and he steeled himself with the resolve that, in this, he would not show weakness. He dropped his head in a curt nod, reserving his words for when they were needed the most.
After the room had emptied and it was only Organa and Rey left behind, their figures bent over into their own semblance of a private conversation, Hux felt the first touch of a force presence he had not sensed in weeks. It reached out to him in a tentative wave and Hux felt his body seize, like a ship on high alert, locking out all systems but those critical to his basic functions, his survival. The reptilian part of his brain, that coil of insentience that lived inside all of them in a rudimentary thread that connected the basest instincts to the most perverse actions, twined taunt and then frayed, filament by filament. All the strength Hux had reserved for this inevitable moment was lost to the ether, abandoning him the moment he needed it the most. Weak, petulant boy â how do you expect me to make you into a man?
Instinct bade Hux push his chair away from the table, his hand slipping from Dameronâs faster than he could pull him back. And then he was on his feet, fleeing the room just as Kylo Renâs shadowed shape emerged from the primordial quicksand of time, filling the doorway of which he was headed, blocking his retreat and trapping him inside a physical and existential space outside of himself. It felt as if Huxâs spirit had removed itself from his body and he could only watch from afar.
Voices, distant, spoke over his noise filled thoughts. Hux watched as his body took one, two steps back, until Dameron was back at his side, hands there to steady him.
âBen, you were supposed to wait,â Rey. She was between them now, her words chiding but her body language open, friendly. âWe wanted to tell General Hux first.â
âGeneral Hux?â Ren turned the word inside out, as if Huxâs position had always only been a joke to him, now more than ever. Hux recoiled, the bulk of his anxiety turning on itself, all the memories of Renâs childish antics aboard the Finalizer rushing back in a tidal wave of unbridled anger.
âBen,â Rey admonished, and Hux was struck, at this careful teetering treatment, as if everyone in the room expected him to break down on the spot â again. But Hux had not made it as far as he had, as high in the ranks of the First Order, without the fastidious control of his faculties, particularly when under emotional and physical duress. He stoked the bloom of rage, nursed its needy greed, feeling the slow return of his body in the heady plume of angerâs heat.
Hux shrugged off Dameronâs grip, avoiding his eyes and stepping outside his reach and turning on Ren as quickly as the man had appeared. âHello, Ben. I see theyâve finally let you out of your cage. Is your neutering complete then? I heard it was quite the messy operation.â
But Ren looked away, ignored him, turning instead to Rey and saying, âI thought you said heâd changed?â
And that, sent Hux into a spiraling descent of which he could not control. Whatever this was, whatever Ren was here for, Hux wanted no part in it. He could not stomach that this man, this man child, the absolute bane of his existence, an existence he had sacrificed so much to rid of him, was being thrust back into his life in a capacity that he was expected to accept.
Not in Huxâs wildest nightmares would he have ever seen himself bartering alms with the Resistance leadership, let alone at Kylo Renâs side. That it was easier to accept a semblance of good will with the enemy, than it was with Ren, spoke so much to the abuse Hux knew he had suffered. He felt isolated in the idea that Ren was now Ben, and that these people believed this man could shuck the identity which had befouled them for years, and then welcome him back with open arms. Hux bristled with the unfairness of it, the double standard of which the universe again and again beset upon him. Where abuse was rewarded while the abused were left behind to rot.
Hux slipped past Ren, resisted the urge to check his shoulder with his own, just wanting to be away and finding the shortest path out was through the doorway of which Ren blocked.
Organaâs words lingered in the back of his mind. Heâs damaged you. How little they all knew, that, in the grand scheme of those in Huxâs life who had caused him harm, Ren was just one more abuser in a long lineage. Hux wondered, not for the first time, what it was about himself that drew the attention of men like his father, like Snoke and Ren. What fatal flaw of personality exposed him as a target, as easy prey? Hux had spent his whole life ensuring he was never seen as weak, pursuing power like he was owed it, convincing himself it was the only way to escape those in his life who would otherwise sacrifice him for their own. It had not worked. Not with his father. Not with Snoke. And not with Ren.
Hux slipped into the crowd around him, head hung low and stride long, walking without a destination, simply aiming to get away.
As Hux put distance between himself and Kylo Ren, the fog of his anger and panic receded along with the sensation of Renâs force touch. A bone deep exhaustion was left in its wake, as if his very life force had been drained. Heedless, Hux walked on, without aim, without direction. The halls of the Resistance base were full, so unlike the Star Destroyers he had called home. Always filled to bursting, as if the people were lost in a constant push and pull through life, on their way but never arriving at a destination, because their goals felt entirely reactionary to whatever First Order plot they were spoiling. Hux wondered, again and again, how he had ended up here, despite how he now understood his life had been nothing but a long dead dream in futility. That even in this, his defection â an action that literally removed him from the only life he had ever known, that should have been, short of death, a decision of undeniable personal agency â he had lost control so completely.
The entrance to the mess hall loomed before him, and though Hux had no desire to be around people, he thought that maybe, amongst them, he could abdicate his identity and find safety in the masses. He hedged the threshold, observing the filled banquet tables, and it struck him, how the edges had blurred. What two weeks before had been a perfect divide between First Order and Resistance, now was a mixing, a borderline amalgamation of people that included not just stormtroopers and Order crew intermingling, but the presence of the Resistance as well. Like a river converging with the ocean, deltas of people swept through the room, little channels of conversation including men, women, and sentient species alike, where the weft of one manâs uniform no longer marked him with an identity he could not escape.
In this mingling of people, Hux saw a complete dismantling of First Order ideals. Where stormtroopers and crew once segregated, first due to a protocolâs directive, and then under an engendered sense of familiarity, they now came together in the forge of shared circumstance; Where Resistance and First Order had once been on opposite sides of a galaxy wide conflict, and then on opposite sides of a mess hall room, they now merged together in a fluid fluxing of peoples, conversing with the enemy in a tentative test in truce and finding far more than just a simple commonality of war.
Hux didnât know when it had happened. While he had avoided mess during Dameron and Phasmaâs absence, limiting his exposure to off-peak hours, and typically taking his tray back to Dameronâs quarters â that didnât explain this, and how over the course of almost two weeks, these people could come together. He wondered, as a stormtrooper looked up from the table he sat at, saw him, only to glance at the Resistance men across from him and stand stiffly from his seat to slip away, if Huxâs very presence was what had kept this from happening sooner.
Alternatively, that his increasing absence had opened the space up to the very opportunity.
The realization that he could have been holding these men and women back from asserting a sense of agency upon their circumstances left Hux with the strangest sensation of guilt. That he understood at all the empathy he felt for his crew â at least in the capacity of accepting that this was now their life, the Resistance their home, or at least somewhere safe for them to lick their wounds â should have been more surprising. But it wasnât until Hux laid eyes on Mitaka, that he truly understood what this intermingling of sides meant.
There was a table of Resistance officers Hux only recognized because FN-2187 had just seated himself there, along with the small engineer girl, Tico. Here was where Mitaka sat, amongst these higher ranking Resistance, alongside who, Hux would have supposed, were a man and woman that would be the least likely to welcome a First Order officer into their fold.
Never before had Hux observed Mitaka in such frank ease: his uniform was well-pressed but the collar loosened, unbuttoned in the heat of the jungle climate even as the environmental conditioners worked overtime to keep the base cool. He had forgone the hat which marked his high station, instead pulling his hair back into a low ponytail, because it had at some point grown longer than First Order discipline allowed. And he was smiling, laughing with a Resistance officer that sat across from him, engaged in friendly conversation as if the two had known each other since they were young.
Hux considered, as he examined his emotions, that he didnât feel betrayed, or upset. He felt glad for Mitaka, who looked, for perhaps the first time Hux had known him, genuinely happy.
But then a Resistance man sat down beside him, slid a tray onto the table between them while leaning over to place the most delicate, chaste, kiss upon Mitakaâs cheekbone.
Hux felt his body go cold.
Mitaka was smiling again, wider this time, hand on the manâs face as he playfully pushed him away. A blush flared to life high across his cheekbones as he looked at the man as if the world was held in his eyes, and Hux knew, knew, that somehow, at some point, he had been left behind.
They donât need you.
Hux smothered the thought with the last remaining dredges of strength he had, instead stepping away from the mess hall, retreating into the crowded corridor, mind flayed with the idea that he was an intruder here, unwelcomed and untrusted, a remnant of a past that these people had already moved on from. Hux stumbled to the side of the hallway, eyes unseeing the crowd around him, breath coming fast and shallow, sweat beading down the length of his spine. The image of Mitakaâs kiss burned into the backs of his eyelids, emerging every time he blinked, lingering in his mindâs eye as he came to rest against the cinderblock wall. He pressed his hand to the cool cement as he paused to catch his breath, but still it overwhelmed him, left him feeling as if his body and brain had betrayed him to this all-consuming obscene want.
I want that.
The words came, unbidden, to the surface of his thoughts.
And then Poe Dameron appeared before him, as if summoned by the power of his want alone.
âShit, Hux.â Hux wondered if Poe could see into him, could understand, because by the way his hands settled on him in all the right places Hux thought he must. A hand at his waist, intimate and possessive, the other slipping over his glove to grip his fingers, âCome on, come with me.â
Poe pulled him back into the milling corridor, keeping him close, side by side as they slipped through the crowd and deeper into the base. Hux didnât know where they were going, didnât have the faculties about him to take notice of the turns they made, the path Poe took. His mind was consumed with the image of Mitaka, but instead now it was him seated at the table, and it was Poe sliding a tray between them, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek only for Hux to turn into it, capture Poeâs lips in a soft press, if only to feel how his smile spread across his lips. Hux submersed himself in the image, felt a deeply rooted knot unraveling, releasing a torrent of emotion that flooded him, as if he had, all this time, been a man drowning and had only just broken the surface to know the taste of air.
Huxâs heart thundered into a bone-rattling pound. He recognized, belatedly, that Poe had pulled them off to the side of the corridor again, here where the crowds were thinner. Back against the cool wall, Poeâs wider bulk hid what it could from wandering eyes.
âHux, can you make it back to our room?â Poeâs voice bottomed out in the pit of him, coiling there in a fevered heat, twisting his gut into a tangled nest. Hux shook his head in the negative. âKriff, alrightââ
Suddenly, he was being whisked into a darkened room, the hydraulic door sealing out the noise of the corridor and consuming him in an ambient glow of which Hux found immediate comfort. In the absence of bright light and sound, calm suffused him. As if he were back in deep space aboard a Star Destroyer, he could feel the world coming back into place in pieces. Hux breathed in deeply, sighing out the tension that had threatened to overwhelm him, breathing in a control which was becoming more and more elusive.
Poe was there, pushing him against the wall. Here, outside the prying eyes of the base, he was free to crowd into Hux, and so he did. His hands were gentle but firm as they moved over him â not intimately, as Hux wanted â but carefully, as he checked Huxâs pulse, pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, and began the now almost familiar process of removing Huxâs gloves.
âWe have got to get you something else to wear, youâre burning up again,â Poe murmured the words into the darkness and Hux followed them to their source, staring at Poeâs lips as they moved, remembering how they felt against his, how much he yearned to feel them again.
âI like that you feel the need to constantly keep undressing me.â Even as the words left him Hux felt the blush heat his face. This was the most forward he had been yet, a direct admission of desire, with Poe, with anyone, and Hux was unsure if he hadnât just embarrassed himself. Reluctantly, Hux lifted his eyes to meet Poeâs.
Poe, it seemed, did not think so. âOh yeah?â Time slowed as Poe examined his face, settling his heavy gaze onto Hux and peeling him back layer by layer. Whatever he found there caused his eyebrow to raise, âYouâre serious, arenât you?â
Hux nodded his head and Poe cursed, pulling away just enough to push a hand through his hair, leaving it more mussed than before. When he met Huxâs eyes again there was a resolve there, more concern than determination. Hux felt his stomach flip as Poe leaned in close, pushing him further into the wall, as if his weight against him was all that was keeping Hux upright. âI need to know youâre okay, Hugs. You scared me back there.â
The welcoming weight of Poe against him left Hux breathless, and he turned into it, into him. He closed his eyes and dropped his head, breathing in the scent of Poe, all leather and engine grease and something uniquely warm and musky underneath it all. âI wasâŠtaken by surprise, thatâs all.â
The hmm that left Poe settled deep inside him, filling an emptiness Hux had never known existed. He liked the sound of Poeâs voice, liked how he fawned over him, always asking questions that made Hux feel as if he mattered. âYeah, I was surprised too. But Hux,â here Poe paused, a finger coming up under his chin, lifting his face so Hux met his eyes, âyouâre gonna have to tell me what you want.â
Such a simple question, but Hux felt humbled before it, as if the admission would end everything, send Poe out the door laughing, because Hux wanted Poe, but who could want him. No one had ever wanted Armitage Hux.
He does. And Hux wasnât sure if he had anything left to loose.
âI want you.â Came out as no more than a whisper, but Poe heard him, and he smiled.
Poe maneuvered himself into a place against Hux that was just enough â a knee between Huxâs, nudging them apart just so â a hand at his waist, trailing the seam it found there, down to where it could settle on Huxâs hip. The touches were suggestive, but not a push â instead ideas, ones that Hux could choose to pursue or not. âWeâre going to talk about this, you know. Not like last time. Is that alright?â
Hux nodded, reaching up to place a tentative touch to Poeâs cheek, the bare tips of his fingertips catching on the stubble there.
âWords, Hux,â Poe breathed, reaching up to grasp his hand in his own, bringing it to his lips instead. His dark eyes bored into him, waiting, expectant.
âYes, alright.â Hux shivered as Poe sighed against his fingertips, eyes dropping down as he turned Huxâs palm over and pressed his cheek into the cup of it, his own hand cradling Huxâs as if it were something very precious.
âStars I love your hands.â Poe nuzzled into his palm like a cat seeking affection, and Hux marveled at how sensitive he was here, the juxtaposition of the scratch of his stubble and the gentle soft cradle of his hand. He felt trapped, in the most wonderful way possible.
When Poe dropped a kiss to his inner wrist, Huxâs breath stuttered in a sharp inhale, and when Poe turned that kiss into a tiny nip, teeth a bared pressure against the skin there, Hux let that breath go in a wavering whimper. Poe grinned into his skin, warm and eager, and then laved the area with a hot wet tongue, soothing over a bite that had not hurt, drawing a sound out of Hux he had no idea had been hiding inside him.
But then Poe pulled away, his grip on Huxâs hand flexing as he entangled their fingers. Poeâs free hand reached up and smoothed down his arm to do the same with his other, capturing both and holding Hux still as he leaned into his space. The heat of him rolled over Hux, his presence pulsing into him through proximity alone, as if he were an exposed nerve ending come too close to the sun.
Voice low and thoughtful, Poe said, âDo you know how much I want you?â
A shudder rolled through Huxâs body at Poeâs words, and he could not help it when his eyes slipped shut. Images of what Poeâs want entailed consumed him, visions and sensations assaulting his imagination in a series of broken clips, memories yet to be made but which Hux felt he had already lived. He was suddenly, irrevocable hard, and the intensity of his arousal took him aback, so that he was left struggling just to breathe.
âBreathe, Hux, youâre alright,â Poe laughed into the space between them, not mocking, but affectionate, a gentle tease at how overwhelmed Hux had become over simple words and a tender touch. âIâm sorry if this is too muchââ
âNo, Iâmââ Hux choked on his words, panicked as Poe drew back, afraid he would stop, afraid he would be abandoned like this, halfway undone, the pieces of him spilling apart because Poe was all that was keeping him together. And in this panic, he felt the knot in his throat uncoil, released in a flood of words.
âIâm alright. I want this. I just donât know whatââ Hux broke off, strained at what he was trying to put voice to, of how to admit to this man that he had very little experience, that he wasnât even sure what it was he wanted, or what it was he liked. ââtouch me, please.â
âI will,â Poe affirmed, and here his voice wavered too, struck through with an emotion that left Hux shivering. âBut I want to know what youâre okay with. I donât want to hurt you, even on accident, do you understand that?â
âYes,â Hux breathed. âYes, I understand.â
âOkay. Good. Thatâs good,â Poe broke off, shifting his weight against Hux as he brought their hands up between them, retaining his hold as he stroked his thumbs over his knuckles. âYou donât have to answer this with words, but if Iâm reading you wrong just tell me. You donât have much experience with intimacy, is that right?â
Hux nodded, confirming Poeâs suspicions and thankful he didnât make him explain himself. A life like his did not leave room for relationships, and an upbringing like his did not allow space for him to explore the parts of his sexuality that had laid dormant for so long. But Poe offered no judgement, instead he leaned into Hux, released a hand so he could stroke his own along Huxâs jaw, drawing him closer.
âIf I do anything you donât like, will you tell me?â The words were murmured over Huxâs mouth, and he breathed them in, drank in what they meant.
âYes.â The word left Hux in a whisper, and along with it the last of the walls he had built, the lion brought down by a mouse.
When Poe kissed him, it felt as if the maw of the world split open and swallowed him whole.
Poeâs lips were soft, warm and supple, moving over Hux in a yielding caress so that he could match him, could move along with him, at a pace he could control if he chose to. Hux chose not to. He submitted to Poeâs kiss in a way he had never submitted to anything before in his life, and it was like letting go of something inside him that no longer served a purpose â some archaic thing that had long ago become obsolete, a glitch in his code, now restored to order.
Hux felt himself unravelling, consumed by the feelings swelling to life inside him â need and relief in equal parts and then something he couldnât name but felt so much like belonging. His breath hitched into the kiss, and he pressed a shaking hand to Poeâs chest to tangle his fingers into the worn fabric of his shirt, anchoring himself in this moment, suddenly so afraid it would end, would be swept out from under him and taken away in the cyclone of structure and purpose that he had lived his life in service to.
When Poe pulled back it was only the fraction of space needed to give Hux room to breathe. He felt the air coming quick and shallow, the race of his pulse and the pressure building in his throat coalescing into a soft wavering moan.
âStars, HuxâYouâre alright.â Poe stroked his fingers along Huxâs jaw, so soothing, a gentle touch paired with gentle words that Hux had never before known. Both thrilled him as much as the kiss had. And then Poeâs lips were against his again, nudging them apart, and it felt like a door opening inside him, of which only Poe had a key. He wasted no time. Poe licked into Hux, sliding along his tongue, curling over and under, a slow mapping of him that left Hux raw and shaking, gasping against the seal of Poeâs mouth, consumed by this tender visceral assault.
And then Poe shifted closer, sliding his thigh fully between Huxâs, the muscled girth of it spreading Huxâs legs wide, and he trembled. âThis okay?â Poe asked even as he moved against Hux, hands traveling down his sides to settle on his hips, holding him steady as he pressed his thigh into his erection.
Hux made a sound, broken and keening. Poe answered him with a low moan that burrowed inside Huxâs chest and settled deep.
But the touch was fleeting, just enough to leave him shaking. Again, a suggestion, an offering, an idea Hux could choose to pursue. He wanted it. His shoulders curled away from the wall as his body chased the sensation. Words, Hux.
âYes, yes,â Hux breathed. Trembling fingers twisting tighter into the fabric of Poeâs shirt, desperate for purchase, as he sank his own weight onto Poeâs thigh in search of that pressure again.
âYeah?â Poe met him there, holding him fast and showing him what to do. âHereâlike this.â And then he was guiding Hux against him, hands on his hips â gentle rolling motions that brought them together in a slow undulating rhythm. Hux pressed his lips together, tried to hold back the sounds that wanted to come out, but his effort was futile. A long low moan spilled out of him, cutting off into a gasp as Poeâs thigh pressed just right, sliding against his erection with a delicious friction.
âStars, Hux, thatâs good.â Hux clutched at Poe, giving himself over to this thing between them, trusting Poe as heâd never trusted anyone before.
They moved as one, Huxâs hips stuttered against Poeâs thigh, their lips brushing together in a hot open mouth kiss. The tight grip Poe had on his hips was a welcome pressure, his thumbs pressing into the soft divots of his pelvis, following the muscle there in a slow deep caress. Hux didnât know what else to do with his hands but grip at Poeâs shirt, using the leverage to pull Poe into him with every forward motion, his only anchor in this storming squall of sensation.
It was so much, almost too much, that Hux had to break away from their kiss lest he be swept away entirely. His face was feverishly hot, he could feel the blood pooling high in his cheeks, low in his pelvis, every point of contact a singing source of overstimulation, heady and decadent and rich like a too fine wine. And as he turned his cheek to the cool wall, back arching to press his pelvis to Poeâs, he felt Poeâs erection slide against his own. Oh, ohâ
Hux nearly came apart then, felt himself plateau at the edge of something he could almost reach out and touch, body strung tight like a shipâs sail in a storm. Poeâs reaction was quick, his hands pushing Huxâs hips away, his shoulders pressing in close to pin Hux to the wall.
âFuck, Huxâ Youâre too close,â He gasped into Huxâs chest, forehead pressed to his shoulder, thigh still between Huxâs but no longer rubbing against him. âWe shouldnât do this here. Youâre gonna be mad when you realize weâre in a janitorâs closet.â
âWhat are youââ Huxâs eyes flew open and he looked at something that wasnât Poe for the first time in what felt like ages, and saw shelves of cleaning supplies, chemicals and buckets and rags and even a powered down protocol droid in the low ambient light of the room. A janitorâs closet, they were in a janitorâs closet.
A long sad sound escaped his throat as he felt himself ground back into reality in a violent crash. Poe was pressed against him, face buried in his neck, hands still gripping his hips, and Hux could feel the breathy puffs of air against his skin as Poe laughed.
âYou think this is funny?â Hux clutched Poe to him, but he could feel himself fighting his own urge to devolve into a manic mirth â fighting the urge to scream.
âLaughing keeps me from crying, Hugs.â And though Poe said it like it was a joke â and maybe it was, right then and there â Hux heard the ring of truth in his words. It tugged at something inside Hux, his own memories of Poeâs grinning guileless face and deep chuckles subverted with the question of what that all hid, because Poe was so much more than the plucky pilot hero the Resistance painted him as.
A small emotion toiled away in the pit of Hux, an affection that had nothing to do with lust or desire or want, and everything to do with the man in his arms.
âI promise,â Poe murmured into his shoulder, âIâll make this up to you, Hux.â
âIâll hold you to that.â Hux untangled his hands from Poeâs shirt, smoothing them up over his shoulders to touch his face, drawing Poeâs eyes up to meet his, âPoe.â
The light caught Poeâs eyes as they stared into Hux, wide with surprise and something else that spilled from Poe in waves, made his hands tug Hux closer and his mouth find his again in a simple sweet caress.
âArmitage,â Poe breathed his name over his lips like it were something forbidden â a prayer, a promise â and then he grinned into him, beaming and bright and so much more than what Hux deserved.
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Notes:
I'm weak trash and not above begging for comments â„
Chapter 5: Armistice
Notes:
Y'all, we've reached smut and it's obscene with feels. I don't even know where it begins and where it ends. Enjoy?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The speeder had been a gift from his father.
Back after, well, after she died, Kes had gone ahead and convinced himself that the solution to his and Poeâs grief was a project â and that had been the birth of Chirrup, a swoop style jumpspeeder that had been more spare parts than vehicle when Kes had hauled her home one afternoon.
Theyâd spent the summer stripping her down to the frame, flushing the air brakes, cleaning out the exhaust system, replacing carbon brushes, reinforcing the armor with a layer of liquid durasteel, and overhauling the fuel system to run off a smart converter that allowed Poe to adjust for most any type of liquid compound available. Theyâd put days and weeks and months of their lives into the restoration, the tears they would have shed for Shara redirected to mourning the newly rebuilt LT engine which blew a head gasket the first time they gassed her up; and again when Poe accidentally swapped the wires on the speed controller and had spent all of 30 seconds in an out of control tail spin that only ended after he collided with a tree.
Eventually, the speeder earned her name; Poe and Kes transforming her into a small spunky jounce of a ship whose custom engine trilled in song when she flew â chirrups â as Kes had called them, and thus Chirrup was born. Poe had spent the better part of his teen years exploring Yavin-IV on the back of Chirrup, beating his friends in reckless late night pod races Kes turned a blind eye to, and then later she saved his ass more times than he could count during his spice running days. Theyâd spent time apart during his Naval career, but were reunited again when Poe left to join the Resistance. Kes had insisted Poe take her along, explaining that the Resistance needed whatever ships they could get, though Poe suspected it was more that Kes didnât have the heart to watch Chirrup rust away in the garage, alone and forgotten, because what use did Kes have for a wild swoop speeder?
And it reminded him of her.
Capping the newly bled brake line, Poe called up to BB-8, âGive her some gas BB!â And smiled as the trilling whir of her engine purred to life. The speeder lifted off, hovering over the floor in a gentle buoyant bounce, the edges of her trembling with the need to fly. Then BB hit the air brake and her nose dipped, the negative propulsion panels fanning out wide like an insect unfurling its wings. Perfect.
âThanks BB, sheâs lookinâ good.â BB-8 whooped in response, just as excited as Poe to see Chirrup alive and singing again.
Sliding out from beneath the engine compartment, Poe climbed to his feet and took a moment to run a hand along the shielding covering Chirrupâs durasteel housing. She would need a new paint job soon, the twenty-year-old orange and gray paint flaking enough to expose the primer underneath, but her bones were solid, her engine strong, her seals tight. Poe smiled to himself, lost in the memory of her, of a time in his life when everything felt so simple â thought fondly of the possibility that he might return to that simple sweet life again, one day, maybe sooner rather than later.
And when Hux entered the hangar bay, the strap of a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, steps quick with a haste to cross the room before the engineering team and flight crew took notice of him, Poe added him to the daydream of his thoughts â imagined what that simple sweet life might look like with Armitage Hux by his side.
âHeya,â Poe greeted Hux with an easy swagger. Leaning his hip against the speeder and folding his arms across his chest, he eyed Hux up and down as if seeing him for the first time. All things considered, he entertained the idea that he wasnât that far off the mark, because Hux stood before him bereft of his uniform, dressed down in the training fatigues that had come out of that treasure chest of his. The clothing hugged him in a natural way that left Poe breathless: ribbed shirt sleeves pushed up to expose his pale forearms, pants slung low on his hips, held in place by nothing but the elastin waistband. And his red hair hung loose, just a little bit of pumice to keep it from falling into his eyes, which were focused at some spot on Poeâs face but not his eyesâ
âDameron,â Hux said, snapping him out of the tangent of his thoughts, hand held aloft to tap a finger against his own cheek, âYou have something, right there.â
Poeâs face alit with a smile and he took a step towards Hux. Eyebrow raised, completely ignoring the grease on his cheek that was causing Hux such discomfort, he savored the twisted expression on Huxâs face as he imagined his internal struggle to not reach out and wipe Poeâs cheek clean himself. âDid you bring everything you need?â
Huxâs frown deepened, eyes finally meeting Poeâs in an accusing glare, âHow am I to know what to bring when I donât even know where weâre going?â
âWeâre not going anywhere,â Poe laughed, âWeâre just going, so you bring what you need.â
âYouâre not making sense, Dameron.â
âYouâll understand when we get there.â The grin split his face.
âNow youâre talking in circles.â The grip Hux had on the duffle strap looked like it might have strangled something living. Poe laughed, loud and easy; he couldnât contain himself in the face of Huxâs unrestrained frustration. Several of the mechanics looked their way and Poe caught the stares, noticed the way they lingered on Hux, then slid to him. Poe met their eyes over the line of Huxâs shoulder, a challenge each turned away from, and he was glad Huxâs back was to them so he did not have to see.
Huxâs discomfort at being caught out of his uniform was already well established. That he was unused to being dressed down to the point of such casual efficiency would only be exacerbated if he knew people were staring. No matter that Poe suspected their stares had less to do with what Hux was wearing and more that the two of them were there together â openly honest with their intentions to take leave together.
But, Poe had insisted Hux forgo decorum and change before heading out because there was no way he was going on a speeder ride with Hux in that uniform. Not unless he wanted to spend their three days camping playing nurse for Hux after another round of heat stroke.
Well, maybe the idea wasnât completely terribleâŠ
Poe finished the final flight safety checks, the same ones heâd been performing on Chirrup for the last two decades, going through his mental list and ticking off each in a habit that was more ritual than mechanical. Poe didnât treat any of his other ships with such mindful care, but Chirrup was different, and the safety checks were a leftover remnant of a period of time that had crafted Poeâs love for flying. Hux followed along from a distance, watching Poe with a keen interest. His eyes trailed the delicate motions of Poeâs fingers over the instrument panel, the intentional way he adjusted the tail fins so they laid just right across the rear thrusters, the way the palm of his hand drew along the smooth swell of her seat.
Sheâd carry two comfortably â a feature his father had insisted on that, at the time, so long ago, a younger Poe had thought unnecessary. Now Poe admired his fatherâs foresight, promised to thank him later, would make a point of it, now that he could allow himself the space to envision what his future might hold.
Poeâs eyes slid back to Hux, again imagining what that future might look like with him in it â held the idea close, careful and protected in the harbor of his heart.
âReady to head out?â Poe asked as he took the duffle from Hux, stowing it away beneath the seat along with the supplies heâd gathered.
âI still canât quite believe youâve managed this,â Hux muttered as he kept close to Poeâs side, âItâs irresponsible, leaving at a time like this.â
âWhy? We deserve time off as much as the next person.â Poe secured the cargo latches, making one last mental check of their supplies. âThe base can get on without us for a few days. Believe me, theyâll never notice weâre gone.â
Hux eyed him warily, âOrgana didnât seem to think so.â
âLeia was more concerned she was losing you rather than me, so yeah, maybe youâre right.â Poe grinned at Hux, turned around to lean back against the speeder, hand reaching out to take hold of Huxâs own and pulling him a step closer. âI leave you alone for two weeks and youâre already running the place.â
Hux stood stiff, staring down at their joined hands, before his eyes slid off to the side, eying the busy hangar beyond. âNot here, Dameron. Someone will see.â
âYeah? So let them.â Poe rubbed circles into Huxâs fingertips. He was still wearing those gloves, Poe found he didnât mind so much, it just meant heâd get the opportunity to take them off, later.
A blush was creeping across Huxâs nose, so Poe knew heâd reached his limit. He released Huxâs hand with a gentle squeeze and watched as Hux pulled it in close, cradled it against his stomach, fingers curling in to rub together, mimicking the motions that Poeâs own had pressed into them. It occurred to him that Hux didnât realize what he was doing. Poeâs heart tugged itself into a skipping beat.
Still, Hux continued, âYou have a reputation to uphold.â
âReputation?â Poe laughed, incredulous, âWhat, gotta stay available so everyone keeps thinking theyâve got a chance? You donât think the Resistance can recruit people without my beautiful single self?â
âYou certainly hold yourself in high regard,â Hux deadpanned, but Poe saw the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, returned it with a grin of his own. He didnât push the issue, because Poe suspected Hux understood the deflection â that he wouldnât hear of how Hux thought his proximity would tarnish Poeâs clout with the Resistance, with the New Republic, with his friends and family and comrades and strangers.
Starkiller. Poe heard the whispers still, said under breath in passing, tainted as much with fear as disgust. He could only imagine how it all weighed on Hux, and how he couldnât imagine sharing that weight with anyone else â especially not Poe, the hero of the Resistance. But Poe would take on what he could and alleviate the rest by being a constant reminder that Hux was not that single faceted villain the Galaxy had painted him as, no matter what people whispered.
âLetâs get out of here,â Poe breathed, voice low, private, for Hux only.
They left the base behind, Ajan Kloss unfolding before them in a rolling scenescape of emerald jungle and cloud painted sky. The early-morning light dappled the forest floor, setting their way alight in a shifting sparkle of sunbeam and shadow. Poe followed a well-worn path he had discovered months ago, hedging the edge of the jungleâs shrub line where the ground become less swamp and more solid, though not yet swallowed by the denser foliage.
Despite how Ajan Kloss might appear from the comfort of the base, she was not nearly as savage nor wild as her reputation might lend her. In fact, Poe suspected that whatever former civilization had cultivated her lands had done so from a place of comfort. He and Chirrup had traveled across hundreds of kilometers of her surface and discovered evidence of her former life: a tameness in the treeless meadows that bespoke a deforesting project that had spanned thousands of acres of her surface â innumerous overgrown canals that still to that day irrigated mountain runoff through fields of tall swaying grasses, supporting an ecosystem of flora and fauna that had very few apex predators larger than your typical loth cat â and then there were the ruins, tall formless structures that had wasted away with the passing of the seasons, their memories lost to the sundown of time.
Contrary to what heâd told Hux, Poe did have a destination in mind. The mountains to the south stretched as far as the sea, terminating in a sharp cliff side that held the open ocean at bay. Poe supposed if anywhere on Ajan Kloss lived up to its savage reputation it was her ocean. The white capped water that crushed over the sea walls held creatures Poe didnât have names for. Poe hadnât understood what heâd seen, that first time â thought it were the shadow of a passing cloud rather than the massive gliding form of a living creature â but then they kept appearing, large and shadowy beneath the swelling waves, skimming the surface in a tease of the senses.
But it wasnât just the sea creatures Poe wanted Hux to see, but also the cascading mountain waterfalls, the cool swimming ponds fed by the ice capped peaks, the steaming hot springs warmed by the still active magma hidden deep beneath the surface crust â all surrounded by the jungle majesty of Ajan Klossâs mountain range.
Chirrup trembled beneath Poe, fighting against his careful maneuvering as he picked his way through the trees and gave Hux time to adjust to her handling, and adjust to riding passenger behind Poe. By the way his hands gripped Poeâs waist with an unwavering tenacity, Poe could only guess riding second on a speeder was not something Hux was accustomed to.
Throwing a glance over his shoulder but only seeing a mass of whipped up red hair â Hux had buried his face in Poeâs shoulder â he shouted, âYou doing okay back there?â The trill of Chirrupâs engine almost drowned out his voice, but Hux heard him, lifted his head and leveled a glare at Poe.
âYou pilot like a maniac!â Hux shouted into his ear, voice hitched up high and panicked and Poe laughed, dodging around a tree trunk that was nearly half as wide as the Falcon. Shifting the speeder into a lower gear as the terrain before them slipped down in a gentle decline, Poe skimmed the line of foliage along a short drop off into a creek bed as the valley the base was built at the edge of swallowed the jungle whole.
âItâs the terrain, weâll be out of this swamp soon, then youâll see what she can really do.â
âThatâs not what I meant, Dameron!â Huxâs hands had crept further around Poeâs waist, pulling on Poe as he tried to shift their weight back out of the steep decline. Huxâs body was stiff with a rigidity that bordered on dangerous when it came to riding speeders. As much as Poe wanted to savor the death grip Hux had on him, he could nearly taste Huxâs fear as his breath hit his ear hot and fast â and Chirrup was fighting against him, upset at the unbalanced weight and lack of speed.
âYa gotta trust me, Hux,â Poe cajoled, those words becoming ever familiar, âLean into me, try to follow the way I move my body weight, itâll make you feel safer, I promise.â
Hux made a snuffing sound into his ear before burying his face into Poeâs shoulder again, but Poe could feel when his body relaxed. He took Poeâs advice at face value and pressed against him from hips to shoulder, mimicking Poe when he leaned forward, weight moving over Chirrupâs tapered nose.
âThatâs better!â Poe shouted, âIâm gonna turn up here, follow my lead, okay?â
The only response Poe got was the clutching of Huxâs hands at his stomach. It would have to do.
When Poe leaned into the sharp turn his center of gravity shifted along with his hips, following Chirrup into the angle she liked best while his shoulders counter-balanced his weight over her outside leading edge. Hux followed along, stiff and clutching, but trusting, giving himself over to Poeâs lead despite what his instincts might otherwise be. They leveled off into a smooth run, Chirrup stabilizing beneath them as naturally as if it were just Poe and her alone. âThatâs perfect Hux, youâve got this!â
Suddenly, they emerged from the forest fen in a burst of light and open air. Before them stretched an expansive meadow. Blossoming tall grass rolled in waves with the breeze, the sun alighting their feathery floral tips in a sparkling dance of color. Immediately, Chirrup pulled forward underneath him, sensing the even terrain, the open air around her, demanding.
âHold tight, here we go!â
As soon as he felt Huxâs hands tighten on him Poe opened Chirrup up, giving her the space she needed to fly.
She jumped forward in a burst of speed, accelerating into a pace that left even Poe breathless, sailing over the grasses, displaced energy parting a sea of delicate blossoms to leave a cyclone of pollen and petals in their wake. Chirrupâs engine whirred into a gentle trill that settled deep in Poeâs chest, a familiar song Poe knew by heart, could hear during those quiet times when his mind was calm and thought was a distant abstraction â A reminder of all the things good and right with the world.
Poe couldnât help it when he let out an excited whoop â encouraging Chirrup forward, leaning lightly over her nose as he directed her towards the western edge of the meadow. Hux clutched at him, less desperate now, but just as resolved, arms wrapped tight around his waist and face turned into Poeâs neck so that he could feel his mouth there, against his pulse, hot and moist and thoroughly distracting.
But they were approaching the edge of the gorge, the same one that the base was built along. It switched back south as it followed the natural path of the dried riverbed which had once been fed by the mountains that were their destination. Here, the sky swallowed the view, the gorge dropping out into the valley floor where the jungle sprawled unchecked â colors fading into a muted saturation as the morningâs fog settled over the jungle canopy. Only the tallest of the trees broke through the dense mist, the distant mountains parting it like ships in a sea.
Poe pulled them into a coasting slide, trailing the edge of the gorge as closely as he dared. The sun was chasing the heavy fog into an evaporating breath up along the gorge wall, spilling mist over the edge they approached, curling around Chirrupâs stabilizers, making it seem as if they were flying through the clouds themselves.
âOpen your eyes, Hux.â
Poe felt it when Hux hesitated, then pulled away, leaving his neck cool and damp in the absence of his touch. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as Hux turned towards the valley, saw in the way his eyes widened and his mouth slackened when it all settled into him, felt when Huxâs hands relaxed their hold and then clenched tighter than ever before, âOh.â
Poe laughed, wild with adrenaline, âItâs beautiful, right?â
Hux nodded his head, words lost, gaze roaming over the sight then flickering to Poe, a carefully exposed childlike wonderment in his expression that left Poe breathless and yearning. Huxâs innocence struck Poe with the force of a fist, punching a hole into his chest and letting spill the contents of his heart. It was as if Hux had never taken a moment to slow down and admire the beautiful things in the world, the simple wunderkind ability of nature to outdo itself by virtue of life alone.
Poe slowed the speeder, giving Hux time to take in the view and time for him to gather himself back together, suddenly overwhelmed by the feelings roiling away inside. Gladness and guilt warred against one another as Poe struggled with the idea of Huxâs naivety and who had stolen the child from this man, because it was evident Hux was missing some vitally pivotal experiences that people like Poe took for granted.
For the first time ever in his life piloting Chirrup, he activated her autopilot, releasing the controls to her internal systems so he could slide his hands over Huxâs where they were settled on his waist. He pulled Huxâs arms further around him. Leaning back into his chest and turning his head so he could admire the view alongside Hux, Poe found the closeness they shared reached far deeper than this physical touch. Hux pressed against him, arms tightening as his fingers twisted into Poeâs shirt, head dropping alongside Poeâs, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.
The embrace was gentle and easy, comfortable in a way none of their encounters had yet been â comforting, but not in a sad way â familiar, Poe decided â steeped in unspoken understandings.
âArmitage,â Poe murmured as he trailed his fingers over the bared forearms wrapped around him, still becoming accustomed to the word, Huxâs name. âArmitage.â
If Poe looked heâd see the blush creeping across Huxâs nose, pink and slightly blotchy, but Poe pushed on, âArmitage Hux.â
Hux made a sound, smothered it in Poeâs hair, âThat is my name, Dameron.â
âYeah,â Poe breathed out, âI like saying it. What happened to Poe?â He teased, reached a hand up to trail fingers through Huxâs hair, encouraging him closer, turning up to meet him, exhaling a sigh into the space between them.
âPoe,â Hux whispered and Poe could feel the brush of air over his lips, only separated by the distance of a breath.
The kiss was inevitable, had been waiting for its moment for what felt like longer than the very span of time itself. Still, it came slow and sweet, a quiet undoing that left them both grasping for one another. Poe hummed into it, the fingers in Huxâs hair holding him in place as he took the time to commit the sensations to memory. Huxâs lips were soft, pliable against his, parting slightly with each inhale, sipping at the air they shared. It was almost lazy, passionate only in the way Poeâs heart fluttered in his chest, in the way Huxâs arms held him close, trembling at the edge of a withheld yearning. Poe reveled in it, smiled against Huxâs lips and tugged at Huxâs hair as he licked up at him, requesting a deeper permission which Hux was quick to give.
Poe kept the kiss just as slow, just as easy, licking more at Huxâs lips than inside his mouth â tracing the cupidâs bow of his upper lip, following it into the delicate creviced corners and around and around again. Hux moaned against him, mouth open and slack, voice thick with emotion. It prodded something deep inside Poe, a want heâd been happy to nurse below the surface, but now spilled out of him with a desire he could not contain. Hux cut off with a gasp when Poe turned in the seat, pulling out of Huxâs embrace only long enough to swing a leg over the cushion, reversing his position so they faced one another.
âDameron! The speederââ
Poe cut him off with another press of his lips, pulling away enough to assure, âItâs okay, sheâs got autopilot, trust me.â And then he hooked his hands under Huxâs knees and lifted them over his thighs, pulling Hux into his lap. Hux cried out softly against his mouth, arms coming up over his shoulders and holding tight as his balance was precariously shifted. Poe held Hux steady, his hands on Huxâs waist firm and soothing, rubbing up and down his sides in reassurance. âThink we could fuck like this? Could be fun.â
âPoe!â Incredulous, Hux gasped against his lips, but Poe felt the way he submitted, how he gave himself over to Poe as completely as he had yesterday, as he had so many times before, as Poe hoped he would continue to do. Poe silenced him with a kiss, licking deep into Huxâs mouth, a slow thirsty taking that suggested something far more intimate. Hux whimpered, body now shaking, lost to Poeâs claim over him, this meticulously calculated seduction that Hux seemed happy to fall victim to.
Like Poe had brought them out there for a vacation.
âIâm gonna make this so good for you, Armitage.â
When Hux laughed into their kiss, it was Poeâs turn to unravel. The sound rooted in the pit of him, echoing through the far reaches of his simple existence, mind and body consumed by the sound, quaking free an emotion he hadnât felt ever before for anyone, not in his entire life.
âYouâre truly insatiable, Poe,â Hux pulled away to murmur. There was a coyness to his stare, his flush fully bloomed, head turned down but eyes lifted to meet Poeâs, lips spreading from a smirk to a grin â Hux transformed into something pure and beautiful then, his smile splitting his face open with an honesty that felt so much like a secret. Poe was lost to it, consumed, as taken as Hux was, just as lost, finally found â finally seen.
âArmitage.â
As the wind whipped by them, Chirrup trilling in a gentle sing song below, Poe kissed Armitage again and again. He captured his smile in the curve of his lips and kept it there, his alone â his secret to keep, for as long as Armitage let him â as long as forever.
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There were moments of Huxâs life that remained with him long after time had assuaged their physical bite. They lingered in the shadows of memories that came in the dark of his mind, filling the absent spaces left when thought abandoned him, when his mind was weakest. At first, the sleep aids he took helped, muted their insistence enough that Hux could find peace if he so chose. But eventually they evolved to haunt his waking thoughts, and Hux found their influence infecting his every action, his every decision.
Anxiety, he was told once, by a First Order medic who treated him after a particularly long span of sleepless nights, when the pills wouldnât work and his command began to suffer. Therapy had been recommended, and Hux had scoffed at the idea. Because by that point he had already placed the memories at the altar of his ego, convinced that the trauma of his past was the key to his future success.
Sometimes the memories took the voice of Snoke, sometimes Ren â but mostly it was the voice of his father that spoke to him in the dark of his mind.
His childhood had ended as abruptly as it had begun, a quick dying ember in a timeline that left no room for things such as friends, or family or love. Brendol was not a kind man, and he had no interest in raising a child. That Armitage, at the age of 5, still required a level of physical care Brendol was neither interested in nor equipped to provide, meant Armitage had been thrust into the shoes of Hux as soon as heâd been taken from Arkanis. He struggled to find his footing in his new life, much to the dismay of Brendol, whose beatings, at first a purely physical thing, came as a shock to Armitage, whose mother had never laid anything but a kindly hand on him.
His first year within the Order saw him suffering a series of abusive mentorships until he landed at the feet of Rae Sloane. At that time, she represented a savior of sorts. Armitageâs young mind connected her to a motherly figure if only because he didnât have the experience of life to view her as anything else. But the damage had been done, and his father resented Huxâs sudden favor in the eyes of Sloane, and the abuse had taken on a mental facet that had, in retrospect, likely caused far more damage than any physical beating ever could.
Pathetic boy, you âll always be utterly useless.
Sniveling child, stop your spineless crying.
Baseborn blood, my only mistake.
Armitage? Weak and sickly, I fear he âs a waste.
The words harried his every thought and action, leaving behind the roughshod edges of a man who had spent his life fighting tooth and nail to earn his place amongst his peers. Well after his death, Hux still found himself pursuing the goals his father had inspired within him: what had begun as the childhood desperation for a fatherâs approval, and then a teenagerâs determination to prove his fatherâs conceptions wrong, finally took form as an adult ambition that was as much about power for the sake of glory, as power for the sake of protecting the stability he had finally created for himself.
But now that his stability had crumbled and Hux found himself scraping the dredges of a life made of lies, searching for something, anything worthwhile, anotherâs voice was finding its way into his mind.
Youâre okay, Hux. Tell me what you need.
Donât worry, your secrets are safe with me.
I donât want to hurt you, even on accident, do you understand that?
Armitage, Armitage â Armitage Hux.
Hux held Poe Dameronâs words close, carefully, would continue to do so for as long as life allowed him to have them. Hux was no fool, he knew this would not last, could not â Hux was not the kind of person the world saw fit to bestow fortune upon. And this? Hux had not earned it, had in fact done enough in his time to ensure he never would. But his father was right about one thing â Hux was weak â and he was particularly weak to Poe.
So he would take what was given and give what he could, and he would prepare for the day it all ended, and he would not regret a single moment in between.
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The mountains surrounded them in broken peaks, rigid and reaching towards an open sky that spilled into a vast blue ocean. Hux stood at the edge, watching the white water crash against the cliff, likening what he saw to the Arkanis he remembered as a child. Where Ajan Kloss was bright and bold with life and color, Arkanis was sleepy, gray with gloom. But there was a likeness, a distant connection in the violence of the landscape, in the wild entropic cycle of degeneration that ate away at the countryside â a constant barrage of nature that held its habitants at mercy. Arkanis was never meant to be settled, just as Ajan Kloss had long ago out-suffered the sentient species that had once called it home.
But, Hux found he could appreciate the beauty Poe saw in it, if only for the enthusiasm he was so keen to share.
âThere, did you see it?â Poe was pointing at a shape barely formed beneath the crushing waves. Large and dark and shifting, Hux almost mistook it for a trick of shadow, but then there was a break in the waves, and he saw a creature beneath the surface. It was massive, easily the size of a small cargo carrier, gliding through the water with the grace of TIE. âDo you see it? Itâs huge! Right there.â
Poeâs arm was alongside his shoulder, his chest pressed into his back and a protective hand at his waist. Hux leaned back, just a little, just to feel. âI see it, what is it?â
âI donât know, but theyâre always here, every time I come. They stay below the surface. Once I saw eight together. I think they might come here to feed, or itâs their breeding ground. Thereâs probably more even deeper, we can only see the ones that approach the surface.â Poeâs excitement was contagious in a way that made Hux feel like a boy again. It was becoming on Poe, but Hux felt awkward when he found himself leaning over the edge to get a better look, curious to see if there were more, if there was something below that would give him a clue as to the nature of such a massive beast. Poeâs hand tightened on his waist.
âTheir food source is likely drawn to the warmer waters. The ocean would be deep here, and the deeper the water the colder it will be. Cold water does not sustain life as well as warm. We had creatures like this on Arkanis, we called them Niseag.â Hux had seen them once, from the viewport of the transport when fleeing Arkanis. The pilot had flown low over the ocean in an attempt to stay out of range of Rebel starship radar, which had been monitoring Arkanis's atmosphere for ships like his â ships escaping capture. Hux remembered the magical feeling of seeing the Niseag, as if he were an adventurer setting off on some grand journey. He had learned quickly thereafter that the gilded edge of adventure hid something far more sinister.
âArkanis? Thatâs where you grew up, right?â Poe had stepped around beside him, following Huxâs gaze over the cliff side. There was nothing but rock and crashing waves below.
âI lived there until I was five, yes.â
âDid you ever see a Niseag? Five is pretty young, not sure I remember much from when I was five.â
Too much. At least, enough for the memories to be painful because they were the happiest he had.
âI did, once.â Hux paused, considering what to reveal to Poe â not that he didnât want to share, but because he did not want to ruin this. Huxâs childhood was not a subject that lent itself to friendly conversation. âThey were sea predators. Arkanis oceans were dangerous, but luckily most of the wildlife was contained to them. The land masses were relatively safe.â
âYavin-four was the opposite. The jungles were the most dangerous parts. But it wasnât predators we had to worry about, it was the plant life. I learned as a kid what was and wasnât poisonous, but I had a friend who mistook a grenade spore for a Massassi fruit.â Poe paused, looked up at Hux. âHe died. We were pretty young then, maybe seven? It messed me up pretty bad, back then.â
Well, perhaps Poeâs childhood wasnât the entirely pleasant experience Hux assumed.
âWe should probably get back to camp. I want to finish setting up before the sun starts to go down. It gets a lot colder up here at night and the high altitude can make it difficult to get a fire going.â Poe stepped away from the edge, but the arm at Huxâs waist remained, a tether as if Poe thought Hux might step forward instead of back. âWe can come back later, if you want, maybe there will be more then.â
âNo wonder you have stayed single, Dameron. If stranding us on a mountainside is your version of a date.â
âWhatâ youâre not having fun yet?â Poe mocked affront, but the grin on his face assured Hux that he knew he was joking. âIt was either this or a fancy dinner on the Falcon. Chewie offered to cook, you know â I think he feels he owes you one.â
âSurely the Wookie is an enviable chef. I think you made the wrong choice.â Hux was not fooling anyone. He did not want to be anywhere else but here.
Hux followed the path Poe picked down the mountain, watching where his footsteps landed and mimicking his movements. Their camp was several hundred meters downslope, and the trek up had left Hux winded and dizzy. Altitude sickness Poe had explained when he sat Hux down and forced him to swallow a pair of pills and drink from his canteen. Hux suspected it was his lack of recent physical activity. Heâd managed nothing more than long walks around the base, and those were more mindless meandering than an attempt to exercise. But if Poeâs intent was to tire Hux out he was well on his way.
When they arrived back at the campsite the sun was hardly at it zenith, but still hours out from sunset. Poe had chosen a spot at the base of a trickling waterfall where a small wading pool edged up to another break in the mountain side â just one in a series of tiers that the water had carved out of the smooth gray rock. They were not so high up that theyâd gone beyond the tree line, and the camp was surrounded by a dense copse of large-leafed palms. It was their shed bark and branches that Poe was using to build a campfire at Huxâs feet.
Hux watched in satisfied contentment as Poe worked, enjoying the simple task heâd been assigned of re-hydrating packets of vegetables because it allowed him to pay more attention to Poe. There was a surprising deliberateness to the way Poe did things, as if he had an innate basic working knowledge of the world that allowed him to solve problems as naturally as if he had encountered them time and time again. Hux found the quality incredible attractive. That Poe was conventionally handsome almost seemed unimportant, but then he would do something like push a hand through his hair, bite his lip in concentration, or flash Hux that smile and he would be right back where he started â lost in thoughts of Poeâs mouth and hands and their burning echoing touches.
When a fire kindled to life, smoke and flames licking up a cone of branches Poe had spent a curious amount of time constructing, Poe reached over and playfully pushed as Huxâs leg, âHahâ and to think you ever doubted me!â
âDoubted you?â Hux watched the fire snap and flare into a tiny smoldering inferno. Heat crept up his legs as it consumed the kindling with a tenacious voracity and Hux pushed his chair away from the flames enough that the warmth felt pleasant rather than stifling. The fire would need larger fuel soon, if they planned to keep it going into the evening. âWhy would I doubt you?â
Poe laughed, shook his head, curls catching in the warm golden light of the fire, dark eyes capturing his. âI saw you watching me,â Poe stood from where he had been kneeling, brushing twigs and dust from his knees, raised an eyebrow. âUnless it was my dashing good looks that had you staring.â
Oh, heâs flirting. âAnd it if was? Your good looks, that is.â Hux set the packet of leafy greens aside next to his discarded gloves, craning his neck as Poe walked around behind him, his hand finding Huxâs hair and trailing through it. The touch was light, barely a brush, but Hux tilted his head into it and closed his eyes in hopeful invitation. Poe paused and pushed his fingers through his hair again, dragging gently along his scalp. Hux sighed, âThat feels nice.â The words escaped him before he could think, whisking out with his breath â Hux fought the blush rising to his face.
âDoes it?â A second hand matched the first, and Hux was lost. He leaned back so his shoulders rested against Poe. He was sitting in one of the collapsible chairs Poe had packed, and the height placed him right at Poeâs hips. If he turned his head, he knew what he would find. âWeâll have to explore this later.â Another gentle drag through his hair, Poeâs fingers tracing his part line. âHow about you tell me more about how handsome you find me.â
Poe moved away, the tingling trails his fingers left on Huxâs scalp shivering down his spine, rooting in his extremities. âI donât think you need your ego stroked, Dameron.â Hux was glad his voice sounded steady, because Poeâs glancing touch had left him all but trembling. âBut yes, you have perfected that dashing hero look. You even had a few admirers amongst the First Order, before you blew up one of our Dreadnaughts.â
âOh really?â Poeâs eyes lit up, catching Hux in a disarming intensity, âYou among them?â
âHardly,â Hux snorted, looking away, but he felt the blood finally rising to his cheeks. He had found Poe far more infuriating than attractive, back then â but his insistent flirting over their comms had certainly stirred unwanted ideas inside him.
Poe was grinning at him now, all teeth and something else that made Huxâs blush deepen. âYou mean to say you didnât go find some dark haired Order pilot and bring him to your bed, imagining he was me?â
Hux nearly swallowed his tongue, sputtering out a disgusted noise and throwing Poe a look that said Have you lost your mind?
âWhat, you expect me to believe casual sex didnât happen aboard the Finalizer?â Poe was laughing now, face turned away as he searched through his speederâs cargo compartment.
Hux wasnât naive. âPeople entered into relationships, if thatâs your question.â Poe shot back a look that said no, it wasnât. Hux sniffed, lips turning down in a frown. âCasual sex was not unheard of, but most kept their dalliances private.â
âAnd you, did you have any secret dalliances?â
âNo.â
âNot interested in anyone?â
âNo one was interested in me.â Brendol made sure of that. But as soon as the words left him Hux regretted the admission. Poe had paused in his task of unpacking their cooking supplies to stare at him, eyebrows raised, his disbelief plain.
âReally,â Poe's eyes wandered over him, and Hux imagined he could feel the path they took across his skin. âI find that hard to believe.â His words were soft, carefully executed, and Hux smothered down both the shame and the desire that were bubbling to the surface of his thoughts. âNow whoâs trying to get their ego stroked.â
Hux suddenly wished he could change the subject. âEven if the opportunity had arisen, I would not have pursued it. By the time I reached a status where I felt sex would not completely jeopardize the security of my position, there were few I would trust with any sort ofâŠcarnal knowledge, to put it plainly.â
Within the Order, sex was power. Maybe the Stormtroopers would get away with casual encounters amongst their ranks, but the command tract was afflux with rumors of sexual favors traded for privileges, for assignments and promotions â but also used to keep someone silent, to keep them under thumb. That Huxâs inclinations would have been utilized against him was left unspoken. But by the quality of Poeâs stare, Hux knew he was rending his words asunder, understanding the implications Hux had purposely left unsaid. He looked away, stared into the fire and swallowed down memories of a broken adolescence spent surviving a world of men.
âArmitage.â Hux started, Poeâs voice suddenly close, beside his ear. Poe had knelt down next to his chair, not touching, but close enough Hux could feel the ebbing weight of his presence. âIâm glad none of those fuckers got their hands on you.â
The possessiveness of Poeâs words consumed him, alit within him that yearning he was beginning to associate only with Poe.
âI recognize inexperience at my age is unusual,â Hux said the words delicately, because what else went unspoken was that Poe was anything but inexperienced, and Hux would have it no other way. âBut it is not for a lack of interest, or desire. I want you, in any way you will have me, if that needs clarified.â
âIâll never turn down hearing how much you want me,â That smile was back and Hux drowned himself in it. âAnd Iâm glad youâre sharing this with me. It means a lot. This wonât work without trust.â Poe reached for him then, and Hux met him half way. Giving Poe his hand so he could take his bare fingers in his own.
âI trust you,â Hux breathed, eyes dropping to watch as Poeâs fingers traced over his, memorizing the sensations. They were soft, tender strokes that reminded him of the way Poeâs hands had moved over his speeder â every touch an intention, seeped in a familiar care. That increasingly persistent want stirred to life inside him, and Hux hesitantly gave himself over to it. âWill you kiss me?â He risked a glance up at Poe, suddenly conscious of his own vulnerability, unsure if Poe would want to kiss right then, yet hoped he might.
But Poe reached for him with as much need as Hux himself felt, his hand warm where it cupped Huxâs cheek, steadying as Poe leaned forward to brush their lips together. Hux sighed into the gentle kiss, breath shaking with the exhale, filled with an emotion he couldnât explain. He liked Poeâs soft careful kisses, liked how they unwound him in a way that felt cathartic, releasing a deeply rooted tension Hux had struggled with his entire adult life. He liked the way Poeâs hand traced his jaw, how his fingers curled under his chin, stroked down his neck. He especially liked how Poe smiled into him, as if Hux were something to smile about.
But he also liked when Poe made Hux feel wanted with that more impassioned desire, the same that consumed him in the janitorâs closet â a desire that drove him to the edges of his physical body as confidently as Poe drove him to the edge of that damned gorge. Some wild understanding of how Hux worked, as if Poe already knew all the secret things inside him that Hux had hidden from the rest of the world.
The kiss morphed from a gentle amorous thing to something more fervent, Poe picking up on Huxâs subtle cues: the small sounds he made when Poeâs hand curved around the length of his neck, the stuttered breath when Poeâs fingernails dragged over the thin skin of his wrist. And of course the full body trembling that left Hux weak when Poe pushed his tongue into his mouth in a slow deliberate way, as if this were a different act, something far more intimate.
Hux pressed into Poeâs mouth, struggling against a whimper as he let slip his fantasies â imagining Poe above him, inside him, fucking him. He couldnât keep from making a sound then, as the fantasy overwhelmed him, and Poe responded by pulling away enough to ask, âNeed more?â
âYes.â Hux pressed closer as he breathed the word, wanting more â needing more â but unsure where to go from here. Poe seemed to be letting Hux set their pace, remaining restrained in a way that settled in Hux a slow blooming desperation.
Placing his free hand on Poeâs cheek, Hux held Poe against him as he chanced touching his own tongue against his lips. In a tentative careful exploration that mimicked what Poe had shown him, Hux pressed into his mouth. Poe opened to him with a low moan, tongue meeting Hux in an encouraging way, drawing him deeper. But it wasnât the same. Hux felt messy, graceless and inept as he moved against Poe, frustratingly unsatisfied in a way that made him feel panicked â because he needed to assuage these sensations inside him before they devoured him alive.
When Hux began to withdraw Poe captured his tongue in a gentle bite of his teeth. Hux gasped, taken aback. This careful domination, as if Poe knew Hux better than he did himself, knew what he needed, struck through him and left Hux shaking. Moving his hand from Poeâs cheek to curl into his hair, Hux held on as Poe angled his head and drew Huxâs tongue deeper into his mouth. Hux moaned, mouth falling open as he gave himself up, gave himself over.
It didnât last. Just as Hux felt his body come to life, Poe broke from the kiss with a nip at his bottom lip, teeth a delicious drag, the tongue that followed tender and soothing. Hux ached for Poe, ached for more. By the way Poeâs chest heaved and his breath caught Hux thought he might too. But Poe was giving them space to gauge their desires, to give Hux the option of deciding how far this would go. So when Hux whispered, almost begged, âDonât stop this time,â Poe understood, as Hux knew he would.
âStars, Hux. Is that what you want?â Poe said against his lips before pulling away to press his mouth to Huxâs jaw, tongue and teeth trailing a hot path up to his ear where he murmured. âI do believe I have something to make up for.â
The words dropped a weight onto Hux, smothering the air out of his lungs and leaving his breath hitching. He struggled to maintain enough composure to respond with, âAnd I did say Iâd hold you to that.â
Poe pulled away and grinned at him, and Hux decided then that Poeâs smile could never grow old. That he would be happy to die right then if it meant Poeâs smile was the last thing heâd ever see.
Their fingers were still entangled as Poe moved to settle on the ground before him, between his legs, his body forcing Huxâs knees apart. The fire lit Poe from behind, casting light in a halo around his head so that flames licked out around the broad expanse of his shoulders. If Hux didnât know better he might have thought Poe looked dangerous here, like something straight out of the fables he learned of as a child. But then Poe smiled that smile up at him, and Hux grounded himself in the open adoration he saw â found himself squeezing Poeâs fingers as if he could hold onto his affection by sheer force of will.
And when Poe brought Huxâs captured hand up to his lips, Hux could only watch as Poe did something with his mouth that put to rest any doubts he might have had about what it was he wanted.
Pushing a thumb between his first and middle finger, Poe held his eyes as he separated the two and slid his tongue into the gap heâd made, dragging up, slow and hot and wet, along the length of Huxâs fingers, pausing briefly to swirl around them before swallowing the two fingers whole.
âOh,â Hux breathed out, as the idea formed, solidified into a reality he could reach out and take, if he wanted. And how Hux wanted.
Poe pulled off with a wet sound, teeth replacing his tongue to drag at his fingertips, eyes smoldering up into Hux with a question that didnât need asking, because Hux already had an answer. Hux slowly, cautiously, pushed his fingers back into Poeâs mouth.
Poe moaned and Hux unraveled, both taken undone, brought to pieces at the altar of the other.
Poe proceeded to devour Huxâs fingers with a slow deliberate dedication. That Poe didnât break eye contact as he sucked at Huxâs fingers maybe should have made him feel self-conscious â but instead Hux found himself irrevocably enraptured. As much as Hux wanted to watch the way Poeâs lips pursed as he moved up his fingers â the way his tongue curled around the length of his forefinger before sliding into the gap heâd made with his thumb â the way Poeâs mouth sucked at him with a gentle constant pressure â it was Poeâs eyes that captured Hux. They held onto him with a tenacious demand, dark in a way that had nothing to do with their color, saying things to Hux with words he heard in the seat of his consciousness â words that had no form but held all the meaning of the universe.
Hux was shaking all over by the time Poe pulled off his fingers. He panted into the cooling mountain air around him, skin feverish with the desire coursing through him. Poe looked almost as shaken, his mouth pressed now into Huxâs wrist, tongue and teeth worrying at the skin there, burning fissures of fire through his nervous system, straight down into the heated pit of him. But it was still his eyes that set into Hux a profound desire. Poeâs heavy hooded eyes smoldered up at him with an intent, a plan, and Hux knew before the words left him what was coming.
âGonna suck your dick,â Poe rasped out, then quickly amended, âIf youâll let me. Please let me?â Stars, he sounded broken. And Hux laughed, because if Poe didnât suck his dick right then Hux wasnât sure heâd be alive for the next opportunity.
âYeah?â Poe was reaching for him now â not his waistband, as Hux thought he might â but Huxâs face. He pulled him down into a hard commanding kiss, pressing words into his mouth when he said âAre you gonna let me suck your dick?â And then proceeded to push his tongue into Huxâs mouth and take take take.
Hux could do nothing other than whimper his assent. But that wasnât enough for Poe, âGotta say it,â he demanded even as he stole the words from Huxâs tongue and the breath from his lungs.
âYes,â Hux finally gasped out, into, against Poeâs mouth â he didnât even know now. âPlease, yesâ Poe.â
They moved in tandem, desperate to reach a moment both had been dancing around for far too long.
Poeâs hands were hot as they moved over Hux, palms scorching trails of fire where they pushed up Huxâs thighs, pressing his legs further apart, thumbs curling into the tender junction where muscle met the flesh of his groin. Hux met him there, arched into the pressure, hips raising, suddenly feeling too hot, too confined, as if his clothes were suddenly too small, the air too heavy and Poe too far awayâ
âEasy, Iâve got you. Hands on my shoulders.â Poe eased him down, shifting his hands up to Huxâs hips and pulling them firmly forward, settling him on the seat of his chair. And though Hux reached for Poe, his hands grabbing purchase of his shirt, his skin and his muscle, it was Poe who grounded him, who held him steady. Hux was at the edge of something that was fast becoming familiar, and it was Poe who both brought him there and held him back from falling.
But Poe did not let him go, not yet. He pushed Huxâs hips down, tipped his head forward to touch their foreheads together as he looked down between them, eyes focused on Huxâs lap. Hux followed his gaze, saw himself through the stretch of his pants, a dark spot forming where the tip of his erection pressed into the gray fabric â wet where he leaked â and then one of Poeâs hands slid from his hip and inched its way towards that spot, and Poe said, brokenly âGonna touch you now.â And Hux almost cried with his consent.
When Poe touched him, Hux could only hold on as Poe pushed him right to that edge.
âFuck, Armitage, look at you.â Poeâs hand was large and hot, cupping him through the fabric of his pants, thumb smoothing over that dark wet spot. âFuck, youâre gorgeous. Do you even know how beautiful you are?â The words spilled from Poe unhindered, a string of compliments Hux didnât think he was worthy of but triggered reactions inside his body, little fiery trails of pleasure that coursed through his pelvis and culminated at a point deep in his groin. And when Poeâs hand smoothed up over the fabric, dipping into his waistband to wrap around the bare flesh of him, Hux could not give himself over any faster. He pushed into the touch, a long drawn out sound escaping his throat â obscene to Huxâs ears, but he couldnât stop it, didnât want any of this to stop.
That he wanted Poe to just take what he wanted left Hux shaken â a little scared â because it was true, he trusted Poe. And while everything else in his world had stopped making sense, this thing between them felt like the security heâd been searching for his entire life, and Hux didnât want to let it go.
âGonna make you feel good.â Poe was kissing him again, mouth moving over him, Hux swallowing his words with his gasps. Poe held Hux loosely in one hand, the other tugging at his waistband to slide his pants from his hips, just enough to free him completely, before settling on his hip. Poe again held Hux still, giving him a moment he didnât know he needed, mouth murmuring encouraging words Hux couldnât keep track of. He felt strung out, lost inside himself, his whole world honed into a hyper sensitive focus and all he could do was cling to Poe as he was held at his edge.
By the time Poeâs grip tightened on him Hux was shaking, his breath fluttering in his chest in time with his pulse. Poeâs fingerâs curled around the length of him and his thumb rubbed over his slit, gathering the precome and using it to slick circles into his skin. It nearly shattered Hux. He wasnât going to last, he was already too close, pushed past his limit by Poeâs words as much as his touch.
âPoe, I needâ please.â Hux felt moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes, his voice breaking over the words he struggled to get out. His hands hurt where they gripped Poe, holding so tight that he could feel his fingernails bite through the fabric of his shirt. âPoe, please, Poeâ"
âI know, gonna make you come.â The control in Poeâs voice trembled, nearly outdone by the desperate desire Hux felt mirrored in himself, but still Poeâs mindful consideration overrode all else. Hux drowned himself in the earnest concern, the care that Poe was determined to give him.
âYou trust me?â Poe asked, voice low with emotion, and Hux nodded because he couldnât find his voice anymore, but Poe understood, didnât force him. âThen donât let go.â Poe whispered the words against Huxâs lips and then he was leaning down, over his lap, swallowing Huxâs cock down in a single smooth motion, his hot tongue traveling the length of him, his lips a tight seal around him, his mouth a gentle sucking pressure.
Hux shouted. He heard it over the rushing sound in his ears, the cascading flow of blood from his head to his groin, the pressure and sensations coalescing into a fire that consumed every inch of him, but burned brightest where Poe swallowed him whole.
Hux wondered if he had come, because his body burned with the feeling of it, constant and consuming, one long drawn out nerve of over-stimulation. But then he felt Poeâs fingers around his scrotum, a firm tugging pressure, and he realized Poe had stopped him right at the edge of his orgasm, was holding him there yet still, and Hux could do nothing but trust as Poe manipulated him with the deliberate knowing motions of a man who knew what he wanted, knew what Hux needed, and had brought his body exactly there â dangling over that edge with nothing but Poe to hold onto.
Hux untwisted his hands from Poeâs shirt, moved them to instead twist into his hair, leaning down over Poeâs hunched form as he dropped his head and opened his mouth in a broken wavering scream.
Poe released him and he tumbled over the edge.
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âStill no mister or misses right to tell me âbout, son?â Kes always asked when Poe holoâd. It was a joke, almost, at this point, because after thirty-three years Poe had not brought a single person home to meet his dad.
But it also kept them from talking about the war. It kept Kes from having to hear about all the reckless ways in which Poe risked his life for the Resistance, all the lives he took for the sake of the New Republicâs safety. And it softened the edge of so many lost months when Poe couldnât holo. They both knew any one of their conversations could be their last, and neither wanted to spend it talking about war.
So Kes talked about Poeâs love life, and Poe suffered through the same conversation every call.
Poe knew Kes worried, though he never said so in words. Poe also knew Kes wanted Poe to be happy about as much as he wanted him to be safe. Not that anyone could truly be happy during a war, though Poe did a damned good job of playing the part. But Kes knew. No matter how many times the New Republic media machine plastered Poeâs smiling face across a holovid or recruitment poster, Kes saw right through it. His father knew him in a way no one else did, and he knew Poe wouldnât truly be happy until he had someone in his life to love.
âYouâve got a lot of love in you, kiddo. But you canât share it all with the world or itâll wear ya thin. You have to find someone who deserves it, who needs it. Someone who will give it back.â
Poe hadnât understood what that meant as a boy, less so as a young man. Love came easy, he found it everywhere, in everything and in everyone. What could be wrong with that? Why shouldnât he share his love with everyone? The world embraced his love, it made him friends and gained him opportunities, it sent him on adventures and brought him back alive â and he had no trouble finding lovers, when he felt inclined.
But as he grew older he found that those things which had been so simple and easy to love, they always faded. He had many friends across the galaxy, but none he would holo when he felt brought low. His charm had bought him opportunities that had propelled a successful military career, but then heâd abandoned it all for the Resistance, because he was still chasing an adventure that would feel fulfilling. And those lovers? Each of them burned out with a passion that could not sustain itself, a fleeting connection that always left Poe a little more empty, a little more defeated, until heâd finally stopped looking at all.
Until Armitage Hux.
Stars if his dad wasnât going to choke on his own words. What would Kes say when Poe brought home General Hux of the First Order? Hey dad! Remember what you said about finding the right person?
Because if there was anyone in the universe who deserved love, who needed it, it was Armitage Hux.
And Poe was positive Armitage Hux loved him back.
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Notes:
Chapter count has gone up because who actually writes a 4k blowjob? Apparently I do. Share your feels because I spent all mine writing this chapter.
On loop this time: "Atomic Number" by Neko Case, K.D Lang, and Laura Veirs
Chapter 6: Transmission
Notes:
Chapter warnings: Some more smut (hot spring trope guys, come on), also too much Poe POV, he just really took over this chapter. Is that a warning? Well it is now.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the far distance, Poe watched the contrail of a star cruiser cut a line through the dome of Ajan Klossâs atmosphere. There, high above the early break of dawn, the ship glittered in the sky like a jewel â a heavenly thing drawn down from the stars, chasing the dark of night as light teased into day. The morning was young enough that the air hung heavy and chilled over their sleeping pad, the sun a cool blue bath that peaked over the horizon, barely breaching the mist that crawled through the campsite.
And here was where Poe held a still sleeping Armitage in the curve of his arm.
Poe had slept some â enough â but heâd woken so many times in the night with a fluttering excitement that eventually he had lain awake, arms around Armitage, nursing the emotions that welled beneath the surface of his thoughts.
Poe was in love, and it was all he could do to contain it, to not go shouting it out to the universe in a klaxon call to celebration. Instead, he would save it all for Armitage, just like Kes advised, and Poe found he was okay with that too â wanted it more, had never wanted anything so much in his entire life.
Poe was in love, and it was all he could do not to wake the man in his arms and tell him over and over again, to not press the words into his mouth, his cheeks, his hair, his wrists and his hands. Because while Poe was sure Armitage felt the same, he wasnât so sure he understood those feelings â love was a foreign thing to Armitage, something read about in stories, heard about in holos. Armitage Hux was not a man who had loved, or a man who had been loved â of that much Poe was certain.
Armitage twitched in his sleep, a breathy sigh pushing past his lips as he shifted against Poe. Theyâd fallen asleep entwined together. Poe had insisted, last night. Had pressed into Armitage from behind, arms gathering him close, face buried between his shoulder blades, holding Armitage to the warm cradle of his chest and hips. A moment of hesitation, Armitageâs natural inclination towards distrust, had been short suffered â in fact, it had been entirely surrendered come dawn.
Because at some point in the night Poe had ended up on his back, Armitage having rolled over against his chest where his head and hand used him as a pillow, the rest of him pressed along the length of Poeâs side. It was close and intimate and entirely the doing of Armitageâs subconscious, and Poe had marveled at that, taken aback for only a moment, before he'd buried his face in Armitage's hair and breathed. He smelled of ozone and rain, sharp and organic like the taste of atmosphere after a storm, like something once dangerous brought to heel, now tamed and tempered. Poe memorized this, his scent, his warmth, the cadence of his breath, the thrum of his pulse, slow and even beneath the press of Poeâs palms. The intimacy of this, Poe knew it for the gift it was â a trust Armitage had never bestowed upon another, a giving up of the most guarded parts of himself.
And he had given that trust to Poe. He had given that trust to Poe in so many ways.
Poe smiled at the memory of last night, when Armitage had been worried he wouldnât be able to sleep â cuddling, heâd said with a sneer â but then heâd drifted off before Poe had so much as whispered goodnight.
And then he smiled at the memory of Armitage coming apart for him, coming for him, all breathy gasps and a wavering scream. It had taken all he had to not push Armitage further. To not pull him to the ground and open him up and take him right there in front of their campfire. Armitage would have let him, had looked at him after and asked, in that proper genteel accent, what he could do for Poe. And Poe had pressed soft careful kisses into Armitageâs mouth until his erection had receded enough and he could answer honestly, that he could wait until later â until next time.
There were going to be so many more next times.
Morning crept on, as slow and easy as Poe himself felt, and it was some time before Armitage began to stir. His eyelashes fluttered against Poeâs chest and when Poe slid a hand down his spine, he delighted in the half-aware moan it got. Armitage shifted into the touch, shoulders hunching as his hips rolled into Poeâs thigh. And then, altogether, Armitage stiffened, and Poe knew he had come fully awake.
âMorning beautiful,â Poe murmured the words into Armitageâs hair, nuzzling the nest of tangled red while he tightened the curl of his arm. He wasnât going to let Armitage get away that easily.
Poe felt the clench of Armitageâs jaw as he swallowed, voice raspy with sleep as he asked, âI slept like this all night?â
âAppears so,â Poe brought his free hand up to where Armitageâs was still resting on his chest, placed it over top, thumb slipping under his fingers to hold him there. âDonât move yet, this is way too nice.â
Poe counted his victories when Armitage relaxed against him. When his fingers curled over Poeâs thumb to return his hold, Poe outright grinned. And though Armitage remained quiet, Poe thought he knew why, and he wanted to give Armitage the space to examine his emotions without imprinting his own.
When he finally pushed up out of Poeâs hold â hand still on his chest, which Poe thrilled at â He leveled a look at Poe that nearly made him blush. Eyes half-lidded with sleep, folded creases pressed into his cheek, Armitage dragged his gaze over Poeâs body. From his eyes to his hips and back up again, where he settled into an eye contact that left Poeâs heart pounding. Still, Armitage remained quiet, though Poe could see the machinations of thought in his pale stare. He felt exposed in a way he wasnât sure he disliked â like Armitage could see straight into the depths of him and saw something worthwhile. Eventually Armitage made a sound, like a grunt, frown falling into place as he climbed to his feet.
âWell?â Poe propped himself up on his elbows, asking after Armitage as he picked his way across their campsite.
âWell what, Dameron?â Armitage didnât look back as he squatted by the dead fire, searching around until he found their canteen.
âHugs, you just took me apart with your eyes and then grunted at me. Ya gotta give a man some reassurance.â
âYouâre fine.â Armitage took a swig from the canteen, then turned his head to the side and spat the water out. âThere are worse people to wake up next to.â
âThereâs someone who would be better?â Poe mocked affront, because he saw the smile pulling at Armitageâs mouth. âIâm a stars given catch, Iâll have you know.â
âYouâre certainly good at getting caught, if thatâs what you mean.â
Poe pushed himself into a sitting position, eyes wide and tone indignant. âThat only happened twice. You only caught me twice.â
âThrice, if you count this.â And Armitage gestured between them before taking another sip from the canteen, this time swallowing. But Poe saw the affectionate mirth in his eyes, eyes which had met and now held Poeâs, and Poe couldnât stop the grin that split his face.
 âOkay. Three times, Iâll concede. You taking me back to the Order now or do I have time to brush my teeth.â
âBrush your teeth. Iâm not kissing you again until you do.â
Oh. He could do this. Poe could so do this.
Morning ambled on indifferent to the tide of time. Poe nursed a pot of caf that had long since grown cold as the sun crawled above the sparse tree line. Theyâd been lazy preparing breakfast, taking their time around the rekindled campfire, glancing touches against one another with no other excuse than they could. No one was around to see, no one was there to judge, and Poe took every advantage of these moments. He drew fingers over Armitageâs wrist when they reached for the same empty mug. He rubbed a hand across his shoulders when Armitage lifted his arms in a long graceful stretch. And though it was subtle, Poe caught Armitage doing the same â a touch to his knee, when Armitage sat down beside him â a breath against his neck, as Armitage leaned over to flick a bug from Poeâs shirt.
Armitage was far more refined in his seductions, and his brief touches sent Poeâs mind reeling, sent his heart fluttering â set his mouth smiling.
There was a comfortable ease to Armitage that Poe had never seen before. A vulnerability only in how he let down his guard enough for Poe to see him in such simple mundane ways. He liked the way Armitage brushed his teeth, precise little motions of equal attention over every tooth, ticking the seconds off in an analytical deconstruction of what was, for Poe, nothing but a mindless habit. And he like how Armitage steeped his tea, brows furrowed as the color changed, lips pursed in little testing sips until he deemed it perfect enough to deign drinking. Then there were the tiny neck stretches, little motions Poe caught Armitage performing between everything else, that Poe almost offered to help with, just for the excuse to get his hands on him.
But there was no rush. They had time. All the time in the universe.
When Armitage pulled out his codepad and began swiping through something on the screen Poe couldnât read, he wasnât sure if he should worry he was boring Armitage, but then he caught Poe staring and lifted the pad for him to see.
âIâve been updating Force, now that I can. Maybe I can test the changes out on you later. I need to see if the mechanics function as intended with theâŠaverage player.â
Poe placed a hand over his chest, expression pained. âAverage? Hugs, youâre gonna give me a complex.â
Armitage just smirked at him. âI sincerely doubt that, Dameron.â
âYou know I won a game against Phasma.â Poe hadnât said much about his mission to the Academy, but he had to claim bragging rights where he could.
âDid you now?â Armitage drawled as if underwhelmed, but Poe saw how his eyes lingered on him, how they moved over him. âThen I fully expect to be impressed later.â
Oh, shit. âIâm gonna wreck you, just you wait.â Poe knew his grin was feral, he could feel the way his face split.
Armitage finally had to look away when the blush across his nose went from pink to nearly red.
Tomorrow they would have to return to the base, and with it return to a life and responsibility that felt so easily escaped here â far removed from the Resistance and the First Order and all the constructs of a life tethered to their respective causes. That those causes had ever aligned in a tenuous truce, let alone an actual merging of sides â Poe was almost fraught with the guilt that any of this might have happened sooner. If all peace took was an empathetic understanding of your foe, of small moments of shared camaraderieâŠno, Poe knew it wasnât that simple. Nothing was ever that simple. But Armitage made it feel simple. When Poe looked at him, he still saw the First Order General â he saw Starkiller â but he also saw the man beneath it all, a man who did what he had to for a cause he believed in, a cause that had turned out not all that fundamentally different from the cause Poe found himself fighting for.
Peace, prosperity, a united galaxy.
That Armitage sought that path through order and technology and an indelible military strength, and Poe sought it through the melding of cultures and peoples and customsâŠthere had to be a middle ground. He knew there was. And maybe the two of them could be the key to finding that path together.
Or maybe he would steal Armitage away to that simple sweet life Poe had spent his life running from, maybe that was what the future held for them.
For now, Poe would steal a simple sweet kiss from Armitage â they could figure out the rest later, they had all the time in the world to figure out the rest.
Poe leaned over, fingers under Armitageâs chin as he turned his face up and brushed his lips over the bow of his mouth. It was soft, chaste, entirely familiar and at ease, but Poe watched as Armitageâs eyes fluttered closed, as his body drew all that much closer to Poeâs.
âGot something I wanna show you,â Poe murmured as he found Armitageâs hand and threaded their fingers together. The gloves were absent, his hands soft and exposed. Poe took all the advantage that offered him, âUp for another hike?â
Armitageâs attention was on Poeâs hands where they moved over his, thumbs finding the soft places between his fingers, nails drawing lines along his palms. âYou and your adventures,â Armitage murmured back. And then that danger was back, a storm churning in his eyes as his hands moved in Poeâs, twisting up to grab hold, guiding them to his waist, pressing them along to his hips. Poeâs breath caught, his cock stirring. âWe could stay here, we couldâŠwe could have sex.â
Stars. Poe was defenseless against Armitage, his words a critical hit, sweeping him off his feet, and Poe was falling. âYeah,â He breathed, âThatâs definitely an option.â
Then they were kissing again, open and hot. Poeâs fingers curled into the cradle of Armitageâs hips while his tongue carved a place for itself inside his mouth. Armitage let him, opened for him, drew him all the closer.
Then, he was pushing Poe away.
âHmm,â Armitage pulled Poeâs hands free, leaving him grasping at empty air as he slipped out of reach. âActually, a hike sounds nice, now that Iâve thought about it.â
âShit, Hugs.â Poeâs laugh was strained as he looked up at where Armitage now stood over him, expression entirely impassively poised. âSince when did you become a tease?â
âOh, Iâm the tease?â Poe closed his eyes as Armitageâs hand lifted to push into Poeâs hair in the same way Poe knew to be his nervous habit. But with Armitage it was bold and beautifully forward. âIf memory serves, itâs been you who has been teasing me for weeks.â Armitage was not gentle, he dragged his hand through Poeâs curls with a delicious friction.
âStars, I deserve this,â Poe laughed, then moaned, when Armitage pulled at his hair. Armitageâs hips were but a short reach away, if he leaned forward he could press his face into his crotch, nuzzle his way along the erection he knew heâd find there. âWhatever you want, just tell me.â
âAre you asking me to order you around, Dameron?â And holy shit, if he hadnât already been hard that would have done it.
âFuck, yes.â Poe opened his eyes, caught and held Armitageâs in a burning echo of his thoughts. From his vantage Armitage looked all the more imposing, all the sharp angles and long lines of his body betraying years of high command â even here, dressed in training sweats on an abandoned mountainside. Poe was into it, he was really into it. âAt your service, General, sir.â His voice dripped, sweet like honey.
Armitage looked away, mouth parted and cheeks pink, that unflappable control unraveling just a little before Poeâs eyes. His hand slipped from Poeâs hair. âA hike,â he barked out, the words staunched by a tightness in his throat that betrayed what it was Armitage actually wanted, âWeâre going on a hike.â
Poe scrambled together a meager mess of supplies â the bare minimum â because his mind could not focus on anything other than Armitage Hux.
The sun was cresting high in the sky as Poe led Armitage down the mountainside. Pale clouds collected in endless cumulus coifs of fluff, bathing them in a dense shade that provided almost cold relief from the glaring sunlight. Here, at the top of these mountains, under an overcast sky, Ajan Klossâs humid jungle temperament was eased by the bite of altitude. The sun shone warm, but the air turned cold with each passing breeze, nipping at Poeâs bared chest and collecting under the fabric of his shirt in a tenacious taking of his body heat. The sensation made him feel alive, beholden to the laws of nature that technology abstracted â things like gravity and a biology dependent upon air and atmosphere. Nature grounded Poe in the same way the stars inspired his dreams, reminding him of what was real and tangible, the slow things in life that were otherwise lost to the thrill of adventure.
And in that liminal space between the earth and the sky, the mountains captured Poeâs spirit. Whether they were the folded peaks of Ajan Kloss or Yavin-4âs soaring slumbering volcanoes, Poe found himself drawn to their heights â found a kinship in their reach for a distanced sky. Maybe, Poe thought, it was the same desire that drew him to flying â that whatever these mountains sought in an aborted yearning, Poe could reach from the cockpit of an X-wing. Heights had never scared him, not as a child and even less so as an adult, but it wasnât the thrill of danger that necessarily spurred him to pilot, but the freedom, the ability to reach places that seemed so unreachable â of chasing the impossible â of defying those very same laws of nature that held even a mountain at bay.
Maybe it was the same stuff inside him that made him chase after Armitage Hux. Because if ever there were a person whose summit was rumored to be too high to reach, it would be his. Somehow, against the odds, Poe had achieved the impossible.
Poe followed along a path that had long ago been carved from the rock by a glacier of ice. There were reminders scattered along the mountainside, a cirque of bowled rock here, a series of aretes spearing past the tree tops there, but it was the pool of milky water that lay tucked into the former glacier wall that Poe brought Armitage to. Here, the spindly mountain grass grew sparse, low ropey bushes clinging to the dry earthen soil, nesting their roots in the warmed mineral bath and drawing water and life out of a desiccated landscape of rock and wind. A testament to the vitality of nature, here on an exposed mountainside overlooking an endless ocean, the bushes sprouted tiny violet wild flowers, a staunch reminder that where life made way, beauty was always soon to follow.
âEver bathed in a natural hot spring?â Poe turned to Armitage, who watched him from the edge of the cliff side overlooking the ocean beyond. The wind tugged at his hair, the gusts coming off the ocean thwarting the mountain in a cold sheer. Armitageâs sneer was back in place, his eyes drifting to the pool of water even as his hands reached up to fold over one another. He looked cold, Poe felt cold â the pieces of his plan were falling neatly into place.
âI fear our definitions of natural may need debated.â Armitage stepped closer, eyeing the steaming cloudy water with an obvious distaste. âSurely that is not safe. Nothing should produce a vapor like that.â
âThatâs a no.â Poe laughed while he dropped his bag at the side of the pool, beneath the violet flowered bushes and atop the moss that grew in the shade they provided. Then he turned back to Armitage, making sure he was watching as Poeâs fingers played over the buttons of his shirt, working through them all the way down to his naval. âItâs perfectly safe, Iâve come here plenty of times. Brought BB-8 once to monitor for geothermal anomalies, to be extra safe. Nothing to worry about.â
âAre you telling me you risk boiling yourself alive for a warm bath on a regular basis?â But as the words left him Poe saw how Armitageâs eyes slid over to Poeâs exposed chest. Poe un-tucked his shirt but left it hanging open, hands moving to his belt and thumbing the leather strap loose. Armitage swallowed and turned away, suddenly modest in the face of Poeâs not so scandalous strip tease.
âIâve risked my life over far less pleasant things.â Poe slipped the belt free, dropping it to the ground in a soft clatter. âThis is worth it, trust me.â
âDameron, Iââ But Poe had kicked off his boots and dropped his pants, stepping his feet free to peel his socks away. Poe didnât wear underwear, as a rule â or maybe it was a law at this point â if it meant heâd get more of these shocked expressions out of Armitage â who had cut himself off with a soft strangled sound.
âYou were bound to see me naked at some point. And now weâre even, you can watch me bath.â Poe winked as he toed the steaming water. It was just warm enough, as warm as a freshly run bath. âOh yeah, thatâs nice.â Poe stepped into the pool, wading out waist deep, feet finding a firm footing on the rocky surface below.
The quality of the water was alkaline, the milky texture born from the silica drawn up from the bedrock, combining in a slick buttery sensation across his skin. On Yavin-4 most of the hot springs were acidic, and not suited to actual soaking. On Ajan Kloss the volcanoes were far older, far deeper beneath the surface, and the geothermal energy that traveled through the broken fault line of the cliff side spilled free in warmed tide pools, subterranean cave lakes, and here, in tiny hot springs that swelled into the ice carved cracks and crevices of the mountainside. Fed by warmed water that flowed up from this meandering underground aquatic system, the springs supported a microbial level of life that left not just his skin soft, but his body relaxed, his mind at ease. Poe sighed as he sank down to submerge his shoulders, eyes hooded as he watched Armitage eye him with curious distaste.
âYouâre mad,â Armitage announced even as his hands plucked at the hem of his shirt, fingers rolling the fabric in nervous indecision, then turning white as they gripped tight. âI canât believe Iâm doing this.â
Poe watched in open spectation as Armitage stripped himself of his clothing. His shirt went first, followed by his boots, and then his socks â his pants saved for last but even those were shed with a clinical efficiency. Armitage folded and sorted his clothing neatly atop a barren rock, carefully laying his boots over top the pile lest the wind sweep them away and leave him entirely naked for the trek back to camp. Then he went and did the same to Poeâs clothing, so that by the time Armitage was standing at the edge of the pool he was covered in gooseflesh, the gusting breeze propelling him into the water far better than any of Poeâs encouragements.
Armitage was skinny, though not as skinny as Poe remembered from the last time heâd seen him entirely naked. And Poe wondered after the extent of Armitageâs neglect â whether during his short imprisonment with the Resistance, or more likely, before, aboard the Steadfast. He knew stress could wreck havoc on a personâs metabolism, not to mention their appetite, and that Armitage suffered from severe anxiety was an open secret. But he looked good now â whole and healthy, as if the last couple weeks had been kind to him in a very physical way. Poe carved this image of him into his memory, this windswept First Order General who was betraying all he knew to climb into a hot spring with his former enemy in some forbidden romantic tryst â it was something straight out of a romance holo. Poe couldnât help it when he laughed aloud.
âWhat? Why are you laughing?â Armitage snapped as he waded into the water, palms skimming the surface as if it were a platform he could catch himself on if he slipped. âDameron, if youâre planning something I am not above violence.â
âNo, noâ Iâm sorry,â Poe tread in the water, knees folded up to his waist while he pushed off the rocks at the bottom with his toes. The water didnât go any deeper than his waist here, at the center of the pool, and he could sit at the edge and his shoulders would barely be covered. âIâm not teasing, I was just thinking about how ridiculous this is. Like those daytime romance holos my mom hated but always watched. She called them trash, I never understood why, I loved them as a kid.â
âYou watched romance holos as a child?â Armitage suppressed a snort, but the laugh was still there, in his eyes, in the turn of his mouth. Poe beamed up at Armitage, creeping towards where he stood unmoving, just out of arms reach of Poe, smoothing his fingertips together in fascination. âWhat makes the water so slick?â
âItâs alkaline, the pH isnât too high but itâs enough to make the water feel slippery.â Poe waded closer, waiting to see if Armitage would rebuff him. âAnd yeah, I was home-schooled as a kid. Where I grew up on Yavin-four, it wasnât populated enough for a dedicated schoolhouse, so I spent a lot of time at home with my mom before she died. I donât know why she watched them if she hated them, I think she secretly got a kick out of them and was too embarrassed to admit it. For whatever reason they charmed me.â
âWhy do I feel this explains a lot about you?" Armitage sneered, but there was a softness to it, nothing more than a gentle tease. âThere was no holo entertainment in the Unknown Regions, but I remember Maratelle had a bookshelf full of romance novellas. The covers were atrociously obscene. She caught me looking at them once and nearly ran me out of the house.â
âMaratelle? Was she your mother?â Poe had closed the distance almost enough, just a little closer and he would be within reach.
âNo.â Armitageâs voice lowered, his eyes slipping over the surface of the water as they slipped over the surface of his thoughts. âShe was my fatherâs wife. My mother worked her kitchen.â
It took Poe a moment to put the words together, but then memory rushed back in a flood. Leia has an important messageâŠabout your mother. Poe drew up stiff, felt how his face split open. âShit, Armitage, I-â
âIâve long ago come to terms with your tasteless sense of humor, Dameron.â Armitage snapped, beguiling an emotion he tried to deny. But the sigh that left him took with it that very same emotion. âMaratelle was barren. She resented my mother and resented me even more. My father left them both behind on Arkanis when he fled with me. You would not have known, it was a lucky shot.â
âI get a lot of lucky shots,â Poe confirmed with a grimace â then, quieter âYour father sounds like a monster, if he would leave his family behind.â
âFamily is a generous way to describe it. And my kill count far outnumbers his, now.â Their conversation was quickly devolving into a territory that left Poe treading water in a way that had nothing to do with the hot spring. âHe was not a man to be impressed, which didnât stop me from trying as a child. Starkiller Base might have done it though.â
A beat, and then Armitage clarified, âI do not mean that in jest.â
âI know you wouldnât joke about that,â Poe murmured. He suddenly wished he could dial this moment back to before, to that moment when Armitage was suppressing a laugh over Poeâs childhood romance holo obsession.
Instead, Armitage had grown still, the water lapping gentle ripples around his waist. His voice was quiet, âDo you know what happened to him?â
Poe did. Or, heâd heard the rumors. Now that he knew both Armitage and Phasma he believed them to be true, âYou and Phasma killed him.â
âPoison, from a beetle native to her home planet. It was not a quick death.â Armitage was speaking from a distant place, his mind consumed by a memory Poe was not privy to. And, Poe thought, maybe Armitage needed to talk about this â maybe heâd never had someone to talk about any of this with before now. âYou donât hate me for that? I killed my own father, Poe.â
âWell,â Poe sidled closer, all his plans to tackle Armitage underwater abandoned along with the mirthful humor of earlier. âThe Resistance knew a lot more about him than we did you, and I read his file for the Academy mission. I know what he did to those kids.â I know what he must have done to you, went unsaid. Armitage watched him closely, arms once again folded together, lips pressed into a line, weary with an unexpressed emotion. âCome down here, you look cold.â Poe smiled his best smile, gave it all he had.
Armitage dropped his eyes and slowly sunk down beside him. The water crawled up his pale skin, filling in his cracks and crevices, smoothing over scars and warming away the gooseflesh Poe wasnât so sure was from the cold, anymore. Poe wanted to be that water, wanted to slide over Armitageâs skin and find all the dark hidden things he kept stolen away and then fill them up with warmth and softness.
The sigh that Armitage expelled when his shoulders dipped beneath the surface left Poe grinning. âIâll admit, this feels rather wonderful.â Armitage leaned back in the water, submerged up to his chin, the details of his body hidden by the cloud of silica. But Poe could see the pale wake of his hands as they lifted to his shoulders, could see when his fingertips peaked out from the water to press into the length of his neck. And Poeâs breath caught as he watched Armitageâs eyes flutter shut with another long drawn out sigh. He looked beautiful like this, graceful and lithe, body suspended in rare relaxation, cheeks flushed, face dewy with warmed vapor. Poe licked his lips, completely taken.
âCan I do that?â Poe breathed before he even finished the thought, wanting to know the texture of Armitageâs skin, the feel of his flesh, like this, sluiced in this gentle yielding temporality. Here, Armitage was a man, nothing more, the facade of monster drawn back as surely as if it were a spectral guise, a haunting exorcised by warmed water and a reluctant baring of his soul.
Armitage nodded his head even as the words left his mouth, âMy past is not pleasant, Iâm sorry for bringing it up.â
âArmitage, you can talk to me about anything.â Poe inched closer, let a knee bump his beneath the surface of the water. âWhatever you need to talk about, Iâm here to listen.â
âHmm.â Now his fingers were pressing into the meaty place where neck turned into shoulder, rubbing at the muscle there, âI think Iâm finished talking for now.â
Poe laughed, finally reaching out to run a hand over Armitageâs shoulder. The silica in the water left milky trails along skin that felt as smooth as it looked. âFair enough. Your neck bothering you?â
The answer came in the form of a grimace. âA chronic condition, stress related, Iâve been told. However I slept last night aggravated it. My pillow was quite hard, as I remember.â Though his chin was tilted down towards the surface of the water, Poe caught the smirk still.
âGuess itâs only fair that I help, then.â Poe brushed his fingers over Armitageâs where they curled over his neck, moving them aside so he could replace them with his own.
Poe wasnât formally trained in any way, but he liked empathetic touch, had been told in the past he could be a successful masseur, that he had a natural gift for it. Poe had never pursued that particular path, but he liked the idea of it, particularly liked the idea he could help make Armitage feel good. âI canât say Iâm as good as the masseur on Canto Bight but Iâve been told I give a pretty mean neck rub.â
âIâll take gentle if itâs an option,â Armitage said while Poe shifted around to face his back. As Poe settled behind him Armitage turned his head to watch over the curve of his shoulder, pale eyes catching the reflection of light on the water and almost turning translucent. There was a trust there that Poe refused to break.
âIâll be gentle,â Poe affirmed as he slid his hands over Armitageâs shoulders, up his neck, the softened water akin to a thin slick of oil. âJust tell me if I do something that bothers you.â Poe mapped the length Armitageâs neck, fingers flexing over the skin there with a light exploratory pressure. He felt tight all over, years of stress and strain culminating in a twisted shoulder girdle and a stiffened neck. Poe could feel a lifetime burrowed deep â all the sleepless nights, all the days hunched over a datapad, all the hours spent at strict attention under the hawkish gaze of the First Order military machine. âArmitage, not gonna lie, youâre kinda a mess.â
Armitage hummed in response, âIâm well aware.â
Poe curved his fingers around to Armitageâs throat, stroking under his chin, probing lightly beneath his jaw, then over it, catching at the tender spot between his ear and mandible. That drew a gasp out of Armitage, as his fingers discovered tension even there. âDamn, I can feel it in your jaw too.â Poe lingered, rubbing circles into the muscle, feeling as Armitage unraveled, just a little.
âThat feels good,â Armitage sighed. It was a pretty sound, breathy and light, and Poe could imagine how Armitageâs face must look, lips parted, eyes closed, brows relaxed of their ever present furrow.
But when Poe moved on, one hand sliding around to the back of his neck, pressing flat along his cervical curve, the other gently cupping his throat, Poe felt Armitage grow, almost impossibly, more stiff.
âMy throatâŠâ
Poe paused, peering over Armitageâs shoulder to where he could see his reflection in the water. His face was obscured, but Poe heard his hesitancy, didnât want to guess at what it meant.
âYou can tell me,â Poe encouraged, trailing his hand away from Armitageâs throat, letting it come to rest over the cusp of his collarbones, touch gentle, culling, as he pulled Armitage closer â he sensed there was something important here, some not so deeply buried trauma.
âHave you ever been Force strangled?â Armitage asked softly, the words catching on a shuddering exhale, and Poe could only imagine the memories assuaging Armitageâs mind.
And no, Poe had never been strangled by the Force. Besides Kylo Renâs interrogation, Poeâs physical experience with the Force had only ever been a kind, soothing touch. âNo. No, I canât say I have.â His voice sounded sad even in his own ears.
Armitage was silent, only the sound of his breathing audible over the rush of the wind in the bushes. Poe gave him all the time he needed, fingers tracing circles over the bones of his clavicle, their bodies barely brushing beneath the surface of the warm water. Poe wanted, desperately, to help Armitage, but he knew that not all help was healing â that the healing being done here was coming from within Armitage. All Poe could do was be at the ready for when he was needed.
Eventually, Armitage said, softly, âYou may continue. Iâd like it if youââ Poe felt the shift in his throat as he swallowed. âIâd like it if you tried, whatever it was you were going to do.â
âAlright.â Poe was shaking now, with anger, with grief, with the desire to personally strangle whoever had done this to Armitage. âWas it Ren or Snoke?â
âBoth.â
Poe huffed out a breath, dropping his head to place a kiss on the bony protrusion at the base Armitageâs neck. âI donât want to hurt you, Armitage.â
âYou could never hurt me.â And if those words didnât cut Poe down to the quick, he wasnât sure anything else ever would. Because they were true â Poe couldnât hurt Armitage, not in the same way the men in his past had, in the way that fissured scars from flesh and mind alike. Armitage was trembling, just barely, beneath Poeâs hands. But there were no tears, no harsh breaths, just an overwhelming desire for a kind empathetic touch â a touch that could, maybe, have the power to mend the memory of something far darker.
âStars, Armitage.â Poe gathered himself, hand returning to hold Armitageâs throat, fingers to one side and thumb to the other, following the cords of muscle, touch light, testing. Where Poeâs hand was large, Armitageâs neck was slender â fitting into the cradle of his fingers as easily as if it belonged there. And when Poe applied just a little bit of pressure, Armitage swallowed again, adamâs apple bobbing into the cup of Poeâs palm. But he remained steady, calm, as Poe worked over him. He massaged into the the space where muscle inserted into the skull behind his ear, free hand once again smoothing over the back of his neck, rubbing gently. âThis okay?â
âYes," Armitage breathed out, head dropping forward, chin resting lightly on the top of Poeâs hand, âYes, it feelsâ it feels nice.â
âGood. Thatâs really good,â Poe murmured, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt, as steady as his hands where they moved over Armitageâs throat, over the most vulnerable parts of him.
Armitageâs trust in him left Poe weak, filled him with a fluttering pulsating buoyancy that swept through his body and made him feel like he was tumbling in free fall. But he wasnât falling, his hands on Armitage grounded him in a reality he never wanted to leave. And, Poe thought, if only they could stay here, alone on this ancient mountainside, hidden away from the rest of the world, veiled behind by these moments of quiet intimacy.
Poe removed his hand from the back of Armitageâs neck, replaced it with his lips, lingered there as he breathed in the scent of him, the warmth and the feel and the taste of him.
He drew back, pressing his lips to Armitageâs ear as he whispered, âCome here, I want to try something else.â And then he was drawing Armitage across the pool to the far edge with the violet bushes, where the rocks were smoothed over with moss and lichen. Guiding his hands out of the water to rest along the rocks, Poe stole a glance at Armitageâs face as he positioned him towards the edge. Armitage was lost in a place inside himself, eyes hooded, mouth soft â it was a good place, Poe could tell, a place of peace and surrender and Poe had no plans to break him from that. At least, not yet.
âRest your forehead on your hands, like this.â Poe placed one of Armitageâs hands atop the other, so they created a cradle for his head. Armitage followed along, dropping his head down, shoulders in repose, the back of his neck long. Here, like this, Armitage could relax while Poe worked over him â and work him Poe did. His hands followed the length of his spine, thumbs tracing along the vertebrae, fingers smoothed over muscle, the heels of his hands pushing along in a deep reaching pressure. Armitage responded to his touch in the most delicate ways: a sigh when Poe pushed his fingers along the muscles of his upper back, a quiet gasp when he found a knot deep behind a shoulder blade, and a long drawn moan when Poe rubbed his fingers into the tender space at the base of his skull.
âThat feel good?â Poe smiled to himself as Armitage nodded his head, the effect stifled when Poe pushed his fingers through his hair, finding tension even here along the fascia of his scalp. Armitage moaned again, a little louder, a little longer. And Poe couldnât help but bite his lip and close his eyes, thoughts drifting to what else he could do to Armitage that would draw out those sounds.
âAre you sure you arenât a masseur?â Armitage breathed, drawing Poe out from his head and back to where Armitage was bowed beautifully before him.
âShould I be?â Poe teased, voice shaking only a little, hands wandering to Armitageâs shoulders and kneading along the muscles there, finding the meat of his neck and pressing deep. âShould I give up piloting and travel the galaxy doing this instead?â
Armitage moaned, cracked an eye open to peer up at him. His pupils were blown dark, glinting in the reflected light of the water. âNo. Not for anyone else.â And then he shifted lower against the wall, his hips brushing Poeâs beneath the water â it was fleeting, maybe unintentional, just as likely not. Still, Poeâs swallow was thick, his chest heavy with desire, his cock filling at the idea of it. But, if Armitage was toying with him, Poe wasnât going to surrender first.
âOh, so you want me to be your personal masseur?â Poe leaned forward, gliding a hand up Armitageâs back and then pulling it down, pressing into his spine so it bowed against the pressure. If he stepped forward he could slot his hips into place against Armitage, could fit himself into the cleft there, could slip inside with likely very little resistance. Instead, Poe stayed where he was, hands traveling Armitageâs back, encouraging this rare relaxation, resisting the urge to take it further.
âPoe,â Armitage gasped out, when the heel of Poeâs hand found a delicious little place high between his spine and shoulder blade that made Armitage devolve into whimpers.
âThatâs it, there you go.â Poe curled his hand to the side and then dug in a little deeper, enjoying the cry it elicited, then soothed over the spot with a firm but gentled pressure. Poe smiled as he heard Armitageâs soft sounds taper off into gasping shallow breaths. Stars, if he didnât sound wrecked â all from a massage.
And he looked like a wreck now, too. Armitageâs hair was damp with steam, his face flushed from heat and the rush of blood alike, and his fingernails were buried in the layer of lichen where he gripped the edge of the pool. And then Poe saw the swell of his backside peeking out above the surface of the water, saw how he moved his hips in small furrowed rolls â almost unnoticeable, but Poe knew.
Poeâs control broke, just a little, at the sight. He reached one hand up to curve back around Armitageâs throat and slid the other down to his hip, leaning over Armitageâs back to press trembling lips to his spine. Like this, he couldnât keep his hips from finding Armitageâs, from sliding flush against them, from seeking those little furrowed rolls. He didnât try to keep his erection hidden, and Armitage did not draw away. Instead, he gasped quietly, his hands slipping over the rocks as he tried to find a better hold. Poe focused his attention on the kisses he placed on Armitageâs spine, the gentle hold he had on his throat, the firm grip that slipped from his hip to reach just a little furtherâ
And found Armitage hard beneath the surface of the water.
âStars, Hugs, you getting off on this?â He smiled the words into his spine.
Armitage moaned lowly as Poeâs fingers circled his erection, his hips giving a little jerk into the touch. âLike youâre not?â He rasped, and then Poe felt Armitageâs hips drag along his erection, movements no longer small searching things but long and telling, as if heâd finally found what it was he had been looking for all along. Armitage was slick and wet and warm and entirely way too kriffing perfect where he rubbed along Poe. And then he did it again, and againâ
Okay, so maybe Poe would accept defeat this time, maybe he would walk face forward into this surrender.
Poe moaned, low and broken as he encouraged Armitage into each roll. He lifted his hips to meet him, watched as his own erection broke the surface of the water with each shallow thrust, as he glided between Armitageâs cleft in a delicious slippery tease.
What Armitage wanted was clear, was obvious in the way his body sought and found all the places where the two of them connected. His weight was heavy, a pressure in Poeâs hand where his head hung, and though the grip on his erection was loose, he felt how Armitage angled himself in such a way to rub the tip along his palm, finding friction where he could. And when Armitage reached back, fingers grasping for and finding Poeâs hip, trying to pull him even closer â Poe nearly bit through his lip.
âCome here, come up here,â Poe released his erection as he pulled Armitage up and away from the wall, turning him around so Poe could cover his mouth with his own in a searching kiss. Pressed flush, skin to skin, hands holding the other close, Poe moaned into Armitageâs mouth. This was what he wanted, a searing of flesh, their bodies pressed so close Poe couldnât tell where he ended and Armitage began. It was intimate in a simple way, a physical connection enhanced by the water around them, the heat and the softness and the sensation of wind cooled skin â Poeâs nerves were alight with it all.
Sliding a hand to the back of Armitageâs neck, the other back to grasping his hip, Poe licked up into Armitage with an easy deliberate intention. Armitageâs mouth was hot and wet and opened to Poe without hesitation, and he whimpered when Poeâs slipped his leg between his, when he guided his hips to meet his own. His hands slipped over Poeâs sides, fingers curling against his ribs before circling around his back, holding Poe closer as he pressed himself into Poe with those tiny furrowed rolls.
This was better â closer, a little less hurried â fiery but still tender. Poe pressed simple slow kisses against Armitageâs lips, drawing Armitage along the edge of his desire rather than right to it, drawing them back into one another, where Poe could crowd Armitageâs defenses and find something better than a quick hurried fuck.
âNow whoâs the tease?" Armitage huffed against him, strangled and slightly frustrated but full of mirth, of a humorous exasperation over Poeâs need to take things slow.
âNot a tease.â Poe grinned up at him as he found Armitageâs erection again, this time circling it with a firm hand, thumb rubbing along the soft underside of the tip. Armitage devolved into a shuddering moan, hips moving into Poeâs hold, the soft water slicking his way. Here, standing at the edge of the pool, their hips werenât entirely submerged, and Poe watched as Armitageâs erection disappeared in and out of the curl of his fist. It was a sight that set Poeâs heart racing, breath catching in his own throat. Stars how he wanted to make Armitage come again â and then again and again. He loved seeing him like this, flushed and halfway undone, seeking a pleasure from Poe that heâd never before allowed himself to find with another person.
And when Armitage reached for Poe, hand skimming the surface of the water before wrapping around Poeâs erection â Poe nearly came undone himself. His hold was loose, questing, long fingers reaching around the girth of him with a tentative pressure. âIs this alright?â He asked Poe, voice soft, a little unsure, and Poe couldnât help but moan yes.
âYeah, yeah.â Poe pulled Armitage down into another kiss, a little less controlled, a little bit desperate â because Poe needed to come so badly, so very suddenly, as if all the last few weeks had finally caught up with him in one overwhelming moment of singular need. âFeels good, you feel so good, I want you so much, Armitage.â
They moved like that, together, caught in an open mouth kiss as their hands worked at one another, driving each other closer to climax in a not so slow race of pleasure. Poe was not going to last long, not as he was here with Armitageâs hand on him. He could already feel the tightness in his testicles, the deep seated coil of pleasure in his belly that precluded his orgasm, and by the way Armitage shook against him Poe thought he wasnât all that far off either.
âPoe, Iâm close,â Armitage whispered against his lips, breathy and soft, voice edged with need.
âGonna try something.â When Poe reached around to slip his free hand over Armitageâs hip to grip his buttocks, he savored the gasp against his mouth. When Poe reached even further, to run his fingers along his cleft, probing in a telling exploration, Armitageâs hand on Poeâs erection faltered, and then squeezed tighter.
âThis okay?â Poe asked, voice barely above a whisper, as he skimmed over Armitageâs anus, knowing the answer before his words came, because Armitage was shifting his stance â spreading his legs â and whining against his mouth.
âYes, Poe,â Armitage moaned when Poe applied a brush of pressure, nothing more.
âYeah?â Poe dipped his fingers into the water, traced up the sensitive skin at the inside of Armitageâs thigh, drawing slick lines across his skin until he reached his anus again, where he dragged his fingertips back and forth along the puckered muscle, hand still moving over his cock but slower now, letting Armitage focus on this new sensation, keeping him from the edge of his orgasm. And Armitage moaned, low and broken, while hips hips pushed back at Poeâs fingers, and then forward into his hand. âWant me inside?â
âFuckââ Armitage gasped as Poe caught his thumb at the edge of the muscle, just enough to pull at him, but not penetrating. ââfucking tease.â
Poe gave Armitageâs cock a long slow pump while he slipped the very tip of his thumb inside, just barely, only enough to tease a breach, âGotta say yes.â
Instead Armitage gave Poeâs erection a punishing squeeze while pressing the pad of his thumb against his tip to rub into his slit. Poe gasped, hips jerking into the sensation, hands tightening their grip on Armitage, thumb reflexively pulling at his rim â opening him up â just a fraction but enough.
Enough that Armitage was able to push back into Poeâs grip, push himself back onto his thumb, seeking and finding the penetration that Poe playfully withheld. The sound that Armitage made as he opened for Poe, a drawn out and broken thing, was almost as beautiful as his face â mouth parted, eyelids fluttering, brows drawn together and up â and his cheeks, which were the prettiest flush of pink Poe had ever seenâ
Poe moaned. He surged up into Armitage, capturing his mouth at the same time that he crooked his thumb, spreading Armitage open all the more, anchoring himself inside while his hand worked Armitageâs cock and his mouth pressed hot wet words against his parted lips. âThis what you want? Want me inside you? Want me to fill you up?â
âYes, Poeââ Armitage gasped his name into his mouth again and again, a mantra, a plea, as his body went rigid, consumed by Poeâs hands, his mouth and his own pleasure. Poe's thumb wasnât enough to reach his prostate, but Poe could tell it was the stretch, the simple idea of a deeper penetration that set Armitage off. Poe twisted his wrist, slipped his thumb a little deeper, slid his fingers into the space behind Armitage's balls and then pressed them up â Armitage gasped, and the cried out, and then devolved into a whimpering mess.
"That's it, open up for me." Poe's voice shook with his own pleasure, Armitage's fist faltering over his cock in a rough way that Poe liked, even while Armitage's coordination suffered from this assault of sensation. So Poe took pity on him, shifted his grip on Armitageâs erection so he could wrap his fist in a loose hold around both their cocks, and that was so much better. They slid against one another in a delirious slick friction, skin to skin, slick with water and precome alike, and Poe felt his own body coil tight and ready.
"Come for me Armitage," Poe rasped the words out, a command that sounded like a plea, and Armitage came undone. His hands lifted into Poeâs hair and held tight as he pressed into Poeâs mouth and breathed a sob against his lips, hips shuddering, anus clenching, as he came and came and came.
Poe swallowed the sounds, burned them into the memory of this moment, as he chased Armitage over the edge, drawing down his own pleasure in a searing streak of light.
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There were certain things about Poe Dameron Hux wasnât sure heâd ever entirely understand. That he could drink an entire pot of caf and still maintain that sleepy doe-eyed look was as least baffling in a charming way. That he had the reflexes of an ace pilot but seemed to take on everything else in life with a slow lazy ease was another. That he did both these things while commanding a small army of riff-raff that had defeated the military junta Hux had spent his life grooming himself to lead into galactic glory was a whole other something Hux had stopped even trying to understand.
But it was mostly that Poe Dameron had taken an interest in him that left Hux flailing for an explanation. And that he, Armitage Hux, returned that interest â returned it enough to abscond the remnants of the only life he had ever known and follow Poe Dameron across the planet to the edge of a mountainside in some sexual trystâŠwell, Hux understood that, at least.
He had feelings for Poe Dameron, and Hux knew what those feelings meant.
âBy the force, I swear youâre cheating,â Poe muttered from Huxâs lap, fingers swiping over his datapad as he attempted to counter Huxâs latest attack, his army falling piecemeal to Huxâs superior strategizing. âDroids shouldnât be able to parry my knights like that, not when I took out your shield generator.â
âShields arenât everything Dameron, and your knights are flesh and blood, they not only slow when injured, but by nature they are bound to grow weak of will as well.â Hux waited patiently for Poe to end his turn. There were only so many available moves left to him, and Hux knew how to handle them all.
âYou canât tell me you programmed human nature into your game sim,â Poe sighed as he ended his turn, laying his datapad on his chest and looking up from where he had his head reclined in Huxâs lap.
âI programmed human nature into my game sim.â
âStars, youâre a piece of work Hugs.â Poeâs laugh carried on the wind, startling a pair of small birds from a nearby tree. The sound of their wings taking flight was loud in the quiet peace of approaching twilight.
âIâm aware. Your move, Dameron.â Hux concluded his turn by choosing a series of low level droids, sending them chasing after Poeâs retreating knights, knowing they would die in the altercation but slow the knights enough for Huxâs force beast to finish wiping out Poeâs resource camp.
âDo you even think about your moves?â Poeâs voice lifted with disbelief as he looked at his datapad. âTheyâre gone. My resources are all gone.â
Yes, Hux had feelings for Poe Dameron, and Hux knew well what those feelings meant. But he would enjoy every moment of this while he could, while he was able.
âDo you surrender or should I continue with your complete demise?â
âIf I surrender do I get to become the personal prisoner of war for the smokinâ hot general who defeated me?â
Hux snorted, âNo, heâll use you for political gain when he bargains your life in exchange for galactic strongholds.â
âHugs. Youâre joking arenât you? This isnât some allusion to real life, right?â Poe was laughing but there was a manic edge to the sound that felt panicked.
Hux blinked down at Poe, âNo?â
âOkay good, because Iâm alright if you just wanted to take me prisoner. Ya know, like a sex slave, Iâd be okay with that.â
âDameron, you do realize weâre only playing a game sim?â Hux accepted Poeâs surrender, triggering the VICTORY screen and the flashing stars that accompanied it.
âYeah, yeah. But, itâs an option, right? If all this goes south and Palpatine rises again and the Order returns for you and the Resistance has already disbanded. Youâll just make me your sex slave, right? Wanna be clear on my options, just in case.â
Hux, carefully, set his codepad aside. âPalpatine is not going to rise again and if the Order comes for me, I will certainly not return to them. And you would make an awful sex slave Dameron, you are uncomfortably keen on the idea.â
âDamn Hugs, just crush my dreams, why donât you.â Poeâs grin was wide, his eyes shining with mirth, and Hux couldnât help but indulge him, just a little.
âAlright. Iâll recondition you as my ace pilot, and weâll meet for forbidden dalliances in your TIE. I would want to take advantage of all your skill sets, you understand. Satisfied?â
âHugs, babe, did you just compliment my piloting?â
Hux couldn't entirely hide his smirk, âI stand by my earlier assessment. You are a maniac, but I supposed it serves a purpose.â And when Poe beamed up at him, Hux felt his smirk widen into a smile to mirror Poeâs. The small warmth that simmered away at the sight of Poe like this, at ease in Huxâs lap, gazing up at him with an expression Hux had never seen directed at anyone, let alone himself â it strung Hux along in a desperate desire for this to be his â for this to be the rest of his life.
But Hux was no fool. The universe had strung him along before, had demonstrated time and time again what it thought Hux deserved, and this was certainly not it.
But Poe made it feel like it could be, he made it feel like it could be this easy.
Poe offered Hux something beyond a physical affection, he offered Hux a moment of happiness. He offered him a set series of memories Hux could look back on when the tide of his life inevitably drew him back to the deep dark places he had come from. Poe was a burning beacon of light amongst his shadows, and Hux drew some comfort in that Poe seemed to burn all the brighter despite it.
So he knew he should warn Poe. Fate was a cruel mistress and while Poe might have spent his life evading her reach, Hux was a creature of circumstance, molded from the very fabric of her veil. Born not of love but of violence, raised on the virtues of survival and power, his legacy of death long ago precluded by the very nature of his upbringingâŠHux knew these things about him were immutable. Fate would find him again, it was but a simple matter of time.
But there was something to be said about playing a part in Poeâs fantasy. Hux had thought, for a moment, when this all began, that maybe there was another path for him. But after the Academy, after the knowledge that even the most innocent, the most precious amongst them could not be absolved of fateâs heavy handâŠHux understood that not even Poe Dameronâs fortune could save him.
âArmitage, you okay?â
Hux felt Poeâs fingers on his cheek, his softened voice and softer touch drawing his attention down to where Poe watched him, face inscrutable in the darkening night.
âIâm sorry, Poe.â
âWhat for?â
Hux placed his hand on Poeâs chest, felt the steady beat of his heart under his bare palm, felt how closely it matched his own.
As night fell over their campsite, they gathered their supplies under the cover of their shelter. The heavy clouds of earlier had become bloated with rain, and the mountainside rustled before the oncoming storm. Hux could see it forming over the ocean, a gathering of flickering light and clouds, thunder rolling across the water and closing the distance in a wall of trembling sound. The storm harried at the edges of the mountain, white capped waves crushing against the rock, the beginnings of rain carried on the wind, pattering lightly across the ground, hissing across the still smoldering campfire.
Hux stowed their electronic equipment within the tent they had pitched earlier when the clouds had not disbursed with the afternoon sun, while Poe tarried in the oncoming rain in order to cover his speeder in a plastivinyl tarp.
Hux admired Poe from afar, from within the shelter of their tent, boots tucked into a corner, legs curled under him where he sat on their sleeping pad, codepad charging beside him. Like yesterday in the hangar bay, Poe doted on his speeder â tying down the tarp to keep out the impending wet while insuring it was somewhat sheltered from the wind by securing it along the tree line. There was yet time before the rain started in earnest, but in this, Poe left nothing to chance. The speeder was precious to him in a way that felt personal, like it was more than a piece of equipment. And the way he tended to it felt natural, as if Poe knew the right and proper way to care for all things, and took joy in administering that care. It reminded Hux of how Poeâs hands had felt earlier, the mindful touches to his neck, his throat, and deeper still, the touches to his most vulnerable parts â all tender and careful and knowing and entirely more than Hux deservedâŠHux collected those memories, preserved them in a place he kept far beneath the surface of thought, where the sound of his motherâs voice slept, out of reach of even the most powerful force touch.
Eventually, this would end. In the most simple way, they would return to the base tomorrow, and with it return to a life of responsibility that left no room for this kind of affection. But more so, Poe was the general of an enemy army. And more than that, he was the face of the Resistance, the poster boy of New Republic heroism.
Here, on this mountainside, far removed from the moral eye of society and the pressures of responsibility, they could have this. But tomorrow, that would change. And while at first Poe would persevere, would insist they could have it all, that their pasts didnât matter and their futures were their own, Hux knew it was all a fantasy. Maybe it would take weeks, maybe months â years, if he was lucky â but eventually, Poe would grow weary of Hux, he would grow exhausted of the sacrifices he had to make, resentful of the friends and relationships he would loose, bitter that the man they called Starkiller soured his reputation, stifled his future.
But Hux was selfish. He wanted Poe Dameron, and he wanted to believe him when he made Hux feel like they could have this. He wanted to tempt fate and take something for himself that wasnât power or survival â he wanted the things Poe Dameron made him feel. He wanted him, and he was weak to him, and Hux knew what weakness wrought.
âLooks like a big storm coming.â Poeâs head dipped into the opening of the tent, curls moistened across his forehead and shoulders damp with the drizzle that was now falling in earnest. âHope the wind doesnât change direction so that we can watch it without getting soaked. And so the tent doesnât blow away with us in it.â His grin should have been contagious, but Hux couldnât bring himself to match it, could only reach for Poe and beckon him inside.
Poe climbed into the tent and kicked his boots off, tucking them into the same corner Hux had put his, and then climbing across the sleeping pad to press into Huxâs side. While his skin was cool with wet, his hands were warm where they touched Hux, firm and steady along his arm and waist, strong where they pulled at him â where they pulled him into Poeâs side. The storm was picking up outside the tent, but here under the curl of Poeâs arm, Hux felt safe, protected. And it hurt. It hurt so much.
âHey, you sure youâre okay?â Poeâs lips brushed his hair as he spoke, breath traveling across his skin and leaving gooseflesh in its wake.
âIâll be alright.â Hux closed his eyes, turned his face into Poeâs neck, breathed in slow and deep. He wouldnât cry. He wouldnât. âI wish we could stay like this.â
âArmitage.â Poeâs hand lifted to trace his jaw, fingers tucking his loosened hair behind his ear. And Hux leaned into those touches, burned their memories into nerves and flesh and mind and everything that mattered, âOnce you get through to the rest of the Order we can come back. We can go anywhere then. Weâll take a really long vacation, maybe a permanent one. Weâll figure it out.â
And Poe made it all sound so simple â he made it feel like it really could be this easy.
âHmm.â Hux would play his part well, he would indulge this fantasy. He would let himself be, for as long as he was allowed, happy with Poe Dameron. âWe might never have the chance, if we wait on my reaching the Order.â
âNo brilliant ideas yet? You really think theyâre out there hiding still?â
âYes.â It was the truth, Hux knew it. If the Finalizer could limp her way here to an enemy base, Kylo Ren onboard or not, then the other ships were out there too â fighting to survive, hiding from a threat that festered within the Order they had once entrusted that very survival to. âTheyâre out there. Theyâre running out of time though. The old guard will find them if I donât soon.â
Out here, this far from the base, and without a satellite or even a New Republic star cruiser in Ajan Klossâ orbit to provide a holonet signal, they were entirely cut off from the rest of the world. Hux imagined this might be a little of how those Order ships felt: isolated, beleaguered by a command they had once relied upon, hounded by the very men and women who had vowed to see them to glory. Hux had agreed with Leia, that his leaving would be a terrible set back for his work. But the truth was that Hux was out of ideas, he didnât know what to try next. Reaching those ships over the Orderâs net was their best chance, but their comms only pinged. By that alone Hux knew they were, in the least, not space dust. But like ghost ships amoored in deep space, they were only a shadow of a presence that left no trace, drifting just outside the Finalizerâs reach with no anchor, no point of contact.
Hux was out of ideas beyond physically searching all of space itself.
Outside their tent, the storm frenzied to life. Lightning flashed like sparks in the pan of the sky, alighting the clouds in hot fuchsias and cool watery blues, strikes of pure white fissuring the sky open, the ocean scattering their remains in electrostatic waves. The thunder followed close behind. Deep and rumbling, it rolled though Huxâs bones and settled belly deep. Hux wondered what those enormous sea creatures did during a storm like this, when wind and lightning turned their home violent and deathly, the surface of the water alight with electricity, the waves so strong they crushed the rocks free from the cliff side.
Even here, tucked away into the mountain, wind sheared walls of rain across the campsite. A rhythmic fluxing of sound pummeled their tent as the water hit the side in waves and the wind howled around them, but Poe had predicted right â the angle was good, and the water did not reach the dry space inside. And, Hux mused, as the world outside their tent tumulted in a ghastly fervor, how he could feel so at peace, so safe, when the only thing protecting him from that storm was a thin slip of plastivinyl and a man who knew no fear.
Hux closed his eyes, turned his face back into Poeâs neck, and breathed him in â all the leather and grease and that deep earthy scent that was entirely unique to Poe. Hux sighed into it, made space to breath in more, and felt as his mind quieted, filled instead with thunder and rain and a warmth in the dark.
âToo bad you couldnât send them a secret message, like the code you and Phasma use.â
A spark, a flash in the pan of his mind, flared to life.
âDameron.â Hux pulled out from under Poeâs arm, turning slowly to stare at him, to stare into him. Poeâs eyes were dark, hooded as they gazed up at him, entirely unaware of his own brilliance, but that didnât even matterâ âDameron, you are a genius.â
âWhoa, Hugs, are you sure youâre okay?â Poe was grinning at him, and though Hux knew it was just â stars, it was just a lucky shot â he also knew it could work. It would work.
âI can reach them through Force. I can, theoretically, push a software update for the sim. I can send them a message.â Hux knew he was blathering, but he could not stop the words, not now that the idea had manifested, now that he knew what to do. âThe language will have to be coded, as to not flag the security algorithms, and Iâll have to be careful with the data payload, because my credentials are compromised, but Force is an anonymous publisher anyway. It is possible â it is better than possible. This will work, Poe. I truly believe this will work.â
âArmitage, youâre serious?â Poe pushed back into his space, fingers touching his cheek as his dark eyes searched Huxâs face. âYou are serious.â The smile came at the heel of his words, Poeâs grin infectious â or maybe it was Huxâs own excitement that infected Poe. âBut how do you know if the other ships even play Force?â
Hux stared at Poe, unsure if he was serious â unsure if he should be offended. âOf course they play. Itâs fun, why wouldnât they play?â
And then Poe was laughing, rumbling low and belly deep, and the sound rolled through Hux like thunder.
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Recipient: Resistance Leader Princess Leia Skywalker Organa Solo
Security Clearance: Confidential
Time Stamp: 35 ABY 10:15:23:44
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Message to Follow:
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Greetings Princess Organa,
On behalf of the acting Senate of the New Republic, first allow us to personally apologize for the archaic method of communique. In respect for the sensitive situation you are without a doubt handling, and without wishes to interrupt the work of which you are performing, we send this message ahead to announce the Senateâs decision to assign five of our number to assist you in your endeavor to barter official terms of surrender with the First Order.
We acknowledge this decision is long over due, and we hope you accept our sincerest apologies that we did not organize this assistance earlier. In light of the recent events regarding the Academy, the Senate has realized our failure to provide direct guidance and support to your cause has has placed an undue hardship upon you and your resources. We recognize that it is our duty as the acting leadership of the Galactic Republic to ease the Resistance of this responsibility and assume command of your efforts, where appropriate.
Please be assured that we in no means intend to beleaguer the work your forces have already performed. Your continued reports regarding the recovery and rehabilitation of those First Order under your supervision have painted a compelling and hopeful picture of peace and prosperity for the Galaxy, the Outer Rim, and beyond, and we wish to further your efforts via the additional resources the New Republic Senate can provide.
Our holo address will follow this transmission, and we ask that you call on us as soon as your time allows. We are en-route to your location and will be arriving within the next standard half cycle.
For the Future of our Galaxy,
Senator Fineas Ofant,
Director of New Media, Public Affairs
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End Transmission
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Notes:
Oh, you thought that happy ending had arrived already? I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry. Intermission is over kids, get ready for the 3rd act.
Full Disclosure: This and chapter 5 nearly wrecked me, and I have no idea why. You know that numb feeling after you've had a good cry? Something like that has happened to me, but with words. I'm broke right now friends but doing what I can where I can.
Chapter 7: Begin Recording
Chapter Text
Armitage Hux was good at games.
After all, his childhood had been a game of avoiding Brendolâs beatings â a test of Armitageâs wits as much as a lesson in futility. Armitage learned, eventually, that there truly was no avoiding Brendol, not when he was in one of those moods. But, sometimes he found he could skirt the danger just enough, dance around worst of it with a few simple words, a quick turn of the conversation â distractions and decoys that could divert the blows from his face to his backside, fists turned to slaps, kicks into shoves. He liked to pretend he could control at least that much, even if the nights he spent curled into his bunk at the Academy, the voices of the other boys drifting beyond the cover of his blanket, body a shivering broken bruise, made it all feel incredibly, completely hopeless.
As he grew into adolescence, the beatings turned to words â scathing things whose wounds settled into his psyche, carved themselves into the recesses of thoughts that formed no words but guided him in the way instinct guided a wild animal. It was then that Armitageâs game took on a deeper facet. The little tricks heâd learned as a child developed into an actual strategy of avoidance and de-escalation. As before, his success was entirely dependent upon Brendolâs mood, but Armitage was able to predict those moods â knew what each meant, what he could get away with, what would push his father over the edge.
As an adult, he began to utilize those moods.
While disciplining a child of eight might appear reasonable to a visiting commandant, verbally assaulting a young man of twenty was just as likely to cast Brendol in the shadow of weakness as it was to hurt Armitageâs reputation with high command. So, Armitage knew just what to do to manipulate his father into a harried annoyance, a simmering anger, an unadulterated rageâŠand he used that knowledge to his benefit. The satisfaction of watching his father fly off into a spitting frenzy, even when he was the object of that anger, it made Armitage feel in control. It was a small thing, a quiet satisfaction beneath the louder emotions of fear and humiliation, but it was enough. Enough that he could stomach his fatherâs words and ridicule, ignore the the acerbic looks of his peers, and pursue his goals from the closed door of emotion â His focus honed on the desire to confute his father and achieve everything he could not.
But when Snoke entered Armitageâs life, the real game began. Whatever abuse his father had subjected him to paled in the face of Snokeâs ability to strip Armitage of every strategic defense he had built to protect himself.
Snokeâs abuse manifested through the Force, and from the Force Armitage had no defense. Unshielded and exposed, the suffering wrought from this brand of abuse soured even the private construct of a person Armitage had built for himself. The strong capable person he had spent his life protecting from Brendol withered under the invasive internal gaze of Snoke. Snoke laid bare Armitageâs every shortcoming, exposed weaknesses of his very character, and crafted failure from his greatest successes.
Whatever Snoke saw in him, or whatever he failed to find, left Armitage grasping for the threads of a self-worth that had already proved to be too fractured and too brittle. The game had changed, and if Armitage wanted to survive he would have to rethink his tactics, develop a new strategy â he would need to learn Snokeâs rules.
It took time, but Armitage was smart and he was patient, and eventually he mastered this game too. He crafted for Snoke a persona of practical use but little threat: Ambitious, but not without scope. Committed to the First Orderâs cause, but not blindly fanatical. A clever schemer, but loyal.
Unhinged, but not dangerous, because he was without Force. And if there was one rule to Snokeâs game, it was that the Force was the only thing that creature would ever fear.
It had worked. Snoke had been convinced. His delving into Armitageâs mind subsided, satisfied with the quality of man he found beneath the surface of Armitageâs thoughts â convinced that his rabid cur was nothing more than a pawn he himself had maneuvered into place on his board.
And Armitage had exploited every opportunity Snokeâs favor presented, conspiring a position of power in the Order the likes of which would have left his father aghast. He consolidated his allies amongst all ranks and positions, strategically eliminated his enemies by death or by reassignment, and climbed to the top of a food chain that suffered from a surplus of predators and not enough prey. And while the rest of higher command fought and snarled amongst one another, vying for Snokeâs approval or grovelling at the feet of the old guard, Armitage gathered his resources, kept his allies fat and happy, and bided his time for when it was his game that the First Order would play.
But then Kylo Ren entered into the fray of Armitageâs life and, in the end, it had not been his own or Brendolâs or Snokeâs game that the First Order was forced to play. It had been Renâs. And Armitageâs last move had been thwarted by fate herself, victory stolen from him, dashed across the star spanned universe that had been his game board, his strategy felled by a force that played by no manâs rules, least of all those crafted by Armitage Hux.
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The code was simple enough, in the end. Armitage wondered, not for the first time that morning, how the solution to reaching the Order had ended up as elegant as a carefully crafted secret message.
His update of Force was a small payload of text and a smattering of binary, the message as forward as it could be, coded in a language only meant to fly below the radar of the security algorithms, without worry of catching the greater gaze of the old guard. Because the old guard didnât play Force. Oh, they were likely aware of it, they might even turn a blind eye or outright forbid it aboard their ships. But it was that very generational nature of the game sim that would protect his plan from the most important obstacle he had thus far struggled to overcome. The gatekeepers to his generation of the Order would be defeated not by some grand strategy, but a simple miscalculation â a willful blindness to the youth amongst them.
So, the plan was simple enough, in the end â and simple would not be what Order command would expect from General Hux.
âAwake already?â Poeâs voice drifted on the cool morning breeze, settling onto Hux as the dew settled onto the trees. The pot of caf he had put to brew had finally done the trick and Poe smiled at him from where he lay on their sleeping pad, eyes half-lidded with sleep, hair mussed into a dark mess, body curled in a shadow of the hold that had held Hux all night. Hux looked away, took the caf from the heat to cool. Poe, in turn, watched him, gaze careful, knowing, seeing through Armitage as surely as he saw through his deflection of his question.
Because it was questionable if he had ever fallen asleep at all, certainly not long enough to claim he had ever awoken. The storm had raged all night, confining Hux and Poe to their tent, twined together in an evening of soft touches and few words. Poe had held him, much like that first night together. But unlike that first night, his arms around Hux were possessive, desperate, as if Poe could hear the thoughts in Huxâs head â all the worry and doubt and unease, a storm of emotion that had swept through him as surely as the storm swept across the mountainside.
Hux had welcomed Poeâs touch, fighting a torrent of conflicting emotions: hope and excitement over his plan to finally reach the Order, and the perfidious crawl through the mire of his darker psyche, where this all ended the moment they abandoned their mountainside. Hux recognized the anxiety for what it was, the insidious thoughts taking advantage of the weakness this trip had wrought of him. Poe inspired a vulnerability Hux had never shared with another, not since he was a child clinging to his motherâs skirts. Brendol had beaten what he could out of him, and Snoke had finished the job when Hux had ascended into his direct command.
But Poe, Poe had come along and encouraged Hux to dig free everything he thought he had buried in his climb through First Order ranks, leaving those raw parts of him exposed and defenseless â nothing but Poeâs kind words and gentle touch a balm on old wounds.
Iâm ruined. He had said as much to Poe, the night he returned from the Academy, and he had thought it truth for far longer. Hux still wasnât sure if he could be fixed, but he thought if anyone might provide him with the right tools, it would be Poe Dameron.
He gave the game sim one last debug, read over his message one final time, and then he tucked his codepad safely into his bag. Poe watched him quietly, readily accepted the cup of caf Hux offered and welcomed Hux back into place beside him, tucked under the curve of his arm. Hux placed his hand atop Poeâs thigh, fingertips rubbing the weft of the fabric into his memory. Soon they would head back to the base, and with it, back to a life that left no room for things like quiet mornings and quieter moments.
âWanna talk about it?â Poe was onto him, though. Hux shook his head and Poe said nothing else as he held Hux, because words were unnecessary when a physical touch could say so much more. And for all the words Poe liked to use, it was his gentle knowing touches that Hux felt said the most. Hux let himself have this. Let himself close his eyes and silence his thoughts and exist in this singular space in time where they werenât General Hux of the First Order and Rebel Ace Pilot Poe Dameron, but Armitage and Poe, two men on a mountainside admiring the slow creep of dawn into day.
They packed in their camp after giving the sun an opportunity to warm away the rain and dry their supplies. By the time he and Poe mounted the speeder to begin the ride back, the sun was cresting the tree tops and the tide of morning was turning towards noon. The clouds of the prior day were absent, spent with the rain, leaving Ajan Klossâs sky bare and blue, the air warm but dry, the humidity Hux had begun to acclimate to chased away by the storm.
Their descent down the mountain was harrowing. The path along the steep cliff side switched back with the wall of rock that overlooked the sea. And, though Poe handled his speeder with ease, Hux clung to him, suddenly terrified of tumbling over the edge. He imagined he would survive the fall, body hitting the water only to be swallowed alive by one of the sea creatures that lurked beneath the waves, childhood memories surfacing of the stories his mother told of Niseag snatching up local fishermen who cast their nets too close to their territory. She had laughed when she told him those stories, spooking a small Armitage with scary tales before bedtime, fingers crawling up his sides in an echo of his shivers, lips a warm soothing press to his forehead.
Hux hadnât thought of Arkanis or his mother in a long, long time, but the last few days had set free a torrent of his past. Whether it was the sea creatures or the breaking white water waves or the violence of the storm that dislodged the memories, Hux recognized that these too had been things he had long ago buried â remnants of his life that Hux suspected he harbored for safe keeping, rather than pushed away with the trauma that more often haunted his past.
More likely, it was Poe who dislodged the memories â who inspired Hux to remember the good things within him, however few and frail they happened to be.Â
As they left the mountainside behind and Ajan Kloss swallowed them into its rolling jungle sprawl, Hux finally found himself lulled into the peace that had eluded him all night. Here, pressed into Poeâs back, cheek to his shoulder, eyes closed against the whipping wind, the trilling whir of the speederâs engine dulling the sound of his own thoughts, he unraveled, just a little. He savored the feel of Poe under his palms, the rise and fall of his chest, the shifting of his muscles under skin, the deep rumble of his voice caught in a gasping laugh when Huxâs hands strayed too low on his stomach â he was ticklish there, he realized. Hux filed the information away alongside everything else he had learned about Poe over the course of the last two days, all the touches and sounds and words and stories. And the feelings â both his own and those he knew Poe felt for him â feelings that were becoming ever familiar in the landscape of his mind.
Maybe Poe was right, maybe this wasnât all a fantasy. Maybe, if happiness was this, small moments spent in fleeting mental serenity, enjoying the simple pleasures of a physical existence from the safety of the familiarâŠmaybe he could have that life, some day, eventually. He allowed himself to think of what that life might look like, drawing down an image of a future that looked nothing like anything Hux had ever imagined for himself before.
Hux sighed into Poeâs shoulder, let his fingers curl into the hold on his stomach, and drifted into a delicate daydream.
"Armitage?" They had reached the wild flower field that skirted the edge of the swamp leading back to the base. Poe was looking over his shoulder, eyebrows raised and smile wide as Hux blinked sleep from his eyes. "Wanna give Chirrup a spin?"
"I..." Hux trailed off, the question almost lost to the wind and his sleep as Hux sorted reality from dream and found the edges blurred. Poe laughed and slowed the speeder to a stop, encouraging them to swap places.
âCome on, youâll enjoy it, I promise,â he insisted, because it was fun and Hux obviously needed more fun in his life. He gave in, because really, what excuse did he have? Hux was quickly running out of excuses for Poe.
And maybe it was worth it for the feel of Poe at his back, warm and strong and just a little overwhelming.
âHave you really never piloted a speeder before?â Poeâs hands cradled his, guiding them along Chirrupâs controls, touch firm and controlled, skin warm and calloused. There was a familiarity to Poe's touch now that struck quietly at Hux, quickening his heart in a way that left him breathless.
âNot a swoop speeder, but itâs not as if I havenât piloted a vehicle before, Dameron.â Hux followed along, allowing Poe to maneuver his body in ways that should have felt foolish, embarrassing. But soon they were skirting through the field as Poe instructed him with an open affability that left no room for awkwardness. Poe was a good instructor: kind, patient, and generous with praise. And Hux responded to his words, ached for more.
âWell, youâre a natural. I thought youâd be more skittish after the ride out here.â Poeâs hands abandoned Huxâs to the controls, now that Hux had a hang of the handling. They skated over his thighs, touch light, lingering only a little, before settling on his hips. Hux pushed into the touch, dropped his head for a quick glance over his shoulder and met Poeâs eyes where they stared up at him. His face warmed in a way that wasnât from the sun.
Hux looked away, when Poe grinned wide. âYou nearly flew us off a cliff, if memory serves.â Hux heard Poeâs laugh in his ear, his stubbled cheek brushing his neck as he hooked his chin over Huxâs shoulder. Hux decided that yes, there was something to be said of their reversed positions, and that he didnât mind so much that Poe was taking every opportunity to exercise his advantageous place behind him. In fact, he quite liked this. âHow do I go faster?â
âJust roll forward on the throttle. She loves to fly, she handles best when sheâs opened up a bit.â
Hux, experimentally, gave the speeder its head.
They jumped forward, the controls responding to the hairs-breadth quirk of his wrists, the acceleration quick but smooth, refined in a way Hux had not expected. Poe whooped behind him, the hands on Huxâs hips sliding around his waist, his arms warm and strong where they wrapped around him. Hux breathed into the hold, felt how Poe moved with him, how he pressed into him, firm and sure and entirely trusting of Huxâs ability to pilot his speeder.
Chirrup trilled beneath them as Hux gave her even more speed.
He was enjoying this. The rush of adrenaline left him feeling weightless and free, as if he could momentarily outrun the erosion of his thoughts, momentarily forget everything but this. The tethers of the world fell away and left Hux here, with Poe, on the back of his precious childhood speeder, racing across a field of wild flowers on a planet as far removed from anything he had ever known, subsumed by a sensation of ethereality, as if heâd somehow shucked the mantle of the man he had been to be reborn as something wholly new and different. Hux chanced a smile, nursed the feeling, hoped with enough care it might stick.
A flash of white, ahead, a pale scar across the verdant horizon.
And with it, a distant feeling, a touch of warning.
Something was wrong.
Now and again, Hux wondered if his years spent under the command of Snoke had not resulted in his becoming tainted with the Force. There were occasions in his life where he was able to read the ebbs and flows of a moment, where he was able to dodge death as surely as if heâd seen itâs approach: when heâd nearly blasted Ren in Snokeâs throne room. When heâd spent a year spying under the nose of the Supreme Council. And again, when Poe had dragged him from the Steadfast while Hux begged to be left behind, because he knew death waited for him, and he had sought it with the eager yearning of a man who had already given up everything else of himself.
Now, again, it whispered in his ear. Words caught on the cusp of sound, an idea of a thought, seeding deep, taking root, spreading like rot.
âIs that Rey?â Poeâs voice cut through to Hux, and he realized heâd directed the speeder straight towards what was fast becoming a person sized wedge of white. And it was Rey. The shape of the girl emerged before them, still some distance out but obvious now that Poe had named her, obvious now that Hux felt the touch of her Force, reaching for them across the waves of wild flowers, aching with a desperate tinge of warning, of danger.
âPoe,â Hux whispered his name, silent with the wind, whisked away with his breath.
âSomethings up.â And there should have been a comfort there, that Poe could feel it too â instead Hux drowned in his own terror, cold and coiling and forever familiar, stealing his breath as surely as it stole his control. His hands faltered over Chirrup's controls, the speeder jerking below them, the whir of the engine fluttering weakly alongside Huxâs heart. âHey, hey, Iâve got you.â Poeâs hands covered his, held him steady. It wasnât enough.
The distance closed quickly, the pale green of the meadow giving way to a vision of Rey upon her own speeder as she flew towards them. Her body glowed in the mid day sun, the whites of her garments catching and reflecting the light, a beacon in Huxâs narrowing vision. Poe slowed Chirrup as he directed it with the grip of a single hand, free arm circling Hux's waist and holding him close, sensing Huxâs unsteadiness, his sudden weakness. He clung to that arm, clawed at the comfort Poe provided. But it was a viscous and intangible thing, and he felt as it slipped through his fingers â felt as Poe slipped through his fingers.
âRey!â Poe shouted, as they slowed to a stop, Chirrup settling into a hover before lowering to the ground. From her speeder Rey waved. From another vantage, it might appear friendly, eagerly welcoming, but Hux saw the rigid line of her back, the way she stood over the seat of her speeder like a jockey in the seat of a saddle. And there was no escaping the sensation of her Force, the primordial power of it filling his head and clogging his thoughts. Hux squeezed his eyes shut, drew in a shuddering breath, became acutely aware of the sensation of Poeâs warmth retreating from his back, his hand sliding from his grip, from his waist. Huxâs hands closed over vacant space, leaned back into a breathless breeze.
Anchorless and empty, surrounded by nothing but air, Huxâs eyes flew open, searchingâ
Poeâs hand closed over his, touch warm, grip strong. Poe stood beside the speeder, body turned half towards him but head facing the direction from which Rey approached. She closed the distance quickly, her speeder slowing into a skidding stop before them, kicking up dirt and pollen as it settled into the softened earth. Her breath was coming in pants, her face flushed and eyes wildâ
âRey, whatâs going on?â And it was as if Poe were a different person then, the carefree man Hux knew transformed into something serious, somber with the dawning realization that something was not right.
His hand slipped from Hux's grip.
âIâm so sorry, I wanted to reach you first, before you got to the base.â Hux saw how Reyâs body coiled tight, tension manifesting in the heaviness of her Force, weighted in a way that made Hux wonder if the danger she came to warn them of didnât hunt her too.
âItâs the New Republic. They arrived yesterday. Theyâreââ She paused and made a sound that was part sigh and part growl â frustration, raw with powerâ âTheyâre taking over the whole operation. They wantââ And this time her eyes darted to Hux, and neither could look away as he felt the punch of her Force, wicked with a darkness that was so much like Ren. Hux was weightless with it, completely taken, overwhelmed in a way that left him numb, âThey want you, Hux, and Ben. They want you. I came to warn you.â
Her pain made so much sense, then. As the weight of her words slammed home, Hux saw in her a reflection of himself, of Poe â a desperate aching powerlessness that in this, even the Force could not save her. Hux couldnât think, he could barely see. The weightless sensation decayed into a vertigo, gravity giving way, depressurizing into a vacuum of thought and feeling and sensation. Hux felt himself suspended there, absent and empty. Alone.
So this was how fate would play her hand.
âWhat do you mean they want him?â Poeâs voice came from a distance, echoing over a vast gulf. Hux thought he sounded angry, but it was panic that festered beneath his broken words. âLeia said they werenât interested in him, what changed?â
âThe Academy, all those children. The word got out, thereâs been a public outcry. Theyâre not telling us much and Leia is furious.â Reyâs eyes finally broke from Hux and slipped back to Poe, she stood her ground, feet planted, as if the two of them were warriors preparing for a battle they knew they couldnât walk away from. âI have a ship for you. Itâs readied on the western landing field. Itâs got a jump drive. I can cover your escape, but you have to leave now, we donât haveââ
Leave?
âNo.â The word tore from Hux, barked before Poe could bargain his own life away for Huxâs safety â before he could bargain away the safety of the Order.
Hux could not leave.
And it was curious, how in the face of this, the fear that had voraciously consumed him gave way so easily to that familiar cold detachment of command. âDo the terms stand? Are they arresting my crew?â
A brief, pregnant pause, as both Poe and Rey turned to him. Eyes narrowed, as if she couldnât understand the words Hux spoke, Rey shook her head. âNo. The terms stand. Itâs only you, and Ben. They only want you two.â
He nodded, curt, affirming what he suspected. And it wasnât a surprise. In fact, it was the very fate he had carved into his lonesome daydreams, all that time ago, when the tag of traitor had left him cold and shivering in the prison cell of his thoughts.
âArmitageââ
âGood. I have work to finish.â He sounded stronger than he felt, nearly faltered when he looked at Poe and saw in his eyes a broken plea, a refusal to understand, reluctant and anguished and terrified. And something else, something Hux refused to name. His voice didn't break as he said, âI have to finish this, Poe. I have to. I wonât abandon my men.â But his heart nearly did.
âNo,â Poe breathed as he shook his head, dark eyes searching his as his hands reached out and found Huxâs. It was Poeâs hands that shook, in this. âYou donât have to do this yourself. Just tell Rey what to do. She can reach the Order for you, it doesnât have to be youââ
âDonât be foolish, Dameron, of course it has to be me.â Huxâs voice was soft, his smile sad, and he knew Poe understood. He let Poe hold his hands, even as Rey watched on, even as the exposure of their closeness left him raw. Hux let Poe have this, this little part of himself that he had left to give. âI have to do this. You know it has to be me.â
The space between them swelled with unspoken emotion. Poe looked on the verge of a break down, eyes glassy, face pale, hands fisted tight around his â so tight it almost hurt. And Hux knew, he knew Poe would throw everything away for him, everything heâd spent his life building, spent his life fighting for. The knowledge nearly brought Hux to his knees.
Hux could not stop fate. But Poe would try. And Hux wondered if Poe would survive this. The knight in shining armor, finally cut down by something as tragic as love.
I love him.
Hux startled. Turned the words over, considering, examining â acknowledging.
He loved Poe Dameron.
And it was strange, how peace eased it's way into his pounding heart, how calm suffused his racing thoughts. He loved Poe Dameron, and Poe Dameron loved him. And where he should have found himself reeling with shock, sick with weakness, Hux found nothing but strength.
âDo you trust me?â He asked, as the tears finally pushed free to fall down Poeâs cheeks. Hux squeezed his hands, brought them closer, smoothed his thumbs over his knuckles. And Poe nodded his head, a single dip of his chin, but it was all the affirmation Hux needed.
He loved Poe Dameron, and if Poe could not protect him from whatever fate befell them, maybe Hux could protect Poe.
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Of all the battles Poe had fought, this was the first time fear found its way into his heart.
Poe was a fighter. In the most basic sense, he was a soldier. First for the New Republic, and now for the Resistance. But he was also an idealist, and it was the emptiness he felt when fighting for the New Republicâs political agenda that had driven him to the Resistance â to Leia. His disillusionment with the New Republic had never settled into animosity as heâd seen with some of his fellow veterans. Poe retired from the navy on good terms, maintained those good terms in the years since. Had played poster boy for recruitment long after his contract expired. He held no qualms with the New Republic government, even as he acknowledged their ill-placed pacifism, their willingness to turn a blind eye to the struggling Outer Rim worlds that looked to galactic leadership to protect them, to support them, to help them.
Poe was a fighter, and he was an idealist, and he helped people. Itâs who he was, who he would always be. Maybe it should have gotten him killed, long ago. Instead, Poe had struck through life skinning his teeth on the knifeâs edge of luck, fighting for a moral agenda that revolved around protecting those who could not protect themselves. Leia had taught him that the Resistance did not just offer hope, they embodied it, and Poe had a responsibility to himself and the people he fought on behalf of to never give up on that hope.
But of all the battles Poe had fought, this was the first time he felt hope slip from his heart.
The base appeared calm as Poe followed Rey into the hangar bay. Still, he searched every face, every uniform, attempting to identify friend from foe, seeking some telltale sign of the Senators or their entourage â of danger. The phantom presence of the New Republic hung over him, eyes watching from afar, a predator prowling unseen beyond the fold of the familiar. He could feel it lurking, but there was nothing tangible for him to reach out and say, There, thatâs the danger, thatâs who I need to be wary of. Instead, Poe chased after a ghost while shooting blanks into the dark, the luck he had lived by spent short when he needed it most.
Still, Poeâs head space was consumed with a frenzy of action and inaction, plans wrought as quickly as they were tossed aside â a frantic searching for a solution he knew was out of his reach. Did everyone on the base feel it too? Did they understand the threat the New Republic represented? Not just towards the First Order, but towards the Resistance? Leia had always operated by her own rules, fielding New Republic dissent and ensuring the Resistance was beholden to no one but themselves, not bogged down by the slow machinations of a political agenda. Now, that same government had stepped in to assert an authority they had no right to, laying claim to the victory of a war they had refused to fight.
Poe had fought that war. And he had won. And now they sought to steal his spoils?
Armitage was a ghostly presence beside him, veiled in silence, gaze turned inward. Poe wondered what was going through his head, wanted to ask, wanted to offer him hope, but he found he could not bring himself to lie. They had not spoken for the rest of the ride back. But Poe had felt the way Armitage had clung to him, grip stiff and clutching, fingers tangled into the fabric of Poeâs shirt. Poe had blamed the wind for his tears.
Rose met them with a pair of protocol droids, her attention on Rey as she directed the droids to assist stowing their speeders. Poe heard bits of the conversation over the commotion, "What do you mean you mean there's a ship hot on the landing field?" And, higher pitched, slightly panicked, "You did what now? " But Poe focused on Armitage, mouth opening to say something â anything â but then he saw how his eyes settled on a point at the far end of the hangar, saw how the whites edged the gray green of his pupils in the way Poe recognized as fear. Poeâs throat closed as he whipped around.
And found only Leia striding across the hangar towards them.
âFools, all of you,â she sighed as she waved away Reyâs empty apology and laid her penetrating gaze straight into Poe. There was no doubt she knew of him and Armitage. Poe had never been very good at hiding things from Leia, had in fact openly broadcast himself to her, or so Leia had told him long ago. But even as her Force harried at his edges, it was the small sad smile on her face that was more understanding than any words she might speak. âAnd here I thought at least one of you would have a sense of self-preservation.â
It was Armitage who spoke to their defense. âI canât leave when I know how to reach the Order.â That, at least, dawned understanding in Leiaâs eyes.
âI knew you would figure it out.â Leiaâs voice was proud, and Poe wondered when this softness had developed. When was it that Leia had taken Armitage under her wing? Armitage, who had tucked himself behind Poe, as if he were a shield from some unknown threat â from Leia â and Poe realized he had no idea.
But Leia saw through it, and the pleased look on her face shook free a hope that nearly brought him to tears for the second time that morning.
âCome with me. Quickly. All of you.â
Leia escorted them through the hangar bay, turning away the wandering eyes of Resistance and First Order alike in a gratuitous wielding of the Force Poe had never seen from her before. She led them into a service hallway, one of the many that connected the upper base to the underground bunkers. Poe had discovered this particular entrance when they had first moved into the base, had walked it once himself, had given the order to lock it down as it didnât connect to anything useful. Now, as they fled through the base unhindered, he was more thankful than ever for that decision. Windowless and dark, the cold florescent of the intermittent emergency running lights guided their way down a series of empty stairwells and utility access shafts, the service hallway depositing them into a corridor that connected to a network of wide open storage warehouses.
Leia and Rose led the way, while Rey took up the rear. Armitage shadowed him. The cool light turned his features sallow, the shadows settling into the sharp planes of his face in a way that reminded Poe of those early holos heâd seen of General Hux, the ones that had come through their spy network all those years ago. Order propaganda had always painted Armitage in warm reds and golds, a healthy commanding contrast to the black and gray of the rest of the Order schema. The holos had felt real in a way the posters never did, revealing a haunted man who, Poe had thought at the time, was as empty of heart as his eyes were empty of light.
That would be how the New Republic still saw Armitage. That would be the man they expected to find, when the arrest came. Would they see the difference? Would they see the person beneath the propaganda? Or would they only see Starkiller? Would they only see the ghosts of billions in the shadows he cast.
âArmitage.â Poe slowed his pace, fell into step beside him, hand reaching to touch his wrist â light, questing. Armitage looked at him, eyes hooded under a drawn down brow, mouth pressed into a line. Just like those old holos, he looked cold and emotionless, sickly in a way that Poe felt reflected in himself. He swallowed, saliva suddenly thick, his mouth too dryâ
Armitage took his hand, slipped their fingers together and squeezed. It was brief, barely a moment's touch, and Poe ached. Poe knew Armitage had to be breaking apart on the inside, didnât know how he was able to hide his emotions so well â not when Poe had spent the last two days watching all the layers of him peel away.
âAre you always this frightful under pressure?â Armitage dropped his voice, the words a grim tease, easing a broken sound out of Poe. âHonestly, Dameron, itâs as if youâre the one facing execution.â
Execution. The ice down his spine left him gasping. âI wonât let them.â The words spilled from Poe before he could stop them, the emptiness of them echoing hollow. Still, Poe refused to take them back. âWeâll figure this out. I promise, Armitage.â
âNo one is getting executed.â Leiaâs voice cut through the tension, her eyes heavy on Poe when he looked to where she had paused in front of a closed bay door. Rose was beside her at the electronic lock, tapping a passcode into the control board. âAt least, not yet. In here, come on. Before one of their droids finds us.â The bay door groaned open, dust spilling out of the accordion folds as the metal slowly drew upwards.
The frown on Reyâs face as she passed them left Poe wondering if Leia wasnât just playing at politics, but he knew the woman better than that â if Armitageâs life were in immediate danger he trusted her to not smooth over the truth.
Beyond the bay door sprawled a wide open warehouse. Nearly as large as the active hangar above ground, the space reached several stories high, the ceiling lost to the darkness, the unseen metal beams holding the structure aloft casting strange shadows across a ship. Poe stared, the realization dawning on him that this wasnât a warehouse but an underground hangar bay. The ship was a small deep space cruiser, lightspeed capable but with a weapons system that left enough to be desired â more of a luxury ship than a fighter.
It wasn't much, but it wasn't meant to be, because it was a getaway ship.
Shocked, Poe looked to Rey, then Leia â couldn't decide who he wanted to kiss more. âWhen did you do this?â
âThe day you left. When we found out the New Republic were on their way we knew weâd needed to do some planning.â Leia gestured at the ship. âItâs not much, but it will do if someone has to make a quick escape. Unlike leaving a transport hot on the landing field for anyone to see.â
Rey flushed, but stood her ground, âI made sure no one saw, and itâs not like they can track it through hyperspace.â
âUnless theyâve gotten a hold of Order tech we havenât been able to recover,â Rose quipped.
âIt wasnât tech, it was math.â When Poe looked at Armitage even he appeared surprised by his words, his eyes darting from him to Leia then up at the ceiling. The tips of his ears were as red as his hair, âMy math.â
The quiet of the room was awkward, and for the first time in what felt like forever Poe nearly laughed. Instead, it was Leia who chuckled, âCredit where credit is due, I suppose.â
Armitageâs frown cut deep, pink now across his nose, hands fisted at his sides. He looked back to Leia, huffing out a sigh. âAre you going to tell us whatâs going on, then?â He sounded angry, looked frustrated, but Poe was grateful to see any emotion at all. The haunted facade of before had left Poe feeling far more alone than reassured. Somehow, Armitageâs anger and frustration was a comfort.
âFirst, despite what Rey might believe, there have been no official talks of arrests or executions, as of yet.â Leia leveled a look at Rey that Poe was all too familiar with, and he couldnât help the little grin that pulled at his mouth as Rey knowingly met his eyes. âFive New Republic Senators arrived at our base approximately twenty four standard hours ago. Their arrival was precluded by a transmission that was received only several hours before their actual ship. Their agenda, as theyâve told me, is to assist with our efforts. I think we all know politics are never that simple, though.â
The sigh that left Leia then was long, the wariness she felt slipping through, just a little. But it was enough for Poe to see the worn edges of age appear on her, the glamour of youth falling away to reveal the woman who had survived three different Republic regimes.
âTheyâre holding an inquest regarding what befell the Academy. Somehow the details were leaked outside official channels and the Senate has been dealing with the public who is, understandably, looking for an explanation. It seems the news of the First Orderâs child trafficking has finally gained the attention weâve been trying to give it for years.â And that was the truth, wasnât it? The Resistance had been relaying reports from the Outer Rim for nearly a decade, the ones that spoke of orphanages emptied over night, the slave traders who turned a profit off First Order credits, whole mining colonies raided of not just their ore but their children too.
"Those childrenâ" Armitage cut himself off, looked away again, face flickering with emotion before he wiped it clean, mouth pressing closed over unspoken words, tongue held only because, in this, he was out numbered. Their eyes met and for a moment Poe was confronted with a man he had almost forgotten, and it brought back all the memories and feelings of a time not so long past, when Armitage was Hux and they were on opposite sides of a galaxy wide war. It was easy to forget, now, how different they once were â how unaligned their goals had been...how quickly everything had changed. Could it change just as quickly again?
âAnd with it, the pain over the destruction of the Hosnian system has regained public attention. And we all know who was the face of that tragedy.â Leia turned to Armitage then, and Poe watched as she caught and held his gaze. âThey will be interviewing you regarding the Academy and the Hosnian Cataclysm, and it would be naive for us to assume they are not also looking for someone to hold accountable. Your family history with the Academy and the propaganda surrounding Starkiller Base have served you no favors. You are their target, Hux. I do believe you are facing arrest.â
Armitageâs chin dropped, mouth twisted in a silent snarl. âAnd Ren, what of his responsibility. We were co-commanders of Starkiller Base. And I saved children, I believe his history involves murdering them.â
âBen is not immune from their attention either. In fact, he interviewed with the Senators yesterday for over five hours,â Leiaâs voice brokered no sympathy, for Armitage or her son. âBelieve it or not, Hux, I am on your side. I do not believe the Senate will serve justice by placing the blame of the whole First Order at your feet. But they are a democratic republic, and if the public calls for your arrest and execution then you best prepare yourself, or run. Because right now, you still have that option. You could board this ship behind me and disappear into the Unknown Regions, and that would be the end of all this.â
The air left Poeâs lungs, the truth of Leiaâs words spurring him towards the need for action. Poe was prepared, he had been ready to leave the moment Rey met them in the field. But Armitage was looking at Leia with that same cold expression heâd seen in the hallway, and Poe realized the mask for what it was. Like a creature trapped, the panicked turmoil Poe had mistaken for anger and frustration now spilled through the cracks of detached calm Hux had donned, his eyes wild under his furrowed brow. But his words were the same as those spoken before, the same denial of his own opportunity to flee â to live.
âI wonât leave my crew behind. I wonât leave the rest of the Order to die hiding from those who hunt them.â
The quiet that fell over the room was heavy with the morbidity of understanding, and Leia sighed, weary again, but as resolved as Armitage.
âAnd hopefully the Senate will see that for what it is, will see it how I do.â The words Leia said next were kind, but the way her voice hammered them into sound was far more harsh, as if she knew she needed to convince not just Armitage, or the Senate, but the whole of the universe, âYouâre a good man Hux, and somehow I had not expected that. Youâve also proved me wrong, and thatâs not something many can claim.â
Whether it was the force of her words or the more tangible touch of her mind against his, Armitageâs mask bled away. He turned his face away from Leia, his body following, arms finally coming up to cross over his chest, mouth splitting from a frown to a grimace as he came undone. Suddenly, Armitage looked so small. Like a broken thing put back together wrong, held together by nothing but the grip of his own arms around himself.
Poe felt himself break with him.
Stepping forward, heedless of Rey or Rose or Leiaâs eyes on them, Poe pulled Armitage into an embrace. He was shaking, as if Leiaâs words had stripped him raw, exposed him to the harsh elements of his own heart. That simple measure of kindness, her acknowledgment of what, Poe knew, was something incredibly important, yet incredibly private for Armitage, had released a dam of emotion he had been harboring for weeks. It tipped him over the edge, the muster of his strength spent in the span of a sentence, surrendered at the feet of his former enemies.
Poe smoothed his hand down his back, trailed his fingers through his hair, pressed his face to Armitageâs cheek and listened to the shuddering of his breath.
The others gave them the mercy of this quiet moment alone, voices softened as they turned away.
âItâs okay, youâre okay,â Poe murmured as Armitageâs arms slipped around his waist, returning his hold. There was something to this, a new plateau they had reached, where Armitage would acknowledge this thing between them before those closest to Poe. It sang inside him, alighting him with a fire, the burning thing inside him that drove Poe to charge head first into every battle heâd ever undertaken.
Poe would not let Armitage go without a fight. Because Poe was a fighter. Itâs who he was, and of all the battles he had fought, this might be the first time he fought to protect something for himself.
Â
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The weft of his uniform was rougher than Hux remembered, as his hand smoothed over the folded material.
It had been laundered in his absence, left in a sack inside the door along with Poeâs clothing. That had felt as strange as it looked, when heâd sorted through the bag to find their belongings mixed together, a visceral merging of their lives, as intimate as it was mundane. But now as he placed the jacket into his trunk, he was struck by how much more strange this felt â bare of the uniform that had once brought him such strength, his armor stripped of him when he needed it most.
You can ât wear your First Order uniform anymore. Itâs a symbol, and they will be looking to frame you as the General you were, rather than the defector you need to show them you are.
He touched his fingers to the General stripes on the cuff, the fine silvery white thread worn in the places where it had rubbed against his hip during all those years spent walking the halls of the Finalizer. Heâd been so proud the day this uniform had been delivered to his new quarters aboard his ship. She had just been set into orbit, fresh from the Kuat drive yards, and they were to take their maiden voyages together; General Hux and his new commission, setting out on a journey that, at the time, Hux had believed would end so much differently.
This is all about optics, Hux. Their droids are everywhere, watching, recording. They say it âs for a holo program theyâre producing to sway sympathy to our cause, but we know better, donât we?
Hux indeed knew better. Surveillance was a tactic well utilized by the Order. Men behaved differently when they knew their actions were watched. But unlike the New Republic, the Order was honest with its intentions. This was an active subversion of the Resistance itself, whose years had been spent hiding from not just the Order, but from the galaxy at large. Their survival had been dependent upon it. Now they were under the watchful eye of their own people, exposed and unprotected, the wilds of Ajan Kloss broadcast to the greater galaxy, where anyone with half a mind could narrow down the likely prospects of their location.
The weight of that weakness was borne not by the New Republic, but by the people who called this place home. Walking the halls of the base again, just that short trek to his and Poeâs quarters, he had already seen it. Whispers where before there were laughs, people reserved where they were once rowdy, cold where they were once familiar.
Curiously, the camaraderie between his crew and the Resistance had not deteriorated â appeared bolstered, judging by the way they walked the halls together, brought closer by a common threat.
They âre aware of your work to reach what is left of the Order and I donât believe they will make an arrest until that work is complete. But time is something your people donât have the luxury of, and I doubt I can buy you anymore than I already have.
Tomorrow morning he would meet Organa and Tico at the uplink transport. Tico would assist him with managing the network connection so he could focus on the slicing required to push the data payload through. He didnât anticipate any issues. In truth, he expected everything to go fairly smoothly. And though Organa did not think his arrest would come until after the Order had time to respond to his message â whether they would give him the opportunity to perform the actual negotiations â no one could say for sure.
The difficult task ahead would be organizing any incoming rescue efforts. The Finalizer had been short eighty percent of its crew when it reached Ajan Kloss. He could not say the same of the other ships. The uncomfortable admission was that he needed not just the Resistance, but the help of the New Republic. And if that meant he had to play their game to keep his people safe...
Hux knew what that mean, he'd spent his life playing other men's games.
You are not to walk the base alone. One of us, either myself or Poe, Rey, Rose or hell, even Finn, I don't care who, but someone will always need to be with you. Of all the Senators, you are not to speak alone with Fineas Ofant. Those are his droids you will see patrolling. He is the New Republic âs Director or New Media, and he owns over half of the holo-news cycles. He lost his family to the Hosnian cataclysm, and despite what he may otherwise allude, he is out for your head, Hux.
Organa had not needed to drive that point any deeper. There had been a time when Hux might have willingly given himself to Fineas Ofant, turned his life over and accepted a fate he had once actively sought. Now, he was no longer sure what he deserved. All he knew was what he wanted.
Poe watched him from where he leaned against the threshold of Huxâs room. His dark eyes hooded, struggling against the slide inward. Hux wanted to go to him, wanted to push into his chest and feel his warm arms come around him and seek the comfort he knew heâd find there, but he had already taken enough from Poe. When presented with the opportunity to save his own life or save the Order, Hux had chosen the Order.
Despite whatever Hux wanted, he had made his choice, and it had not been Poe Dameron.
âWant me to send a droid for some food? We still have some time before your interview.â Poeâs voice sounded casual, normal, but Hux could hear the struggle for control.
Poe had cried when they first arrived at their quarters. Had hid himself in the fresher where he didnât think Hux could hear over the spray of the shower. But Hux had leaned against the locked door, had heard the sound through the durasteel, had pressed his forehead to the cool metal and closed his eyes against his own tears.
I love him. And the knowledge made everything all the more difficult to bear.
The aching need he felt for Poe consumed him, and as much as Hux wanted to be assured he was making the right choice, he couldnât help but feel that he was walking the wrong path diverged. What if his message didnât reach anyone? What if he was too late? What if those left of his generation had already fallen to his fatherâs ghosts? What if Hux was giving up everything he had, could have, for some slippery shadow of hope.
Hux knew now, why so many men spent their lives unloved. Love was a far crueler mistress than even fate. Where fate felt inevitable, love cut from the shadows without warning, giving as quickly and violently as it took.
Poe dressed him. Unlike that first time, so many weeks ago, there were no smiles, no teases, no jokes. He took his time, rolling Huxâs shirt sleeves with the delicate precision of a pilot, loosening the top two buttons so his collar fell open in casual disregard â as if it mattered, as if any of this would make a difference. The clothing was worn, not new, the fit strange, the muted colors too bold. A costume donned to ill-effect, Hux couldn't help but think. Over-designed, the results were comical, not convincing â a work of satire, all drama lost. A character Hux was supposed to play in the holo that was his life.
In the fresher mirror Hux pushed his hair into a different part, frowned, and pushed it back. He didnât look different, he just looked wrong, and he was certain he would fool no one.
One of the droids Organa warned them of arrived at their door to escort Hux to his interview â his interrogation â and what time he had left felt all the shorter for it. He could see the way the lens focused on his face, recognized the mirrored facsimile of an optic nerve which begot the droids high grade visual components. It was recording him. The way he walked, the way he spoke. So Hux didnât speak, and he kept pace beside Poe, sometimes so close that their arms brushed. He thought maybe they shouldnât allow themselves to be recorded like this, together, but every time he drifted away Poe closed the distance again.
The hallway was absent of the hustle of people Hux was used to, and as they walked their footfalls echoed off the cement walls. The part of the base the droid had led them to was not somewhere Hux had been before. But he was reminded of his walks down the long corridors of the Supremacy, Snokeâs throne room but twenty more paces off, twenty more seconds for Hux to quiet his mind and prepare his body, twenty more breaths before the air would be choked from his lungs, punched from his gut.
Here, he had twenty more beats left of his heart, before it would be ripped from his chest, dashed against the feats of his past.
When the droid stopped in front of a door that looked like any other door on the base, Hux knew it was not. Three knocks and then the droid stepped back, watching Hux with that artificial focus. Poe was beside him still, drawn up somehow taller than his height allowed, face set with a strength Hux was unsure if he actually felt. Their eyes met as they waited, and Hux wondered if this was also part of the game, this slow undoing of time that took with it all the mental preparations he had managed together.
He didnât jump when the door slid open. He thought maybe that was a good sign.
âGeneral Armitage Hux of the First Order?â The aide that greeted them was a small woman, no older than he or Poe, and her attitude was affable. Hux glimpsed beyond her a banquet table set with five chairs, three filled, two empty, but all five Senators there, chatting amongst themselves with a congenial grace, as if this was just another day at the office surrounded by friends.
As is the very life of a man wouldnât be decided over the span of the next several hours.
âFormer General Armitage Hux of the First Order,â he corrected, but the aide just shrugged, non-plussed.
âCome in, please.â She gestured ahead as she stepped aside, attention turning to Poe before he could follow Hux inside. âIâm afraid youâll have to wait out here, Mr. Dameron. The interview is considered confidential.â
âGeneral Dameron,â Poe corrected and this time the aide smiled, blushed a little, eyes wandering Poe as if he werenât a person but a poster, fit only for public consumption. Their eyes met again and Poe looked flustered, brought to task by his own reputation, the lack of respect landing in a way Hux suspected Poe had become so accustomed to that he never recognized it for what it was. âMeet me right here when youâre through. Iâll be waiting.â His voice was hard, and the aide drew back to consider them.
âI will, if I can.â Huxâs codepad was tucked into his pocket, Force opened to his player profile. He had set all three of his cards to the dead star resource, more a symbol than anything, but one Mitaka and Phasma would understand. A warning of danger of the worst kind.
âDonât make me come find you.â It sounded like a threat, though Hux recognized the tease in Poeâs voice. The aideâs eyebrows raised in curiosity, in misunderstanding, eyes searching Hux for a pair of cuffs, or an ankle tracker, as if he were actually the prisoner they were told he was not. Little did she know any threat was directed at the people behind her, not him.
He didnât look back when he entered the room, didnât want his last memory of Poe to be his face disappearing behind a closed door.
There was a single lonesome folding chair set in the middle of the floor. Wordlessly, the aide directed him to sit.
The air of the room may as well have been sucked into the vacuum of space, for all the silence that pervaded his presence, for all the breath he could not find. The Senators had grown quiet, conversations cut short as they turned their attention to him, as if he were some strange spectacle to behold. Here, now, you will see the Starkiller, a man who devised the galaxyâs greatest horror, a planet turned machine, a star turned super weapon. At his feet lay the lives of billions, but now he wants his freedom. Is that really what he deserves? Hux sat down in the chair if only because he wasnât sure how much longer he could stand.
He knew, logically, that he had faced far greater personal threats than the five people before him. Snokeâs power spanned distances well beyond the hall of his throne room aboard the Supremacy, wielded against Hux from light years away. And he had borne the punishments of his failures with a sneer and a scowl, had brought himself to his own knees to grovel for forgiveness enough times that he had stopped feeling the shame of it.
Hux had faced down Kylo Renâs tyrannical tantrums, accepting the abuse it sowed, if only because the future of the First Order depended upon his strength of dedication to their cause. Depended on his ability to stand up to a man who would throw his crew to the ashes of a memory long dead, if it meant he could ascend to a greater power with the Force.
And he had cowered under the hand of his own father, learning from him that a manâs true strength wasnât in his ability to take a hit, but his ability to keep going despite them.
Yet somehow, in this room, Hux felt all those past lessons learned and strategies from games played abandon him. Instead, he sat in his chair, and he cast his eyes to his lap, and he thought about Poe. Poeâs touch and Poeâs words, his laugh and his warmth. And Hux found his strength not in what he had survived, but in the love he had been given.
And if here was where his fate was to be decided, where his freedom was to be abjured in favor of a death sentence, Hux wondered if he had been right to ensconce his feelings for Poe away. If Hux, a person who had never known love, let alone the kind which Poe had for him, could find strength in that loveâŠHux could only imagine what strength Poe, a person who sought and sowed love with the fury of a storm, could find in that love.
I love him.
Hux wished, suddenly, that he had told Poe.
âGeneral Armitage Hux of the First Order, I dare say itâs an honor.â The man who spoke was tall, as tall as Hux, maybe as tall as Ren. His hair was shorn short but not cropped, gray at the temple and shot through yet more. His strong jawed face bore a smile that looked genuine, but Hux knew men like this, had been dealing with them all his life. This was Fineas Ofant, the man Organa had warned him of, the man who would see him dead.
Hux said nothing as the Senators took their time finding their seats, the din of conversation ebbing into the casual chatter from before. The aide passed out datapads with what, Hux assumed, were files on him â his past exploits and perhaps current work with the Resistance. Three droids walked the room, one settling beside the banquet table with its lens focused on his face, the other two switching between the Senators and himself. Hux did not look into the lens focused on him, instead he kept his eyes on the Senators, on his lap.
Hux wondered, suddenly, how Ren had felt sitting here under the scrutiny of the Senate. Had he lost his temper? Had he screamed and yelled? Had he tossed these men and women and sentient beings around like dolls to be played with? He doubted it, yet his interview had lasted hours. So what had Ren spoke of for so long? His history with Snoke? His history with him? Had he placed the blame on Hux, the fanatical son of a fanatical father, who represented everything the First Order had been and might have become?
âYou understand why youâre here, correct? Or did Princess Organa not get the chance to speak with you first?â The woman who spoke was a human, blonde and of undiscerning age. Younger, certainly, than he expected for a Senator, but then the same could be said of him as a General at age thirty-five. She had not shared her name.
And yes, Organa had spoken with him, but in secret. In a place deep underground protected from the monolithic eye of these people and their droids, âI am here to be interviewed regarding the fate of the First Orderâs Academy.â
âNot exactly.â The womanâs attention was on her datapad, eyes roaming a screen he could not see, âGiven your familyâs history with the Academy we feel we already have your perspective on those events, General.â
âFormer General.â Like the aide, the woman looked up at him, non-plussed. Someone snickered but Hux could not identify who.
âIt seems your crew would disagree. Weâve already interviewed several who most certainly refer to you as their General.â
âA well-defined chain of command provides a sense of stability within a military. It does not surprise me that theyâve retained those constructs under their circumstances.â
âComfort.â The word sounded wrong, when Ofant said it, twisted and cruel. âYouâre saying you provide them comfort.â
âStability.â Hux met Ofantâs eyes, turned away. âI also would not be surprised if most do not understand they are no longer beholden to the Order, but political refugees.â
âPolitical refugees? Is that what Princess Organa calls them?â
âShe calls them friends.â
The woman smiled, but it was tight. âWell, for your former crew to be considered political refugees they would need to be assigned that status by the Senate of the New Republic, and I donât believe we have officially decided what they will be considered.â
Huxâs blood went cold.
âI was under the impression that those terms had already been negotiated.â Was the woman bluffing? Was she trying to worry away at his defenses? Sow doubt of his position, of the security of his people? Certainly she knew that this threat, because thatâs what it was, would raise his hackles. Was she trying to harrow him further onto the defensive, catch him off-guard and expose him as nothing more than an Order loyalist playing at defector? Was she right?
âThey are certainly under the jurisdiction of the New Republic, but an official declaration as political refugees would absolve them of their responsibility in past conflicts. We are open to the idea but are not quite ready to take that step. The Senate is under public pressure at the moment, and weâre here to not only assist Princess Organa with the surrender of the Order, but see to it that greater justice is served for the sake of the New Republic and the whole galaxy.â
âWhat do you want from me.â He knew what they wanted, he just needed to hear them say it. For all the games Hux had played, he already found himself exhausted of this one.
âOnly your cooperation, General. I will be up front, you are, essentially the face of the First Order. And I donât presume that this comes as a surprise to you. In fact, it seems to be by your design.â And that was, certainly, the truth. While there had never been a light at the end of this tunnel, Hux had not felt quite so in the dark up until now. âWhile I might respect your recent efforts to rectify what wrongs your organization has inflicted upon the galaxy, it will never be enough to justify the billions of lives you took from us. Innocent lives. Men and women and children and creatures whose only crime was existing within a system you sought to make a message out of. The New Republic was born of war, and we understand the collateral nature of innocent casualties, but you destroyed an entire system. And, if our intel serves us, you were not just the face of the Hosnian Cataclysm, but the chief officer that oversaw the planning and engineering of Starkiller Base. Are we wrong?"
No, they were not wrong. âThat is correct.â
And it was as much a confession as it was a death sentence, even as the Senators bent together, whispers lost to a distance that felt far more vast than the space of the room.
They moved apart, eventually, silent again as they watched him. Maybe they were waiting for more â a justification, an excuse. An apology? Hux had no excuses to give, no justification that would make sense, and knew an apology would only be insulting. No, Hux knew what they wanted from him, and it was not empty words.
Fineas Ofant was the first to break the silence. âWell that seems to cover most everything we needed to discuss.â
Hux drew to attention, felt his face slacken for just a fraction, barely at all, but enough that Ofant smiled at him, dark and knowing. And Hux couldnât control himself when he snapped, âMy crew fled the Order to survive political in-fighting and I do not wish for them to suffer yet more. They have done nothing but cooperate with the Resistance and consent to their rules. They have worked alongside them, ate alongside them, slept alongside them, and have begun to rebuild their lives alongside them. There are others out there who would accept the same opportunity. Surely the New Republic would welcome an end to the First Order through peace rather than more war?â
Silence permeated the room again, broken only by the sound of his own breath. Hux was shaking, his chest tight with words he wanted to scream, the ones that would tell these kriffing bastards that they were the reason why the wounds of the Empire never healed, them and their fucking riotous indignation for justice. What did they want from him? What did they want him to say? Hux had given up everything â his information, his position, his contacts, his uniform, his ship, and the whole of his command. What else was left?
He knew what was left, and not so long ago, he had been prepared to give that up too.
So why was it so hard, now?
I love him.
Hux had promised himself he would protect Poe, now Hux realized that meant he must protect himself.
But to protect himself, he would have to betray the Order. And he couldnât â not again, not like this.
âSo please, do not sit there and think to mock me. There is no wool over my head. You need someone to be publicly held accountable, and I am the obvious option. If it means my crew and any other member of the First Order who defects will be given political asylum and allowed refugee status, then I will walk to the gallows myself. What I will not abide is this petty manipulation, not when the lives of so many depend on my advocation for their safety.â
If his last move in this game of life was to surrender himself on a silvered platter then he would, if it meant his crew, the Order, could walk free.
Iâm so sorry, Poe.
âWe understand that tomorrow you will be contacting the rest of the Order with an offer to assist with further defections. If youâre able to reach them with success, we will negotiate refugee status for your crew and those that come forward. If we can put an end to the First Order, then that is certainly in the New Republicâs best interest.â The woman looked to her fellows, noted their nods of affirmation while he noted Fineas Ofantâs open grin, and then she met Huxâs eyes one last time. âI believe we are done here, General Hux.â
Â
Â
Â
Â
âItâs Ben, Ben Solo.â
âSo the name Kylo Renââ
âKylo Ren is dead.â
âRight.â A beat, someone snickered, it wasnât obvious who. âBen, do you know why you are here today?â
âDo you know why youâre here?â
âWeâre here to provide aid to your mother, and to serve justice on behalf of the New Republicââ
Ben laughed, head thrown back. âNo, youâre not.â
The Senators leaned in close, words too soft for the recording to pick up.
âBen, weâd like to talk with you about the events that occurred around the construction and subsequent firing of Starkiller Base.â
âYou want to talk about Hux.â
âWell, weâre certainly interested in the role he played regarding the destruction of the Hosnian system.â
âHe wants him dead.â Benâs arm lifted to point at Fineas Ofant.
Ofant smiled, said nothing.
âIs it going to be like this the entire time?â
âMaybe we should get Leiaââ
A short scuffle, as one of the Senator's datapads slid off the edge of the banquet table as if of its own accord.
âBen, what do you know of General Hux.â
âEverything.â
âBecause you both served as co-commanders for five yearsââ
âBecause Iâve been inside his head.â
Silence again, a long one. Leia checked the audio channel on the recording, just to be sure the sound hadnât cut out.
"I think we should just end this now, we're not getting anywhere."
âBen, weâre going to need you to cooperate and answer our questions clearlyââ
âThen start asking the right questions.â
Atta boy. Leia smirked, indulgent, proud of her son.
âWhat are the right questions?â
âAsk me why Hux threw away his entire life with the Order to stop me. Ask me what his motivations were to rise as quickly through the ranks as he did. Ask me what was it about him that made me hate him so much.â
âYou hated him? Why?â
âI hated him because he cared.â
âWhat did he care about?â
âThe First Order.â
âWell, of course, the First Order wasâ"
âNo. He cared about the people of the First Order.â
âAnd you hated him for that?â
âI hated him because he cared, and that made him weak, because it was of the light.â
Leia paused the recording, and released a breath she had spent too long holding.
Notes:
I promise next chapter around will have more time with Poe and Hux talking through this stuff and finding some strength in one another.
This was the most difficult chapter to write yet â I know y'all love angst but it really takes a toll on me to write. Real life at the moment is pure chaos, but I hope to keep up with a two week update schedule while I can. Also, check out that chapter count...I am pretty positive this will be the last bump :)
Chapter 8: System Reboot
Notes:
Maybe a mild warning if you're like me and are triggered by assholes. Otherwise, just an obscene amount of angst.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hux stood at the edge of something far greater than himself.
And it was strange, now that he was a dead man walking, how everything he once thought important fell away. There was a rawness left in its wake, an unburdening that exposed more than the core of him or his beliefs. Hux was not sure if he was a good person as Organa claimed, but he knew here, stripped of the construct of his own life and survival, he found peace knowing that his death meant so many others would live.
Heâd read once that when a man dies his entire life is relived over the span of a second. Every memory brought to bear, every feeling and emotion, every fear and joy. But instead of a moment Hux had been given days, and his relatively short lifetime of memories had long since been spent. So, Hux was left suspended in an emptiness that would, eventually, be taken from him too. And in that liminal space between life and death, he found his perspective shifting on a fundamental level.
That the people of the Order would live, that felt important.
That those same people would be given the opportunity to finally seed Order values in the greater galaxy felt more important. That what Hux had spent his life pursuing would be achieved through his deathâŠhe almost laughed aloud at the irony the New Republic was playing into.
But he kept this thought to himself, for Poeâs sake â Poe, whoâs humor had fallen away to reveal a fury Hux would have feared had they still been on opposite sides of a galaxy wide war.
Hux knew Poeâs anger hid a deeper despair. He knew this because the lonesome moments they spent together in their quarters were filled with those now familiar touches, as if Poe thought they could live a whole lifetime in the course of a day. But while Hux expected the physicality of Poeâs affection, what he was not prepared for were that those moments were not spent in a desperate love making, or frantic demanding touches. They were spent with all the small things: soft lips to his forehead, the pressure of fingertips to his wrist, formless words whispered into his hair, stirring a bodily warmth that clung to Hux long after he and Poe had parted. They were things that crawled over his skin and burrowed deep in his cracks, a remapping of his nerve endings that left him wired for Poe in a way that made him ache for so much more, a more Poe refused to allow.
As often as Hux had asked, as much as he had pleaded, when Poeâs tender touches left him shaking, Poe refused to take that last step, as if the act of sex would herald Huxâs end closer. Really, he suspected Poe put it off so they had something to look forward to, crafting what future he could from what time they had left.
And Hux still had not told Poe of his feelings â of his love. So he thought maybe he understood Poe, in this. That his admission would seal their destiny, the words a harbinger of a pain that would consume all else, leaving them both wanting for something that would never be theirs to have.
Of all the revelations Hux had experienced since the acceptance of his death, he had yet to understand how Poe fit into the equation of his life. It felt insulting to say that Poe was fateâs form of apology, even if thatâs how Hux viewed him. Because that would mean Huxâs presence in Poeâs life was a punishment, and Hux didnât think Poe deserved to be punished. What Poe deserved was the happiness he had spent his life providing for others.
Hux wanted to be that happiness, wished heâd been given the opportunity.
âIâm going to fix this.â Hux looked up from his codepad when Poe spoke, finding him afire with that fury. It shimmered beneath his glassy surface, awaiting a shattering that might set it free. Hux was curled up against him on his lumpy couch, fully dressed in his Resistance provided clothing, the hem of his muted dark green shirt rucked up where Poeâs fingers circled a pattern into the skin of his hip. Hux wondered idly who these clothes had belonged to, wondered if he too were dead now, his belongings gathered and re-purposed and given to a man who could not be cursed by their previous ownerâs ill fortune, not when he was already bound to share it.
Poeâs eyes searched his, the crease in his brow deepening like he could read his thoughts. Hux did his best to soften Poe. He let a small smile tug at his lips, and he smoothed a hand down Poe's thigh. All those small touches he knew Poe savored, all the little things he thought maybe Poe would remember.
Beyond the domed window, Ajan Kloss was waking into morning. The sun barely breached the sky, night still hanging heavy over the distant mountain peaks. In the dim light Poe looked more handsome than Hux could stomach. Dark and brooding and alive with all the simple physicalities of breath and blood and a pounding pulse. Hux took what he was given, harvesting happiness from the dread that threatened to overwhelm them both. Hux had grown good at this, a long time ago. And old habits died hard.
âWhen I talk to them, Iâll convince them theyâre making a mistake.â Poe had been treading these same circles all night and into morning, chasing a solution that was perpetually out of reach. Hux chased Poe's hand, tracing his fingers where they edged the waistband of his pants, enjoying the feel of Poe's skin beneath his bare ungloved palm.
âIt was my idea, Poe. You canât blame them entirely.â A point of contention, if there ever was one. Poe had not been pleased, but at least he had understood.
âThey manipulated you. You really think Leia didnât work out the details of your crew weeks ago?â
Hux had wondered that too â had come to the conclusion that it wouldn't really matter either way, in the end. âIt doesnât seem like they care much about what Organa thinks, or what promises she has made.â
âIf not for Leia there would be no New Republic left at all,â Poe snarled, his blunt nails dragging along the skin of Huxâs hip as his fingers curled. Hux shivered. Part of Hux liked seeing Poe like this, probably because it was all for him, but as he crawled his eyes down Poeâs face, taking in the turn of his mouth, the rasp of his voice, he kept his smile to himself. âThey owe us, I donât care what public pressure theyâre under. If they want pressure Iâll give them pressure.â
Hux held his breath as he watched Poe burn beside him in a glorious display of possessiveness. For all the anger Poe must feel, there was an undercurrent of control that left Hux curious, a method Poe had of manifesting his feelings into a willpower that explained so much about him and his ability to achieve the impossible.
In any other thing, Hux might have gambled his hope on a man who had made a life out of defying the worst odds. Instead, Hux tempered that willpower, afraid of where it might lead Poe, afraid that if Poe flew too close to his fate that he might get caught in its orbit.
âIâm quite taken with this version of you,â Hux smiled instead. âBut I donât think threats will get you far. Likely it will get you thrown in the brig and I will have to spend my final days bereft of your charming presence.â
âArmitage,â Poe breathed, face breaking to reveal not anger, but that other ever abiding emotion: despair. Poe's arm slid tighter around him as he pulled Hux closer, as if by sheer strength alone he could hold them together. Hux closed his eyes. âCan you please not say things like that?â
âWhat, speak of my death?â Hux murmured the words softly as he turned his head into Poe's neck to hide the unevenness of his breath.
âJoke about it. This is...it's serious.â
Hux wanted to point out that Poe himself had a knack for joking about serious things, but, he saw Poeâs request for what it was, and Hux had no desire to draw out Poeâs pain and sour what time they had left together. âYouâre right. Iâm sorry, Poe.â
When he pressed his fingers to Poeâs cheek he saw all the anger and despair melt away to be replaced with a force of affection Hux could feel mirrored in himself. It breathed through him, bound him to Poe in a synthesis that felt essential. Hux imagined the threads of himself that surely connected to Poe in the same way that life on Ajan Kloss was connected to its atmosphere, the way the planets were connected to their suns, the way life was connected to death.
He couldn't stop himself from kissing Poe, then. It was nothing more than a soft press of his lips, but his trembling revealed more, and the ensuing wetness gave Poe away. And as Poe whispered you're okay over and over again into the curve of his mouth, Hux wondered if the words for for him or for Poe.
They parted ways outside the base. Poe risked running late for his own interview with the Senators to see Hux off to the transport that would take him to the Finalizerâs uplink station where he would meet Organa â where he would finally reach the lost remnants of the First Order.
Poe had embraced him openly before Hux boarded, defiant of anyone who might see, defiant of the artificial gaze of the droid which had been following them since theyâd left their quarters behind. It had been waiting, had in fact been sitting outside their door all evening; the shadow of a gaze of a nameless observer, documenting a life of a man already promised to death.
Few others had been awake, and the emptiness of the base allowed the droid to encapsulate an image of them walking alone hand in hand. Hux had thought to pull away but Poe had looked at him with such open and honest need that Hux could only hold his hand tighter. So, as the droidâs sophisticated optics complied an image of them in a moment that should have been intimately private, something for them to keep only for themselves, unobserved and unjudged, Hux decided he would not think about the eyes that would later see the footage. He would ignore the picture it painted of Poe â traitor, conspirator, Starkiller-fucker â because Hux understood now that the character he played in Poeâs story was one that would only ever live on in memory, and Hux wanted to give Poe as many memories as he could, while he still could.
No, Hux hadnât quite figured out why fate had thrust him and Poe together. And if he could not protect Poe, he had to trust that the memories he left behind would at least be enough to see Poe through to the other side whole.
From the small slotted window at the back of the transport Hux watched Poe disappear behind the foliage of the forest. His arm never lifted in a wave goodbye, his head never turned to observe the droid that lingered beside him. Stoic and unmoving, Poe had stood, until the trees consumed him and Hux felt the sting of the sun settle in his eyes.
Â
Â
Poe walked the base alone, bereft in a way that haunted him.
In the absence of Armitage Poe drifted like a ghost, stripped of his spirit and all the stuff inside him that felt like living. Loss had not spoken to him like this since his mother had died, and Poe recognized now what heâd seen in his father all that time ago. As a boy he had worried, had been afraid Kes would follow Shara to wherever she had gone â some non-existent place they called the afterlife. Because when Kes would sit in his chair and focus on a thing that Poe could never see, he thought maybe his mother was still there, but only his father could see her. He had been right, Poe now realized. It was Shara Kes had seen, but not in the flesh, and not as a ghost, but the Shara that lived in his head, in all the memories he kept and held and lived and relived.
Armitage was not dead, not yet, but Poe found himself doing the same. His footfalls echoed off the mostly empty corridors, his steps taking him where he needed to go while his mind went where he wanted to be: back on that mountainside with Armitage asleep in his arms, back in his quarters when Armitage had broke down for the first time, back on the beach when the Finalizer was falling and Armitage had looked so lost and alone. And yet further back â when Armitage was Hux and he had saved Poeâs life while throwing away his own, as if it didnât matter, as if it had never mattered.
Armitage had come to terms with his own death with an accedence Poe could not completely understand. There was a disconnection in how he had spoken of himself all morning, as if he had already left the world behind. Poe wondered if his career with the First Order had been constantly spent in a similar state, where the unfortunate reality of living was a gamble made everyday. Maybe the Resistance had offered Armitage something notably greater than Poe could put to words. Maybe it had offered him the comfort of life outside the scope of merely surviving.
Now, that was all being taken away from him. And Poe knew he was the reason Armitage had let his guard down. He was the reason death stalked him again, because he was the reason Armitage was still alive.
There was an obligation in that, Poe acknowledged. A responsibility that was his alone.
I will protect him.
Poe paused in the doorway to mess, eyes wandering the bright green âWelcomeâ sign that, all these weeks later, still hung over the serving stations. Poe remembered when heâd first seen the sign, remembered smiling at the idea that Finn and Connix had taken the time on such a juvenile herald of good will. Now the sign hung over the room with the weight of a lie, and Poe wanted nothing more than to stalk across the hall and tear it free â shred it to pieces and use it for tinder and burn down the whole of this fake facade that had tricked each and every one of them.
Instead, Poe observed the people already seated at the tables inside. First meal would not be served for another quarter of a standard hour, but a handful of former Order members were gathered and waiting. There was a certain quality to the quiet conversations taking place between the hunched forms, and Poe sensed that these people had been here far longer than time could justify. It seemed they too sensed something on base was amiss. And when Poe observed Phasma from a distance, her attention absorbed by her datapad on the table before her, fingers pressed across her mouth in what Poe would guess was thought, he knew she understood the danger they were all in. If he'd had the time, he would have gone to her, asked for her help, asked for her advice.
Asked if she wanted to help him steal Armitage away to safety, because he was beginning to doubt he could do any of this on his own.
Instead, Poe made his way alone to the room where he would face down Armitageâs executioners. He saw the door a short distance ahead, saw the droid that stood guard beside it, watching him as he approached. Poe stared into its artificial eye and wondered who was on the other side, who would see the footage of him and Armitage walking hand in hand this morning â what would they think, what would they do, when they discovered Armitage Hux meant something to someone.
âMr. Dameron?â The aide that greeted Poe was the same woman from the day prior. She smiled up at him in the genial manner Poe recognized from a lifetime spent in cantinas buying pretty people drinks. There was an edge to how she moved that revealed her excitement, and Poe remembered how sheâd looked at him yesterday, like he was on display for her eyes only. Maybe another version of himself would have welcomed the attention, the same version that used to actively seek out a stranger's companionable physical affection. Poe was no longer that person, had not been for a long time. âPlease come in. The Senators are running a few minutes behind, but you may wait inside with me.â
As the aide stepped aside to allow him to enter, the droid remained in the corridor, head turning to watch him as the door slid closed on its hydraulic tracks. Poe saw a flicker there, in the split second of him stepping past the threshold and the droid being left behind, that made him feel as if it were watching him still, unhindered by the durasteel that separated them.
He said, for not the first time, as he stared at the spot on the closed door where the droid lingered beyond, âItâs General.â
âOh yes, you told me yesterday, I remember now." Poe turned to find the aide holding a datapad aloft. "Iâm sorry, itâs only,â The screen was alight with words Poe couldnât read from where he stood, but she gestured at it as if it were an excuse, âTechnically the Resistance is not a military, so our files do not identify any active titles or ranks. But if you prefer generalâŠâ
Heâd never liked the title, had never thought heâd earned it. But now it felt like it mattered in the way all the nuance in his life mattered, because a general should have a say in the future of his soldiers, and Armitage was theirs now. As much a member of the Resistance as Finn and Rey and all the other strays theyâd picked up along the path to victory.
âNot a military, eh?â Poe said the words scathingly, almost laughed, because they were more of a military than the sad excuse for a peacekeeping fleet the Senate had reduced their Navy to. âIâll have to let my men know. What does that make us, I wonder?â
The aide had gone pale, almost as pale as Armitage. âOh no, Iâm so sorry, I didnât mean to offend you. I meant nothing by it, really. I onlyââ
Poe shook his head, dismissing her with one of those easy smiles he used when his new recruits got a little too starstruck. Except, this time it didnât come easy. It was strained, and the words he spoke were not disarming as heâd intended, but instead mean with a spirit that was unlike him, âI know, weâre only a bunch of brutes with some fancy ships to you all.â
The aide laughed, high and a little shrill, oblivious to Poeâs own discomfort. Yeah, starstruck was an understatement.
âMrâ General Dameron, would it be alright if Iâ well, would you be offended if I got your holoâ I mean, together, a holo of us together?â She had slid a stylus from her datapad, one that Poe identified as a 3D imaging pen. The tiny device caught the light as she rolled it between her fingers nervously. âPlease? Oh stars, I am making this uncomfortably strange. I am so sorry.â
âI really donât think thatâs a good idea.â Poe didnât know where she even came up with the idea. The aideâs obvious disappointment compelled him to find out. âWhy do you want my holo?â
âOhâ well, my sister would die if she saw, sheâs obsessedââ Another nervous laugh, and then she was outright blushing. âIâm sorry, youâre absolutely right. This is inappropriate, itâs just that youâre a hero of the Resistance and I thought Iâd ask.â
âHero of the Resistance?â Poe wasnât gonna lie, he liked the sound of it. Or would have, had the implication it carried not sank into his gut with the weight of an unwelcome encumbrance.
âYou donât keep up with the holo network?â
âCanât say Iâve had the time.â Poe didnât keep up with much anything, these days, let alone what was popular on the holo net. That the Resistance had become popular, when theyâd spent the greater part of the last five years failing to recruit people and ships, let alone wrangling something as intangible as public support.
âOf course not. Iâm sorry, really I am.â
When she slotted the stylus back inside her datapad Poe felt little relief. Ofantâs droids were invasive enough, Poe really didnât want to have to worry about people asking him for his holo. Whoever had leaked Resistance reports to the public must have leaked his name along with them, and suddenly the image of the droid just outside the door struck him cold. Were people watching them? Was the base on display like some Outer Rim freak show?
âAgain, I am sorry, General Dameron. The Senators will be here shortlyââ
And at that moment, a door at the far end of the room opened and four Senators walked in, followed by Leia.
Leia.
Leia, who was supposed to be with Armitage.
Leia, who was striding across the room straight towards him with a look on her face that could peel flesh from bone.
âDo not panic, Poe.â Leiaâs voice brokered no question as to what Poe might panic about. Poe had not met the Senators personally, but by virtue of process of elimination he could tell who was missing from the group. âThey required that I be here for your interview, and Ofant went to the uplink station in my stead.â
âArmitage.â Dread consumed him, suffocating with a sickness that might swallow him whole. His eyes flickered over to the aide who had stepped away to a respectable distance but watched them both. Poe wasnât sure if she could hear them, but he gambled she might. He lowered his voice nearly to a whisper, âLeia, I have to go.â
âYou canât."Â Out of the question. "You have to talk with them, you must cooperate. Ofant wonât do anything, he canât, because the Senate needs Hux right now. And Rose is there so he is not alone.â But he was alone, Armitage was always alone, had always been alone, in the ways that mattered. And now when he needed Poe the most, he was here, on the wrong side of the battlefront, while Armitage was flanked and cut off from help. âPoe, heâs safe, I promise. And you have a more important task.â
Safe. It sounded strange, tasted wrong. Armitage wasnât safe, Poe didnât think any of them were safe.
Yet even as Leiaâs Force reached out to touch him â tender and calming, offering a balm to his nerves â Poe could feel her own unease, her own anger. She believed what she said but agreed it didnât mean Armitage was entirely out of danger. Danger came in more forms than the physical. Poe saw that now, could feel how it stalked him from the shadows of the base, harrowing his mind and taking root in his heart.
âDid they send Ofant, or did he volunteer.â Poe didnât know why it mattered, but was certain it did, could feel how the answer could tip the balance of fate.
âHe volunteered. Insisted, actually.â
Poe breathed out a sharp sigh, looking up to consider the four Senators who stood a short distance off. Two female humans, one Vratix, and a Iktotchi. Poe had not kept up with politics. Once he had retired from the Navy and joined the Resistance he had found little interest, let alone time, to follow the machinations of the New Republicâs legislative arm. He knew a majority of the Senate had been killed during the Hosnian Cataclysm, he also knew that the interim government consisted of those surviving Senators and specially elected officials. What he didnât know was who was of the former versus the latter group, and again, something inside Poe told him that mattered.
âLeia,â Poe dropped his voice as he turned back to her, again hoping he was quiet enough to not be overheard. âWho does Ofant represent?â
The expression on Leiaâs face should have been enough. Quickly, she smoothed it over as she spoke, âCoruscant, but his homeworld was in the Hosnian system. His family was killed when it was destroyed.â
Of kriffing course.
âPoe, listen to me.â Leiaâs softened words would have appeared casual to any quick glances, but Poe knew her better than that. âOnly Jain Mithra was a Senator during the Cataclysm. Ofant and the others are special elections. She holds the power among them, and in the greater Interim Senate. Donât let Ofant distract you, Mithra is who needs swayed.â
Swayed? Poe stared into Leiaâs eyes, felt the acute absence of her Force and realized the weight of what she was implying. âTheyâre undecided?â
âMithra is. Thatâs all that matters right now.â
A tentative hope filled him, cloyingly sweet on the back of his tongue, like something he had tried to swallow but refused to stay down.
âWhat do I do?â Poe breathed it out along with all the desperation and panic and anger.
What could he say to these people, the very same people whose inaction had likely resulted in as much suffering as Armitageâs action? Poe thought maybe he should tell them they were all even now, and the suffering should stop. He was certain the death of one man would not be able to fix what was wrong in the galaxy â not when theyâd all been fighting this same war for two generations. Especially not when Armitageâs life could help, was helping, in the way only he could reach the Order and broker a greater peace theyâd all been striving for.
If that didnât make up for the horror of Starkiller Base, it at least had to be a start? It at least had to be worth more than Armitageâs life?
Poe looked to Leia, saw in her something he did not expect, an earnestness that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the motherly woman who had welcomed the wearied remains of their enemy into the home of their base.
âTell them. Tell them everything.â
Everything?
âFight for him Poe. Isnât that why I recruited you all those years ago? Because you were a fighter?â And Poe understood, he understood everything.
Poe was a fighter. Itâs who he was, who he always would be. And itâs who he needed to be.
âYou mean it wasnât one of my recruitment posters that caught your eye?â Poe smiled brokenly, a fragment of the person he was but there still, just under his surface, waiting to be set free.
âHardly,â Leia sniffed, a fleeting sparkle in her eye. There and gone again before a hardened expression replaced the mirth. âIt might be small, and it might be slim, but we have a chance. Donât give up hope, Poe. Donât let him give up hope.â
Poe wasnât sure if Armitage had any hope to begin with, and he was certain if he had it was all spent now. But if Poe had to hold onto enough for the both of them, then that was what we would do.
âMr. Dameron,â The Senator who spoke was, Poe assumed, Jain Mithra. She held herself with a poise heâd only ever seen in Leia â a grace that superseded her young features and spoke of a comfortable power and an acute intelligence. He held her eyes as she gestured at the table where an empty chair sat before a datapad and a glass of water. âPlease have a seat, if youâre ready to begin.â
And as Poe settled into the chair, he smiled a familiar smile, felt how it reached his eyes with an honesty that would not have been possible earlier that morning. âHow can I be of service?â
Mithra waited for him to be seated before she took her own, the other Senators following suit. They took their time, lifting their skirts and their robes and arranging themselves around Jain Mithra like a flock birds come earthenside to roost. And Poe observed the subtleties of the dynamic Leia had described. Mithra was in charge of these people, evident in the silent respect she commanded. That they would follow her recommendations, or at least weigh them in a capacity that could tip the scale enough in his favor was obvious. If Poe could convince her...maybe there was hope to be had. Tell them everything. Poe closed his eyes, a brief indulgence, turning the words over in his mind. Everything would entail all the secrets Armitage had trusted him with â all the weak and vulnerable things Poe knew he had never shared with another â things that were not Poe's to share with these people.
But he would, if it meant he could save Armitage's life.
âWeâd like to speak with you regarding your mission to the Academy and your experience here on base working with the First Order defectors.â Mithra indicated the datapad that had been placed at his seat, and Poe hesitated as he considered what he would find loaded on it. My report.
âOf course, Senator.â Poe loosed a breath he hadn't meant to hold and thumbed the screen on. The datapad illuminated with his official report on the Academy mission, along with all the holos they had taken and the footage that had been recovered. Poe's stomach flipped. He had no desire to relive his memories from the Academy. Not when he relived them every night in the depths of his dreams, where the faces of his dead pilots melted away to reveal her â that little girl, gasping and purple and far too young. âMy report on the Academy was comprehensive, but I can clarify anything you have questions about.â
âWe understand it is a difficult topic, so Iâll try to keep our questions brief,â Mithra read from her own datapad, eyes catching on something Poe was not privy to. âThe team that was selected included several First Order personnel?â
âYes. We asked former Captain Phasma to recommend two of her people to accompany us along with her to the Academy. That would have been former Trooper Kayvee Nine and former Lieutenant Trig.â
âWhat was the reasoning behind her selections?â
âBoth Kayvee Nine and Trig have data reconnaissance experience, and we chose Phasma to act as their senior officer. Weâve found that the former Order members respond well to familiar command structures so weâve tried to maintain that chain where we can while including them in Resistance efforts.â Finn told him it was First Order conditioning that made them reliant on a command structure, Poe thought maybe it was just the fact that the entirety of their lives had been spent in a military.
âWhy was General Hux not brought on the mission?â
Right to the point, eh? Â Poe waited for Mithra to look up from her datapad before he answered. When their eyes met he saw her suspicions, the same ones Poe might had held, not so long ago, before he knew Armitage. âHe wanted to go, we fought about it. Leia and I decided it was for the best that he stay behind.â
Mithra held his gaze, as unwavering as her voice. âAnd why was that?â
âHis work reaching the rest of the First Order was deemed vital. We did not want to interrupt his efforts by taking him along on a mission that could span several weeks.â Also, Armitage was not deemed mentally fit enough for the mission. He wasnât well, then. He still wasnât well now, if Poe were honest with himself.
But he had been doing so much better.Â
Poe dropped his eyes to the datapad, an excuse to regroup his thoughts with his breath, before dragging his attention back to Mithra. Curiosity sparked, beyond her suspicion, and Poe imagined it had little to do with the words he had spoken but what he had yet to say. What she wanted to hear, Poe could not guess, but it was obvious she was searching for something â an answer to a question she was holding back from asking, and if Poe could only figure out what that was...Poe held her gaze, kept his expression and body language open, relaxed, nonthreatening.
Finally, she spoke again. âWho told you about the existence of the Academy?â
âFormer Lieutenant Mitaka told us. He was able to retrieve the coordinates from the Finalizer and passed them onto us.â
âAt any point did General Hux bring up the Academy, in the weeks preceding the arrival of the Finalizer?â
Poe faltered, here, following the thread of questioning and not liking what he found at the end. âNo, he never spoke of it.â
âWhy do you think that is?â
Because we didnât trust him enough to do anything other than keep him in a prison cell. "The Academyâs location was kept confidential, I doubt he would have known the location. So even if Armitage brought it up we would not have been able to arrange a rescue mission.âÂ
And there it was, that curiosity again, like the spark of a machine firing alive.
Mithra opened her mouth, closed it, before asking, âYou donât think a member of the Supreme Leaderâs inner council would know the location of such an important Order asset? Especially someone with General Huxâs history as one of the former directors of the Academy?â
Poe swallowed, considering his words carefully before speaking. âI couldnât say for sure, but I know it would not have mattered if he did.â
âAnd why is that?â
Because the Order is a fucking fanatical cult and those kids had no chance. âOur med droids performed several dozen biological and molecular autopsies, the deaths were all traced back to a time stamp that would have put them within one standard cycle after our defeat of the Sith fleet on Exegol. At that time, Armitage was in a medically induced coma healing from injuries sustained while fleeing the Steadfast.â
âThat does not explain why he would not bring it up after he awoke.â
Poe realized, suddenly, that Leia was right. Mithra wasnât interested in the facts, sheâd have had access to those already, the timeline pieced together from the daily reports Leia would have submitted. This was an evaluation of Armitageâs character, and suddenly, Poe knew exactly what he needed to say.
âWhen I arrived back from the Academy, Armitage was waiting,â Poe spoke slowly, giving each word the space it needed, the weight it required. Mithra's gaze was piercing. âHe came to comfort me, to tell me that the deaths of those children were not my fault, that it was Order protocol that demanded their death in the face of surrender. Although he never spoke of it before the mission, he knew what I was going to find there, and he confided in me of his fear that he could not reach the rest of the Order because they had followed the same protocol. In fact, Armitage was distraught over it, that the young people of the Order would die to a directive put in place by his father's generation.â
And that must have done it, because Mithra broke.
âArmitageâ you keep calling him that. Why?â Her attention leveled on him with an intensity that had not been present, before, evident in the way her words snapped at the air between them; little crackles of frustration and curiosity in equal proportion, demanding an explanation that would make sense. And again, Poe saw how she was directing the conversation around Armitageâs character, around the relationship they shared.
Were they sending him to death? Or was it really as Leia said, could fate still be swayed?
âSenator, may I speak freely?â Poe allowed himself a quick glance at Leia, who sat at the head of the table, physically removed from both him and the group of Senators. Her expression was blank but he felt her Force reach out and touch him â nudge him.
Turning back to Mithra, he saw how she pursed her lips against her own thoughts, head cocked to the side, eyes roaming his face for evidence of something he hoped he could provide. âIâm listening.â
And this was his chance. Poe steadied his pounding heart, unclenched his fists, and he spoke.
âIâve spent my whole life fighting to protect the people of our galaxy, the same people my parents fought to protect, a war that has lasted two generations. And we were losing that war until Armitage turned spy. The Resistance didn't save the galaxy, he did. Now, he can end this war, not us. And he wants to. He cares about his people enough to realize that what is best for them is not the Order, but a life in the New Republic. Thatâs all him, neither Leia nor I or anyone asked him to do this.â Here, Poe paused, gathered his breath and forming it into words as he said, âThe Academy changed me in a way war never did. Those children did not choose their fate, it was chosen for them. Just as it was chosen for Armitage and every single person who followed him here to Ajan Kloss. Like me, they were born into this conflict. But when they were finally given an opportunity to make a choice for themselves, they chose us. They chose the New Republic."
And then he was looking to the others, the three Senators who had sat sentinel over a one-sided conversation. What were they thinking? Were they just as unconvinced? Would what he had to say even matter to any of them? Poe made eye contact with each of them, pleading for them to understand. "I know you want to hold Armitage accountable, that the public wants his arrest...his execution. But he put his trust in us, both the Resistance and the New Republic. So what would it say, if we turned that trust around and used it against him? Used it against all of them?â
And Poe watched as his words settled into their thoughts, the way their gazes slipped from him, attention folded internal towards what Poe could only hope was understanding.
But then Mithra spoke, âMr. Dameron, if I may speak freely,â Her voice demanded, and Poe looked from the other Senators to her. The expression on her face was not kind, or understanding, but carved from an intensity that left no room for argument. âGeneral Hux is responsible for the deaths of several billion, a whole systemâs worth of souls.â
âI know,â Poe acknowledged, even as all the men and women he himself had gotten killed passed through his mind. People with names and faces and friends and families that Poe knew, people Poe walked by everyday knowing that he was responsible for their loved oneâs death. If Armitage was a monster for what he did than Poe was something far worse.
Armitage struck down billions to win a war. Poe led his friends to death by the leash of his own luck. Gambled all their lives against a willful disregard for their mortality because his own had always been so infallible.
âThen explain how youââ
âBecause heâs a good man,â Poe blurted out before he could stop himself. His hands had turned back to fists atop the table, nearly knocking over the glass of water. Poe fought the urge to push his hand through his hair.
Mithra caught his eyes, held them. âThat's not enough.â
Of course it is, that's the whole point. âIsn't it? Shouldn't it be enough? At least enough for another chance?â
The look on Mithraâs face was inscrutable, but there was something there, beneath the surface of her thoughts â Poe knew if he could only draw it out...
âHeâs trying Senator. Heâs trying so hard. Please donât discount everything heâs done for the Resistance. He turned on the Order and gave us what we needed to win this war. That should mean something.â His fists were shaking now, the water in the glass beside him quivering in tandem with his heart.
âItâs why he has not been arrested already, and why he still walks the base freely. Do not assume I have no room for empathy or understanding of the greater picture here, Mr. Dameron.â Mithraâs voice had dropped into a dangerous tone, and Poe closed his mouth as she continued to speak. âAs it stands, the man I observed yesterday was not the man I expected. But that changes very little, not when I have a galaxy full of people who suffered very directly at his hands.â
She paused, lips pressed together as she took a breath. Nothing could prepare Poe for what she would say next. âHe admitted that he was not just the face of Starkiller Base, but chief officer of the very team that designed it. While we would all like to outrun the mistakes of our past when we have a change of heart, the reality is that we must take personal responsibility for our actions.â
No, no, noâ
As the threads of hope unraveled, Poe felt his hold slip. And suddenly Poe feared â feared he had fucked this up, completely blown his one chance.
His breath came fast, his chest tight with an emotion he couldnât articulate. The feeling that this was it, that he had lost Armitage irrevocably â lost him before he ever had the chance to have him â it consumed Poe. But also, something more. That this was all his fault, because Armitage had chosen death for himself long ago, had walked that path prepared for itâs inevitability, until Poe had swooped in and gave him hope for something else in his naive quest to be a fucking hero.
Hero of the Resistance.
Poe wasnât a hero. How could he be, when he couldnât even protect the man he loved?
Poe trembled, head held up against a defeat he would not acknowledge. And as he looked to Leia, whose gaze was drawn and distant, intense only in the way she was subsumed in a depth of Force Poe would never understand, her words echoed in the chamber of his thoughts: Everything. Tell them everything.
Hadnât he? Hadn't he told them everything? All the secret things Armitage had trusted with no one else but him â every weakness and pain and and fear? What more was left, if this was not enough? What did Poe have left to give, left to say? There had to be something else, something Poe was missing. Words without form but he could almost hear, buzzing distantly, just out of reach. Words that needed saying, had needed saying for so much longer than the span of time heâd spent in this room.
And then it struck him, blinding and obvious and so so simple â Poe had not told them everything.
He had not told them the most important thing yet.
I love him, I love him so much.
The feeling that seized Poeâs chest almost left him gasping. Instead, he dropped his head and drew in a slow, deep breath. Out with his exhale left the tension that had been building in him for the last cycle, all the fear and despair and anger that had left no room for those other things, the things he had discovered inside himself that were meant for Armitage alone. The fondness and amazement and affection â the love that he had for the incredible man he had grown to know.
He's gonna be so mad that I told them first.
âI love him, I love Armitage Hux,â Poe breathed the words out, a confession that was so much more like an unburdening, that klaxon call to the universe he had been holding inside himself for too long. If Poe could measure the distance between himself and Armitage, in that moment it was as if he were right there beside him, like Poe could reach out beyond the veil of space and time and feel the touch of Armitageâs hand in his own.
He heard the gasp from the aide, sensed the eyes of the Senators on him, as he closed his eyes over the feeling surrounding him â as he held it close and harbored it in the safety of his heart.
I love you so much, Armitage Hux.
Â
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Hux imagined he could still feel Poeâs gaze, even now, thirty five standard minutes later, when the gulf between them felt far greater than any physical distance.
Through the slotted windows he watched the trees pass in a whipped up blur. The transport followed a worn path through the swampy woods, the familiar speckled light of the early morning sun flashing through the transport and burning patterns into Huxâs too exposed skin. He clasped his bare hands together, his palms strangely cool in the heat of Ajan Klossâs humid air. He was alone in the back of the transport, but any solace he would have once found in an eremetic existence was lost to a yearning for Poeâs presence, his touch and his voice.
In the absence of Poe, death worried at the edge of his thoughts. Whatever strength he had derived from the task at hand was eroded in the actual face of it. Because if his time had been short before, it was now running out, and as Hux watched the flickering light fill the shuttle and focused his attention on slowing his breath, he decided that if he were given one request, it would be that he wasnât alone when death finally came for him.
Hux considered that this might be how the remnants of the Order felt; crippled ships stranded alone among unfamiliar stars, bereft of the comfort of the fleet, awaiting the slow creep of the inevitable.
You're okay. The words Poe had spoken to him so many times before had become a mantra in his mind, a point of focus Hux could breath into. Now, he filled his lungs so he could exhale his thoughts. From the emptiness Hux crafted a fortitude of will around the frayed tapestry of his mind. You're okay, Hux. You'll be okay.
Organa would already be awaiting him at the uplink station. Hux suspected her desire to be there was less to oversee the operation and more to see this through to the end. And while Hux would never call the woman a friend, he might call her an ally, as he recognized now that Organaâs investment in him, in his work, represented more than a professional kinship. It represented an achievement that encompassed the greater goal of uniting the galaxy, something they had both spent their very different lifetimes pursuing. Hux realized, as he watched the landscape flash beyond the transport, that he was glad to be able to share this moment with her. That amongst everyone on base, perhaps only Organa understood the magnitude of what was about to take place. If Hux reached the First Order, if they responded as he suspected they would...it would end a conflict that had spanned generations.
The galaxy might finally find peace.
It might even find order.
Huxâs codepad was fully charged, thanks, in part, to one of his power cells that he carried with him. He was wary of allowing the codepad out of his sight let alone powered down. The key to everything was stored in this small device which sat in his lap, and Hux guarded it with a tenacity that was borderline obsessive. The pristine leather case protected the future of the people of the First Order, contained a lifeline that could change the tide of fate for so many.
And now Hux maybe understood some new aspect of Poe. Because if anyone could claim putting the lives of many above their own, it would be him. Still, Hux almost felt selfish that as he endeavored on a journey that encompassed an achievement of galactic proportions, his thoughts kept drifting to the singular life of Poe Dameron. Because every kilometre that took him closer to this also took him further from Poe. And as much as Hux wanted to find strength in his task, it was only the thought of returning to Poe that held him together.
âEta five minutes.â
The engineer, Rose Tico, the same woman who had once bit him, spoke from the pilotâs seat of the transport. What conversation they shared over the ride out had been awkward in the way all of Huxâs fleeting interactions with Poeâs friends had been. A stilted effort at forced congeniality that left all parties silent and stumped, unsure how to proceed with a history that left very little in the way of verbal discourse. Yet, Tico made an effort, if only because she evidently took her job very seriously, and had hounded from Hux all of the details he knew regarding the Finalizerâs network and its connection protocols. In this, he allowed a burgeoning respect.
A respect that only grew when they disembarked the transport.
When Tico had whispered âOh fuck.â over the comm as the transport breached the treeline onto the beach, Hux knew instantly something was amiss. When she opened the transport door while he was still maneuvering free of his harness, the bright wedge of light silhouetting her small form so it was obvious her hand rested on her blaster, Hux knew something was wrong.
And when she stepped in front of him as he disembarked, putting herself between Hux and the man who would see him dead, something small inside Hux shivered to life. Something that looked like weakness, but wore the guise of gratitude.
Across the sand, Fineas Ofant awaited him.
Ofant observed him with a blinding fixation, all bared teeth and sharp eyes, a trailing gaze that absorbed everything in its wake and then absconded it in favor of judgement passed. His dark hair tousled with the breeze that blew off the lake, his robes catching so they billowed in a way that made him look larger than he actually was. And the weight of his posture was at ease, comfort befit a man used to the natural graces of power.
It crossed Huxâs mind, then, that Ofant would have gone far with the Order.
âAh, if itâs not the man of the hour.â Ofantâs tone was the same Hux remembered from his interview, a self-indulgent thing that did little to hide his malice. âIâm afraid Princess Organa is unexpectedly tied up this morning, so I volunteered in her stead.â
As Ticoâs eyes met his knowingly, Hux nearly turned away. Instead he inclined his head toward her, deferring to her judgement because, in this, Hux recognized he was already outplayed.
âAll right, as the highest ranked officer here, Iâm in charge.â Tico pointed a finger at Ofant in a way that Hux might have once pointed a blaster at her. âYouâll observe only, and that,â She shifted her finger to instead point at a droid that stood beneath the shade structure beside the uplink station. âThat thing is not allowed inside the station. This mission is confidential, and I canât allow it to record the slicing weâll be performing.âÂ
Hux's blood chilled. He had been so absorbed in Ofant that he had not noted the droid's presence.
âThat wonât be a problem Ms. Tico, I will admit I am here as a curious observer and have no desire to interfere with General Huxâs work.â Ofant tipped his head in a facsimile of respect, a perfunctory bow that was more mocking than anything else. His eyes never left Hux, even as he addressed Tico.
But Tico had turned to him, was looking up at him as if they bore no difference in height, much less the extreme of which separated them, âIf he does anything funny I have the authority to shoot him, so you tell me if he does anything funny.â Her hand still rested on the blaster at her hip, thumb fiddling with the clasp that kept it secure.
Hux lifted his eyebrows, held back his smile. Tico was aggressive to a degree that would have landed her in reconditioning enough times for a permanent reassignment, had she ever used that tone with a First Order officer. But, Hux could not find it in himself to fault her, not when that small thing inside him clutched her words close. âIâm sure that wonât be necessary, but thank you.â
Tico stared at him like heâd just sprouted a second head. Hux supposed he deserved as much.
Together, they prepared the station for transmission as Ofant watched from where he had taken up a post beside his droid. While Tico warmed the ion generator and gave the station the few minutes it would need to produce enough power to operate at capacity, Hux checked over the uplink cable that connected the station to the Finalizer. The dive crews had been unsuccessful in removing the subspace antennae from his sunken ship, so the cable remained, and Hux found that it was now half buried in the sand, the weeks of tides and time transforming it into something that was never supposed to be permanent. It split the beach down the middle, slipping beneath the water to waver beneath the shimmering surface of the lake like the desiccated corpse of some snaking beast caught retreating home, the blazing heat of the sun finally rendering it dead.
Hux followed the path the cable took, boots disbursing sand and fluting a path down to where the waves traced patterns into the beach. He gazed out over the lake to the scuttled Finalizer. She was no different now than she had been four days past, when heâd last seen the great black scar of her splitting Ajan Klossâs too blue sky. But now the sand sat empty of the salvaged durasteel, the corpses since buried, the droids off on some new and more important task. What was left was a lonely beach and a relic of a life Hux felt far removed from, a life that would always haunt him in the same way the Finalizer would now always haunt this beach.
âThat must have been a sight to see. I wish I had been here to capture the moment for myself.â
Ofantâs voice was close, too close, and Hux stiffened when he realized he had not heard his approach.
Slowly, he turned his head. Slower yet, his stomach crawled into his throat. Ofant leaned in close over his shoulder, in the same spot Poe had filled all those weeks ago, when Hux had stood on this beach and watched the Finalizer fall to her death on a foreign shore. It was not a memory he cared to share with anyone, least of all this man. Yet, Hux felt as it was tainted, couldnât stop his psyche from overlaying Ofant into the memory, like a burned out holo left too long on pause.
Hux did not move, even as the heat of Ofantâs body ebbed against him. He did not turn his head away, even when Ofant drew a breath to speak again. And his pulse did not race, because the frozen blood in his veins had already crawled ice up his spine.
But none of it mattered, because despite all his effort to disguise his weakness, men like Ofant had sniffed out Hux often enough that he knew heâd already revealed too much.
Ofantâs words, when they came, speared home. âDid you weep when it fell? I think I might have, but likely not for the same reason as you.â
Hux let out a thin breath, couldnât stop it, heard how it wavered â barely, but enough. Ofantâs smile widened, and then he struck again, fast and precise, finding his opening and taking the advantage.
âIâm sure you have quite the story to tell, it'd be a shame to never share it. Have you thought of leaving a document of your life behind? Something for the people to remember you by?â
Hux should have felt anger. He should have felt contempt. Instead, Hux felt sick â sick in a way that felt familiar, in the way dread felt familiar, a cacophonous cry of warning.
âI could arrange it, if you like. I understand your limited time is precious, but luckily I brought my equipment along so we can do it back at the base. What do you think?â And Ofantâs voice lilted with the question. It was not kind â it was knowing, and it was cruel. âAh! I already have a name, we could call it The Life and Death of Starkiller. It has a nice ring to it, donât you think?â
Once, Hux had thought Poe the kind of man who used kindness as a weapon. Now, Ofant wielded it like dull-edge knife â not a quick slicing or stabbing, but a sawing. Blunt and brutal and vicious.
Hux stayed quiet, and he stayed still, but inside he trembled. Inside, he called out for Poe.
âHux!â Ticoâs voice cut through Ofantâs spell. The ice that had frozen his spine shattered with the sound and Hux turned abruptly on his heel. Ofant loomed before him, all dark shapes and imposing lines, too close and too much, and Hux felt his body moving of its own accord, slipping around Ofant while his mind flayed itself with the idea that he might never make it to his execution because Ofant would kill him first.
Tico was jogging down the beach, kicking up sand in her haste to reach him. Hux moved towards her with as much speed as he allowed himself, his long gait closing the distance quickly. But even as he left Ofant behind, he felt his gaze follow; a stifling survey that exposed Hux in a way that almost felt perverse. He fought the urge to make himself look small, to cross his arms over his chest and hide his hands in the folds â fought the urge to glance back, because if Ofant saw him now Hux wasn't sure he could hide all his cracks.
âAre we set up?â His gait was more stiff than he liked as he fell into step beside Tico. She looked up at him with an earnest understanding, her hand again on the blaster holstered at her hip.
âYouâre not supposed to be alone with him,â She stated as if he had gone up to Ofant and chatted him up.
âIâm well aware,â Hux murmured as he hurried across the beach with Tico at his heel.
Together, they entered the uplink station. And together they watched as Ofant slipped in behind them. His presence was a host of a burdensome scrutiny that harried at Hux and made his skin feel as if it were being peeled from his flesh. As Hux placed his codepad carefully atop his terminal, Ofant came up beside him. As he switched on the small work lamp beside his station, Ofantâs body leaned into his light. And as he turned away to help Tico identify the correct network connection on her holo screen, Hux could feel Ofant at his back, his bodily presence consuming him as his eyes drew gooseflesh over his skin. Ofant watched Hux with an assiduity that left no room for wonder, because Ofant was obscene with his intentions, lecherous with his desire. He was not here to observe, he was here to gloat â and he was here to make sure Hux knew who had won.
Hux did all he could to push Ofant to the back of his mind, again breathing in a focus that was becoming ever elusive, exhaling out the unease that felt as familiar as the keystrokes he typed into his terminal.
But he had a job to do, and Hux had out suffered far greater threats in the face of his work.
As he and Tico booted up the Finalizerâs system BIOS, his fingers entered credentials he had logged a thousand times. Hux acknowledged this would be the last time he would be here, maneuvering through a series of firewalls that he had helped design, reverse engineering security protocols that heâd once overseen in his attempt to keep the First Order safe. And as he plugged his codepad into the fireport and handed it to Tico so she could update his network permissions, and as he watched the strings of binary flash over the mirrored screens of his pad and the uplink terminal, he thought how the future of the Order depended on his game sim, a thing that would have landed him in reconditioning all those years ago if Brendol or one of his peers had discovered he was behind it.
Hux realized, as he typed out the code that would execute the firmware update across all of First Order net, that this was, in fact, the legacy he would leave â this purile remnant of his childhood that would save a whole generation of First Order men and women.
And as Hux pulled up Force and reread his message once more, something inside him thought maybe his legacy didnât sound so much like a tragedy after all.
âSomething is blocking the upload.â Ticoâs voice didnât sound worried, but it did sound frustrated.
âOh, I hope we have not hit snag in your plan.â Ofant, who had perched himself against the center console where Hux worked, mocked worry. Hux suppressed a sneer as he turned from his terminal to Tico, Ofantâs presence edging his thoughts as his physical form edged his peripheral vision. Ofant followed him as he had this entire time, leaning over Huxâs console and into his personal space, eyes not on Ticoâs screen but unrelenting in their crawl down the back of Huxâs neck. He suppressed a shiver, unable to physically shake the unwelcome weight of Ofantâs attention just as he couldnât shake the creep of his thoughts into the underbelly of his mind.
âLet me see the error code.â Hux quickly â too quickly â stood from his chair, the grind of metal along metal wrenching a flinch out of him. Ticoâs eyes met his before slipping over his shoulder to observe Ofant, her lips pressing into a line.
âI donât recognize it,â She said as Hux looked over her screen, parsing the string of numbers and letters and quickly deducing its source.
âThe Finalaizer is throwing it, but it is referencing a local code, something on this end of the network. I assume the Resistââ Even as Hux cut himself off, he knew it was too late. His eyes closed briefly, throat catching in a dry swallow, before he turned his head just enough to see how Ofant's smile had deepened into a grin. Hux had slipped, and it had not gone unobserved.
Fuck Fineas Ofant.
âI assume there is a local firewall? One that would prevent First Order datapads from accessing Order net?â
âYeah, but I overrode your padâs permissions for all access. Shouldnât that let the upload through?â
Ah, there it is. âThe subspace antennas communicate with each other, but the data distribution depends on local networks. Firmware updates are designed to be homogeneous, so the upload will not initiate if one of the identified networks is inaccessible.â The Finalizerâs network, in this case.
âIf I remove the firewall all those datapads on base will gain Order net access,â Tico met his eyes, held his stare. This was a decision Organa should be there to make, but she wasnât, and it was like Tico had said on the beach â she was the highest ranking officer, so this was her call.
Face pinched tight, her eyes narrowed on him with a consideration that almost made Hux smile because it was the same expression she had worn right before she bit him all that time ago. He remembered the indigence heâd suffered, the shock and disbelief, and later the humiliation, when heâd sat in his quarters and plotted the death of the small girl who had turned out to be more rabid than him.
And when Tico smirked up at him, a dark glint in her eye, Hux thought she might be remembering the same thing. âFuck it, letâs do it.â
Tico typed in a command line Hux recognized as a network firewall override, then executed the code. The terminal window blinked over a span of seconds that slowed time to a crawl. Hux held his breath, eyes fixated on the brightly flashing cursor. He sensed how Tico tensed beside him, fingers tapping out a rhythm of nervousness that mirrored the pulsating beat of his heart.
Then a string of confirmations scrolled over the window, and the breath Hux had been holding released in a sigh.
The payload had uploaded successfully, pinging a list of network addresses Hux could identify from memory alone: The Finalizer, The Conqueror, The Harbinger, The Absolution, The Mandator. Four Star Destroyers and one Dreadnought, five from a fleet that he had last counted at twenty six, the rest lost to a fate Hux doubted heâd live to hear the tale of.
âSoâŠthatâs it, we did it?â Ticoâs voice was soft, the pale blue glow of the terminal glinting off her earnest eyes as she stared up at him.
âYes, that's it, we did it.â Hux let himself smile. A small thing, filled with relief, personal with an honesty he knew was not safe to expose, but when he saw how Tico matched his smile, he thought maybe this was okay, maybe she understood.
âIs this a game sim?â
Fear speared through Hux, infinite in its reach.
âDonât touch that.â Hux snarled as he spun on his heel, but he was too late.
Hux watched as Ofant thumbed through the screens, eyes wandering over the card selections, the rules guide, his player profile still set to the dead star resource cards. And slowly, Ofant's face transformed, as if his long toothed smile had always been crafted from layers of aberrations, that when peeled away revealed something far more monstrous hidden beneath.
âThis is your message to the Order? A game?â Ofantâs voice devolved from that casual joviality to an insidious verve, amusement avowed with a glee that had nothing to do with joy.
A feeling crawled through Hux then, a panic and an embarrassment that he had been discovered. And suddenly, he was a boy again, curled up at his fatherâs feet as he was berated for another one of his stupid childish fantasies, things he should have outgrown by now, things that he would beat from him, whether with words or fists. Get your head out of the clouds, boy, or Iâll be forced to do it for you.
"Hands off Senator.â Tico stepped forward before Hux could, voice dropped to a threat even as her eyes wandered over the codepad, observing a secret Hux had not revealed to anyone but Poe. "Thatâs confidential tech.â
âItâs evidence, is what it is,â Ofant quipped as he pulled the plug from the codepad and slipped it into a pocket. Hux felt the room upend around him, his focus swimming as he stared at the spot in Ofantâs robe where he imagined he could see the outline of his codepad, out of his reach with a finality that was so much worse than when it had been locked away amongst the stars in a long lost trunk â than when it had been sunk deep at the bottom of a fathomless lake, forlorn and forgotten. âIâm sure the council will want to know what game youâve been up to, General Hux. We thought you were doing admirable work here, Iâm sorely disappointed to discover you thought to play us for fools.â
Hux couldnât stop how his body shook, fists clenched at his sides, teeth grinding with a sickening crunch. If he was already a dead man, what would it matter if he leapt over the table and showed Ofant what sort of game he could play? But Tico had a hand on his arm, and as he met her eyes he saw how the almost familiar touch disarmed them both, tension breaking over Hux in a sharp sundering, so strange that as reality crashed down with a force that nearly crushed him, Hux felt grateful.
He staggered back, shaking, composed only enough to sweep silently out of the station.
Hux knew Ofant for what he was, had known since heâd first seen that artificial smile â a smile that hid an avarice that would never be sated. Men like Ofant always found Hux â could pick him out from a sea of billions, like moths to a flame that burned too bright in the dark. Hux had spent his life swathing himself in shadows, hiding away the brightest parts of himself from these sorts of men. That one more should find him, now, at his lifeâs end...that should surprise no one, least of all Hux. Because Ofant was just like his father, just like Snoke, just like Ren. Maybe worse, because where Hux had outplayed the abusers of his past, this man had already won, and there was no strategy Hux could adopt that would end in anything but his absolute surrender.
Ofant would see Huxâs death through to an end of his devising, and he would not even be given the dignity of going down fighting, because the future of the Order depended upon Huxâs ability to keep going despite these blows.
Once, Hux had welcomed death â Had been grateful that fate had presented him with the choice at all â such a small mercy in a life otherwise spoiled by unforgiving cruelty. Now, Hux was stripped of his choices again, left to the whimsy of a world that harbored no sympathy for men like him, men who had made mistakes, men who learned too late in life the things that mattered most.
I am sorry, I am so sorry.
The wind and the sand and the overwhelming blueness of Ajan Klossâ sky burned into his eyes and Hux stumbled as he exited the transport. He searched for something, anything, to alleviate this pain. Something to step in and tell him everything was okay, that he was okay, or at least could be, if given enough time. He thought of Poe, wished again that he was there, as he had been once before, when Huxâs hands had shook and his breath had hitched and the weight of the world had settled upon him in a way that felt so much like drowning.
Drowning, as the Finalizer had, when she sacrificed her life for her crew so they could live on in her stead.
Hux looked across the beach, squinting through the wetness in his eyes to see the Finalizer swim through his sight like a mirage. He staggered after the vision, marking a path down the beach in shortened steps, his boots dragging furrows through the sand. There had been a comfort in his daily visits to the Finalizer, when he stood on this foreign shore and stared at the great bow of her spearing through water and sky alike in defiance of a fate he had once found such kinship with. Because in her dying throws, the Finalizer had made her mark on this world. Forever changing the landscape of Ajan Kloss, her refusal to be forgotten manifested as a blackened breach against a too bright sky.
Monolithic, even in death.
Hux wondered if he would leave half the mark she had when he died.
He couldnât stop the tears, anymore. Couldnât stop the soft whimper that breached his throat and set free his quiet sobs. Couldnât stop when his knees buckled and he collapsed onto his hands on this beach for the second and final time in his life, succumbing to a weakness that had nothing to do with the sun or the heat or with Kylo Ren. Whatever strength Hux had derived from the abdication of his hold on living abandoned him here, on this shore, bowed before the mausoleum of a life he had crafted from shadow, a life he had done his best with, even when his best meant taking the lives of billions.
And Poe was not there to catch him, not this time, and Hux ached with the pain of what that meant.
I'm so afraid, Poe.
Quietly, Hux broke down. Privately, he grasped at the shattered pieces of himself that had become unfamiliar. His threads had unraveled so completely that theyâd loosened into something as unrecognizable to him as the person heâd seen reflected in the refresher mirror. A stranger donned with his face, dressed in an already dead manâs clothes, playing at a game whose every move led to a loss. Hux sucked in an airless breath, felt the sting of it as the wetness in his throat caught in his chest. Tears filled his mouth, clogged his nose, and then he could no longer contain himself. Hux gasped in a shuddering inhale, and another, until he was bent over his knees and sobbing out all the weak and wretched things heâd hidden away from the world â hidden from himself.
Hux wrapped his arms around himself, bare hands tucking beneath his biceps, fingers curling over his ribs, as he hung his head and wept.
I'm sorry Iâm sorry Iâm so sorryâ
The sound of sand crunching under foot didnât reach Hux until it was too late. Above him stood Ofantâs droid. Through the loose fringe of his hair Hux looked up, saw how itâs ocular lens caught the light as it focused on his face, the sophisticated circuitry capturing a version of him no one in the galaxy had a right to witness. Yet, he could not look away from the droid as much as he could not stop the tears that fell down his face. Trapped as he was, arrested by its artificial stare, Hux saw the reflection of himself in itâs glassy gaze â saw what it revealed.
Hux knew how he looked, knew how this looked â A skewing of optics that would paint him as Starkiller mourning a life long dead, a life that he had lived in service to the First Order. A single side of a story he would never have the chance to tell.
âGet out of here, you nuisance, or Iâll short your circuits during your next charge cycle!â Tico shouted from a short distance, her voice carrying over the sand. Hux struggled to find his feet.
As Tico once again placed herself between him and a danger that knew no physical boundary, Hux turned away. His tears had not abated, and he swayed into his watery vision. Desperate, Hux pulled a hand across his face, doing nothing but sticking sand to his tears so his skin not only burned but itched. There was no hiding the evidence of his weakness, not when it had already cracked open his chest and crawled across his skin in an evidential exposure of all the worst parts of himself. His hands shook at his sides, and his head dropped to hide his shame.
âHey, hey.â Ticoâs voice was soft, careful. âThe droidâs gone now, itâs leaving with Ofant in our transport. I gave it to him so we wouldnât have to ride back together.â Tico maneuvered around him like he were a wild animal, cautious but kind, unafraid as she skirted his boundaries with her body and her words. But Hux didnât care anymore â didnât care that she saw him like this, didnât care that he looked like a wreck. Hux was done caring. Let them see, let them all fucking see. âShit man, you look like a mess. Wanna call Poe?â
Poe. Hux closed his eyes, forced out the words,âHeâll beââ But his voice caught in his throat, the sobs still too close to his surface, more tears falling fresh on his face, so he pressed his lips together and shook his head instead.
âHeâs at his interview, isnât he?â Tico reached out then, hand hesitating for only a moment before she placed it on his arm for the second time that day. One pat, then two, and then she left it there atop his sleeve, her small hand a gentled firm pressure. âI'll have Finn come get us. Letâs wait for him in the shade, I can get you some water. Thatâs what Poe would do if he was here, right?â
If Hux had been the same person he was all those weeks ago, he would not have recognized Ticoâs kindness for what it was. He would have seen her touch as an attack, her words as mocking, her friendliness as a weapon. But now, as he let her draw him across the sand to the shade of the uplink station, as she pressed a bottle of water into his hand and stood in not quite companionable silence beside him, he wondered what it meant that he could accept kindness from someone who wasnât Poe.
âThank you.â Twice he had spoken those words to Tico that morning, but this time, as his broken voice dropped off and his glassy eyes lowered to meet hers, she didnât look back at him like he had sprouted a second head, but looked at him as if she were seeing him for the very first time.
âDonât worry about it. That guyâs an asshole, Iâm sorry you have to deal with him.â
I'm sorry heâs the reason youâre going to die.
Hux turned away, and he closed his eyes. Leaning back to rest against the sun warmed wall of the uplink station, he willed the world away, seeking that empty place inside him that he had once mistaken for peace, but now only felt numb.
I'm not okay, Poe.
And in that moment, a sensation washed over him.
The feeling reached across what felt like a great distance, closing in with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun or the air. It staggered to life something inside him, intense only in the way it dredged up the image of Poeâs smile, the feel of his touch, the hold of his hand â So real and so close it was as if he were right there beside him.
I love him. I love him so much.
The words he wanted to say, the words he had not allowed himself, spoken in a voice that sounded like Poe but buzzed in his ear like the touch of the Force. Hux shook with the feeling even as the sensation faded and he was left alone, again, physically bereft of the only thing in his life he had left to hold onto. Except that now he could feel something else, something lingering in the deepest parts of him, a small seed of hope tentatively rooted.
Here, at the edge of this beach, at the edge of his life, Hux found he was not ready to let go. Whether it was that heâd spent the last of his strength, or that he was actually the coward his father had always told him he was, Hux acknowledged he did not want to die. Despite what good it might bring the whole of the galaxy, he was scared. He wanted another chance. He wanted to be more than just a memory.
He wanted to live.
Slowly, Hux opened his eyes. Across the beach, the black wedge of the Finalizer loomed in frozen sanctuary. Hux bid her good bye from the quiet of his heart.
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The dilation of energy across the mess hall was as swift as any battle station alarm. Phasma watched as it rolled through her gathered soldiers and crew. Datapads were extracted from pockets, turned over in hands, and passed amongst her people as the devices hard reset in tandem without warning. A firmware update. A once common occurrence that should not have been possible, not when they were disconnected from Order net. Mitaka sat across from her, their bodies already hunched close over her own datapad. It had been open to Huxâs Force profile, the image nearly burned into the now blackened pixels for how long sheâd sat staring at her screen. She recognized the warning, knew what it meant. Hux was in danger. Danger of the worst kind.
Now, they watched a transformation overcome their people, first the shock, and then the tentative excitement, and lastly the dawning fear. They glanced at one another, hushed whispers converging into a monotonous hum, like a swarm of insects waking to life. Several crew looked in their direction, seeking guidance from the most senior commanders in the hall, and Phasma understood something was dreadfully wrong.
âCaptain, I have Order net access,â Mitaka breathed the words out, disbelief plain, and for a few harrowing seconds Phasma panicked â thought this was it. This was the danger Hux was warning them of â That the rest of the fleet had found them, had arrived in Ajan Klossâs atmosphere in pursuit of their crippled ship, ready to finish what they had started and cannibalize what was left of her men to crew the remnants of the Final Orderâs fleet â sacrifice their lives in service to some ultimate bastion of power in a war they had already lost.
Phasmaâs datapad flickered, the network connection confirmation blinking as the screen reloaded back into Force.
Force, which had been updated.
The first update in over a decade.
Phasmaâs throat closed over her heart as it tried to crawl out of her mouth in a joyful sob as the realization hit. It wasnât danger she sensed, this was hope.
Armitage, you fucking genius, you did it. You actually did it.
Across her screen scrolled a message of text, and within it she read a barely hidden message, a message for a future cocooned in an offering of surrender, packaged up and neatly served to the very men and women Hux had been trying to reach for weeks.
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Update 4.1.2 : 10:18:06:44 35ABY
FORCE: The Card Game
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Dear players, your defeat is nigh.
An old force from within heralds your end.
Your skills alone cannot overcome this threat.
If you are to survive, foes must become friends.
The path to victory has been forged but once.
Unburden your arms, we're waiting for you.
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Notes:
Y'all this chapter has been in editing since Saturday and my brain is mush, so this might actually be illegible. Hope it reads right, if not, chapter 9 is gonna be all smut so hopefully that will keep you coming back.
Chapter 9: Retreat
Notes:
Y'all, this chapter is 100% NSFW and is either porn or word vomit leading up to porn.
If smut is not your thing you can safely skip this chapter because I looked and could not find any plot.
That said, enjoy?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The communications room was dark, so dark that the phantom blue of the comm screens glowed with an eerie peculiarity. Kesâs contact burned up at Poe, a familiar thing that at once felt too abstract to be real. He stared at it, had been staring at it for the last fifteen minutes. If Poe called Kes, his image would appear in the holo projector before him and Poe could see him now: his fatherâs pale blue façade bleached by light, the lines in his face obscured, his gentle smile catching when the weak connection skipped, and his eyes would shine with a love Poe knew was genuine, but would surely fade away, when Poe told him everything.
Poe hadnât know where else to go, when his interview had ended. After Leia had bid him a gentle goodbye, her own schedule filled, too busy to spare the time it would take to put Poe back together, Poe had come here. Because his father was one of the only people who saw Poe as Poe, rather than his reputation.
But, Poe was suddenly afraid that the comfort he sought from Kes would only to be found in the rehearsed script of their conversation â that any deviation would make this worse. Because Poe knew if he called, his father would pick up, would ask the same questions he always asked, and Poe also knew, for the first time, that his answers would be different.
Son, what do you mean youâre in love with Starkiller?
Doesnât matter, dad. Heâll be dead soon enough.
Poe turned his screen off, pushed his datapad away, dropped his head to the comms station and willed away his tears.
Against the backdrop of his eyelids an image of the Senate appeared. All hardened eyes and closed faces. How could he think they would understand, when he doubted even his own father would?
No, there was no comfort to be found here. The only comfort Poe could fathom was that which heâd find when Armitage was back safe. Somehow, the source of Poeâs comfort was no longer his friends or his family or the scattered vastness of space from the seat of Black One, but a singular man the galaxy only knew as their enemy.
Poe left the communications room behind.
Despite the late hour of the morning and the people walking the corridors, the base still felt empty, isolating, strangely bereft. The familiar presence of the droid that followed him was an almost welcome relief to the loneliness that hounded his step. Poe thought again of getting on Chirrup and flying out to find the transport in the jungle. He could do it, nothing was physically stopping him. But something told Poe that he needed to trust his friends in this, no matter their history with Armitage; that if he couldnât believe their confident assurances that the situation was under their control â that everything was okay â then maybe hope really was lost.
But Roseâs fragmented update had dredged up an image of Armitage that Poe ached for. He imagined what Armitage must look like, right now. Heâd be huddled in the back of the transport, harness obsessively secured, gloveless hands clasped tightly in his lap. His wind-swept hair would be loose, mussed in the way only the wilds of Ajan Kloss could inspire, falling over his surely furrowed brow. And heâd be warmed, but not feverish, just enough to inspire a dewy sheen of pink across his nose and cheeks.
Poe held that image in his head, secured it, made it real. And then he uncoiled, just a little. The man in Poeâs imagination was not okay, but he was safe, and Poe thought that was the most he could ask for right now.
Poe tucked his hands into his pockets, hung his head, and abandoned thought to the pace his feet set. He wandered the base without a destination, his step so fast to nearly become a slow loping run, loosing himself to the quickened beat of his footfalls. The base passed by him in fissured bits. Voices and bodies slipping in and out of his attention, distant but close, a living fever dream that played out around him. Poe imagined this would be how it was for him: life moving on despite his pain, where the galaxy found justice while Poe only found grief, the fleeting joy heâd had forever spoiled by the memory of watching the man he loved be taken from him, taken by the people he had given up so much to protect.
The grim dark of the thought shook him, and Poeâs heart thumped out of frantic rhythm, his stomach clenched tight. Poe staggered to a stop. Too fast, too abrupt. He heard the whir of the droid behind him fall silent, reflexes just a fraction of a second slower than Poeâs.
This is not who you are. Poe didnât watch things happen, he made things happen. He defeated odds, he was not defeated by them. Where was that brazen over-confidence that had defined his entire piloting career? Where was the audacious presumption that things would always work out, the will of ego that had always caught him when he fell?
No, Poe was not okay. But he needed to fucking pull himself together, because as bleak as the future may look, there was still a chance, there was still hope.
Someoneâs shoulder bumped his, a hasty apology lost to the sound of blood in Poeâs ears. But the touch shattered the spell over him, and reality came crashing down in a rush of sight and sound.
Before him yawned the wide open doors of the mess hall. The welcome sign hovered above a sea of heads, his frozen wake a small thing breaking the miasmic milling of bodies surrounding him. Mess was far busier than earlier. The clink and clatter of dishes burst through the humdrum vibration of a thousand voices buzzing into monotony, as former Order and Resistance alike breakfested together as if they had never been on opposite sides of a galaxy wide war. When had this all changed? It felt as if time itself had fractured into a spiderweb of tangential stories, and now that they were all converging, Poe realized he had been too absorbed in his own thread to notice the rest.
But the sight of this â this melding together of such different peoplesâŠon some scale it was what Poe had always dreamed best for the galaxy. A merging of people and cultures, enemies become friends. Poe could not stop the warmth that consumed him, and for a breath he existed in this moment, where he could glimpse something good beyond the fold of his cards, where life played out with a different hand. And it occurred to him, quite suddenly and forcefully, that he knew exactly who could maybe provide some semblance of comfort.
The only other person Poe knew who would truly understand.
Phasmaâs too blond head rose above the gathered people, even as hunched as she still was, right where Poe had seen her earlier that morning, when he had first felt compelled to seek her out. She was no longer alone. Dopheld Mitaka sat across from her, the two huddled together over some secret thing on the table between them. And as Poe made his way through mess, heading straight for their table, it occurred to Poe that he might not be welcome here, that this was a privacy he should respect; Poe had never been a private person, and he decided he wasnât about to start now.
Not that any of it mattered, because when Phasma saw him, Poe knew coming here had been the right choice.
âDameron, thank the stars.â Poe almost squeaked when Phasma pushed away from the table to greet him with a hard clap to the shoulder. An embrace, or as close to one as Phasma would allow. Poe stumbled under the force of it, let himself be manhandled into a seat beside Mitaka. The faded orange plasti was warm, heated by the bright sunlight that flooded through the window the table butted up against. Poe sat down, silent with gratitude.
âHey, uh, howâs it going?â His face grew as warm as the chair when Phasma and Mitaka both stared at him with the attention of a pair of heat seeking torpedos. The thing on the table between them was Phasmaâs datapad, open to Force, Huxâs message glowing idle on the screen.
âYouâre going to tell us everything,â Phasma demanded, and Poe didnât even think to disobey.
When he was finished, to say the mood had changed would be an understatement.
But at least Poe didnât feel quite so alone, anymore.
âArmitage you stubborn fucking cunt,â Phasma eventually muttered aloud, long after the silence that befouled the table had grown stale. She had produced a knife from nowhere, begun digging a gouge into the plasti-top, as nervous with tension as Poe himself felt. He almost laughed, bit his lip instead.
âThings will turn out alright, Sir. Youâll see.â Mitakaâs perspective was surprisingly, bizarrely, positive. âIf I may say, Sir, I am glad the General has you on his side.â
Poe was struck down by the words, brought low by their insinuation. Of all the things heâd shared, heâd kept his guilt a secret. And he wondered if this was how the whole of the Order felt â if hope had bloomed bright in the dark of their circumstances, all because the Resistance had offered them some half-made promise of protection they had no ability to follow through on.
It wasnât just Armitageâs safety that was in flux here, but the safety of every Order person in this room, on this base.
In the galaxy.
Poe considered the men and women filling the tables beyond with a newfound regard. The Order had stirred from their subterranean hovel, congregating en mass, a sentient shifting conversation sweeping through them, as much words as emotion. Poe observed from the outside in, like a keeper observing his hive.
The ridiculous idea that Armitage was their queen abandoned him as quickly as it surfaced.
But, of all the changes across the base over the recent weeks, Armitageâs acceptance of him had inspired a sort of begrudging respect from the Order. What had been awkward before was now simply strange. Because he was not blind to the glances directed his way. He noted the approving satisfaction in the faces, understood the comfort his presence amongst the Order elite must inspire.
Comrades. Leia had called them weeks ago, now Poe understood exactly what that meant, what more they had become.
Allies.
The three sat there, together, their silence ballooned with unspoken thoughts. Phasmaâs face was hard drawn, her eyes icy, and Poe could almost imagine the plans shifting around her militaristic mind. Mitaka was easier to read, curiously open, his affection for Armitage obvious, evident in the way he watched Poe closely, concern so plain as to nearly feel overwhelming. Poe could not deny the empathy he shared with Mitaka, something that took him as much by surprise as the idea that this was the man Armitage had put in charge of Finalizer in his absence, this shockingly sensitive idealist who wore his emotions on his sleeve as surely as anyone in the Resistance might.
But before Poe could say as much, his datapad lit with an incoming message.
Poeâs breath caught in his chest, before spilling out a long sigh with considerable disregard of company he kept.
Your man is fine. ETA 10 minutes. Meet us if you can.
Poe read the message twice before understanding hit. He read it a third time just to be sure. Only after the forth did he allow relief to finally settle in.
âHeâs okay,â Poe said the words out loud, as if giving them form solidified their reality.
âOf course heâs okay.â The gouge Phasma had been digging into the table had become a furrow, the plasti peeled back in tiny twirling curls. âI was more worried about the other guy.â
âFineas Ofant,â Mitaka supplied, a hint of something in his voice Poe felt reflected in himself.
As if any of them had forgotten his name.
The mechanical whir of a droid walking by jolted Poe from his thoughts, and he froze, lifted his eyes, caught how the droid watched him. How it watched them.
Poe looked into the camera, and he did not smile.
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The too tight straps of the safety harness dug painfully into his body. Hux had not bothered loosening them when heâd buckled himself into his seat aboard the transport, had in fact welcomed the feel of pressure holding him secure; Where Hux felt like coming apart, the harness held him together. Now, he traced the stretch of the nylon where it passed over his hips, bare thumb smoothing over the warm metal of the clasp, considering why he had bothered with the harness in the first place. Certainly death by transport crash would be preferable to whatever method the New Republic deemed justice for Starkillerâs execution.
But if he died now, he would not get to see Poe again. And Hux desperately wanted to see Poe again.
Twenty more minutes. Twenty more minutes and then Hux would be back with Poe. And even if he wasnât okay, Poe would tell him he was, and Hux would let himself believe it.
Finn and Tico had spoken privately after Finnâs arrival at the uplink station. If Huxâs puffy eyes and pink face had not given him away, Tico surely had. And though the two stood in the shade of the transport several yards away, snippets of their conversation had reached him. Hux heard the words breakdown, Ofant, and Poe. Though, it wasnât their words that unnerved Hux, but the quick looks Finn had thrown his way. Hux didnât think it was pity that he saw in Finn, but there was something telling behind his inscrutable gaze. Something familiar Hux could not quite place, as if Finn himself were shrouded in bokeh and Hux had not the correct lens to bring him into focus.
And when Tico had opted to pilot them back to the base and Finn had sat himself in the seat across from Hux, that same unnamed expression plain on his face, Hux had turned away. He had found it easier to stare listless at the shifting shadows at the back of the transport, counting the seconds to the minute; begrudging that time decided to creep so slowly now when Hux needed it the least.
He had filled that time with thoughts of Poe, loosing himself to pleasant memories even as they did nothing but make time amble along all the more slowly.
Hux had not died, not yet, but thinking about Poe, thinking about how he would see him again so soon, felt like coming alive.
Now, Finnâs eyes had still not left him, and Hux imagined he could see everything.
He also realized he really didnât care.
Silence pervaded the transport. The hum of the stabilizers drowned out the sound of his breath, and the quiet groan of metal against metal distracted Hux from the sound of his thoughts. But it was Finnâs continued attention that was loudest to Hux. Gone was the inscrutable look, replaced with something far more confusing. Silence did not suit Finn well, because Hux could tell he had something to say â was building himself up to it. But instead of speaking Finn had opted to watch Hux, as if heâd find the answers to his questions scrawled across Huxâs skin, burned into his flesh.
Hux understood what he was to this man. He understood now more than he ever could have before. Certainly not when they both walked the halls of the Finalizer, and less certainly after Finnâs own defection â something that, at the time, had been entirely out of Huxâs scope of comprehension. Hux also knew that Finn and Poe were close in a way that went beyond a mere casual friendship. Poe had not spoken much of Finn, but Hux had not needed words to pick up on the subtleties of their relationship. This was a man Poe respected, a man Poe found kinship with. If Hux thought his future with Poe would span longer than several more days or shortened weeks, he would have made an effort to engage Finnâs curiosity in him.
Maybe would have considered an apology.
Instead, when the silence became nearly as stifling as the heat inside the transport, Hux lifted his eyes and met Finnâs stare.
Finn was sprawled across his seat, unharnessed and comfortably at ease even as the transport shook and bounced. But it was his darkened eyes that nearly arrested Hux, because held in them was a scrutiny that went beyond the hatred and animosity that Hux expected of this former stormtrooper defector. And as their eyes met, Finn, finally, broke the silence.
âCan Iâ Iâve got to ask,â And Hux thought it was frustration that colored his voice. âWhy did you really do it? Spy, I mean. Was it really because you hated Kylo Ren that much?â
The transport jolted with a groan, would have unseated Hux if he had not been so tightly strapped into his seat. âDoes it matter, now?â Hux heard how soft his voice sounded, emotion tempered beneath the steel of nerves.
Finn shrugged, dark eyes holding his, âNot really, but call me curious. You saved our lives, after all.â
Hux would be lying if he said defeating Ren was the reason he turned spy. Because defeating Ren had only ever been for the sake of saving the First Order. And just like so many other aspects of his life, Hux understood now what he never did before. His faith in Order ideals had always been founded in his interpretation of them, and his vision for the Order had always been influenced by his naivety that he would one day lead it. Kylo Renâs ascension to Supreme Leader had rendered dream from reality.
The Sith fleet, however, had turned reality to nightmare.
âRen would have been the Orderâs ruin, but I saved your lives because Palpatine would have been the Galaxyâs. If anyone was going to defeat the Sith fleet, it was the Resistance.â Hux wondered, not for the first time, if anyone besides himself and Rae Sloane had ever actually cared about the Order. Certainly, Ren never did, and more certainly neither did Sheev Palpatine.
âSo you did it to save the Order,â Finnâs voice darkened. If Huxâs interrogation with the Senators had been difficult, this line of questioning with Finn felt impossible.
âI thought I could save the Order from Ren, yes. But Palpatine made it clear that the Order was never going to serve any of us, not in the way I always believed it would, or had the potential to.â
âYou mean had you become Supreme Leader.â
Hux swallowed, chose his words carefully, âI had plans, but they were based on a version of the First Order that never truly existed. Iâ I understand now, why you defected.â
That seemed to give Finn pause, but only for a moment. Then he shook his head, eyes narrowed on him again, putting together pieces to a puzzle Hux already knew didnât fit. âI want to believe you. I do. But you were our General, you were Starkiller, you expect me to believe you were as fooled as the rest of us?â
Hux could not keep the heat from his voice, âThe Order was built on the backs of our generation, but it was the Imperial fathers that shaped it. You never knew Enric Pryde. You never knew Brendol Hux.â
âBrendol Hux, your father, who stole me from my family when I was only a kid? Just like all the kids you stole when you took over the Academy? Yeah, I think I know what I need to, and I just donât see how he could have been much different from you.â
Hux looked away. His pride had protected him from far more than one former trooperâs honesty, but here, with Finn, it abandoned him. Hux heard his words rang true, sick with the idea that he was anything like his father, but unable to separate himself from the reality that despite whatever Hux wanted, the man would forever be a part of him. A hollow ache touched the deepest parts of him, parts of himself he knew his father had shaped, molded in his image and set to cure.
But Finn wasnât the only victim of his father in this transport. I was too. A truth that was as difficult to acknowledge as it was to admit aloud, but Hux thought he needed to, and not just for Finn.
âHe took me too.â The words dragged out of him, words that had simmered near his surface for as long as he could remember. Such simple things that brokered far more than the story they told, the childhood that had been stolen.
âWhat?â Finn snapped, voice brittle, as brittle as Hux felt.
âFrom my mother, when I was five.â Hux didnât know why he was telling Finn this. He didnât know why he thought it mattered.
By the look on Finnâs face he appeared just as bewildered.
âIâ I didnât know,â Finnâs voice quieted, still harsh, but the edge of his words worn thin. âIâm sorry.â
âItâs quite alright,â Hux turned the words out, withered and worn.
A new silence filled the transport, one that barely drowned out the sound of Finnâs thoughts. Hux left him to them, knew he had no place in them, despite what room his memories seemed to take.
But Finn was not a person silence suited, as Hux continued to discover.
âI never thanked you. You know, for keeping Chewy safe, for saving our lives. We owe you a lot,â Finn eventually said, as the light slotted through the window in too bright shards. âYou saved our butts, saved the galaxyâs butt. I mean it. Thank you, Hux.â
âYouâre welcome.â Hux met Finnâs eyes, saw the truth of his words reflected in his face, hoped his own conveyed even a fraction of what he felt. âAndâ and I am sorry, Finn. For what itâs worth.â
âFuck.â Finn pushed out a sigh, posture breaking again as he leaned over his knees and dropped his head into his hands. âThis is just too fucking weird.â
And Hux watched, as the former trooper FN-2187 came to a decision, one Hux suspected was less for either of them, and more for the man that they both held dear, the man who had shown both of them that there was always a better way.
âAnd I know youâre different. At least, youâve got to be, to have charmed Poe.â
âIs that what Iâve done? Charmed him?â Hux said slowly, maneuvering around this new version of Finn that sat across from him, one that offered a tentative truce in the form of an acknowledgment â an acknowledgment of his relationship to Poe.
âMaybe. But this is Poe, so I guess itâs more likely he charmed you.â Unbalanced by Finnâs words, Hux stared, considering, because it sounded like he had made a joke. Was it a joke? Was Finn joking with him?
Hux licked his lips, inclined his head, and chancedâ âLike I said, I understand now why you defected.â
Finn looked at him as if Hux had sprouted not just two heads, but three.
And then he laughed, a little too loud and a little too sudden, and Hux almost smiled. He held it in, dropped his head to stare at his lap, hiding his own amusement behind the fall of his hair. Finnâs laugh echoed through the transport, echoed through his head.
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Poe heard the approach of the transport before he saw it.
Morning was advancing to midday and with it the sun beat down from a cloudless blue sky. Nature had reclaimed most of the duracrete pad that served as the baseâs small vehicle loading area, turning it into a churned up mess of stone and soil, like a rocky sea caught frozen in the ice of time. But where the poured stone still held, heat wavered in a shifting dance. The day was going to be especially hot, and Poe could already feel moisture gathering under his arms and across his chest. He was glad for the distraction. More glad that the glaring sun kept the New Republicâs droid at a distance.
Ten minutes had passed since heâd left Phasma and Mitaka in the mess hall, ten minutes since Finnâs message had illuminated on his screen, a beacon in the choppy sea of Poeâs heart. Phasma had offered to wait with him, and Poe had almost welcomed the company. But, in the end, he decided that what he really wanted was to get Armitage alone. Or, as alone as he could manage. The droid that recorded him from the shade of the base offered a different perspective, one Poe was determined to shake.
If Poe couldnât steal Armitage away to safety, he could at least steal him away from the watchful eyes of the New Republic.
The rumbling hum of the transport was a distant sound, muffled by the big leafy palms, disbursed across the landing pad in a scattered obscurity. But Poe recognized it, has been waiting for it. And as he took a step forward, squinting into the tree line where he thought the vehicle would emerge, it took everything in him not to sprint across the pad and into the jungle, not yet. Instead he pushed his hair from his brow, then shielded his eyes, his foot tapping out an uneven rhythm as his nerves lit with anxious energy.
When the transport finally breached the tree line, Poe shot from his spot like a bullet from a slug thrower.
He ran across the pad, cleared the distance and kept going. Through the tall grass and over the softened loam where soil turned to swamp, Poe ran. Legs pumping, heart throbbing, he ran and he ran. He ran like he was running from something, and maybe he was, Poe thought. Maybe in some marked way he was running from a life that had betrayed him. Maybe if he ran fast enough, long enough, he could outrun the shadowed pass of fateâs hand. And if he could only take Armitage with him, he could save them both. Like he had on the Steadfast, when death had hunted them; Armitage begging and pleading to be left to die, and Poe refusing. Adamant that Armitage live, resolute in the idea he had something to live for.
Poe hadnât understood then, what was so clear now,
Something inside Poe released, spilled free with the exertion of his body, something like adrenaline but so much stronger â a force of will Poe thought he could only experience when flying. He felt it now, as he chased the transport down. Felt it even more when the vehicle came to a stop before him. Felt it nearly burst out of him as Rose waved from behind the plexiglass shielding, the door to the cargo compartment already slowly lifting open.
Armitage was back. Armitage was in there.
Armitage was safe.
Finn appeared in the threshold before Poe could launch himself through. He stumbled to a halt, barely breaking his momentum from propelling him straight into Finnâs chest.
âWhoa, whoa, Poe, whatâs wrong? Is everything okay?â
âItâs fine, Iâm fine. Is Armiâ Huxâ can Iâ shit, Finn, Iâm sorry.â Poe rocked back on his heels, pushed his hand through his hair, his breath ragged, his smile broken, his lines drawn thin.
Finn leaned out of the door, made a show up looking Poe up and down before letting a grin split his face, âStars, Poe, youâre in worse shape than him.â
Poe tried to laugh, but the sound lodged in his chest.
âJust let him inside Finn.â Roseâs head hung out the pilotâs side window, her small hand swatting at Finn playfully. âBefore he pops, doesnât he look like he might actually pop?â
âPop? Not gonnaâ you two are the worst.â
They were the best, because they had brought Armitage home safe.
There was a softness to Finnâs swiftly shifting expressions, amusement giving way to affection, before settling on concern. It was the concern that drove Poe to ask, âYou okay?â
âAm I okay?â Finn laughed, then quickly sobered. Finnâs hand reached out to grip the back of Poeâs neck with a strength that demanded his full attention. He pulled Poe so close that his words could not be missed over the idle thrum of the transportâs engine. âYou know you can come to me for help, donât you? Anything at all, it doesnât matter. You know that right?â
âYeah?â How Poe managed a response at all, he would never know, because his heart was beating too fast, too hard, and far too full.
âPoe.â Finn demanded again, and Poe could not look away. âMe, Rose, Rey, weâre all on your side. Weâre gonna help youâ help you both. Okay? So stop worrying. Weâve got this.â
Poe looked from Rose to Finn and back again, suddenly overwhelmed with love for his friends â two people who had every reason to despise the man they harbored, but who chose empathy over hate. And unlike the Senate or Kes or the whole of the Galaxy, these people had not needed convincing. They trusted Poe, trusted his heart, trusted his faith that Armitage Hux was more than Starkiller. That he was worth so much more than his mistakes. Poe bit his lip, sucked in a breath, and then his heart burst out, âThank you.â His voice broke, âThank you both. For everything, for this, forâ for keeping Armitage safe.â
âOkay Poe, okay, wait donâtââ But Poe pulled Finn down into a hug anyway, let him stumble into him so Poe could grip him tighter, smiled as Finn stiffened and then softened, heard Roseâs laugh twinkle over the sound of the still running engine.
âThanks bud,â Poe whispered, as he felt Finn return his hug.
âYeah yeah,â Finn quietly sighed, arms squeezing Poe tight, âYou still owe me big time.â
âI know, I know I do,â Poe breathed. They stayed like that, long seconds ticking by. Finnâs body was a familiar anchor, one that reminded Poe of all the shit odds they had overcome together. All their fleeting victories and daring rescues and luck lorn escapes. And as distant as he and his friends might have grown over the last several weeks, he understood that nothing had changed, not really, not in the fundamental ways that mattered most.
Suddenly, Poe didnât feel quite so alone, anymore. It wasnât him versus the Senate, it was him and his friends, and they had faced down far more dire threats than anything the New Republic could craft.
It was Finn who broke the embrace, his arms pushing Poe to length while giving his shoulders a squeeze. Poe looked from Finn to Rose and back, saw their genuine smiles, their eyes full of an emotion Poe knew was reflected in his own. Poe held onto this feeling, the feeling that almost convinced him everything was going to be okay.
âGet in Poe, Iâm gonna bring us around to the dormitories, drop you off there.â Open disgust plain on her face, Rose gestured across the landing pad to where the droid had finally decided to approach, its shadow cast dark beneath the too bright sun, âI donât want to see another one of those droids if I donât have to.â
âYeah, okay. The dorms are fine.â It would take more time to get to the dorm side of the building, the transport having to cut back into the jungle and track along the swamp to the south east.
But what was a little more time, when Poe could spend it with Armitage?
âIâll ride up front, give you some privacy,â Finn said it as if he were relieved, and Poe almost grinned. What would Armitage and Finn have talked about for forty minutes? If only he could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. âOh, and Poe?â Finn leaned in close, his smirk dark with mirth, âI think heâs stuck.â
âWhat?â But Finn had already taken off, Poe left alone, nothing between him and the inside of the transport, where Armitage was â What am I waiting for?
Poe reached up and pulled himself inside.
The transport was dark, the change in light so abrupt that Poe was almost blinded, but maybe that was just his excuse for why he stood there, frozen, staring at Armitage as if he were a mirage that might fade from his sight. Armitage was no mirage. Instead he stood out like a beacon in a storm, all pale skin and refracted light and a burning fiery halo of gold, and Poe would have dashed himself across his rocky shore if it meant he could get all that closer.
âHey.â Poe knew his grin was dopey, heard how his voice dripped.
âHello, Poe.â Armitageâs voice washed through him, real and there and sweeping him up and away in a tidal wave of relief.
Poe was on him within the span of a heartbeat.
He slid into the seat beside Armitage just as the transport shuddered into motion. Armitageâs eyes glinted translucent in the sharp light of the sun, red tinged against gray-green, color where color should not be, and Poe knew then he had been crying. What happened out there? He wanted to ask, but didnât. Instead, he touched his fingers to Armitageâs cheek, ignored the bits of sand he found there, his thumb resting over the red bow of his mouth. Poe watched it part, felt the warmth of his breath as it spilled past his teeth. And Poe saw when his face softened, almost imperceptible, a shifting of muscle that said so much more than any furrow or frown.
Poe watched as Armitage undid himself, peeling back his own layers, revealing himself piece by piece, until all that was left was a man Poe didnât think anyone else would recognize. Poe couldnât stop himself from replacing his thumb with his lips, then; soft and tender and spilling over with all the emotion Poe could not help but feel.
The kiss could hardly be called as much, too light and too fleeting to be anything more than a suggestion. But Poe felt overwhelmed by it all the same. His heart pounded as Armitageâs lips moved against his, hand coming to rest alongside Poeâs face, cool palm clammy where it pressed into his cheek. Is that why he always wore gloves? Poe wondered as he reached up and folded his hand over Armitageâs, held it there, soothed lines along the fleshy place where thumb met palm.
âMissed you,â Poe murmured against Armitageâs lips, love struck and punch drunk. But by the way Armitage leaned into him, Poe didnât think he minded.
âIâm glad to be back,â Armitage spoke so softly the sound was nearly drowned out by the hum of transport. âI was not expecting Ofant to be there.â
âNone of us were.â Poe drew away, but only far enough to observe the distance in Armitageâs eyes, lost in memories Poe was not privy to. The hand on Poeâs cheek had begun to slip. Poe twined their fingers together and brought their hands to his lips. âIâm never leaving you alone again. I wonât let him near you.â
âHe wanted to make sure I knew who had won.â Armitageâs voice had lowered, cadence shadowed, over-ripened words snipped from a dying vine. âHe already has what he wants.â
âNo he doesnât.â The force of which Poe said those words was not intentional, but they felt genuine, natural. They felt like the truth. Donât give up hope, Poe. Donât let him give up hope. Leiaâs words were a constant in his mind, a call to action Poe could not ignore. âThe Senate is undecided. Maybe Ofant isnât, but the rest of them are.â
Armitage went still, walls flying back up far quicker than they ever came down. Poe imagined he was looking at a holo on pause, Armitage all placid-faced and straight-lined, eyes empty where they drifted off over Poeâs shoulder to stare at a place Poe could not see. Poeâs stomach twisted, his heart throbbed.
Poe squeezed Armitageâs hand, suddenly needing a reaction â something, anything besides this deadened nothing.
The transport hit a bump, groaning as it abruptly listed to the side, the air brakes snapping them back in a rubberband reaction. Poe caught himself before he was unseated, but Armitage hadnât moved an inch, in fact sat frozen where he was, strapped so tightly into his harness Poe suddenly wondered how he was breathing. But his eyes were back on Poe, white-edged and honed sharp, holding Poe to an explanation he had barely provided.
âTheyâre undecided,â Armitage said the words carefully, as if he was tasting their meaning, palating their worth, âWhat did you tell them?â
Poe swallowed, wet his lips, âIâ I told them everything.â
âEverything?â As Armitage held Poeâs eyes, Poe also watched him hold himself together.
âThey didnât want to talk about the Academy. They wanted to talk about you.â
Armitageâs face flickered, too quick for Poe to recognize the emotion. Silence filled the vacuum of Poeâs thoughts, and when Armitageâs words came, they lacked the lilt of a question. âYou told them everything about me.â
âI told them everything about us.â Poe felt exposed, but he didnât feel ashamed. âAre you mad at me?â
Armitage searched his face, searched for something, eyes flitting over him, brushes of attention that left sparks on Poeâs skin. âNo. Should I be? What did you say?â
That I love you.
Poe opened his mouth, closed it, couldnât stop the blush from blooming across his chest and cheeks.
âWas Organa there?â Armitage demanded now, eyes latched onto his, sparks turned to arcing tethers.
Poe knew heâd been caught, but in what, he could not say, âYeah, she was there.â
When Poe noticed Armitageâs shortened breath, saw the rapid beat of his pulse beneath the thin skin of his neck, how his pupils had swallowed his irises whole, he knew he was missing something critical.
Because Armitage was completely undone beneath the hold of his harness.
âGet me out of this thing,â he whispered, and Poe could only leap to obey.
Poeâs hands flew over the harness. Suddenly, Finnâs words made complete sense. Armitage was strapped so tightly into his safety harness that he couldnât get any leverage to unbuckle himself. He was stuck. And as Poe slipped his fingers under the nylon he nearly laughed. âHugs, what have you done?â
âJust fix it, Dameron.â Armitage sounded breathless in a way that had nothing to do with panic or fear. And as Poeâs fingers hooked over the strap across Armitageâs hips, he felt the heat roll off his skin, felt how his belly pressed into the tips of his fingers, so soft and delicate and fluttering with his breath. Poe had been here once before. Had savored the sensation then as he did again now. Wanted to bury himself in it. Would have stripped Armitage of far more than the harness if he didnât know his friends could interrupt them at any moment. Instead he bit his lip and met Armitageâs eyes, held them as his fingertips dragged lightly over the place where the strap pressed into Armitageâs body.
Watched as Armitageâs lashes dropped flutter light atop his cheeks â briefly â the barest moment of weakness. A weakness wrought of something as simple as Poeâs touch.
âIâve got you.â Voice low, suggestive, âIâll save you from the big bad safety harness.â
Armitage rasped out a laugh, genuine with an honesty that made Poe feel like he was soaring. Poe matched the sound with his own, and suddenly, everything else fell aside. The fog lifted to reveal not a rocky cliff side, but a calm shore. Maybe everything would be okay, maybe his luck had not run out, maybe all they needed was a little hope.
And each other. They needed each other. Together they would face this.
His fingers found the clasp, disengaged the mechanism. The harness released with a quiet snick, straps loosening enough that Armitage could slide his way free.
Slide right into Poeâs arms.
Just as the transport jolted over another bump.
They hit the floor with a muffled thump, Poeâs arms catching on Armitage where he landed in his lap. Armitage was all lean limbs and soft planes pressing close with an intention that caught Poe more by surprise than his fall. Poe sucked in a breath, lost it all over again when his eyes lifted to see Armitage above him, staring down with such obvious affection that Poe very nearly hoisted him over his shoulder and ran off with him for the second time in their lives.
At a complete loss for words, Poe said stupidly, âHeya.â
Armitageâs mouth twisted, broke, spilled out a smile. It wasnât whole, it was barely held together, but it was there, under Armitageâs cracked surface as surely as all the grief and fear Poe knew him to be hiding. Poe wanted to draw it out, know its form, taste its shape, keep it safe. He wanted to keep Armitage safe, he was going to keep him safe.
Armitage was shaking, a fine tremble he tried to hide in the press of his hands alongside Poeâs neck. And as Poe pulled him closer, he felt how the shaking converged into a shuddering breath, a bitten lip, a soft sound lodged in the back of Armitageâs throat â words, Poe suspected. Words he thought he knew the form of. Words he himself had confessed but hours ago, admitted to all the people who didnât matter, when the person who needed to hear them the most was out of his reach.
But Armitage was here, and Poe thought he could tell him now.
âArmitage,â Poe whispered his name, a request he needn't make, because Armitageâs attention had never left him. His hands lifted from Armitageâs sides, cupped his face. âArmitage, Iââ
âI heard you,â Armitage breathed. âI could hear you,â He repeated, even as his voice broke over his words. And it struck Poe then, what he meant, just what he had heard. Poeâs breath staggered, released, then held as he watched Armitage work through himself. Saw the shifting cogs of his thoughts, the flux of emotion across his face; all the tiny microshifts in his expression as he finally put words to the feelings Poe knew were there, had been there, waiting in the quiet. âI love you too. I love you. I love you so dearly.â
Poe had spent the last day running from something he could not escape. And no matter how fast he ran or what path he took, he always ended up at the same place, a nowhere that led to nothing, an absolute of an ending.
But this, this felt like a beginning.
Poe was crying, he was smiling, he was happy, despite whatever loomed on the not so distant horizon.
âI love you, Poe,â Armitage said again, barely above a whisper. Armitageâs fingers curled along Poeâs neck, eyes following the fall of Poeâs tears as his own gathered glassy and wet, breath hitching and body shaking. Poe stroked Armitageâs cheeks with his thumbs, held him steady as he fractured apart.Â
âI love you too, Armitage.â
And when Armitageâs tears finally fell Poe gathered them with his thumbs, collected them in his palms, and dried his cheeks with his kiss.
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The door to their quarters sealed shut with a gentle whoosh. The low pitched whine of the electronic lock softer still. But it was the near silent sound of Poeâs breath that drummed a rhythm out of the quiet when Poe pushed him into the wall.
Hux imagined that most people who were pushed into walls got there under much more forceful circumstances. Poe was entirely gentle about it, methodical in the way he maneuvered Hux against the durasteel behind him. His hands cupped Huxâs face, fingers spread wide over his jaw, thumbs at the corners of his mouth, holding Hux still as he pressed slow lingering kisses across his face: his nose, his cheeks, his chin, his brow.
Hux could still taste the tears on Poeâs skin, dried tracks of salt that were an assiduous reminder of what had prompted this â this overwhelming compulsion to consume one another â to know each other as intimately as their words in the transport suggested they already should.
I love you. The words repeated themselves, in Poeâs kiss, in his touch. Hux tried to say the same, tried to push them into Poe through the press of his palms, the brush of his lips. Imagined he could paint them across the canvas of Poeâs skin, if only he could get his shirt off.
Instead, Poeâs hips pressed against his, unmoving but firm, as he slotted his thigh between Huxâs legs just how he liked; low enough that it was snug against the seat of his testicles. It drove Hux mindless, the feel of it, of how he could choose to sink down and find that pressure reaching even further back, into his cleft, maddening Hux with the suggestion of it all.
So, Hux hoped Poe could hear the words in the way he ground down into his thigh, in the way he sought the closeness of Poeâs body, the deep ache of his pleasure, the shiver of his body beneath Poeâs hands.
Poe held him steady as he unfurled. Caught his gasps in his mouth, encouraged him with little murmurs of thatâs it, go on, just like that. And soon enough Hux could barely hold himself upright, not when Poe was pressed so close that he didnât even have to.
But it wasnât until Hux buried his hands in Poeâs inky black hair that Hux suspected Poe heard him. Because Poe moaned into Huxâs mouth, hot and breathy, as Hux wound his fingers into loose curls, tugging and dragging across Poeâs scalp, tipping his head back so he could cover Poeâs mouth with his own. They were not quite kissing, couldnât find the coordination, not when Poeâs hands were now too busy hoisting Hux up onto his thigh by the seat of his pants â not when Hux was too consumed by the length of Poeâs cock running hot and heavy alongside his own.
Here, under Poeâs hands, Hux couldnât think of all the things in his life that had gone wrong; He forgot the sound of Ofantâs voice in his ear, forgot the blackened scar of the Finalizer against the horizon, forgot that his life was no longer his to live, but his to give, in the few ways that were still left to him.
Heâd already decided he would give himself to Poe, at least in this.
âWanna fuck you,â Poe murmured as his mouth found Huxâs ear and his fingers curled brazenly along his cleft. âWanna be inside you, fill you up, make you come on my cock. Wanna wreck you.â
Poeâs words took Hux by storm, sweeping him into a frenetic need that seated in the base of his spine where it coiled tight. Hux shook with it, trembled under the press of Poeâs fingers, imagined how they must trace the fissured cracks that surely now patterned his skin.
âFuckâ ahâ Poeââ Huxâs head hit the wall in the way his back probably should have when they first started this. Bearing his weight into his shoulders, Hux shifted his hips forward, lifted up, dragged his erection against Poeâs in small slow grinds. Poe moaned, long and low, hands guiding his hips, mouth to his throat, finding the pulse point at the base and tonguing over it. Hux knew he was making noises, but Poeâs were just so much louder in his ears.
They picked a path that led them into the bedroom, hands never leaving the other, mouths finding what skin they could, pulses spilling through their surfaces as their hearts thundered a matching rhythm.
Poeâs bedroom was a simple space. Clean, if not a little cluttered. There was a table piled with blaster parts and tools in the corner, a matching chair which looked like it had never been used for sitting stacked with a rifle case and a box of droid parts next to it. Hux did not see a dresser, but there was a series of hooks along the far wall, strung with what Hux recognized as Poeâs leather jacket and a handful of utility belts. And then there was the half-domed window, arching high, gold tinted light spilling over a bed that seemed far too large for a hobbled together militia base.
The bed was made, blankets tucked neatly into the corners, pillows arranged simply across the top edge. And even as Poeâs mouth sucked a gentle pressure into his throat, Hux was suddenly consumed by the absurd thought that they couldnât do this, because that would mean theyâd have to mess up the bed, and that was just unacceptable.
Poe caught onto his hesitation in a way Hux could never explain. His hands left Huxâs hips, tangled instead with his hands, his head lifting from where it worried at his neck, and Poe asked âYou okay?â as he pulled Hux all that much closer. âWe donât have to do anything youâre not comfortable with, we donât have to do anything at all.â
âI want to, I want this.â The words rushed out of him faster than Hux could think. But they were true, he wanted this, had been looking forward to it for as long as he could remember looking forward to anything at all. Hux closed what distance was left, pressed into Poe so their hands were caught between their chests, their hips touching, his erection hard against the warm flesh of Poeâs stomach.
Poeâs free hand touch his cheek, drew him down so he could brush their lips together, âYou seem nervous.â Poe was unrelenting with his comfort, and for that Hux would always be grateful.
âI am,â He admitted, because it was the truth and because his brain had not quite caught up with the rest of his anatomy yet. Heat bloomed hot across his nose at Poeâs smile, as if Huxâs inexperience was something to be cherished, which should have made Hux mad, except he couldnât be when Poeâs lips were so gentle against his.
He was nervous, though, and Hux didnât get nervous. If heâd been the same person he had been weeks ago, he might have already called this all off. Hux did not care to have his boundaries pushed. Had in fact always gone out of his way to craft things to his own comfort, finding safety in the predictability of a life wrought of routines.
They had been intimate, and it had been intensely pleasurable, but Hux had not yet felt quite so intimidated as he did now. He was not sure if it was a prudish mental barrier that caused the tumultuous feeling in his stomach, or something as simple as nerves.
Sex was an aberration, but one Hux was desperate to make an exception for, if he could have it with Poe.
âCome here.â Poeâs voice gentled him, eased him forward, deeper into the room, closer to that bed. And when Poeâs fingers touched his jaw, trailed to his chin, and took him in hand. Huxâs attention was consumed. âThis is all about feeling good. If something doesnât feel right, tell me and weâll stop, simple as that.â
Poeâs dark eyes held him as tenaciously as his hand, and Hux understood how important it was for Poe to have his consent. âIâll tell you if I need to stop, if anything does not feelâŠif something makes me uncomfortable.â
âGood.â Poeâs smile widened, by just a fraction. And then he lifted their joined hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to their tangled fingers.
And then he took a step back, right towards that big bed.
One more step, then another, until Hux had to decide if he was going to follow or not.
âItâs okay. Whatever you want is okay,â Poe said into their still joined hands.
Whatever he wanted?
Hux wanted Poe.
He ended up sat on the edge of the bed, Poe knelt at his feet, hands moving over his boots as he tugged them free. They had been here before, not so long ago. A moment in time as different as it was similar, when Poe was Dameron and Hux had been so unsure of who he was, who he was becoming. Somehow, the circle had become full, and as Poe looked up at him with that expression, the same one Hux had once been so distrustful of, he knew that he was on the right path.
Wherever this led him, Hux was sure it was where he was supposed to be. Because he was with Poe, and Hux could no longer imagine his life without Poe.
Poeâs boots came off next, followed by his socks and belt, his datapad removed from a pants pocket. Hux watched as he placed the boots next to his, the belt in its place on a wall hook, his datapad on the table, all with a wink so Hux knew this was just for him.
âNow you canât accuse me of not being a gentleman about this,â Poe quipped as he climbed onto the bed, and Hux almost laughed. The strain of his erection would have strangled the sound.
âCertainly gentleman is not a word I would ever use to describe you,â Hux said instead, watching until he couldnât as Poe moved behind him, breath catching when Poeâs hands settled on his shoulders.
âOh? How would you describe me, then?â Poeâs hands, so firm and so very warm, slowly worked up Huxâs neck. The touch was light, barely brushing, pressure only increasing as Poeâs fingers trailed under his chin, over his jaw, into his hair. They tangled there, gentle and insistent all at once. Hux closed his eyes.
He allowed his head to drop back into those hands, a sigh for an answer. âScoundrel. Miscreant. Brigand.â
Poe laughed, âWhy Hugs, thatâs quite the vocabulary.â Poeâs hands were like heaven where they trailed through his hair and Hux let his mouth part with his breath.
âAnd rebel scum, of course.â Huxâs smirk small but unhidden.
Poe hummed, the sound as warm as his hands. âOkay, I earned that one at least.â Huxâs smirk deepened, almost turned into a smile, but then Poeâs breath hit his ear, hot and moist and so very close. âBut so have you, now.â
Hux gasped.
Poeâs laugh shook through Hux, quaking him down to his foundations. And when Poe turned Huxâs face up into a kiss, his gasp turned into a moan.
Rebel. There was no escaping it. Hux knew it to be the truth. Somehow, this was the man he had become. A stranger still, but one Hux wanted to get to know. One he might be proud to be. A name, Hux found, inexplicably, that he was okay being called.
Poe pulled away from the kiss, breath spilling over his lips, and Hux chased after him. But even straining up, Poe remained out of reach. Hux opened his eyes to Poe gazing down at him, so warm and full and completely consumed by what he saw â by him. And as Poeâs thumbs smoothed over his cheeks, Hux could not help his shiver.
But it was when Poe murmured, âMy rebel spy,â that something inside Hux squeezed free, a small sound, right there, in the back of his throat. Poe hummed in response, voice low, and Hux thought he could almost taste the emotion there, but it was in Poeâs smile that Hux watched it spill free.
Poe looked happy. Happy in a way Hux wasnât sure he could understand, because Hux didnât think heâd ever been as happy as Poe looked right then. If light were a thing contained by a smile, Poeâs would be blinding. And in that light, Hux felt the warmth of his affection finally collapse the fortifications he had built against things like hope and happiness and love.
Poe loved him, and he loved Poe.
Huxâs breath hitched, the wet in his eyes spilling down his cheeks, as he split open for Poe and the love they both had to give.
Poe held him steady as he unfurled. Caught his gasps in his mouth, gasps that sounded so much like sobs. He cradled Huxâs face carefully, so soft and tender, reverent, like Hux was something precious, valuable, worth protecting. Hux opened for him, his mouth parting to let Poeâs tongue touch his. Even in this Poe tread delicately, drinking from Hux in little sips, savoring all the small breathy sounds Hux could not help but make.
Poeâs hand guided him into an angle that exposed Huxâs throat and set his heart racing. There was a trust here, one he knew heâd already given Poe, but felt so much more acute now than it had before. And when a hand curled over his neck, Hux shivered. It was not a small sensation, it tore down his spine, taking him by surprise, and he made a sound against Poeâs mouth, fighting the fluttery feeling that compelled him to twist the blanket into his fists.
âOkay?â Poe murmured against Huxâs lips, hand holding his throat. He didnât stroke, and he didnât squeeze, but his touch was firm, confident, and Huxâs mind flew off with the feel of it. He couldnât think, he could hardly breath, and it all felt so good.
âIt feels good, just like this.â Hux wasnât sure how he was able to string so many words together.
Poe brushed over his mouth again, a fleeting thing, as his hand maintained its gentled hold. His other hand moved down Huxâs shirt, fingers finding the buttons that had been almost forgotten. âCan I take your shirt off?â Poeâs voice sounded rough when it reached Huxâs ears.
âYes.â There was no hesitation. As exposed as Hux knew he should feel, he could not help wanting to give Poe more. He suspected he would remain this way until the end, happily handing himself over to whatever request Poe asked of him.
And he trusted Poe, knew Poe would not abuse that trust.
Poeâs fingers made short work of his shirt, moving down his body with each button, his face burrowing into Huxâs neck alongside his hand, at the same spot he had worried earlier. Hux could feel Poeâs mouth there, against his skin, open and wet, teeth a barely veiled pressure, tongue curling circles. Hux would have turned his head, given Poe more room, except the hand at his neck held him steady â held him to Poe â as his mouth tightened into a gentle sucking pulse that mirrored in the throb in Huxâs erection. At some point, Huxâs shirt had been completely removed.
And as Poe pulled him closer and his mouth worked harder and his fingers found a nipple, Hux thought it should not be possible to feel this good. Not from this slow worship, because Hux didnât know what else to call it, didnât know a person could treat another like this, didnât think this was normalâŠthought maybe fate had made a mistake, because surely Hux didnât deserve this, didnât deserve Poe.
âPoe,â Hux whispered, suddenly overwhelmed. He felt how his body trembled, felt how tightly his hands had twisted into the blanket, how wide his legs had parted, how hard his erection throbbed.
How his heart pounded, right there beneath where Poeâs palm now lay.
Poe made a sound against Huxâs neck, teeth dragging lightly before he pulled away to return to his lips. âHey, youâre okay,â He affirmed, even as the kiss Poe stole from Hux left him shaking even harder. The sensation lingered over Huxâs mouth like a balm, and when Poe whispered, âI love you so much.â He almost broke.
Poe loved him.
Poe loved him, and what Hux had thought was some artificial Force fed comfort, was real. Real in the way Hux knew only reality could be, because the pain was still there too, and only ever in Huxâs dreams did the pain fade.
Well, and when Poe had his hands on him.
âI love you, Poe.â Hux let the words spill free, and he thought he could feel those fractured patterns split open all over again under the force of Poeâs kiss.
And then he was being drawn completely onto the bed, and there was not a molecule in Huxâs body that protested. This was exactly where he wanted to be, splayed out on his back atop Poeâs bed, head on his pillow, legs spread where Poe knelt between them, looking up at the man who had forever changed Huxâs life for the better â shown him what it meant to live. And, Hux decided, even if he died within hours or days or weeks, he would be okay, because he at least had been given this.
âStop thinking,â Poe smiled down at him, hands running along the length of Huxâs inner thighs. Hux let his legs fall wider. âI guess I have to find a better way to distract you.â
Hux licked his lips, shifted his hips, watched as Poeâs hands skimmed over the seam that lead to his erection. âBy fucking me?â
Poe laughed, and Hux knew he would never forget the sound.
âI will, but not yet,â Poe leaned forward, hands pressing his thighs apart while his weight balanced over Hux. There was a glint to Poeâs dark eyes that caught Huxâs breath in his chest, and when his words came, Hux couldnât stop the air in his lungs from strangling free in a moan. âIâm gonna take you apart with my fingers first.â
âStarsââ Huxâs chest hitched. Poeâs grin was wide, teasing, he knew exactly what he was doing, ââPoe.â
His pants came off faster than his shirt ever did, his briefs following shortly behind. Hux didnât even care when Poe dropped them onto the floor, because all he could think about was what Poeâs fingers might be like inside him, how good they were bound to feel.
Except, then Poe went and stripped off his own clothing, and all of Huxâs attention honed into one singular focus.
It was not the first time Hux had seen Poe naked, but there was a newness to him, in the fact that there was now only Poe â no mountains or wind or warm water to distract Hux from the sheer physicality of his body. Poe was all vast planes and sun kissed skin and hair so dark it could be mistaken for shadows. Poe was beautiful, more beautiful than anything Hux had ever seen before. More beautiful than the command deck of a star destroyer, more beautiful than the black nothing of deep space, more beautiful than the most flawless code he had ever written. So beautiful that Hux thought maybe he should feel more self conscious of his own body, except then Hux wouldnât be able to explain the way Poeâs eyes fired over him as he laid down alongside him.
Poeâs palm, when it touched his hip, was as hot as a furnace.
âStill feeling okay about this?â Poe asked as Hux rolled over to face him. Poeâs hand had not left Huxâs hip.
That was when he noticed the bottle of lubricant laying on the bed between them.
The fluttery sensation from before bloomed back to life in a fury of heat and nerves.
âI want this, Poe. I want you,â He said, a little breathless, even as his voice sounded too loud against the calm quiet of the room. Poe had not stopped smiling at him, his thumb now rubbing circles into his hip.
âIâm gonna make you feel so good,â Poe murmured like he got off on the idea. Like Poeâs pleasure was to be found in the things he could make Hux feel, as selfless as all the other aspects of Poe Hux had come to understand. âHave you ever used your fingers on yourself?â
Hux had, but not in a very long time. âItâs been a while.â
Poe bit his lip as he smiled, scooting a little forward as he did so. And suddenly, Poe was there, close, the light of the room casting long shadows, the two of them curled into one another, sharing something that felt like a secret. âHave you ever come from them? From your fingers, not your cock?â
âA prostate orgasm?â Hux knew it was possible, but had never given it much thought, âYouâve done this?â
âOnly to myself, yeah. But I think I can do it to you too. If youâll let me try.â
Heâs done this to himself? Hux tried to imagine what that would look like: Poe curled onto his bed with his fingers buried inside him, bringing himself off in some phantom orgasm â orgasms.
Hux suddenly wanted. âWhat will youâ what does it entail?â
âWell,â Poeâs hand left his hip, slipped further back instead, fingers brushing the swell of his glute. âIâll use my fingers to massage your prostate, from inside you.â Here, his fingers dipped into his cleft, not deeply, but enough to suggest. âWith a little time and a bit pressure, you can come from that alone.â
There was a clinical quality to the simple way Poe described what he would do that twisted pleasure into Hux as surely as any dirty talk heâd ever heard. And Hux knew he wanted Poe to do this for him, to him, with him.
A tiny thing inside him came undone, and with it went all of the hesitancy Hux had not realized he still held onto. The pleasure Poe offered, it was so much more than a firing of nerves. It was more of those good things, those memories Poe seemed determined to create with Hux; little glittering points of life in the velvet darkness of Huxâs mind. And it was like Poe thought if he could only give Hux enough, that maybe the light would drown out the darkness, just like his touch drowned out the memory of Ofant.
âWhat do you need me to do?â He said in a quiet rush.
âJust relax, enjoy it. Donât worry about coming, it might not happen, but it will feel good regardless.â And then Poeâs eyes darkened even further, as he said, âAnd itâll open you up for me, because Iâm gonna fuck you after.â
Oh starsâ âOkay,â Hux said, when all he really he wanted was to pry himself open and offer Poe so much more than his fractured cracks.
Instead, he gave Poe his hand, watched as Poe brought it to his lips.
Let his leg be guided over Poeâs hip, where it could comfortably rest.
Shifted himself closer, when Poeâs hand once again reached to brush over his anus.
Poeâs fingers were slicked with lubricant, this time.
âYou can close your eyes,â Poe told him, fingertips swirling little circles of pressure over him, easing him open. Hux kept his eyes on Poeâs, thought if he didnât he might actually fall to pieces.
They gazed at one another as the first of Poeâs fingers breached him.
Hux pressed his lips together against a moan. It had been a long time since he had done anything like this to himself, despite always enjoying the sensations. But Hux imagined even if it had not been so long, Poeâs finger still would have felt just as different. Where Huxâs fingers were long and slender, Poeâs were large and thick, and just one of his felt like so much more than anything Hux could have done to himself. It stretched him in the way he knew he liked. Just as Poeâs thumb had, in the hot spring, and Huxâs breath hitched in his chest as it slid past his first knuckle.
âHow does that feel?â Poeâs voice was soft, finger moving in and out of him slowly, so slowly that Hux could feel every little drag of texture on his skin, the extra stretch as Poeâs knuckle edged inside. âWant another?â
âFine, good, give me aâ two, two is fine.â Two was better, Hux decided, when Poe eased a second in alongside the first, stretching him a little wider, moving his fingers a little deeper, the girth of his knuckles sliding not quite easily inside. ââOh.â
âGood oh?â Poe had not stopped moving, and for that Hux was infinitely grateful.
Hux nodded his head, shifted his hips. Said breathlessly, âGood, feels good."
Poe hummed, sliding his fingers a little deeper, but still so slow. Hux shuddered with them, felt when they barely brushed that place inside him, a place that went beyond just feeling good. Suddenly, Hux wanted to know what that would feel like, wanted Poe to show him.
"Three, I can take three.â
âAlready?â Poe asked, and Hux nodded, squeezed his hand, met his eyes. Poe said, âJust tell me if itâs too much.â
And when Poeâs third finger nudged up alongside the first two, the tip slipping in and stretching him so much wider, so wide it almost hurt, but didnât, or did, but in a good way, Hux thought certainly it did not get better than this. He moaned.
âThatâs three.â Poeâs cadence had dropped, rough over the words, as his third finger found itself fully inside. Poe held still there as Hux adjusted, his thumb rubbing small soothing circles into the tender space behind his testicles, his mouth pressing kisses to Huxâs trembling fingers. Hux breathed through it, into it, savored the involuntary clench of his sphincter, as if trying to draw Poeâs fingers in even deeper. âTell me when to move.â
âMove,â Hux demanded, as his leg hooked further over Poeâs hip so he could drag himself even closer.
Poe moved his fingers slowly, even slower than before, so careful as the girth of his joined knuckles stretched Hux wider than anything ever before, and slower still as he retreated again, as if he too could savor the stretch. Huxâs eyes finally fell closed. âStill feel okay?â
âYes.â He wanted Poe to know how good he made him feel, but words were becoming difficult, âYes, itâsâ itâs good.â
âI havenât even touched your prostate yet.â Poe said like he was amazed, âYou like being stretched, huh?â
His erection jerked, a little bit of wet dripping from the tip, even if he wondered if that made him strange. âYâ yes.â
Poe moaned this time, as he shifted forward, as his lips ghost over his. âThatâs good. Youâre doing so good, Armitage, opening up for me.â
And then his fingers curled into that place inside him, the one that sent sparks arcing up his spine.
Hux gasped as his whole body jolted, as if he were caught single handed on a live wire. Poeâs fingers eased off, but not entirely away, instead moving in little pulses as he slid them in and out, dragging over his prostate. The sensation was nearly overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once, and Hux noticed his blood quickening and his breath becoming ever more shallow.
The way his hand clung to Poeâs, so tight he thought it must hurt.
âRelax, breathe, youâre doing great,â Poe murmured, and Hux struggled to put mind to action as the whole of his body converged on the singular sensation of Poeâs fingers inside him. But, Poeâs voice spurred him towards pleasure as well as his fingers did, and Hux moaned at the continued sound of it.
âStars, Armitage, youâre so fucking beautiful," Poe rasped as his fingers curled and Hux gasped again. His fingers pushed deep, digging little furrowed rolls into that place inside him, drawing out not just sensation but sounds, as Huxâs throat caught over the shout it wanted to release. Poeâs eyes burned into him, and Hux had to look away then, lest Poe see too much. So he dropped his eyes to Poeâs mouth instead, watched as it moved over words. Something inside him cracked open with the meaning of them. âI wonder how much prettier youâll look on my cock.â
âPoeââ Hux didnât know what he wanted to say, didnât know if he could say anything at all, but something felt like it was trying to escape him, but could not find its way free. Poeâs fingers released him, returning to their slow gentle slide. A frustrated noise lodged in the back of his throat. âPoe, I needââ
Then his hips chanced a small roll, just as Poeâs fingers curled into him again.
Hux could not stop his strangled shout.
âThatâs it, move with me, do what you need to.â Poeâs encouragement burned through him, and Hux gasped as Poeâs fingers made quick circles against that spot and a flurry of sparks bombarded him, shivering up his spine.
Hux chased the sensations, his hips moving with Poeâs fingers until they found a rhythm, and he gave himself over to it â gave himself over to Poe.
âRight there, thatâs it,â Poe repeated, and then it happened again. The jolt was just as strong, but not as sharp, lingering in his spine in a way it had not before, birthing a shivering tremble at the seat of his pelvis, right where Poeâs fingers worked him. Hux lost his breath to the feeling, so intense and so different, and so so good. He panted into the space between them, clutching Poeâs hand, as the sensation consumed him, and his whole body began to shake.
Poe encouraged him on, fingers curling, words relentless.
âStars, Armitage, I can feel you. I can feel how close you are. Youâre right there, youâre going to come. You can do it, you can come. Come on, come, come for me.â
Hux came. It crashed over him and into him and through him, a cyclone of sensation that began in his spine and spilled from his skull. Sensation that swept Huxâs consciousness up and away and then dropped him just as abruptly back into his body, his body which had collapsed upon itself, where Hux could not tell up from down, in from out, or the end from his beginning. He was shouting, he was sure of it, but he had no control over the broken sound of his voice, could only listen as it spilled from him, just as the rest of him spilled out, breaking through his cracks, shattering him free.
Â
Â
As Poe watched Armitage unfurl before him, he thought surely, he had never seen anything so beautiful in his whole life.
Armitageâs eyes had fluttered closed over flushed cheeks, lashes so delicate that when they caught the filtered sunlight they almost looked like threads of gold. And his mouth, an open bow, parted with the sound of his cry as his body trembled and shook and came apart around the curl of Poeâs fingers inside him. His cock lay half hard over the curve of his thigh, leaking a steady drool of clear fluid, and it took everything inside Poe to not reach out and touch it.
Instead, he dragged his fingers again over that spot inside Armitage. Savored the way his body twitched, his breath hitched, how his eyes slit open to regard him, gray-green blown black and tangled with his pleasure.
The way his hand desperately clutched Poeâs, as if it were all he had left to hold onto.
Poe leaned forward, pressed his lips to Armitageâs, let them linger as the man he loved came apart.
He could probably make Armitage come again, just like this, fingers buried deep, working his prostate until he was a moaning mess. Part of him wanted to. Acknowledged that they had the time, the whole day if they wanted, to lay in bed and explore one another. And maybe they would, later. But, for now, Poe eased Armitage down from his orgasm. Guided him through the aftershocks with a knowing touch, gentle where Armitageâs body was not, lost as it was to the involuntary motions of his pleasure.
When Armitage finally relaxed, when his breathing evened and his body collapsed and when the hold on Poeâs fingers released just enough, he gently slipped them free. Poe left them against the furl of muscle, smoothed slick circles over it, enjoyed the soft little sounds it drew from Armitageâs throat. They were broken and breathy, barely anything at all. Expect on his exhales. Poe could hear the tiny little catches at the back of his throat, as unconscious as they were hushed. Poe had never heard sounds like that from Armitage before, thought they must be evidence of how undone he had become. Of what Poe had made him feel. He could not help his smile.
âHow was that?â He finally asked, mostly because he wanted to see how pink Armitage could become. âFeel good?â
But instead of answering, Armitage shuddered in another inhale, lifted his eyes and reached his free hand to curve around the back of Poeâs neck. And as he pulled Poe into a shivering kiss, as another soft moan spilled from him, Poe heard the whisper thrush softness of Armitageâs voice.
âMake love to me, Poe.â
Poeâs smile split into a grin.
Poe pushed forward, opened his mouth to the kiss, tasted Armitage on his tongue. His fingers, still slick, slid up his butt cheek, gripped it hard, hauled him closer. Armitage burrowed into him, until their limbs were as tangled as their hearts, and Poe could not tell where he ended and Armitage began. Didnât care to, thought they should stay like this forever, the rest of the world be damned.
By the time he managed to maneuver Armitage onto his back, they were both fully hard again.
Armitageâs legs were open, wide where Poe had settled between them, thighs hooked over Poeâs. His chest heaved with his breath, a brush of pink painting his pale skin, so pale that when his skin caught the light Armitage almost looked translucent. Poe imagined he could see everything then, all the things Armitage kept from the world. All the fear and hurt, yes, but also the goodness, the curiously sensitive aspects of his personality that he hid even from himself.
Poe wanted to pull those parts out, see what they might look like drawn across his surface. His palm, when it touched Armitageâs thigh, instead drew out a shiver.
âYouâre sure about this?â He asked because he wanted to hear it, wanted to live in this moment when the siege heâd laid to Armitage Hux finally brought down the last of his walls, when he made room for something more.
âYes,â Armitage said, so softly yet still so loud in the quiet of the room. âIâm sure, Poe.â
âOkay,â Poe breathed out with a rush. âOkay, okay.â He didnât know who he was speaking to anymore â Armitage, or himself â or the little voice inside his head that kept telling him this could not actually, finally, be happening.
All the finesse Poe once prided he possessed abandoned him when he poured too much lube over his fingers. It spilled messy and wet, slicking down his belly and onto the blanket, a pattern of dark spots that splashed an equally dark flush across his chest. He felt like the blushing virgin here, and it nearly made him laugh.
But, Poe supposed heâd never actually had sex with someone he loved before.
He bit his lip, lifted his eyes to meet Armitageâs, saw his feelings reflected back. Oh, stars.
Poe didnât even try to hide the tremble in his hand when he slid his fingers over Armitageâs anus. Watched through hooded eyes as Armitageâs legs fell apart even wider, as his attention drifted low to watch Poeâs hand disappear between them. Or maybe he was looking as Poeâs cock? The thought made it jerk, balls twitching out a bead of precome. He was so hard his foreskin was drawn completely back from his tip, the swollen flesh a dark ruddy color that contrasted so nicely with Armitageâs milk pale skin. Poe couldnât help but think of how lovely they would look together, suddenly wished it was also possible to be an outsider looking in; wished there was a way to record this into something tangible he could relive over and over. Something for him to hold onto when the world clawed them back into its unforgiving fold.
His hands shook now, the tremble long since chased away. Poe was barely able to slick lube over his cock before he was leaning forward, reaching for Armitage and finding himself met halfway. Armitage was pushed up on one elbow, knees bent alongside Poeâs hips, his free arm circling around Poeâs shoulders as they came together in a kiss. And if Poe hadnât braced a hand on the bed, he would have collapsed completely without it, what with the way Armitage opened up to him.
He was shaking just as much as Poe, maybe a little more.
Poe felt undone by it, felt undone by it all.
âTell me if you need me to stop.â His voice sounded strange in his ears, too low and too rough, wrecked by something that ran far deeper than lust or sex. When Poe reached back and found Armitageâs thigh, he panted hard against Poeâs mouth. When Poe pushed that leg forward, hand hooked behind his knee, Armitage held his breath. But when Poeâs cock slid along his exposed cleft, Armitage let out that breath in a long strangled moan. It was a beautiful sound, one Poe committed to memory, a song he would never forget.
Poe dropped his forehead to Armitageâs and held them there, right at the edge. Spent their lives on a moment in time that they would only get once, no matter what kind of future awaited them.
When he eased into Armitage, he went slowly. He could feel everything: the fluttering clench of his sphincter as Armitage opened for Poeâs girth, the extra slick slide of the lubricant, and the heat that at once was feverishly hot and maddeningly not enough.
The unsteady breath that spilled over his lips could have been his or Armitageâs or both, Poe didnât know anymore, didnât think it made a difference. This was a lot for Poe, he could only imagine it was too much for Armitage.
âOkay? Need me to stop?â Poe lifted his eyes, searched his face. Armitage looked wrung out, desperate; lips bitten red and brows furrowed deep. He shook where he held onto Poe, where he held himself up, his arm around Poeâs shoulders clutching tightly at his sweat slicked skin.
âNo, donâtâ donât stop.â There was desperation in his voice, but it was the way Armitageâs free leg curled around Poeâs waist, how his hips tilted towards him, that spoke so much more to Poe. Because it was as if Armitage thought this might all be stolen from him â that Poe might pull away, pull out, leave him bereft of something he had waited so long for.
âNot going anywhere,â Poe promised as he pressed a kiss to Armitageâs mouth.
Armitage faltered, throat closing over a small sound, face splitting open to expose a moment of utter vulnerability, before shuttering just as quickly. But not as completely. Poe wished he had a free hand to trace the cracks he saw linger.
Instead, he rolled his hips forward, slowly, carefully, deeply.
Completely.
Poe slid fully inside, bottoming out in a single slow thrust, Armitageâs body accepting him as if their shapes had been made to fit.
Armitage cried out, soft and strangled, and so very beautiful.
Oh, stars. âFeel okay? Not too much?â Poe asked, managing something that didnât sound as broken as he felt.
âPoe,â Armitage said his name with his breath, barely there, but a plea nonetheless. Not an answer, but Poe wasnât sure Armitage could manage much else. Bottom lip between his teeth, body shaking and breath catching, the whole of him looked completely strung taunt towards breaking. Somehow, they had barely begun, and Armitage already looked completely wrecked.
Poe moaned, dropped his head, instead looked between them, where he could watch the slow slide of himself as he drew back out, see how Armitageâs cock twitched when he just as slowly pushed back in. The dribble of precome that hit Armitageâs belly was so viscous it strung a line that shivered with the tremble in his body, only breaking with the jostle of Poeâs next thrust, a thrust that went deep, so deep it made a sound, a soft squelch of their joined bodies that was almost lewd.
âFuckââ Poeâs breath caught, and he knew he needed to look away now or he was going to come.
A hand on his cheek drew him back.
Armitage had lowered to lay fully on the bed. He stared up at Poe now, eyes holding his as his shaking fingers moved over Poeâs face, coming to rest on his lips. There was something new here, Poe could feel it as surely as he could feel every inch of his body, every nerve and frayed ending. It was there in the hitch of Armitageâs chest, in his fingers where they shook against Poeâs lips, in the way his leg wrapped tighter around Poeâs waist to hold their hips together. Armitage had given up something far more meaningful than Poe could ever put words to. And heâd given it to Poe.
Poe felt his chest constrict, his heart doing its best to hammer itself free. Armitage was perfect, more perfect than Poe thought possible. Too perfect to be real, to be his. And suddenly it made sense that none of this could last, because it wasnât possible for anything to feel this right.
Poe blinked against the wetness gathering at his eyes, distracting himself with the kisses he pressed to Armitageâs fingers, his palm, his wrist.
âPoe. Poeââ And then Armitage found the tears that had begun to gather, trailed his fingers over the tracks they hadnât yet made. âAre youâ are you crying?â
âIâm okay,â Poe said even though he didnât feel okay at all.
Armitage was not convinced. And Poe watched as he finally split open, not under the force of his own feelings, but from the sight of Poeâs. His hands were delicate where they touched him, both now cupping Poeâs cheeks, his eyes earnest as they searched him, mouth parting with words he left unspoken, absconded in favor of tugging Poe down into another kiss. A kiss that was no less arresting than the sight of his own cock disappearing inside Armitage, easily more.
Poe released Armitageâs leg, felt as it wrapped around his waist to match his other. Let Armitage pull him close with his hands at his cheeks and his legs at his waist, mouth open and hot and drawing Poe back to this present moment, where this was all that mattered.
He thrust once, twice, finally found his angle on the third, when Armitageâs hands moved into Poeâs hair and his eyes fluttered shut with a strangled moan. Poe echoed the sound with his own gasp, tears forgotten, once more outrunning everything that threatened to take all this from him. Instead, Poe gave himself over to his body, repeating the motion, pursuing his pleasure in the things he could make Armitage feel, the sounds he could draw out. He was rewarded with another even longer moan, and then he knew had his rhythm, committed himself to it. Long deep thrusts, not too hard but angled just right, hitting Armitageâs prostate and then sliding back past it on the drag out.
It was a slow pace, slower than what Poe would need to come, but so much better for it, because it let them have this. There was no rush, no chasing something that would come too soon even without their frantic reaching for it. Here they could exist together, at least for a time. And time was something precious, a resource they did not have much of. Something Poe was not going to waste.
Not when he had Armitage shaking apart beneath him. No, Poe wanted this to last.
Armitageâs hands were twisted into Poeâs hair, holding him close, his eyes shut and head tipped back and the pale stretch of his throat bared so that Poe could see where his pulse fluttered beneath the skin. And those noises were back, those same little catching sounds from before, too small to be called anything, but there all the same.
âStars,â Poe couldnât help himself, even as emotion threatened to overwhelm him, Poe was still completely taken, âYouâre beautiful, Armitage.â
Armitage made a strangled sound, face flushing red now, and Poe would have laughed if he didnât think it might make Armitage self conscious.
âItâs true,â Poe instead affirmed, buried his face in that neck and placed his lips over his pulse point. It pounded beneath his lips, and Poe chased it up the stretch of muscle to Armitageâs ear, and whispered. âI knew youâd look pretty on my cock.â
âPoe.â Armitageâs voice was strangled, barely sound at all, but he held Poe to him, turned his head to the side to meet his mouth again with a ferocity that sent a jolt straight to his cock, and Poe could not stop his smile.
âSo good,â Poe breathed out against his lips as he continued his pace, now a little harder, a little deeper. Getting them a little closer. It was almost too much, feeling Armitage unravel all the more beneath him, his body holding onto Poeâs as if it were all he had left to cling to. âYou feel so good around me.â And then he ground his hips forward.
âOh, fuckââ Armitage snapped out, hands jerking involuntarily in his hair, his hips lifting to meet Poeâs grind. âAhâ ahââ
âShh, youâre okay,â Poe breathed, backing off and holding still as Armitage worked himself on Poeâs cock in a mimic of his grind, little rolls of his hips, directed right into that spot. He could feel as Armitageâs control uncoiled, slipping from his grasp like his hands slipped from Poeâs hair. And Poe sucked in a breath when Armitageâs fingers pet down his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth moving against Poeâs in a slow slide â his hips moving against Poe in a slow undulation.
Suddenly, Poe wanted to touch him, needed to. Bracing his weight on one arm, he dragged his hand down Armitageâs chest. His fingers pressed into his skin, leaving trails of flushed pink in their wake, until Poe reached Armitageâs stomach. Here, his cock twitched, red and leaking, leaking so much it almost looked like he had already come. but Poe still resisted taking it in hand. Instead he pressed one palm into Armitageâs belly, and then he thrust, right into his prostate, and watched as Armitage nearly shattered apart.
His cry was loud, not soft in the least, and completely strangled. Poe could feel the coiled tightness of him, there beneath his palm. He was close, Poe could literally feel it.
âPoe, Iâmâ ah,â Poe thrust again, into the same spot, his palm a firm pressure, then ground in hard. âFuâ fuck!â
âYou close?â And as Armitage nodded, his answer a breathy sob, Poe could feel the spill of Armitageâs breath, fast and shallow and so very warm with life. It was beautiful, entirely sensual, and Poe decided he might have been fooling himself that he was ever in control here.
They moved together, Poe driving a steady pace, Armitage taking everything Poe gave him. Another time Poe could have maybe drawn this out, could have held Armitage here at the edge, teasing release just to see how far he could push him, see how undone he could become. But Poe could already feel his own orgasm, coiled tight in the seat of him, fast approaching the point he would not be able to hold it back any longer. And he felt the same in Armitage, recognized the signs in his body, knew neither of them would last.
An ending, but one Poe wanted, one he allowed himself to run towards. He wanted to give Armitage this. Wanted to fill him up with so much more than this physical joining, wanted to show him a world that did not ask for anything more than his peace and contentment; a generous world Poe had been spoiled by, where the good things in life could be found in the simplest experiences. Because Poe understood now, how lucky he was to have known that world. And he would give Armitage a taste of it, keep him momentarily safe from a galaxy that had no problem taking, but did very little giving.
So when Armitage reached down to push Poeâs hand to his cock, asking for something so small in the grand scheme of life â a chance to feel something other than pain or shame or fear â Poe did not deny him.
âPlease,â Armitage begged, eyes wild, skin flushed with the dew of his sweat, feverish with his pleasure. A pleasure he wanted Poe to give him more of. Their fingers slipped over one another, as Poe took Armitageâs cock in hand. His precome was more than enough to slick Poeâs grip, and a moan crawled from Armitageâs chest, long and low and reaching right into Poe and holding tight, dragging him down to Armitageâs mouth as surely as the hands Armitage buried in his hair, where their half kiss did nothing to silence the sound. Armitageâs moan fractured into a broken whine, desperate and pleading, and Poe knew Armitage was about to come.
âGo on, Iâve got you,â Poe rasped out, hips driving right into that spot, working it in tandem with his hand. âGonna come too, with you, together, Armitageââ
They barely lasted another thrust, maybe two, before Poe felt the catch in Armitageâs body, the coil of pleasure that twisted limbs stiff in a preclude to release. Felt as his own body chased the feeling, his balls tightening, his hips stuttering, grinding deep, rhythm lost. Felt as Armitageâs hands twisted his hair, the gasp against his mouth loud, sharp, maybe a little surprised, as Armitage sucked in a breath, and then rendered it into a broken moan as he came â cock twitching, anus clenching. And whether it was the feeling of Armitage coming apart or the taste of his cry, Poe was pulled along with him, into a shudder that reached through his body, deep and seizing. He came and came inside the tight hold Armitage had around him, his arms and his anus and the assiduous grip he would always have on Poeâs heart.
Poe allowed the wetness at his eyes track trails down his cheeks. He was crying again, couldnât stop it this time, didnât try.
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The man reflected in the mirror was not the same person Hux had been only hours before. He looked the same, in all those superficial ways he had perfected over the years; physical things Hux had once thought he had crafted for himself, but now wondered if they had not been inspired by something entirely erstwhile. His eyes were the same muted gray-green, his hair parted severely on his left, the turn of his mouth shallow but firm. But there was a vulnerability to this man that should not be there, exposed by the pattern of cracks that fractured his skin. If Hux had not recognized himself before, when he had worn the mask of rebel defector in some foolhardy attempt to con the Senate, he now saw a complete stranger reflected instead.
But the most peculiar thing was that the cracks did not look fresh. They looked old, ancient. Half-healed things that mapped out a history in their depths, their colors, their silent stories.
Hux wasnât sure when he had become so broken. He was even less sure of when he had been put back together.
Something had changed inside him. Something nameless but important. Something Hux wasnât sure heâd get the time to discover, but maybe that was okay, because maybe it didnât really matter.
Because maybe what mattered, was what he had right now, right before him.
âYou feeling okay?â Poe asked, as he stepped out of the refresher and joined Hux in front of the mirror. The water had washed away the evidence of their pleasure along with the swollen redness of Poeâs eyes, leaving behind that familiar light â what Hux was beginning to recognize as Poeâs love for him. But for once his question had nothing to do with Huxâs heart or his thoughts or his questionable emotional stability, but with the entirely physical state of his body. Poeâs fingers, where they traced down his hip, produced a shiver.
âDespite your best efforts Iâm quite fine, Poe.â Hux chanced a smile, saw how his mirror self matched it. âI believe your words were that you would wreck me, I must say Iâm rather disappointed.â
Poe laughed, low and warm, and Hux felt drawn to it â let himself be drawn back into it â as Poe wrapped his arms around him, stubbled chin hooking over Huxâs shoulder. âIâll have to try harder next time, I guess, especially if you can still be this sarcastic after.â
Yes, something had changed. Hux had realized it the moment they entered their quarters, when the door had clicked shut behind them and the filtered golden light of Ajan Klossâs sun had welcomed them into what Hux kept wanting to call home. Had realized it again when they had laid together in the aftermath of their sex, speaking of everything; Everything about Ofant, everything said in Poeâs interview, everything that had happened on the beach. Poe had cried, openly and honestly in that empathetic way Hux didnât know if he would ever get used to.
And he realized it again then, while surrounded by Poeâs embrace, when the rest of the world once again felt so far away. Whatever feelings had beleaguered Hux before had faded. And while their shallow remnants were left behind, it was these other feelings that had burrowed their hold deeper, that held siege on the fortress he had long ago forged against them.
Hope, happiness, love.
Whatever had changed in Hux ran far deeper than he could ever fathom.
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Notes:
And now it's been confirmed Poe cries during sex like the beautiful emotionally in touch man he is.
I know this chapter is TOO LONG but I actually edited out an obscene amount.
Also, I'm sorry about how long this took me. My day job has been insane and I have a Big Project coming up which might get in the way of my free time. I don't think the next chapter will take as long, but I can make no promises!
Chapter 10: Repose
Notes:
Thanks for being patient with me! No warnings for this chapter. But I do have some gorgeous artwork to share! I commissioned the incredibly talented @itssteffnow for two pieces of art for this story! I love them both and am so excited to share them with you â„
Tumbr: itssteffnow
Twitter: @itssteffnowChapter 1 mini comic of the Finalizer falling:
ImageChapter 6's steamy hot spring scene:
ImageI LOVE them so much and hope y'all do too! â„â„â„
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometimes, Hux still missed the numbing emptiness of space.
It was not just the lack of environmental extremes he yearned for, because he was ready to admit heâd finally become acclimated to Ajan Klossâs tremulous heat waves, the density of her humidity, and the ever present touch of her sun. No, it was the spread of stars across his viewport Hux missed the most, the strung out pattern of lightspeed when those ever changing starscapes were wiped clean in favor of some new wild unknown. And he missed the quiet hum of the ion engines that permeated the very durasteel of the Finalizer, a constant reminder of the incredible engineering capabilities of the Order, of the people he led in galactic conquest.
In the beginning, those comforts had been enough. As unfamiliar as the stars were, there was familiarity in their constant fluxing spray. And the hum of the ion engines had lulled Huxâs eyelids closed as well as any sleep aid he could take. But that was in the beginning. By the end, too much had changed for those small comforts to ever be more than a distant dream remembered. There had been a time, Hux acknowledged, when he had been happy with the Order. When his graduation from the Academy and his first step outside his fatherâs grasp had manifested as a pride and attachment to the organization that offered him opportunities despite what his bastard heritage might otherwise demand.
Sometimes, he still missed that version of the First Order.
There were good memories, even if they had eventually been buried under the stress of command. Nights spent working on Force from the top bunk of his four-man quarters, his roommates busy playing dejarik over a cheap bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigs. Days spent eyeballs deep in a TIEâs control code, helping the engineering team trace out a bug that eluded even the Absolutionâs chief of operations. And of course, that liminal place and time between his days as a Lieutenant and the issuance of his first command, where Hux had found himself climbing Order ranks with the respect of his peers but not yet the target on his back, where friends had never existed but comrades had, and whatever progress he had made on behalf of the Order had felt honest, genuine, like he was making a difference in the Galaxy.
His promotion to General should have been a moment of greatness. It had felt like as much, at the time. But with the promotion came his reporting to Snoke, and that peaceful place Hux had found for himself slipped through his fingers like the white sands of Arkanis. Now, Hux found himself in a similar position, where no matter how tightly he held on, the happiness he had found was slowly slipping from his grasp.
What Hux wouldnât give for a cig, right then.
No, what he wouldnât give for one of the Orderâs medical grade sleep aides.
Hux could not sleep. Not an unusual occurrence, in the greater scheme of the last two decade of his life, but something that he had grown out of during the last few months. Addiction was, Hux knew, something he had struggled with. The pendulum swing from stims to sleep aides had wrecked havoc on his bodyâs internal rhythms, and his time spent abruptly locked away from the pharmaceuticals his body craved had probably wrecked even more havoc in those first few weeks. Now, as anxiety crawled through his limbs, as plans were wrought and remade within his head, Hux found himself slipping into old habits. Or rather, old addictions.
So in the absence of a sleep aide, Hux sat naked on the floor, back to the bed, facing the arching window wall of the bedroom, watching the moon fade from the sky and the sun paint the night with morning.
The cold gray glow of early dawn bloomed beyond the treetops, framed by the deep black of space, still early enough that the sky was mostly filled with stars. For a long moment Hux lost himself in them, remembered the shapeless constellations he had seen from the viewport of his quarters aboard the Finalizer. Laid out that image over this one and found each different, two discrepant parts that would never fit.
Like how the man that he once was would never fit with the man he had become. How the happiness he had experienced in the Order paled in comparison to what he was experiencing now.
Poe slept on behind him, buried under the blankets of their bed, curled into the space Hux had vacated. He wished he could crawl back into bed alongside Poe, find the comfort he sought in the hold of his arms, be lulled to sleep by his warmth and his scent and the soft sounds of his breath. They had spent the previous day in various states of intimacy, and perhaps it was his long afternoon nap that had spoiled his night's sleep, or the aches in parts of his body he never knew could ache as they did. More likely, it was the impending end that he was facing that kept him from sleep, but Hux had decided he was no longer going to think about that. If he only had so many days left to live, he was going to spend them happy, happy with Poe.
A trilling buzz jolted through Hux, and as he stared at the fading twinkle of the stars in the sky, it occurred to his sleep-deprived mind that it wasnât their tremulous twinkling that made such a racket, but the sound of a datapad.
It was where Poe had left it, set atop the table with the box of parts, beeping and buzzing and overall making far too much noise. Someone needed to get up, answer the call, or at least silence it. And Hux supposed it should be Poe, both because Hux wasnât sure he could stomach the news it might bring, and it was Poeâs datapad. He turned where he sat, eyes following the line of Poeâs shoulder, softened by the drape of the blanket. His face was relaxed, mouth gently parted, curls skewing havoc across his brow. He looked wiped out, in the way only physical exertion could inspire.
âPoe,â Hux murmured while he reached out to stroke his hair. âPoe, wake up.â
âDonât wanna, go back to sleep,â It came out as a whine, and Hux sighed.
âItâs your datapad. Dameron. Someone is calling you.â
âTell âem to call back later.â Yes, that was certainly what Hux would describe as a whine.
The datapad quieted, a soft trill indicating a missed call. Poe sighed, a smile playing at his lips, âThere, alone again at last.â
Sleep had warmed him, cocooned as he was under the blanket, and Hux allowed himself to enjoy the sensation. Just like he had allowed himself to enjoy the previous day, bound up in Poe, the two of them momentarily beyond the reach of their greater circumstances. Hux knew it was a fleeting solace, and he had accepted his need to make the most of it. Despite that, a call to Poeâs datapad could be important.
âArenât you a morning person?â Hux sighed as he shifted around to fold his arms atop the mattress, watching Poe as he warred to remain asleep. His eyes stayed closed, as if that were the last barrier between him and waking.
âI was until you kept me up all night.â The smile that cracked open his face was unmistakably devious. Hux felt his cheeks flush. âPlease Poe, donât stop. More. I need more.â Huxâs flush blossomed into a blush, as Poeâs eyes finally opened to regard him, âWhat are you doing down there?â
âI couldnât sleep,â he admitted, and Poeâs smile softened again.
âCome here.â A thinly veiled command, not a request, and Hux found his body obeying of its own accord. When he was back under the blanket, he allowed himself to be maneuvered into Poeâs hold. Their bodies fit together, Poeâs leg thrown over his thighs, his arm under the pillow at Huxâs head, free hand trailing his chest, âI can think of one way you could get me up,â and then Poeâs mouth dipped to latch onto Huxâs pulse point, tongue slick and pressure building. Hux idly thought he was going to leave a mark.
âYouâre positively intolerable,â Hux breathed, even as his body reacted to the ideas Poe planted with his mouth, where another day could be put off until later, where they could spend a long morning waking up to each otherâs touch.
The datapad had other ideas.
âKriffing hell,â Poe muttered when the ringing began again. âGuess Iâm up now.â
Hux missed his warmth when Poe slipped from under the blanket. He settled instead for the sight of Poeâs bare butt flexing as he padded across the room. It was an image Hux committed to memory, something he filed away alongside all the other versions of Poe he had seen. This one might be his new favorite. From his vantage, Poe looked carved from marble, the gray light of early morning painting him in grisaille. But when Poe picked up the datapad and froze, the idea became strikingly, uncomfortably real. Poeâs eyes were caught on the screen, the datapad still indicating obnoxiously. Huxâs stomach dropped.
What is it? He chose not to ask, watching as Poe silenced the call and quickly typed out a message instead. In profile, Hux could not read Poeâs expression, but he could read his body language: stiff, sharp, anxious. Hux slowly sat up, pulling the blanket into his lap. The roomâs conditioning unit chose that moment to click on, and Hux hoped the hum of it smothered the sound of his swallow.
When Poe returned to bed, his expression was uncharacteristically guarded. And as their eyes met, and his hands pulled Hux back down to the mattress, Hux resisted asking after the call. Of all the ideas he could come up with, not one of them was good. Fortunately, Poe did not keep him in the dark.
âIt was just my dad,â said Poe simply, as if the fact that Poe had never mentioned his father before would be lost on Hux. Family. Poe had a family. Of course he had a family.
Hux chose his words carefully, traced out the shape of them, the contours of an unspoken thought dulled smooth, âYour father? Shouldnât you answer his call?â
âNah, I told the comms controller to take a message, heâll understand,â Poe said too surely, like he didnât quite believe what he said. âHeâs only a few standard hours ahead, I can call him back later if I need to.â
âWonât he be mad?â Hux knew as soon as the words were out they were the wrong ones. Poe was giving him that look.
This time it was Poe who took his time with his words, âNo, he wonât be mad.â His tone was kind, his understanding plain. Hux felt like a fool. Poeâs father would not be mad; Poeâs father cared about him. In the soft morning light Hux found himself drawn to Poeâs eyes, darker than the shadows around him, filled with a warmth of affection that should be obscene with how it so easily spilled from him.
Of course Poeâs father cared about him, how could he not?
Which meant Poe did not want to talk to his father for another reason, and the only reason Hux could think of was him. He swallowed again, this time it did make a sound.
âArmitage, I can hear your thoughts and Iâm not even Force sensitive.â There was a small smile playing across Poeâs lips, âDonât worry. Iâm fine, heâs fine. Iâll talk to him later, I promise, now is justââ Not a good time, went unspoken.
Whatever fragile ease they had regained was spoiled in the span of that silence. Reality crashed down around Hux. All the unknowns and what-ifs converged into an overwhelming impotence, and despite it, time still ticked by. However small his world felt here with Poe, however protected and sacred was the sanctity of this space, Hux knew how heavy the weight of the world was beyond these walls. He did not want to leave.
Of all the situations Hux had faced down: Snokeâs throne room, his fatherâs Academy, Renâs council table, Starkiller Base crumbling around himâŠnever before had he so much to loose. Not in the ways that really mattered.
âArmitage,â Poeâs voice had dropped and his hands were moving over his body, drawing him closer, until Hux was tucked under Poeâs chin, face buried in the crook of his neck. Hux pressed himself there, closed his eyes and breathed. âItâs alright, youâre okay.â
Nothing was okay. âPoe,â he whispered, sound as elusive as the sands of Arkanis. Iâm scared.
âI know,â Poe said and Hux wondered if he really were as void of the Force as he promised. His arms were warm where they wrapped around him, holding tight, not letting go. Hux never wanted him to let go. âI know.â Me too.
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The next time Poe awoke was to a bright sun and an empty bed.
He rolled over into the spot where Armitage should have been, finding the mattress cool to the touch and the blanket tucked in tight. But the worry Poe expected never came, because he could smell the warm waft of caf coming from the living area, the sounds of clinking mugs as they were placed on the counter lulling him back into the haze of slumber. When he heard the soft trill of BB-8âs binary, a lazy smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He drifted there, existing in this liminal space, where the tide of his thoughts skimmed the surf tossed edge of a dream. And for a moment Poe let this be his life. Pretended this was just any other morning, special only in the way a lazy morning could be with its mundane banality, a comfort Poe found himself falling head over heels for.
He laid in his bed for a few minutes longer, listening to the quiet sounds of Armitage tinkering at something in the kitchen, the whir of BB-8 at his heels, the golden light of Ajan Klossâs sun warming his bare skin as the conditioning unit pumped out a steady blast of cold air. There was a brief second, not more than a breath, where Poe felt overcome. Where what was and what could be felt so incongruous to what he knew to be real that he had to take a moment to reframe himself within reality.
Donât take this from me. He asked whoever might be listening, whatever force, known or unknown, that might hear.
Eventually, when the electric kettle beeped and Armitageâs voice broke over the sound of the BB-8âs melodic chirps, Poe slid out of bed. His clothes were folded neatly atop the edge of the mattress, lines crisp and smelling sweetly of the freshener Poe used when he ran his clothing through the sonic. Armitage was behind this, just as he was behind the half made bed and the comforting scent of caf.
Poe dressed and then went back to the bed, smoothed out the sheet, tucked in his side of the blanket, and fluffed the still rumpled pillows. Curled atop one was a single golden red length of hair. Poe plucked it up, smiling, holding it to the light as he rolled it between his fingertips so it caught with a fiery glimmer. It was stupid, how happy it made him, that such a simple thing could bring him so much joy. Almost as much joy as that birthed by the warm mug and small smile that greeted him when he stepped out of the bedroom.
âGood morning, Poe,â Hux said simply, in that lilting imperial accent, testing and tasting and tentatively wonted. Poe did not disagree.
âMorninâ,â he replied with a grin, cupping the mug in his hands, deeply breathing in the curl of steam, lost to this domestic bliss; subsumed by the spell it cast over him, the hypnagogic weave of a dream given life.
A single sip, the caf bitter and black just as he liked, and then he placed the mug aside and met Armitage there at the edge of the counter; took him in his arms and pressed their bodies together. Armitage leaned into him, breath slow, body pliant, giving and receiving. But there was a fragility to the way he handed himself over to Poeâs touch, as if he still expected himself to shatter under the press of Poeâs hands. He would not shatter, Poe would not allow it.
Poe would have this. He would protect this. He would give Armitage this and so much more.
âYou slept late,â Armitage remarked as he turned his face into Poeâs hair. His skin, warm and pale under the press of Poeâs mouth, tasted clean. Armitage must have showered, must have been up for quite some time.
âWhat can I say, you wore me out,â Poe murmured into his neck. Armitageâs pulse fluttered under Poeâs tongue when he laved over the skin, his response lost to the sound of his sigh. Tilting his head to bare his neck further, pulse telling where his words were hushed, Armitage failed to silence the desire hiding behind the fabricated construct of his control. Poe loved Armitageâs neck as much as his hands, he decided then.
âHmm,â Armitage finally made a sound, and Poe felt his body press closer against him. The line between comfort and desire blurred, as Poe lazily worked over Armitageâs neck, as Armitageâs hand slipped into his hair to hold him there. âYouâll leave a mark, if you keep that up.â
Poe pulled away, just enough to stare at the way Armitageâs skin had reddened beneath his attention. A few of the blood vessels had already broken in a constellation of sparks, and he lifted a hand to smooth a thumb over the mark, slick with his saliva. âThink I already did, Iâm sorry.â Poe wasnât really sorry, because he liked the way the mark looked way too much.
But Armitage didnât seem to mind, not with the way he turned his head down to capture Poe in a kiss, as slow and easy as the rest of the morning.
Yes, Poe decided. As far as mornings went, this was as perfect as they got. Here, Poe forgot all about the woes of the outside world. Here, he could suspend himself in this simple existence, where the only things that mattered were the sounds Armitage made when they kissed, the warmth of his skin, and the bitter black scent of freshly brewed caf. Fuck the Senate and the rest of the Galaxy, because Poe would have this, he would make this real.
Poe was debating his path back to the bedroom when BB-8 bumped his leg, trilling binary at him to let Armitage go. Poe toed him away, mouth opening beneath Armitageâs, hands sliding down his waist to his hips, thumbs drawing lines over the jut of bone. He could edge him backwards along the counter, and from there would have a clear shot to the bedroom. Or better yet, he could turn Armitage around, take him right there, bent over the kitchen counter, pants around his ankles, legs spread only wide enough for Poe to slide insideâŠ
BB-8 trilled again, more insistent, almost mad, and then he banged into Poeâs shin, âShitââ Poe pulled back with a gasp. Cursed again when BB-8 wedged itself between their bodies, rolling over Poeâs bare toes to get there. âThe hell BB?â Poe yelped, nearly jumping to get out of its way. A low sound from Armitage sailed through Poe and right down into his half hard cock, he was laughing.
âI was assisting it before you so rudely interrupted,â Armitage withdrew, stepping out of Poeâs reach even as his eyes caught and held his. When they roved down his body with a telling acknowledgment, the heat of his attention lingered in all the right places, set fires that burned far beneath the surface of Poeâs skin.
Poe nearly whined, nearly swore, settled instead on laughing as BB-8 wiggled around defensively at Armitageâs feet. âSo sorry BB, stars forbid I get between the two of you.â He lifted his hands in a placating gesture, rolling his eyes as he gave Armitage his softest smile yet.
Armitage returned it, BB-8 chirping an indignant confirmation, and Poe committed himself to this; again promised himself this was just another morning, the first of so many to come. I wonât let this be taken from us. An affirmation made, an intention set. Because Poe recognized the feeling solidifying in his gut when Armitage smiled and BB-8 ran circles round their feet. Knew what this easy morning meant. Understood the deeper implications of their comfortable exchange. Poe loved Armitage Hux, that had finally been admitted, committed, but this went beyond words, beyond any physical expression. This fleeting picture of routine that felt so familiar, this felt like family.
My family. Poe held onto that, would fight for it, like heâd fought for everything else worthwhile in his life. Poe could not tear his eyes away from Armitage as he returned to the task he had set himself to, head bent enough that his loose hair fell over his eyes, long fingers flying over the screen of Poeâs datapad. Poe imagined him in a different setting, one set on a secluded plot of land, in a kitchen that housed more than an ion oven and a mini cold unit, within a house whose walls were covered in tokens of past adventures, its windows overlooking not a wild jungle but a welcoming forest, the distant light of the city port eclipsed beyond an ancient range of sleepy snow-capped mountains.
Poe placed Armitage into that scene. An Armitage whose lines werenât drawn taunt with a festering worry, whose clothing was made for his fit, whose skin was still pale, but not sickly, because heâd lived enough peaceful years under the sun of the place they had chosen together to make their home.
But as appealing as Poeâs daydream was, nothing could compare to reality. Because watching Armitage work was mesmerizing in the same way watching a spider weave a web was mesmerizing; an abstract beauty of a creature within its natural habitat, creating something Poe could barely comprehend. Poe studied him from his quiet spot against the counter, slipping in and out of his fantasy, nursing the fluttery feeling birthing alive within his chest.
Atop the counter was a wiring harness stringing together several of Armitageâs power cells, along with a control chip which he had connected to the datapad. Poe could only read a smattering of the code on the screen, the rest lost to the gibberish that was programming logic beyond his rudimentary knowledge. But, like the wiring harness, Poe could connect enough to form an idea, âIs this why you havenât been back here to recharge BB? Have you been running around on power cells all these weeks?â
BB-8 trilled, excited with the idea that he could run off an auxiliary power source for so long without the need to power down for a deep charge cycle. Whatever Armitage was coding, Poe guessed it was a more permanent solution. He didnât have to wait long for an explanation.
âYour BB unit is well designed, but its battery is sub optimal for its performance. Rather than reworking its entire system, I believe I can utilize the power cells to charge his battery while rigging his rotary motions to an alternator that will recharge the cells. You BB is quite fidgety, and with all that constant movement the alternator should function well,â Armitage explained, and Poe was reminded of that morning so many weeks ago, when Armitage explained the machinations behind Force. âIt will be the closest I can get to a closed system, it might only need to deep charge once every year or so.â
Once every year? Poe knew his mouth was hanging open, âIs this what you do when you canât sleep? Hugs, youâre a damn genius.â
Armitage snorted, almost sneered, âThe setup is childâs play. The trick is in the code, so that the power cells only charge the battery, and not so much to overload its circuits. But I believe Iâve worked everything out, and your BB has agreed to test the design.â He tapped the code off screen, unplugged the datapad. âIâve added an alert to your datapad to monitor its internal temperature in case it become too hot. Your BB unit will of course already know by that point and can activate the safety switch to cut the connection to the power cells. The Order uses a similar system for our energy weapons, it should work fine.â
Poe blinked at Armitage, then stared down at the daisy-chained power cells and tiny control board. He understood enough to know how long it would have taken one of his engineers to design a similar system: days â weeks, more likely. âHow long have you been working on this?â Poe reached out, turned over one of the small glowing cells. It was completely cool to the touch, the little ion reactor inside more stable than any engine heâd ever seen.
âTwo hours, maybe a little more. It would have gone faster if I had my codepad. Debugging with a text editor has slowed me down quite a bit.â Armitage disconnected Poeâs datapad from the control chip, gesturing at BB-8 as he said, âWould you please open your housing compartment, I believe everything is ready now.â
BB-8 squealed with excitement, his tool bay collapsing inward while the shielding covering his housing slid open with a hiss. Poe watched as Armitage bent down and gathered the power cells into a tight bundle, securing them into one of the empty accessory ports alongside BB-8âs internal frame. The control chip he had BB-8 solder into his own motherboard, and the alternator he secured to another accessory port, attaching via pulley to one of the motorized wheels that enabled BB-8 to move. Finally, he ran a wire from the power cellâs harness to the alternator. It would work, Poe knew it would. He had enough experience with speeders to recognize the mechanics Armitage was implementing. Poe was impressed.
âIf you find the system is not working optimally you can recharge normally as needed,â Armitage explained to a wiggling BB-8. Poe could not remember the last time it had acted so ecstatic.
It zipped around the room in wide circles, then doubled back in the opposite direction, finally coming to a stop at the center of the room. Wobbling in place, BB-8 trilled binary at Armitage, a string of thanks yous said so fast and so often that Poe couldnât stopper his laugh. âWell if you hadnât already won over BB-8 you definitely have now.â
âIf only everyone important in your life were a droid,â Armitage smiled back at him, joke sarcastic but innocent, but Poe could not stop the falter in his smile as he thought of Kes. That was all it took for Armitage to realize what he had implied, for his own smile to fade, his words thickly spoken, âPoe, I apologize.â
âDonât apologize,â he said as he stepped back beside Armitage, finding his hand where to rested on the counter. âBelieve it or not, Hugs, you are quite likable.â Poe gave his grin everything he had, his fingers tracing over the backs of Armitageâs knuckles. âYouâll win everyone over. Donât worry about it.â
With time, went unspoken, as so much else had that morning. Once again Poe was reminded that what they had here, right then, was an oasis among the forces at play in their lives. Somewhere they could pretend everything was okay, in which reality could not reach beyond the protection of this room; Their peace as fragile as the birdlike bones of Armitageâs fingers where they threaded between Poeâs.
With time. Though time was something they may not have much of.
âPoe, there is something I must ask of you,â Armitage eventually said into the quiet, after several long minutes of them watching BB-8 trundle around the room in silence. âI am not sure how long the Senators will wait before making their decision. If Iââ Armitage cut himself off, meeting Poeâs eyes only briefly, ââif I am arrested before the Order reaches out, someone will need to take my place negotiating with them. I was hoping you might. They willââ again Armitage cut himself off, face twisting as he stared at their connected hands. Poe could feel how his had begun to tremble. ââthey will know your face. And from the leaked footage from the Steadfast, they will already know how you helped me, helped another First Order. You are not the enemy in the same way Organa is, or the Senators. They will respect your piloting abilities, your battle experience, your defeat of the Fulminatrix. Will you do that, will you negotiate with them, if I am unable?â
Poe wanted to say no. Wanted to remind Armitage that if the Senators decided to arrest him, Poe was getting him off planet in that transport. He was not going to wait around negotiating with anyone while the man he loved was marched off to his execution.
Instead, Poe said, âYou know Iâll do whatever you ask of me,â and that felt far more like the truth.
âThank you, Poe.â The indelible honesty of the words struck deep, encompassed far more than this single request.
Thank you for everything.
Poe lifted their tangled fingers to his lips, before stepping close enough to find Armitageâs mouth with his own. Not quite a kiss, but close; lips brushing, breath mingling. It was a slow thing, even when Armitageâs free hand found Poeâs waist and brought their bodies flush together, when Poe tilted his head and stroked Armitageâs cheek and guided them into something only a little deeper. Poe felt when Armitage let go, when the control of his breath staggered in tandem with Poeâs gentle touches, when the tension in his arm built into a grasping clasp. The kiss devolved, and they held each other instead: Poeâs face buried in Armitageâs neck, Armitageâs cheek against Poeâs curls. When Poe once again found that spot on Armitageâs neck, he pressed in words alongside his kisses, promises made, promises to be kept.
The sound of his datapad broke over the moment in an ice cold torrent. It buzzed, vibrating harshly against the counter top, indicating a series of beeps that meant a message had been received, rather than a call. Armitage pulled away with a jolt, face stricken blank as he stared down at the device. Poe may as well have been a mind reader, as he watched the expectant weight of the worst settle over Armitage, a harbinger haunting his every thought. Poe did not let him pull away any further. Whenâ if the worst was to come, Poe would be there, would not allow Armitage to go through it alone.
The datapad indicated again, one more obnoxious buzz and beep before falling silent. Poe reached for it with a confidence he did not feel.
Relief crashed over him, when the message loaded. Rose. It was only Rose. Rose, who was inviting them both to meet her and Finn in an hour for lunch. Rose, whose next sentence was asking after Armitage. Rose, who was the best and the worst because of course she knew Armitage would turn down their invitation, but was still kind enough to extend it. Poe read the message again, allowed a smile to play over his lips, nursed the feeling of relief that felt so intangible in the seat of his heart.
âI am rather hungry,â Armitageâs voice suggested quietly, and it took Poe a breath before he connected his thoughts.
âYeah?â He asked, cadence tentative, âYou want to join them?â
Armitage, when he responded, carefully plucked his words free, âYes, I do.â And then, âThough theyâre not droids, so I make no promises.â
Poe kissed Armitage then, a real kiss, filled with promises, to be made and to be kept.
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Mess was as busy as it ever was. The drone of a thousand voices crescendoed over the clamor of cutlery scraping and glasses clinking, while the brushing passes of so many bodies lit upon Poe a strange energetic draw. Armitage followed close behind him, the two weaving through space in a tangential path. First Order and Resistance alike parted in equal proportion to allow a quicker passage. Even dressed as he was, in Resistance greens and browns, Armitage was recognizable. Poe caught the eyes that followed them, the quickly dropped heads bent together over datapads, the broken fragments of words whispered: Dameron, Hux, Starkiller.
Poe didnât think the sight of them together should be strange, anymore. He thought for sure the base had grown used to them like this, had accepted the sight of their two most prolific figureheads in constant proximity to one another. Suddenly, Poe glanced at Armitage, making sure they had not left evidence of their particular newfound brand of closeness, fighting back a grin at the idea of a sex-mussed General Hux strolling confidently among his crew, unaware of the state of his own dishevelment. But Armitage looked normal: hair slicked to the right, shirt buttoned up to virginous affront, the ghost of a sneer firmly in place. The only thing that might have looked out of place was Poeâs scarf wrapped around his neck, but the rest of the clothing would have been equally strange, and Armitage had been wearing the same for days.
Even the droid following them was a familiar presence at this point.
âWhy are they staring?â Armitage hissed, shooting a glare over his shoulder at a former trooper who had stopped mid-squat above his seat to watch them pass, tray of food clattering loudly to the table in his sudden haste to pull up into a salute.
âI dunno Hugs, maybe you should try to look more terrifying?â Poe resisted the urge to reach out and adjust Armitageâs scarf. It had slipped a little to the side, not enough to expose the mark on his neck, but it would be an easy excuse to touch him.
Armitage narrowed his eyes, but his bite was playful, âMaybe you should stop strutting around like a cat who caught the canary?â
âIs that what you are? A pretty little bird?â Poe lowered his voice, flashed a grin, threw him a wink, and heard a quiet gasp from his right. Maybe someone within earshot, maybe a coincidence. Poeâs grin split wider.
âHave I told you lately how intolerable you are, Dameron?â Armitage snarled amusement, his sneer as false as his voice, the pink across his cheeks telling him everything he needed to know. Poe really, really, wanted to turn around and touch him.
Instead, he searched the mass of people for the familiar shapes of his friends.
Found them at a table that was not empty.
Somehow, Armitage was already one step ahead, âI should have expected this.â
There, sat amicably beside Rose and Finn, were two other familiar shapes; namely, those belonging to Phasma and Dopheld Mitaka. The four had not noticed them yet, sat instead in amiable community, conversation passing naturally among them, as if they ate lunch together every day. Maybe they did. Maybe Poe had been oblivious to far more than the convergence of their extended commands.
When Finn laughed at something Mitaka said, Poe had to restrain himself from bounding over and finding out just what was so kriffing funny. Instead, he turned to Armitage and asked, âYou knew about this?â
âHardly,â Armitage said as he drew up alongside Poe, voice quiet. âBut I saw Mitaka last week sitting with your friends. He appeared to be in a relationship with another of your own. I saw themââ he paused, swallowed, eyes sweeping the tables around them, ââit doesnât matter. We shouldnât be surprised, Iâm sure they planned this though, which means theyâre plotting something.â
At that, Poe could not stop his laugh, âMaybe they just wanted to surprise us?â
Armitage met his eyes, raised a brow, âHave you met Phasma? Does she strike you as a person who enjoys surprises?â
âSo we should prepare for a good old fashioned friendly lunchtime knifing, is what youâre saying?â
âShe prefers poison, but knives are certainly not out of the question.â Armitage pursed his lips, eyes roving Poeâs, as he said ominously, âBut it is Tico you really must watch out for. She uses her teeth for far more than eating.â And Poe momentarily could not tell if he was joking, but then a smile break of a smirk across Armitageâs mouth gave him away. There was a story there, one Poe wanted desperately to hear.
Poeâs laugh hedged with genuine mirth, âHugs, has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?â
âExperience has taught me otherwise.â And then Hux slipped around Poe and took the lead in approaching the table. Poe recognized the play of bravado, the control Armitage would assert over this uncomfortable situation by approaching it head on. It was a method Poe could respect, one he often took himself. And as much of a meticulous planner he knew Armitage to be, no one could ever call him a coward.
Poe lingered behind, something holding him back, a desire to watch this unfold; to observe as two sides of his world came together not in the dust filled collision of opposing forces, but in an open affability. It struck through Poe, a feeling that was never too far beneath his surface, but now broke through in a torrent. He could not name it, not even as he watched Rose rise from her seat at Armitageâs approach, the smile that split her face honest as she greeted him and gestured enthusiastically towards two empty chairs. Two chairs that sat beside Finn, whoâs own smile was reserved but body language comfortable, his spoken words of greeting hushed over the hum of the room.
And of course Armitage himself: the slope of his shoulders as they relaxed from their severe hold. The tilt of his head as he inclined an acknowledgment. The weight of his body as he slowly lowered himself into the furthest seat, so careful and tentative and hidden behind a veil of assertion, what Poe knew was a front for his deeper feelings of worth and self-doubt. And in the way he turned to Phasma for strength, who had also been quietly observing this whole time â though not Armitage, Poe realized, but him.
Her eyes were always ice, but as Poe met them he felt a trickle of warmth.
Poe hurried to the table. While only a handful of seconds behind Armitageâs own arrival, the time felt so much greater, what with how the dynamic of his arrival crashed over the gathered group.
âPoe!â Rose clapped her hands together, the toothy stretch of her grin different from the smile that greeted Armitage. Suddenly, Poe worried that maybe Armitage was right about that plot. âThe man of the hour has arrived, our hero of the Resistance!â
âNot you too,â Poe laughed, taking a seat at the only empty chair left, the one between Armitage and Finn. âThere was a Senate aide who called me that, I had to nearly fight her off.â
An aborted sound to his left meant Armitage had heard. Poe had not mentioned the aide, not that she mattered.
âCome on, we know you love the attention,â Finn rolled his eyes as he said it. âDonât you dare try to tell me you havenât already read every single article released about youââ When Finnâs gaze landed on Poe, the humor in his voice was absent from his eyes, ââor watched every second of footage.â
Footage? The word felt like a slap, and Poe realized, right then, just how oblivious he truly was.
Oh, no.
âWhat are you two talking about?â Poe said quietly, a hint of humor, as if playing dumb could change anything. When his attention shifted from Finn to the droid hovering several paces away, the glint of a lens caught the late morning light spilling through the windows. And that was more of an answer than anything Finn or Rose could say.
âYou havenât been following the holo news cycle?â Rose asked innocently, as innocently as a hunting Rathtar could.
The quiet half of the table, the end that included Phasma and Mitaka, were watching him and Armitage carefully. Armitageâs eyes met his, a brief exchange, wordless in the same way the dawning realization of what was happening required no words.
Because Poe knew now, the droids werenât creating some private documentation of the events here, they were broadcasting them.
Armitage was the first to break the silence, though he spoke softly enough for his words to be private, âYour fatherâs call this morning.â
It hit Poe, all at once, what he meant.
Armitage always was one step ahead.
All the footage of them walking the halls of the base together, of them holding hands, of Poe seeing Armitage off in the transport, of them embracing. Kes had seen it all. He knew. Had found out alongside the rest of the kriffing Galaxy that his son was in love with General Armitage Hux â with Starkiller.
And before him, Poe watched how Armitageâs face closed over his emotions, how quickly his walls flew up in the face of this exposure. Poe knew, he knew, what Armitage was thinking, as surely as he knew what the rest of the Galaxy was thinking. And like that morning, Armitageâs assumption that this was it, the line in the sand, the limit that would break themâŠ
He was so fucking wrong.
Under the table, Poe slid his hand over Armitageâs thigh, gave it a squeeze. He would not have hidden his touch if he didnât understand Armitageâs own limits, would have fucking kissed him right their on camera if he didnât think Armitage would protest.
âEveryone knows?â Poe asked no one in particular and everyone at once.
âYeah, bud, itâs all over the holonet,â Finn said it not unkindly, but his solemnity was plain, his dark eyes understanding. Poe tried to imagine it, what the articles must say, the vitriol they spread, the criticism of the Hero of the Resistance becoming involved with Starkiller, the most notorious man of their generation.
âWellââ Phasmaâs voice snapped, âânow that the secret is out, at least let that droid get a look at this,â she said as she reached across the table, and in a split second before anyone knew what was happening, she snagged Armitageâs scarf and tugged it aside.
Tension twisted, sharp alongside the sound of Armitageâs gasp, and then broke with a crack.
âPhasma, unhand that!â Hux snapped, acidic with panic, smacking her hand away while turning the most brilliant shade of pink.
Poe saw the droid from the corner of his eye shift incrementally enough that its focus on Armitage was made obvious. The mark, luckily, wasnât obvious; however, Armitageâs blush was. And as Phasma had broke down into a guffawing fit of laughter while Armitage snarled obscenities under his breath, it was all Poe could do to suppress his mirth.
âBy the Force,â Finn whispered. âThose two were running the show on the Finalizer?â
âDonât forget Kylo Ren,â Mitaka whispered it like a secret.
Hysteria edged giggles burst from Mitaka and Rose and Finn, a warmth from Phasma, who was now grinning at Armitage with a softness he didnât know her capable of. And Poeâs hand remained where it was, on Armitageâs thigh, gripping it with a strength he genuinely felt, here surrounded by people who cared about them, who wanted to break this news to them, rather than have them find out through the unfortunate circumstance of the public eye.
The same public eye that was currently observing them, broadcasting a solidarity between enemies â the Resistanceâs and the Orderâs brightest leaders gathered together in familiar congeniality.
There was no plot here, only protection.
The conversations split at that point. Finn and Rose laughed at something related to the man Mitaka was saying, the threeâs easy chit chat revealing a relationship that spanned far longer than Poe would have ever suspected. And Phasma and Armitage were bent together in a quiet, personal exchange; mostly one-sided, by the sound of Phasmaâs softly spoken words, the hang of Armitageâs head.
Poe sat in his own silence, datapad a dead weight in his pocket now that he knew what he might find when he turned it on next. What Armitage might find, when he inevitably went searching for it.
Despite what Armitage might think, Poe was not ashamed of this. He was not upset, at least no more upset beyond the irritation that their privacy had been stolen. That Kes had to find out about them from some tasteless news article. Poe thought it was entirely possible he was blowing everything out of proportion. Surely, the public wasnât interested in their relationship, but the incredible peace that was being crafted here. A peace that went beyond political negotiations, a peace that was being woven through the very fabric of the base. People had better things to focus their time and energy on than two strangerâs love lives, no matter how infamous either might be, Poe convinced himself not at all.
No, Poe lived on a Force-cursed military base, he knew the value of juicy gossip better than most.
âIâm going to get us a tray,â Armitageâs voice murmured in his ear, breath warm on his cheek, the shift of his thigh under Poeâs hand an anchor Poe did not want to give up. But before Poe could say as much, Armitage was slipping out from under his hold. A delicate hand briefly touching his shoulder, sliding along his back as he moved, a marvel if Poe could ever name one, because the droid was still watching, had seen it all. And then Armitage was off, making his way to the food stations. Poe watched him go, watched the droid that had followed them circle round to follow what was, Poe now understood, not its ward, but a star of its show.
Poe stared after him, willed his feet to stay planted where they were. Assured himself that Armitage would be fine, that the food stations werenât so far that this could be construed as him leaving Armitage alone like he promised never to do again.
Breathed a sigh of relief, when Rose and Finn stood up a moment later, heading after Armitage to get their own lunch.
Wondered if there actually was some plot, when suddenly Dopheld Mitaka caught his eye.
âDameron, Sir, there is something I would speak with you about.â Mitaka held himself at attention now, so different from when it was Rose and Finn he was speaking with, as if Poeâs very relation to Armitage elevated him to a pedestal he did not deserve.
âYeah, of course, what is it?â Poe tried to sound casual, but the tightness in Mitakaâs mouth was throwing him off. Phasma quietly watched on, eyes sliding over the room as if she expected something dangerous to emerge from the crowd. Yeah, maybe they were plotting something.
âItâs regarding the Orderâs net. It came up yesterday, briefly, during the update of Force. Before it went back down I was able to download a significant amount of data for offline viewing. There is something you need to see.â Mitaka held his datapad out, offering it to Poe without hesitation.
âYou really sure you want me to see this?â Poe asked even as he accepted the datapad. It was the same model as Phasmaâs, sleek and black and far nicer than any piece of tech he had ever owned.
âOf course, Sir. I believe it is imperative that you do.â Poe wondered if Mitakaâs back could get any more straight. âIf I might suggest taking a look at the internal message boards.â
Poe stared at the information on the screen, only understanding a fraction of what he read. What appeared to be a public messaging system in a constant state of moderation was in fact multiple threads of terminated conversations. Poe realized as he scrolled through the grayed out postings that whatever security clearance Mitakaâs credentials provided allowed him to view the removed postings, and that these aborted messages were in fact a reflection of the current state of the Order as a whole. It was falling apart from the inside, just as Armitage suspected.
Poe scrolled through multiple reports of strange disappearances, complaints regarding rash strings of managerial changes, food shortages and water rationing, and, most prolific of all, a rumor that General Hux was regrouping Order forces. It was a thread that surfaced over and over. At first every couple days, but more recently every several hours â threads that never made it beyond the initial posting, shut down as quickly as they were begun.
All these threads had begun before Armitageâs message ever made it to their datapads. Armitage, who still had not revealed his identity as the publisher of Force, or the person behind the message to the greater Order. Armitage, who had no idea how critical a role he actually played in the lives of not just those under his command on the Finalizer, but all the First Order.
He knew Leia should be made aware, and Armitage. Most of all Armitage.
Probably not the Senators.
The mechanical whir of a droid walking by nearly jolted Poe from his seat. Their eyes are everywhere. Poe froze, lifted his head, caught how the droid watched him.
 Carefully, he laid the datapad face down upon the table.
âMitaka, If I send BB-8 to you, would you let it copy this data? Hux needs to see this.â Poe slid the datapad towards him, suddenly too aware of the critical nature of the information stored on it. He didnât trust himself enough to handle it properly. Not at the moment. Not while his head was still elsewhere, somewhere the bigger picture didnât reach.
âOf course, Sir.â Mitaka might have saluted if his hands werenât busy tucking his datapad into his coat pocket.
âAre you sure you want him to see that?â Phasmaâs voice broke through the cold tension, and Poe felt the sharp edge of her words cut quick.
Of course he has to see it. âWhy wouldnât I?â
Phasma regarded him, mouth frozen in a perpetual frown, eyes as immutable as ice. Only then did Poe notice the dark circles under her eyes, as if something had kept her up through a sleepless night, a worry that harried as deep as that which stole so many of Poeâs own recent nights.
Her words, when they came, soured all the hope that Poe had held.
âYou donât think heâll go back, with everything that is happening here? You donât think heâll re-consolidate the power he lost, if the Order is so ready to serve him, while the New Republic is threatening him with death?â
No, Poe hadnât thought of that.
âYou think he will,â Poe did not frame it as a question. Phasmaâs expression closed over whatever answer she may give. âWhy are you telling me this, and not him?â
A flicker of something passed her face, too fast for Poe to follow, but then she pushed it out a sigh alongside words, âDespite it all, heâs happy. The happiest Iâve ever seen him.â The emotion was there, if buried beneath her facade of calm, and when her answer finally came, it shattered over Poe in shards. âBut if he thinks his survival depends on it, then heâll do whatever it takes.â
If the Order comes for me, I would not return to them. Words spoken from the safety of a wind sheared mountain top. Words that had brought Poe so much joy that he had been blinded to the encroaching danger, the heavy hand of fateâs shadowed approach.
Words spoken before.
Quietly, honestly, Poe said, âYou know I canât keep this from him.â But oh, how he wished they had kept it from him.
Across the room, he saw a familiar shape. Armitage, tray in hand, walking side by side with Rose. His head was turned down, his shoulders stooped, mouth turned up in a shadow of a smile as he responded to something she said. Something that made Rose laugh, ringing like crystal, clear and pure. Poe watched as that shadow smile alighted into a shape, radiance softened by the crinkle of his eyes, the pink of his cheeks.
Watched him beam brighter still, when he lifted his eyes and met Poeâs.
Donât take this from me, he had asked that morning. Now Poe realized what is was he had to give up.
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âAre you positive you want me here?â He asked Poe again, even as he was pushed down into a bench before the comms terminal.
âArmitage, he already knows about you, so stop worrying.â Poe was waving someone over, Ko Connix, if the embroidered name on her jumpsuit was accurate. Not everyoneâs were, Hux had learned weeks ago. âKaydel, could we get some privacy maybe? Just thirty minutes?â
âYou can have the next hour, Iâve got nothing scheduled until this evening,â her voice was accommodating but her body language was stiff. âIs it confidential, do you need me to encode the transmission?â
âNo, no, just the regular precautions are fine,â Poeâs voice was genial. Him and this woman knew each other well, though nothing of their interaction suggested anything more than a friendly history. Still, Hux could not help thinking of the aide. Hux had never considered himself a jealous person, but now that his and Poeâs relationship was in the open, to be judged and juried by the whole of the Galaxy, he found himself feeling far moreâŠpossessive.
âAlright, Iâll leave you to it.â She was pulling at the cuff of her sleeve, a nervous gesture Hux could only attribute to his presence. âHe was pretty insistent that you call him back this morning, so if the signal gives you trouble try it a few times. The Senateâs flagship has let us tap their antennae so I donât think youâll have a problem.â The smile she gave Poe still lingered as her eyes drifted over to Hux, and there was an awkward moment where she caught herself staring. âI, uh, Iâll be waiting in the control room, if you need me.â
The hallway seemed unnaturally bright, when the door slid open to let Connix out. Hux blinked against the burned out wedge shape, momentarily blinded to the dark of the comms room, the hazy blue glow of the ambient transmission controls slow to reemerge. It lit Poe in strange shapes. Deepening his cheekbones, darkening the shadows under his eyes, limning the strong cut of his jaw with a sharp edge. Like a spotlight shed on all the unspoken things Hux knew Poe to be harboring.
Something had changed since lunch. Hux had not thought it was possible for Poe to touch him any more than he already did, but heâd somehow found a way. It was as if a dam had been opened now that the greater Galaxy knew of their relationship, and Poe no longer had to hold back his touches. But there was a newfound desperation to it, buried beneath the affection. A hand to Huxâs thigh, constant in its grip. Fingers tracing his wrist, ready to grab hold. And a hovering proximity, like he could physically shield Hux from the danger that stalked him. The touches were welcome, but telling of Poeâs internal mental state.
But it was not so much the change to Poeâs touches that worried Hux. It was the way Poe now watched him, all honed focus juxtaposed against a delicate scrutiny. Hux did not understand it. Did not think it could be the exposure of their relationship that would shake Poeâs mental state so much. There was something else on Poeâs mind, and Hux would find out what.
But not now. Right now, despite Huxâs protestations otherwise, they were going to call Poeâs father.
âYou ready then? I promise this will go fine.â
There, seated at the comms station, Hux met Poeâs blue sparked eyes, allowed his hand to be taken, his palm to be smoothed over. He had already tried telling Poe that maybe they should wait to do this, should allow his fate to be decided before dragging any of them through the turmoil of this declaration. Poeâs father had waited this long, what was another day, two, maybe a week, at most.
Certainly, it would save Poe a lot of trouble.
And of course heartbreak.
âIâm ready, yes,â he said, though Hux wasnât sure heâd ever be ready, was certain he had never been ready for any of this. How Poe expected one fatherâs hate could be traded for anotherâs love, he may never understand. But he would try.
One more brief touch of their lips and Poe was drawing away, attention turned to the holo-projector before them. Into the console he entered the call coordinates, and then all they had left to do was wait. The projector was like any other Hux had seen. Older, certainly, than those equipped on the Finalizer, but perfectly adequate for deep space communication. The depressed discus mounted within the terminal frame blinked to life in a gentle glow, and Hux was surprised to see only a little bit of white light breaking through the blue, the interstellar turbulence he expected coming in quick fleeting spurts.
The call rang on, nearly twenty seconds passing before Huxâs anxiety got the best of him and he shifted out of the cone of the holo-recorder. Poe wanted him to meet his father, but Hux could not shake the feeling that he was an intruder here. That somehow, Poeâs father would not be meeting a full grown man, but a scared little boy. Poe smiled at him, a small thing, understanding, and Hux resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew he was acting foolish, and his behavior did not deserve the sympathy Poe seemed so earnest to give. He almost said as much, got as far as opening his mouth, when the call connected.
Huxâs mouth clicked shut over the words, breath catching in his throat as a face coalesced into the three dimensional cone of the projector. There was a slight delay in the transmission, evident in the staggered cast of light, little blips of a broken transmission due to the great distance between them. But nothing prevented Hux from seeing how Poeâs eyes lit at the image of his father.
Awash with blues, he looked younger than Hux knew him to be, as Poeâs father would have be almost as old as his own, were Brendol Hux still alive. Early sixties, likely; youthful enough in the grand scheme of a humanâs lifespan, but older than the smoothed out projection before them.
His voice, when it came, sounded so much like Poeâs.
âHey son, youâre looking well, itâs good to see you.â
âYouâre looking good too, dad, sorry I missed your call earlier,â Poeâs grin was full, mirthful with genuine joy, and Hux could not understand how he could be so at ease. âThings have been kinda crazy here the last few weeks.â
âAre they ever not crazy?â And then Poeâs father was laughing. âIf itâs anything like what I remember, crazy was the minimum operating standard.â
This time it was Poe who laughed, and suddenly, Hux felt entirely out of his depth. This wasnât a father and a son speaking, these were friends, with a mutual respect that had nothing to do with familial relationships. âLetâs just say Iâll take this kind of crazy over most.â
âI can only imagine.â Poeâs fatherâs smile was big, his eyes kind, his hair dark, but the shapes wrong. No, not wrong, but different from Poeâs. His mother, Hux realized, Poe took after his mother. âBut things seem to be winding down, at least?â
âYou could say that,â and here Poeâs voice dropped in cadence, just a little. âHonestly, I feel like Iâve just traded one kind of crazy for another.â
âBelieve me, son. That never really changes. Although, maybe I take that back, because you know whatâs not crazy? My life. Iâve been spending more time in town now than I ever have, talking to old Barnie just isnât the same as talking with a person, let me tell you. Maybe we could trade places for a little bit. I can relive my youth and you can take a vacation.â
âStaycation, you mean. You just want me to come home and watch the farm,â Poeâs laughter came from a deep place, somewhere Hux had caught glimpses of, but only in those moments spent alone, against a mountainside, alongside his speeder. âItâs a tempting offer, I could use a vacation. But Iâm glad youâre getting out more, Iâm sure Barnie is just as tired of you.â
They both laughed then, the sounds layering atop one another, and in this, Hux decided, Poe was everything like his father.
There was a code in the way they spoke, how they buried the details that would give them away. It made perfect sense. The Resistance had gone so long flying under the First Orderâs radar, any transmissions like this could have been captured. And while the trace route would be hidden from their slicers, with the right amount of information assumptions could be made. Poe and his father were well-practiced in their communication. Giving so much and yet nothing away, as naturally as if they were speaking across a table from one another, not over lightyears of dangerous space.
âSo whatâs going on with you? Got anything new going on?â And the catch in Poeâs posture was more telling than the falter in his smile. This was it, the moment Hux had always expected, but had hoped would never come.
âThatâs not what you normally ask,â Poe said, smile tentatively crafted from the shadows cast by his words.
The silence from Poeâs father was long, stretching thin alongside Huxâs nerves. Finally, Poeâs father responded, âI donât want to pry, seems like youâre dealing with enough of that already.â
âShit, dad.â When Poe broke, it was a beautiful thing, even though Hux knew that was not a healthy way to approach anything. But as Poeâs hand found his hair, as his fingers pushed through it and his shoulders collapsed, Hux could not help but want. âI only just found out about the holos this morning, after your call. Iâm sorry for not telling you sooner, I didnât want you to find out like this.â
âIs he there with you now?â Hux didnât think his stomach could plummet any further.
Poe looked at him as he responded, âYeah, heâs here.â All Hux wanted was to crawl into Poeâs arms and hide himself there.
âIs he shy or am I just that intimidating?â
Poeâs eyes had not left him, held Hux steady, as he said, âBoth, I think. Weâve been dealing with a lot these past few days.â His smile was small, but it was there. Hux held onto it.
âIâm sorry, for that. From what Iâve seen, I can understand why you didnât call sooner.â And Hux did not know if the frustration he thought he heard was because of him or what Poeâs father knew was an uncomfortable situation for his son. âLike I said, I didnât want to pry, but I wanted to call and let you know thatââ and here the silence lasted only long enough for Poe to look back at his fatherâs projection. ââI love you, son, and whatever makes you happy, makes me happier.â
âThanks, dad. Thatââ Poe cut himself off, and again Hux saw him break, resisted the urge to reach out and take him into his arms, ââthat means a lot, right now. I love you too.â
âWell, Iâm not gonna keep you, son,â Poeâs father sounded kind, understanding. Hux didnât know how Poeâs father could be soâŠloving. âCall me again when you can, donât be a stranger, Iâm here whenever you need me.â
Hux could not quite put it all together, how easily this had gone, how accepting Poeâs father seemed to be.
âI promise I wonât wait so long to call next, it was good talking to you, dad. Thank you, for everything.â
There was a glimmer in Poeâs eyes when the transmission cut out, twinkling like a distant star. Belatedly, he realized they were tears.
âTold you that would go well,â Poe affirmed as he reached out and touched Huxâs wrist, dark eyes sparking blue in the dim light.
Hux just wanted to touch Poeâs cheek. So he did, his hand lifting to brush fingertips down Poeâs jaw, and then he did it again, again, and again. The tears never fell, but Hux traced the path they would have taken, followed the invisible lines in Poeâs cracked facade. The call to his father had taken more than Hux realized. And when Poeâs eyes hooded, and he tilted his chin into Huxâs touch, his absent-minded smile barely hiding that elusive secret that Hux had been chasing since lunch, Hux watched Poe break, and he thought how beautiful.
âYour father cares deeply for you,â he finally acknowledged, to Poe, to himself. âYou two share your laugh.â
As if to prove his point, Poe let out a chuckle, âYouâre not the first to notice that. Everyone says I look like my mom but sound like my dad.â
âUnlikely, I imagine she was very a beautiful woman,â Hux sneered, but let the mirth spill free in his eyes, in the touch of his fingers to Poeâs skin. He let his fingers trail down Poeâs bared neck, his collarbone, his chest. Poeâs fingers at his wrist had turned into a grip, but Hux was not going anywhere.
Poeâs laugh choked off into a sputter, âOkay Hugs, Iâll never accuse you of giving me an ego again.â Poe was sliding in close, the thumb over his wrist now stroking in soft circles. Hux shivered. âThanks for doing this with me. It would have been hard, without you here.â
âYour father and I did not even speak.â Hux placed his palm over Poeâs chest, fingers finding the edge of his shirt where skin met fabric, over the beating thunder of his heart, âBut he obviously trusts you, and your decisions. Itâs remarkable, really. You two share more than your laugh, recklessness must also run in the family.â
âYeah.â Poeâs eyes searched his, âYou love it, though.â
âI do,â Hux breathed.
They were kissing again before either could stop it. Somehow, Hux ended up straddled over the bench while Poeâs hands slid up his thighs, the grip on his wrist surrendered to this greater touch. Hux chased the kiss, cupping Poeâs face and sinking into the sensations. And Poe welcomed it, let Hux touch him like this, in a semi-public space, Connix able to see everything through the control room security cams, able to record every moment as well as any droid.
âYour friend might be watching,â he breathed over Poeâs lips, when Poeâs hands found his hips and gripped tight.
âWho, Kaydel?â Poe murmured back. âShe wonât care. And I wouldnât care even if she did.â
Huxâs breath stuttered at that admission. He knew, logically, that they should care â now more than ever before. But he also knew they were already on borrowed time, and he could not bring himself to deny either of them. As exposed as they were, the kiss deepened, became exploratory. When Hux slipped his tongue along his lower lip, Poe opened to him, and he moaned for him, and he gave up something more than his control. Hux directed this kiss, taking the lead in a way that still felt new, but natural. But as much control as Poe gave up, Hux still felt him there, at his edges, guiding him through, drawing him closer, encouraging him further into their kiss.
That was where he finally found it. There, at the edge of Poeâs touch, in the press of his hands, was that brush of desperation that had not been there this morning. It festered beneath Poeâs skin, a rot that clung to him like the withered remains of the Academy had. A pestilence that infected far more than Poeâs touch. Hux could not help but think something was wrong. Because Hux could ignore the stares, he could ignore the words, he could even ignore the judgment, for Poeâs sake and for his own. What he could not ignore was the unease chafing Poeâs touch, not if it was going to poison every moment they had left.
âPoe,â Hux said as he pulled back. He held Poeâs face steady as he searched his face, for a clue, for an explanation, âTell me what is wrong.â
And he saw when it flashed across his features, like a spark, a strike, flinting in the dark. Gone as quickly as it appeared, only to surface again, more slowly. A secret exposed in the form of resolve.
âThere is something I have to tell you,â Poeâs voice was quiet, as dim as the ambient glow of the console.
Hux could not stop the dread from rising, wondered how he had held it back for so long. âWhat? What is happening?â The beat of his heart pumped into a race, and his hands trembled where they held Poeâs cheeks. Was this it, was his fate decided? Had the Senate already passed their judgment? Had Poe found out and not told him? âPoe, tell me.â
What Poe told him was the last thing Hux ever expected to hear.
âMitaka gained access to the Orderâs net yesterday. He pulled data from their internal messaging servers, threads of conversations that had been deleted by their system, rumors that have been spreading,â Poe held his eyes while he spoke, searching Hux just like Hux searched him, both seeking something too elusive to see. âThey were about you, about how youâre still aliveââ Poe cut off, his swallow thick, his gaze heavy, ââabout how youâre regrouping Order forces.â
Hux thought â he thought Poe understood, âPoe, you know thatâs not trueââ
âYeah, I know,â Poe assured, and Hux grasped at that fleeting relief, only for it to slip away as Poe said, âbut it could be. You could, if it meant you would survive.â Poe said the words gently, but the weight of them slammed into Hux. Punched a hole right through his heart.
âNo,â Hux whispered, âI wonât.â He couldn't.
âYou could save them and yourself.â
âPoe, stop this,â he said, even as his voice broke alongside his heart.
âArmitage.â Poeâs hand slipped over the back of his neck, pulled him in close, âArmitage, I donât want anyone getting their hands on you.â Huxâs head rang with those words, familiar and distant, affirmations made over the burning coals of the man he once was, âIf that meansââ Poe broke off, lip caught in his teeth, eyes caught on Huxâs, ââif I canât protect you, you have to protect yourself.â
âBy rejoining the First Order?â his voice, so shrill, broke over the sound of his shallow breath, âWould you follow me if I did, would you give up everything you have up to chase me into the unknown?â Hux knew the answer, did not expect Poe to actually voice it.
âYou know I couldnât.â And somehow those words hurt far more than anything else ever had.
âThen why do you think that I can?â His voice had risen, high with emotion, as he drew away and encountered Poeâs hold on him. The pressure of Poeâs hand over his neck felt like the press of the gallows; one death traded for another. âI canât do that Poe. Iâm not that man any longer.â
Poeâs stare was heavy, thick, desperation chased away in favor of a stalwart determination. âI think heâs still there. And I think he was a good man, despite the things he did. And I think he would do a better job of it, this time around.â
Hux felt as his mind distended, stretched thin to breaking, disbelief acidic on the back of his tongue. âStop this. Please, Poe, donât do thisââ Tears were falling now, hot and stinging, as painful as the words he found himself speaking, ââif living means Iâd lose youââ the rest was swallowed by the sound of his breath, a sob.
âI know,â Poeâs hand smoothed down his neck, wrapped around his shoulders, pulled him into a tight hold. âIâm not saying itâs our only option, but itâs there, and itâsââ Poe paused, ââand I wouldnât blame you, if you chose it.â
âI wonât,â wretched and ragged, he made those words real. Poeâs shoulder was solid beneath him, and Hux let himself fall against it, burrowed into the warm folds of his shirt. A second arm wrapped around him, and suddenly Hux was being pulled flush against Poe.
Why canât I have this? Hux wondered, as a hand smoothed down his back.
You know why, his mind answered, when another hand stroked gently through his hair.
Poeâs touch shattered Hux into tiny fragments, all the pieces he thought heâd found places for scattering with the realization that Poe would do this for him, let him go, if it meant he would live. But Hux didnât know what living meant, now, if he could not do it with Poe at his side.
He imagined this was how Poe must feel, when confronted with the idea of life after his death.
As much as he might want this, this life with Poe, and as fooled as he was to believe it might be his to have, Hux understood now, that he was not made for these touches. He was cut from a different veil, and fate would never let him forget that.
An emotion emerged, unspeakable in name, but familiar in tenor. A furor that boiled so hot it struck through his vision â bright beams of rage, burning and blinding.
âI hate them,â he snarled, words dripping with his tears, seething with his blood, as the image of Ofant was cut through with red. âI hate them all.â
Poe only held him tighter; steady against him, accepting his rage, his hatred, with a grounded hold, a gentle touch. âI know, I know,â Poe whispered into his hair, while Huxâs fingers twisted so tightly into his shirt he was sure it would tear. âItâs okay to feel this way, itâs okay to be angry.â
Iâll kill them, he didnât say, because despite his rage, Hux was no longer that man.
But his shape was still there, burned black against the brightness, and Hux remembered how he fit.
So when the comms room door opened and he and Poe drew apart, when one of the figures silhouetted against the bright light that blinded the deeper darkness cocooning them announced: There you are, what impeccable timing, that Hux found himself emerging half-formed, but fully prepared, for the words that came next.
âGeneral Hux, it seems your plan has been a success. Weâve just received an encoded message from one General Parnadee, and she is requesting an immediate holo. I was hoping you might do us the honor of speaking on the New Republicâs behalf.â
The dark of the room may have hidden the trace of emotion on his face, but nothing could hide him from Organaâs specter stare, and still she smiled, as she extended her hand.
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Notes:
Phew, whatever will happen next? Hopefully not another chapter count increase, because I keep lying to y'all and promising this time is the last...
This chapter felt so transient to write. It really is just a bridge to next part of the story that I am super excited to tackle. I probably lost a little bit of steam at the end because, let me tell you, real life is Crazy. All I want is a 6 month sabbatical where I can transform into the hermit I know I am meant to be. Instead, I will keep working 60 hour weeks while writing until the wee hours of the morning and subject y'all to my increasingly non-sensical word vomit.
Chapter 11: Operation Sunrise
Notes:
No warnings this chapter!
Not that Star Wars has ever been what I would consider hard sci-fi, but my version of hyperspace travel is based on a theory of physics regarding what hyperspeed might actually look like if we ever achieve it. Basically, that a ship would create a worm hole that would allow it to enter and exit hyperspace, where hyperspace is the travel lanes ships use to get around. Not that any of that actually matters to the story, of course :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His uniform cut strange shapes from his body. The shoulders were too wide and the waist too thin. It broadened his chest and smoothed out the softness of his stomach, accentuating a strength that had never been of his body, but his mind. A two hit knockout. That was what Phasma called the First Order. The first punch always the military, an indelible physical force that would bring the Galaxy to its knees. Then came the intellectual ingenuity. The brilliance that would rebuild the Galaxy into something greater; a technological achievement born of the greatest minds the Galaxy had to offer. Two parts of a machine that could create as well as it could destroy.
Or so, that had been the First Order Hux had believed in. Envisioned, as it were. But then Palpatine had reared his head and revealed that the rebuilding would never come. That the First Order was never meant to be anything more than the strong-armed abuser that would bully the Galaxy into submission, all on behalf of a Force-cursed ghost.
But they had almost done it. The Galaxy had been brought to its knees. First with Starkiller, and then with the swift actions of his fleet after the Resistanceâs defeat on Crait. The Order had snatched up Outer Core worlds where they could, expanding their mining forces into the rich space that had been denied them for so many decades, strengthening allegiances and forging trade routes among the remnants of the New Republic. Setting the keystones in place that would support the superstructure of a First Order Empire that would encompass all of the Galaxy, not just the privileged few of the Core.
But it had all come crashing down. And Hux could not place his finger on when it had started to go wrong. Had instead accepted that it had always been wrong, that he had always been wrong: wrong in what he believed was right. Wrong in what he believed was the truth. Wrong in what he believed was best for himself and the people of the First Order.
And now, once again, he had the audacity to think he knew what was right for the people of the Order, when he didnât even know what was right for himself, anymore.
But, Hux thought he knew what wasnât right, and surely, that must be a start.
âFour hundred and twenty two thousand eight hundred and thirty nine people across two Star Destroyers. The Conqueror is at full operating capacity, all eleven ion engines on line, and housing approximately two thirds of the population, while the Absolution is operating at twenty five percent, only two functional ion engines, and housing the remaining third of the population.â The reports Parnadee had sent ahead of their rendezvous were more than worrying, and as Hux recited the list of critical ship status reports, the weight in his gut sank deeper. Hands clasped behind his back, he wished he could loosen his collar, remove his belt, something to assuage the claustrophobic sensation of the world closing in on him.
âIf those numbers sound high itâs because they are,â Hux continued to the gathered group. The war table aboard the Swiftly Striking was not like Leiaâs war table. Here there were more holos than bodies, most of the participants in this ârescue missionâ hailing from Coruscant or Chandrila, Mithra having called in the support of her peers to assist in the organization of so many refugees. Seven New Republic ships slipped through hyperspace, including the Swiftly Striking, the flagship that had brought the five Senators to Ajan Klossâ doorstep just over a week ago.
A silver lining, if there was to be one. That the New Republic was intending to be true to their word alleviated one of the worries that had plagued Hux for the last week. But he understood what this aid meant. Understood that nothing was ever free, that this alliance of good will would be paid for, and he was the price. There would not be a trial. The past week had been the trial. And Hux supposed it wasnât so much if he would die, but how, and hopefully his cooperation would at least earn him the swiftness of a quick death.
That is, unless he fled with the First Order. Unless he turned coat yet again â not just on the New Republic, or the Resistance and the people he had finally begun to understand â but on a future he thought bright enough to sell to the remnants of the Order. A path towards prosperity within the world theyâd been taught to abhor.
âResurgent class destroyers are designed to sustain a population of approximately one hundred thousand comfortably. At full operating capacity, mind you. Most are only ever crewed at seventy to eighty percent of their potential. With only two functioning ion engines and a full crew, the Absolution will have diverted all resources to life sustaining systems. The Conqueror will be strained for resources at over double capacity, but with all engines online they should have managed with a rationing program and a lights out protocol.â Hux looked around the room as he spoke, noting the faces of the people who were paying attention, and those who were only there to stare. Hux had grown used to the stares, a long time ago.
âWhile the reports Parnadee has provided are adequate regarding population and ship statuses, the most critical components have been left out: medical reports of the population, food production, water recycling, and health breakdowns of their sick and injured. Who needs priority extraction? Who needs immediate surgical care? Who is pregnant, dying, experiencing a mental health crisis?â Hux closed his eyes, pausing as he gathered in his mind the vision of how these ships would look, when they came upon them. âThese two ships have been dark for the last eight standard weeks, having suffered losses already due to First Order in-fighting. We need to be prepared for the worst, but whether the worst is a population simply suffering from a little scurvy and the strain of sleeping atop their fellow crew member, or a humanitarian crisis of an epidemic proportion, I can not say.â
During their call Parnadee had painted a vague picture of the living conditions aboard the Conqueror, focusing more on the state of their ships and the logistics of a rendezvous. They had been in hiding for months, tucked amongst an asteroid field on the outskirts of the Outer Rim after an altercation with Order forces under the command of Captain Peavey. Holos had not been possible due to the lightyears of space between them and the security protocols in place, but her voice had been hers, if worn with exhaustion. And Hux had not realized until that moment what it would mean to finally speak with the very people he had been trying to reach for so many weeks. Hux had been glad that a holo had not been possible, because he was sure Parnadee would have recognized the emotion on his face, the tears in his eyes, the lifting of the weight on his heart that had somehow grown so overwhelming.
Because Hux was here to help his people. And while Parnadee may still view those aboard as her crew, and her ship as a ship, Hux knew better. He knew better because he had been through this before. Had seen the way this would play out. Knew what happened when a ship gave itself up for its crew, and the state of mind that crew would be subject to, the grief of loosing not just oneâs home, but everything they had ever known.
And he knew what it felt like to have hope be the enemy standing across the battlefield. Where surviving meant climbing out of the safety of the trench you had dug for yourself, and living meant charging head first into no manâs land, a prayer and a plea your only defense against everything you had ever held true.
âParnadee assures that both ships have enough fuel for a jump into outer core space, but I believe we should be prepared to send ships here to extract what crew we can before attempting a journey of that length. Fuel or not, the Absolution is in critical condition and I would not trust it to make a successful jump of that duration, lest it come apart in hyperspace. A ship of that size leaving behind debris in the trade lanes would be catastrophic for more than just those aboard.â
Ofant caught his attention from across the war table, dark eyes humorless despite the perpetual smile on his face. âIâm still unconvinced this isnât all a ruse to lure us into a vulnerable position.â
This wasnât a trap. This was nearly four Star Destroyers worth of men and women who had been hiding in deep space for over two months. This was two ships full of a population of people living on top of one another in less than ideal conditions who had thought themselves abandoned to death up until several days ago. These were people who needed more than help, they needed hope, and they needed a future that was more than surviving until the next day.
âItâs not a trap,â was the only response Hux dare.
Ofantâs smile cut deep, right to the core of Huxâs greatest fear. âTo be fair, I argue that remains to be seen.â
Hux was not a liar. He refused to believe he had sold his people a pipe dream.
No, Hux had chosen to trust Organa and the Resistance with his most precious parts. Not himself, but his crew, his people, his family. And then he had made the decision to extend that trust to what was left of the New Republic. Had believed in their promise to help not because he trusted the good of their will, but because the price they asked for had been high enough to assure his peopleâs value.
A sacrifice, one worthy of the gift it begot. And sacrifice in service to the greater prosperity of the Order was no strange concept to Armitage Hux. So much, that he had spent his life preparing for its inevitability by never building any attachments for himself. From the stark simplicity of his quarters aboard the Finalizer, where only an ice blue couch stood out from the glassy grays and blacks of the Order issued appointments, to the lack of personal affects, where switching ships meant towing along a single suit bag of uniforms; Hux had never needed much, and he had held onto even less. The only aberration to this philosophy taking shape as a codepad harboring the whimsical dream of a dying adolescence. An indulgence Hux had allowed himself out of spite for his father and some washed out idea that even Force was not actually his, but something he had created for the Order.
 Because if Hux had nothing worth loosing, then surely death on behalf of the Order would be but a brightness against the blighted wraith of the Galaxy at large.
And that would have still been true, if not for Poe Dameron.
âWe are seven warships transporting a total of fifty X-wings, with the Millennium Falcon as an escort, and a fleet of five Resistance ships on standby only a short jump away,â Poe spoke up. âPreliminary scouting of the ships location confirms the details weâve received from General Parnadee. But if there is trouble, weâre prepared.â Leia had passed full General responsibilities onto Poe, abdicating the position to instead take up a role as a negotiator on the New Republicâs behalf. It was nothing but a game of shadows, but one Hux understood. It was the same game he played by donning his uniform.
A uniform that somehow felt as ill-fitting as the Resistance hand-me-downs. Here, amongst a table of New Republic senators and their naval officers, only Poe and Organa did not set their sights on him like a target to shoot down. The general stripes felt heavy on his cuff, a beacon to his past Hux understood he would never shake, and a lie that exposed him for the fraud he was: no longer a First Order general, yet the only part he was allowed to play. But if there was one thing Hux was grateful for, it was that Ofantâs droids had been left behind. At least the production of his demise would not be broadcast across the Galaxy alongside the rest of his final hours.
âI for one am hopeful for a peaceful convention with this General Parnadee,â Jain Mithra spoke with the same cadence of authority Hux remembered from his interrogation. She stood beside Organa, separate from her fellow Senators across the table. âAnd if we determine the Absolution can not make the jump safely I am confident we can organize an evacuation.â This she said to the holograms, the captains of the accompanying ships and a handful of Senators from Core worlds who had volunteered to take in refugees. The reservations Hux felt regarding handing his people over to the New Republic to be split up and assimilated reared ugly in his mind. But in this, there were no other options. Itâs not as if they could live on these two ships in orbit of a friendly celestial body. No, this was the only way forward. The very thing he had asked for, months ago, when he sat at another war table, begging for the help of his enemy.
âAgreed. Thatâs why weâre here, isnât it? Not just to see through the end of this war, but to help these people?â It was curious, how when Organa spoke the already quiet room became that much more silent. âThe dismantling of the First Order is the end of the Empireâs reign, and the cleaning of a wound that has been left to fester for far too long. Rather than making the same mistakes of our past, today weâre taking a step down a new path, one of unification. I urge everyone here to approach these negotiations with an open mind and an open heart. These people are our kin. Let us not perpetuate the same mistakes weâve already made once.â
The hushed murmurs of, what Hux hoped, were accord, signified the end of the discussion. Organa closed the meeting with a time line of events, where in four hours they would reach the jump point at the agreed meeting coordinates. He would board the Millennium Falcon along with Organa, Mithra and Ofant, to meet Parnadee on an abandoned mining colony that housed a now defunct New Republic naval base. It was as neutral a ground as all parties could agree to, where negotiations could take place outside the the threat of an enemy star system. Hux suspected all involved understood the word negotiation was being used loosely. This was a transfer of power, authority. Parnadee had nothing worthwhile to offer but the symbolic surrender of the First Order. But there was a ceremony to these things that Hux respected, an honor paid to the opposing force, where a final meeting on equal ground could pave the way forward with respect rather than resentment.
As the holos flickered out and the assembled cast of players disbursed, Poe met him where he stood. Hux allowed his hands to be taken even as he felt Ofantâs eyes upon them. From where he stood speaking to one of the other Senators across the table, Ofant openly stared. Hux hardly cared, anymore.
âYou feeling okay?â Poe asked softly, his fingers playing over the seams of his gloves. Poeâs dark eyes swallowed him whole, asking so many more questions than the one he voiced.
âIâm concerned,â Hux admitted, not easily. âTensions are high. So much can go wrong with one misunderstanding.â Not to mention his concern that Ofant would be a part of the negotiations. That his despise for Hux would spill over to the whole of the First Order felt obvious; and yet, his clout among the Senators secured his place in the discussions.
âDonât think of it as a negotiation, think of it as speaking with an old colleague. Parnadee will be happy to see a familiar face, and Leia will have your back, no matter what happens, you know that right?â No matter what happens. Hux swallowed, uneasy by far more than Ofantâs attention. When the hold Poe had on Huxâs hands tugged him round, so his back was to Ofant, Hux knew the attention had not been overlooked.
âYes, I understand.â Not quite the truth, but close enough that Hux did not feel like a liar. He licked his lips, meet Poeâs dark eyes. âI wish you were going to be there.â
âYou know I canât,â Poe said softly enough that he could not be overhead. Softly enough that Hux could not identify the emotion that colored his voice. âOfant is watching, heâs the only problem I can for-see.â
âI can handle him,â said Hux, a little too quickly.
He would have to handle him. Ofant had not stopped watching Hux for what felt like days, their orbits having collided over and over again during the mission preparations. That Ofant was plain with his disgust almost felt refreshing; anything was better than the knife sharp smile of the friendly facade he had once donned. But now the weight of his attention unbalanced Hux. And his precarious walk across the tightrope of First Order general and Resistance defector felt all the more tenuous. Ofant disturbed what little center Hux had left, and soon he would not even have Poe to lean on.
Poe, who had been stalwart in his presence at Huxâs side, even after he planted the insidious seed of Huxâs escape. Theyâd barely spoken of the idea since the comms room, but the conversation hung over them like the bloated clouds of a building storm.
Hux had wondered when it was that survival had given way to integrity. Wondered if the integrity had always been there, hidden beneath the pall of surviving. Because Hux knew he would not betray his word. The oath he had made to Organa had been in good faith, the offer of his life to the Senators honest in a way so much of his life had never been. But he could not help but know Poeâs thoughts. Not when every touch of his hands felt like a goodbye. Hux did not understand what it meant that Poe believed he would leave. Tried not to let that hurt, in the way that his unspoken goodbyes hurt. Whether Hux left with the First Order or stayed and died at the hands of the New Republic, each led to the same conclusion: that these few hours he and Poe had together would be their last. Hux wanted to make the most of them. Poe could not bring himself to even talk about it.
The hold on his hands tugged him forward, and suddenly Poe was close enough Hux could feel the heat of his body. Between them, their hands had tangled into knots.
âWeâve got a few hours, wanna find somewhere private?â Poe didnât try to hide his intentions, and Hux decided if this was what Poe needed right now, he could not deny him.
âDonât you have preparations to take care of?â And truthfully, Hux could not think of many other ways he would want to spend his final hours of freedom. It was either that or stew in the miasma of his anxiety.
âThatâs the beauty of being general, delegation,â Poe laughed, made it sound easy and light, as if the shroud of fate wasnât closing over them as they stood there.
Huxâs thoughts became all too real when a shadow fell over their joined hands. Ofant stood off to the side, looming taller than either of them, body cast black against the white walls of the New Republic ship.
âAh, if itâs not the Hero of the Resistance and his Starkiller. Discussing the intimacies of strategy I see?â
Hux stayed silent, refusing to look at Ofant. Poe was weaker to the half-hearted jab, his glare as withering as the pull of his frown, the turn of his voice.
âWhat do you want, Ofant?â Hux felt the slip of Poeâs hands as Ofant stared openly at them.
âJust checking in. I thought General Hux and I might have a private discussion regarding the negotiations, but I see he is currently tied up.â
Hux tightened his hold, thinking, donât let go, said instead, âIgnore him, Poe.â
Yeah, I know, scrawled across Poeâs expression. His hands, where they held Huxâs, loosened and then squeezed, until finally Poe came to his decision, âCome on.â
Hux did not sigh, but he did let his relief edge into the trembling grip he had on Poeâs hands, when he was pulled away from Ofant. Poe steered him towards the door, past the New Republic guards stationed there, not letting him go. Never letting him go, Hux dared to hope. âLetâs go find Finn and Rose.â Safety in numbers. Hux allowed himself to be removed from the room, even as his fatherâs voice smoldered hot in the back of his mind. Retreat is for the weak, stand your ground and fight, boy. But Hux had very little fight left in him, anymore.
When the whisper quiet whoosh of the door sealed them off from Ofant, it was all Hux could do to keep from finally expelling his sigh. Before him, the hallway stretched long and thin, too bright under the artificial florescent lights, so different from Ajan Klossâs sun. The white walls closed in on him, funneling him down a road he had never taken, towards an end he could not see. And as Hux walked, Poe at his side, Ofant at his back, Hux wondered if this was how the Finalizer felt: punching through the long stretch of hyperspace, hunter at her back, crew at her side, the countdown of her existence spent in grim propulsion towards the inevitable.
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âRose, just surrender already, this game is going on three standard.â
From where Poe stood, he could see the board was stacked in Finnâs favor. The spread of pieces had Rose on the retreat, line of defense crippled and only two monsters left, one at full health, the other near death.
âFinn, youâll have to pry victory from my Monnokâs cold dead claws, there is no way in Sith hell I am surrendering,â Rose pouted as she slid her mostly dead Monnok across the board, out of movement range of Finnâs army of four.
âOh my god, youâre just going to keep evading me until we get to the drop point arenât you?â Finnâs groan could have curled flesh from bone.
âYeah, probably, unless I get bored. In which case Iâll just cut the power to the table.â
âStars, youâre such a sore loser.â
âYouâre a sore winner. Remember what happened the last time we played? On Chewieâs board?â
âOh, do I remember? How could I forget when you broke the kriffing board over my head?â Finn gestured at the pieces on the table, âI canât help it if youâre awful at Dejarik.â
âFinn, you literally did a happy dance after wiping out all my pieces in six moves. That deserved at least a punch to the nuts, you got off easy,â Rose smirked, her Kinâtan Strider sliding out of reach.
This was fine. This was good, Poe decided, as the familiarity of his friends grumbling over a Dejarik board distracted him from the perfidious path of his thoughts. But only temporarily. Because Poe felt the passing of time in the marrow of his bones, the cascading sands of an hourglass running thin. Felt it in the turned metal of his motherâs ring where it rolled between his fingers, another moment of mourning made manifest, a reminder of all Poe had already lost. Donât take him too.
Beside him, Armitage stood stoic, watched the board with as much attention as he gave anything passingly interesting. Unlike Rose, Poe was not surprised when Armitage leaned down to whisper in her ear.
âOh, oh.â
Six moves. Six moves and Rose was howling victory across the shipâs galley. Six moves and Finn was griping that her win didnât count because he hadnât agreed to play Hux in Dejarik. Six moves and Armitage was seated beside Rose, asking Poe for his datapad so he could show his friends Force, and Poe let himself drift along, a passenger on this journey, only able to stand sentinel over these final moments with the man he loved.
Poe put the smile on his face, the pitch in his hip, the laugh in his words. Lies, all of it, but so much easier than the truth.
He could not help but feel as if he had missed his chance â Armitageâs chance. That their opportunity to change fate had slipped through their grasp, lost alongside the grains of sand in that hourglass of time. Despite the good will of his friends and Leiaâs hope, the death knell of the approaching negotiations would seal the agreement Armitage had made with the Senate. The First Order would be welcomed into the fold of the New Republic, and the payment for this good will would be called due. Armitage would hand himself over, just as he had promised.
Or he would leave with the Order. Find safety deep among the stars, disappearing back into the abyss he had come from, the shadow of his shape left behind as a bruise on Poeâs heart.
You could follow him.
Except he couldnât.
He had tried to convince himself he could. Thought, surely, with enough time, he could adapt to that life. Could leave the world he had fought for behind to follow Armitage into the unknown. Help him rebuild the First Order into something that could survive the toils of a Galaxy that hunted them. He would not blame Armitage if he chose that life, because Poe also understood choice was a luxury Armitage did not have, never had. Born and bred into the Order, for the Order, that Armitage would return to it felt natural. But Poe could not go with him. The wall was there, not a line, a wall, as insurmountable as the cliffs of Ajan Kloss.
Itâs not our only option. He had told Armitage, but Poe could not shake how it felt like the inevitable one.
The sound of laughter tore through him, like the fletching of buckshot from his fatherâs slug thrower; all these tiny wounds that would eventually bleed him dry.
âHey, Poe, you okay?â Finn stood beside him, Dejarik board abandoned now that Rose and Armitage were immersed in a game of Force, and Poe supposed he was never really good at keeping secrets.
âJust, got a bad feeling, you know?â
Finnâs frown felt searching, eyes hard on his, and Poe thought he could almost feel the touch of them, as if the primordial presence of Finnâs Force could be wielded with his gaze. âCome with me.â
Poe could not help glancing at Armitage, more wary now than ever before to leave his sight. But he and Rose were bent together over his datapad, smiles on their faces â Roseâs a genuine amusement, Armitageâs softer, a little reserved. Guarded, in the same way Poe remembered when Armitage had first shown him Force. Armitage was safe here, as safe as he could be, as safe as anything Poe could offer. âAlright.â
Across the galleyâs lounge area was an auxiliary deck the Swiftly Strikingâs crew could use as a private meeting room. Compared to the galley, the room was small, but the floor to ceiling transparasteel viewport opened the deck up to deep space, and with it, the sprawling scatter of stars beyond. Or would have, if they werenât currently three hours deep in a jump. Instead, the view was the familiar miasmic glow of hyperspace, the stars so distended as to no longer suggest a shape, manifesting as a shifting pallascent glow. Like clouds gathering before a storm, the light of the Galaxy fluxed in disarray, casting dusky soft across Finnâs face as he led Poe to a bench before the viewport.
They sat down, side by side, quietly watching the passage of time in the form of refracted light. Poe had always thought hyperspace beautiful, had never understood the idea of hyper-rapture, that a person could develop a mania by observing it for too long. And as he sat there next to Finn, he could feel how Finn too relaxed, the weight of his presence a comfort, even if it was so different from the man he had met two years ago. Finn had changed â they all had changed â in some shape or another. War tended to do that, tended to alter people more than it ever did the landscape of ideals they fought for. And while their companionable silence stretched on, he knew it was only minutes, rather than hours, before Finn finally spoke.
âReyâs been teaching me, you know. About the Force,â he began, voice quiet enough that Poe thought Finn might be speaking to someone else, someone not so far away as Poe felt, there beside him on the bench. âShe says Iâve got a knack for it, the empathetic stuff. Better than her, at least. Something about how I broke the Orderâs conditioning. That was Force related, she thinks. Neither of us really know.â Finn loosed a soft laugh, at that. It was humorless, a little sad. âNeither of us really know what weâre doing. Itâs the blind leading the blind. Luke didnât teach her much, you know? Just some vague mystical Jedi nonsense. All the practical stuff sheâs learned on her own, or from Ren.â
Finn paused, swallowed, eyes drifting to the viewport, where the star sprayed light drowned out the dark emptiness of space. The shadows remained, hovering beyond, biding their time for the moment they could reemerge, the propulsion of hyperspeed but a momentary solace.
âThat wasâŠreally hard for me. Accepting that Kylo Ren had something to teach Rey. I was sure that whatever it was that drew them together, it was not of the Light. It couldnât be, because it was Ren. He wasâŠI donât know how to describe him, on the Finalizer. Like some wild shadow creature, brilliant and awful and not of this world. I donât know how Hux wasnât terrified of him, it seemed he was the only one who wasnât,â Finn sounded genuinely flummoxed, and Poe could not stop his sinking feeling. If Finn only knew how Ren was just one of many awful terrifying men in Huxâs lifeâŠâRey was scared of Ren too, or at least I thought she was. When I realized that the bond they shared was more than some Force thing, I think I convinced myself that it was only inevitable that Ren would take Rey away along with everything good and right inside her. How could he not, heâs Kylo Ren, right? But he hasnât. And thatâŠthat has been hard too. Coming to terms with that.â
Finn sighed, lost in this thoughts, silence stretching to tenuous threads, each passing moment another fiber come undone.
âBut as difficult as it has been to watch Rey and Ren form this bond, watching you and Hux has been so much harder.â And as the thread unraveled, Poe felt untethered, as if he were one more star whose shape was lost to the shifting flux of hyperspeed. âBecause Ren I understood. He was awful and terrifying because the Dark side of the Force is awful and terrifying. But Hux was awful and terrifying because he was a man, just like me, like any one of us. He didnât have the same excuse Ren had, to do the things he did. And Iââ Finn drew in a shuddering breath, meeting Poeâs eyes for the first time since theyâd begun this stars cursed confessional, ââI didnât know what to do, when it became obvious there was something happening between you two.â
Poeâs swallow felt like drowning, but he pushed his words free, saying, âFinn Iââ
âNo, Poe. Iâm not, I canât even say this right,â Finnâs laugh cut strange, frustration, or resignation, orâ âI mean, thereâs been something between you two for a while. I think I saw it before you did, the moment you made the decision to take him with us. I still donât know how you knew he was the spy, how you saw that and no one else did. And I think there was a greater reason to what you did, I donât understand how, but it has something to do with what is happening now. Something else you saw that I couldnât. Because there is something to you Poe. Something that makes the world bend to you, or you find the places where you can bend it, and it catches the people around you in its orbit. I donât know if itâs a Force thing or just you, Poe.â
Finn paused again, silent until Poe met his eyes. And whatever Finn was trying to say, Poe thought he could see it there, in the quiet places between his words, in all the things that were being left unsaid.
âYou were so on board, when I basically kidnapped you. Like, here I am, some crazy Stormtrooper suggesting we hijack a TIE and you were just, whatever, letâs do it,â his laugh, this time, sounded honest, and Poe clung to that. âI donât know why I chose that day to defect from the Order. Iâve gone over it so many times, trying to understand. And the conclusion I keep coming to is you. There was something about you, something that drew me to you. I was gonna defect anyway. Hell, I could have signed up for any stupid supply mission to Jakku and cut and run. No one would have caught on until it was too late. Everyone was so conditioned, all it would have taken was an excuse to get away for the few minutes it would take to ditch my armor and disappear into a crowd.â
If Poe thought Finn had sounded frustrated before, this was outright vexation. âBut you inspired me to fucking break you out of the brig and steal the first ship we found. It didnât even have a hyperdrive, what was I thinking.â This time it was Poeâs turn to laugh. It was weak, barely a chuckle, as fragile as the emotion gathering at the corners of his eyes. âSo like, I think then, that I get it. Hux must have felt that too, got caught up in you, or whatever weird thing youâve got going on. And thatâŠthat made sense. But Poe, itâs taken me a really, really long time to figure out what about him got to you.â
Everything, Poe wanted to say, kept to himself. He wasnât even sure if he could pinpoint one singular moment that was his turning point. Armitage had felt inevitable, as inevitable as the passing of time, the light of the stars, the deep black nothing that held them.
âI mean, this is fucking General Hux. It wasnât Ren or Snoke or Palpatine who built Starkiller and destroyed a whole system, it was, again, just a man, like you and me. And that was somehow so much more awful and terrifying to me than some Dark-sided monster, because that meant any one of us could become what he became. There was no greater evil, no monster, just a person.
âBut then I started thinking why. How could a person like that exist? And I realize, itâs because the Galaxy must have failed in some way. Failed him. Failed all of us, because Hux isâŠheâs not a bad person. Heâs someone who has made some really big fucking mistakes and IâŠI never thought I would say this, but the New Republic, theyâve got this all wrong. Because if a person like Hux can turn himself around, youâve got to nurture that. Thatâs fucking hope, for all of us who have started down the wrong path, or likeâŠreached the god damn end of it. And you know what, Hux taught me that. Not Leia or Rey or you. Watching the one and only General Hux struggle his way out of the Orderâs conditioning without even the Force to help him, fucking give that guy a medal, at least a pardon. And Iââ And if Poe didnât know Finn had more to say, he might have grabbed him right then, pulled him into the hug they both needed and hung on until time itself stopped spinning. ââI think maybe you played a part in that, like how you played a part in my defecting. But I didnât defect for you. And Hux, he didnât either. He did it for himself, and for the Order, to help them. To save them, in the only way he knew how. So, I get it. I get why you fell for him. Hux is, heâsââ
Finn cut off, let out a sigh, forging words from his feelings in a way Poe never thought he could articulate, but was so grateful Finn could, âI donât know how to describe it, but I guess itâs like how brilliant the Force was when I discovered it, the first time I recognized the touch of it; that itâs something special that would always be a part of me, and how now I canât imagine what life would be like without it. Hux must feel that way to you.â
Poe didnât remember when he had started crying, wasnât sure when he would ever stop. He pushed his hands over his cheeks, wiping at the tears, biting his lip as time re-threaded through this singular moment â the stitch too small, too loose, to repair the wound in Poeâs heart, but it was a start. Finn pulled him close, held him tight, strong and familiar and comforting. And when he buried his head in Poeâs hair, he thought he heard the quiet sigh of Finnâs breath, as shattered as Poeâs, broken by the tumultuous turning of a world out of their control.
âIâm so over this war, Poe. I donât know why helping people is so hard. I donât know why itâs so difficult to just look at the person next to you and realize theyâre not so different. I couldnât kill a town of innocent people, but Iâve shot down my fellow fucking Stormtroopers like they didnât ever matter. But they do matter, just as much as that hovel of folks I couldnât kill matters. And now when weâre finally helping people in this real and tangible way, weâve got the New Republic trying to turn it all into some political agenda to serve justice and save face, when nothing is going to bring any of the dead back. Why canât we just focus on whoâs left, help them, and try and move forward together?â
âI donât know bud,â Poeâs voice, weak, cracked over the words. âI donât know, but I want that too. I want it so badly.â
They held on to each other as the world passed them by with an unflappable momentum, carrying them towards something that should feel like victory, but was soured, tainted with the taste of defeat. The rift that Poe had once felt separated them closed, here, the space no more vast than the weave of the clothing they wore, the breadth of air that passed through their words. And just as Finn had promised him, Poe felt, for once, truly not alone â wanted Armitage to feel the same way, even as he feared he may not be the person to provide it.
But when the door to the galley opened with a whoosh, and the blackened silhouette of Armitage filled the light spilling through, Poe hoped he was wrong. Hoped he could be that man still, the one who would see Armitage through to a world where he was no longer alone.
Finn drew away, not entirely, only enough to turn towards Armitage in silent regard. His face, immutable in the shadows, revealed nothing of his words. But Poe imagined Hux could hear them all, had been drawn to them as surely as Poe had been drawn into Finnâs embrace.
When Finn turned back to him, it was with a small smile, and an affirmation that cut quick, âWeâve got this, remember?â
âYeah, I know,â Poe whispered, tears gathering again. âLove you, buddy.â
âI love you too, Poe.â
Poe could only watch as Finn crossed the room. As Armitage stepped to the side to allow him to pass. But Finn stopped, hand lifting to Armitageâs shoulder to rest there for a moment that stretched through time, like the long drawn thread stitching together Poeâs heart.
Beyond the transparasteel, hyperspace fluxed. Light passed in flickering moments, and from the shadows it cast, the future revealed itself not as something new, but as the echo of the past. The shade of a history already lived, long lost; the distance of space harboring the remnants of a Galaxy that would never know this war, this struggle, or the long-harrowed journey being made by those who had once fought it.
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As slender as Huxâs shoulders were, they carried the weight of what he bore with efficient aptitude.
Heâd grown used to the weight, long ago. Months and years and decades of responsibility, fear, and guilt, collected into the burden he had shouldered through life like a soldierâs march towards dawn. So Hux did not stagger when Finnâs hand came down to lay across the padded arch of his shoulder. Finn observed with a peculiar intensity â an understanding that Hux had not noticed during their transport ride, so many days ago. And where Hux expected himself to wither under that stare, he felt bolstered. And where he thought the weight of this manâs attention would be but another thing added to the burden he carried, when Finnâs hand lifted, it took with it not just the weight it bore, but the heaviness of those other things. Things long suffered, but harbored still, in the arduous pall of his past.
Wordlessly, Finn slipped from the room, the hydraulic door sliding shut and bathing him in shadow.
Across the room, Poe sat. Waiting, watching. And Hux moved to Poe with the freedom of a man whose lease on life had run over. It did not help that Poe pulled him down to the bench with just as much temerity. But as his eyes roved over Poe: the mussed fall of his hair, the swollen puffiness of his eyes, the hastily wiped away tracks on his cheeks, Hux thought he might be able to carry just a little bit more, for Poe.
âYouâve been crying,â he did not ask why, or if he was alright. Let the pass of his hand over Poeâs cheek ask those questions instead.
âYeah. Sorry, Finn hadâ he had some things to say. And you know me, apparently Iâm a crier,â his laugh fell flat, and Hux considered if he should try to tease out more genuine mirth.
Settled instead for touching Poe. Fingers to his chin, knee hooked over his thigh, Hux slid through Poeâs meager defenses, exploiting the weakness of his armaments as well as he had those of Ticoâs Force strategy. âI left your datapad with Tico, she wanted to try her hand against the AI.â
Poeâs eyes had hooded, gaze drifting down to where his hands had taken to tracing the general stripes on Huxâs sleeve. âYou didnât warn her that you designed the AI after yourself?â
âI designed the AI to best match myself,â he corrected, as he gathered the scattered pieces of Poe. Directed them where they needed to go. His hands, though, were caught instead, the gloves slowly teased free by touches long familiar.
âNo one is your match, certainly not a computer sim.â Bit by bit, Hux was taken apart as Poe reassembled himself whole. And Hux let it happen, gave himself up, every last piece.
They sat in paciferous reverie, under the gentle glow of hyperspace, heads tilted towards one another, fingers tangled skin to skin, nothing but the soft sigh of their breath interrupting the quiet of the flight.
There was not much time left, for moments like these. Hux cherished what he was allowed, made memories of what he could, crafting a lifetime out of these singular seconds, as if he didnât already know that, when the end came, it would drown out all of this in a sudden tempestuous wave. Knew he should tell Poe. Should strike down this tenuous hope that Poe clung to: that he was going to escape with the Order and survive amongst the stars.
But before Hux could gather his words, Poe spoke.
âArmitage, I have something for you,â Poeâs voice did not match his face, far too warm, too open, compared to the sadness that shaped him. Poe had found his hand, turned it up, circled the soft tender cup of his palm. âItâs for you to keep, no matter what happens.â
No matter what happens to you.
Once more, his fate left unsaid between them, and Hux supposed it would do not good to define the obvious. No matter what Poe thought, there was only one thing that could ever come between them, now. Huxâs fingers curled up, hooked over the fingers that traced him, held onto whatever he could.
From around his neck Poe drew a chain â a necklace â looped through the simple tarnished silver of a ring. At once familiar and unfamiliar, Hux recognized it only in the way a person would recognize a fixed aspect suddenly out of place. What was to him just another detail that made up Poe, no different from the curl of his hair or the shape of his mouth.
Apparently, it was far more than any of that.
âThis was my motherâs,â Poeâs voice cast out from the fluid darkness that obscured him, the heavy bowed weight of memory shrouding him in a shadow that reached beyond the physical. âWhen she died, my father gave it to me. I thought he would want to keep it, sinceââ Poe looked up, and Hux met his eyes, closed his hand over Poeâs, stifled his breath in the cage of his heart. ââsince itâs her wedding ring.â Poeâs eyes held his, and altogether Hux felt himself spiraling off, as the import of what was happening here hit him full force. âBut he gave it to me, and I promised Iâd give it to the right person, once I found them.â
âPoeââ Hux wasnât sure if his voice made a sound, couldnât hear it over the beat of his racing heart. ââPoe, you shouldnât, what ifââ
âYouâre not going to die,â And for the first time, Poe said those words with a force that felt real. âYouâre going to do whatever it takes to survive, Armitage.â
Huxâs breath left him in a rush, arrested by the expression painting Poeâs face, a resolve that had everything to do with the future Poe had settled upon, where Hux survived without him, their orbits broken, their paths uncrossed. And Hux understood then, that he could not contend with this resolve.Â
âI love you, Armitage.â No longer a confession, but a declaration, a promise. Poe placed the ring in the cup of his palm, folded his fingers over it, held safe within the confines of both their holds. âNo matter what happens, Iâll always love you. Donât ever forget that.â
âPoe,â his voice hung off the word, stretched thin. I donât know what to say. Knew there was nothing he could say. If this was the shape of Poeâs hope, Hux would not shatter that. If every forward step Poe was to take meant he had to believe Hux would survive, even if surviving meant he would leave, then who was he to strike him down where he stood tall.
Hux was not going to leave with the Order, but if that was the part he had to play in this story, well, Hux had grown good at going along with Poeâs fantasies.
In his palm the ring was still warm with the heat of Poeâs skin, and suddenly, more than anything else, that was what Hux wanted to feel. He leaned into Poe, gripping the ring so tightly his hand shook, Poeâs thumb stroking over his bone white knuckles.
Without a word, Poe pulled him into an embrace. Hux devolved, collapsing into Poe, into the safety he felt every time they came together like this. Beneath the silk of his skin was the beat of his heart, and all the little physical things that told their own story, a simple story Hux could read in the ebb and flow of their touch; a story where he and Poe stayed like this, forever.
When Poe tipped his head down to press his cheek alongside Huxâs, he turned into him. Their lips met in a gentle press, Poeâs arm steadying where it wrapped around his waist, hand lifting up to cradle his jaw. A gentle amative thing, the kiss felt easy, in the way nothing else in Huxâs life felt easy, anymore. It left him untethered, with nothing to hold onto but the ring; and as delicate and insubstantial as it felt, in it was a strength he had thought he could only find in the grip of Poeâs touch.
âLet me put it on you,â Poe murmured into the kiss. They came apart only enough for Poe to trace Huxâs hand open, the drag of his fingertips unraveling far more than his fist. Poe uncoiled the chain, the ring swinging between them, silver edged in soft light. The weight, when it settled around Huxâs neck, felt natural; as natural as the weight of Poeâs hand where it pressed over his chest. Beneath his palm, Hux could feel the outline of the ring imprint over his heart. âI love you so much, Armitage,â Poe said, and Hux wished he didnât sound so sad.
âAnd I love you, Poe,â he responded, whispered. âThank you, for this.â For everything.
âLooks good on you,â Poe murmured when he leaned back in for another kiss, unease forgotten in favor of this. As their lips touched again, Poe played with the ring where it hung, slipping it on and off the tip of his finger, trailing the pad of his thumb down the chain. Hux wondered if he could feel the flutter in his pulse this possessive affection spurred, the pounding of his heart inside his chest. For a second, Hux let himself get swept away, pretended this was it, just the beginning of so many more moments like this, rather than the final thread of a mortal coil come undone. âOne day you can wear it on your finger,â circumstance softened the hope of Poeâs words into another phantasmal fantasy, even as his hand was taken into Poeâs, the rough pads of his fingers tracing the the soft skin where a wedding band would sit.
Hux played the scene out in his mind: A wind tousled Poe stood before him on the Arkanis cliffside, waves crashing feathered mist over the small gathered crowd, as Poeâs father spoke the ancient rite of bidding as he tied knot after knot into the silken rope that joined their clasped hands. The bloated rain of the low hanging clouds would hold for another time, and maybe the sun would appear, flickering Huxâs skin in warm kisses. They would seal the ritual with a feast, as was tradition, but make their escape early, chasing dawn from Chirrupâs back, where their future arose with the sun, over and over, until the Galaxy stopped spinning, and their bones had long become dust.
As quickly as it manifested, Huxâs fantasy dissolved with the swiftness of a ship dropping out of hyperspace.
The dimmed running lights of the Swiftly Striking rose to full luminescence, and Hux wondered how the last several hours had passed so effortlessly.
âWeâve reached the drop point,â Poe acknowledged. His hand, where it held Huxâs, had not let go.
âWe should get to the bridge.â Hux heard the words from afar, like someone else had spoken them; the parts of him that mattered left behind, standing there still, on the cliffs of Arkanis.
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The sterile hallways passed in blinding disarray.
Hux followed Poe through the corridors, dragging the remnants of himself along in his wake, struggling to piece together the person he once was, who he needed to become again. Around them, the ship tumulted. Crew slipped through his peripheral vision, some hastening to the engine room to perform post hyperdrive maintenance, some surely to the hangar bays to prep the landing of the Falcon. Others would be heading to the defense controls, where the Swiftly Strikingâs shields would be raised to full capacity, and her turbo lasers would be prepped for a potential assault. They would not have dropped directly onto the agreed coordinates, but several hundred leagues outside, so the scans on the First Order ships could be run from afar, and stealth scout ships could be deployed to surround the naval base that was to be their meeting point.
The bridge, when they reached it, was complete chaos. Hux would have scoffed, turned his sneer on the closest Lieutenant and taken control of the bridge crew, if he wasnât entirely arrested by the sight that greeted him.
âBy the Force,â Poe whispered beside him, just as horrified, just as in awe.
Framed by the viewport that stretched the length of the bridge, were two Resurgent class Star Destroyers. Well, almost two. Hux did not need the aide who approached him to tell him which ship was which, nor did he need the eyes of the whole of the bridge suspended in his direction, as he slowly approached the transparisteel to take in the vision that consumed him.
The Conqueror hovered, whole and hale, filling the viewport with her terrible majesty, a sleek black blade of a ship that cut the darkness of space with an even inkier umbra.
But it was the Absolution beside her that consumed his attention, because unlike the Conqueror, the Absolution was anything but whole.
The shape of it flickered in strung out distension, broken fragments of a ship rendering itself out of the slow atomization of matter that was hyperspeed at the molecular level. The ship was there, but not there, filling itself in like the trussed up scaffolding of an engineering project recorded in slow motion, little bits of it blinking to life over the too long span of minutes. Hux had read about this, knew it was, theoretically, the risk every ship ran when jumping to hyperspace, but this was the first time he had ever seen it â watched a ship struggle to piece itself back together, watched as the particularized bits of not just the ship, but the men and woman aboard, slowly synced into space.
It struggled, and it fought, and as time rent Hux in half, as his own biology slowed down to what felt like all his billions of atoms vibrating out of place, he only felt himself come back together when the Absolution solidified into shape; whole but not hale â there, but likely not for long.
âWe need to evacuate that ship immediately,â Hux breathed, as Poe stepped closer beside him and placed his hand at his back, both their gazes set on where the Absolution now floated â no, to where it listed, treading space like a creature might tread water, struggling to remain in formation as its thrusters sputtered weakly against the inertia of its hull.
These were his ships, in the way all of the Order was his, had always been his, and he knew his fleet, knew what he saw, right then, in all the ways a scan or report would never reveal.
The running lights along the Absolution were at their highest level, a safety precaution taken only by a ship in distress, so that the rest of the fleet could better visually trace its location, its proximity, to protect or to avoid, in the case of a dangerous drift that took it too close to a neighboring ship. The interior hull lights, meanwhile, were dimmed to a dull brown. Of the many things that could mean, Hux presumed a strain on the life support systems, which meant another of its engines must have failed. That would reduce the Absolution to just one ion engine. One ion engine would be hard pressed to cool the reactor core while providing sufficient life support to the crew, so only the bare minimum systems would be running: oxygen recycling, water recycling, and emergency running lights would be functioning within the sixtieth percentile. Gravity production would be reduced into the thirtieth, with the crew relying on hand holds to maneuver their way through the ship. And the med bay would be limited to critical life support only. All other surgical and medical tech taken offline, with only the med droids internal directives to assist those in need.
And that was to say, if the crew were alive. Because Hux had never seen the effects of a ship that took so long to break hyperspace. But heâd read the texts, knew the physics, understood that those aboard would be suffering from hyper sickness, manifesting at the very least as nausea, dehydration, debilitating muscle spasms, let alone the potential severe symptoms of necrotic limbs, the sudden onset of cancerous cells, and temporary psychosis.
Organa appeared at his side, flanked by Mithra. They looked as grim as Hux felt. Far worse off than Ofant, who stood across the room watching them closely, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. Hux swallowed as Ofant began to move towards them. Would have continued to watch his approach if Organa had not begun speaking.
âGeneral Parnadee hailed, but cut the call short when we realized something was wrong with the Absolutionâs jump. The rendezvous has been delayed while they run diagnostics on the ship,â Organa explained, to both him and Poe. Mithra remained stoic, eyes sliding over the frown Hux knew was marring his face. Ofant slid through the space behind her, coming to stand at Organaâs right, attention leveled on Hux, holding him captive in the vice of his stare.
âThey donât need to run diagnostics. I can tell you whatâs wrong with that ship. It wonât make another jump, and it has likely already suffered catastrophic damage to the remaining systems. And the crewââ he cut himself off, briefly, as he met Mithraâs steely observance even as Ofantâs eyes burned through him, ââthey need an immediate evac. If the engines fail so will life support, not to mention the array of hyper sickness symptoms from the extended re-materialization.â
âWe donât currently have the capacity to transport all those people,â Mithra finally spoke. Hux watched her, expecting defiance, saw instead a statement of fact. âIt will take time to get others to make the jump out here, and few ships come to mind with the capacity we need. But I have some favors I can call in. How long does the Absolution have?â
âAnywhere from several hours to several days,â Or less, likely less. âIt is no longer flight worthy, not even short distances. Itâs all it can do to stabilize within a vacuum. We are lucky it did not come apart during their jump.â
âYes, just as you predicted it might,â Ofant mused. And unlike Mithra, this was not a statement of fact, but anâŠaccusation.
âI understand these ships.â He said carefully, like that might be an admittance to something the jury was still undecided on.
âIâll see what ships can be spared for an evac, and then weâll proceed with the rendezvous as discussed,â Mithra turned to Ofant as she said this, her stare as steely as when itâd been directed at Hux. Ofant merely smiled, head inclined in an acquiescence that dripped with performance.
A performance that took a turn when Ofant said, âI would advise against luring more ships to the drop point until we are assured the weapons systems on both Star Destroyers have been brought offline as requested. In case this is their plan, you understand.â
âThis is not a trap,â Hux snapped before he could stop himself. Continued, before anyone else could stop him, even as he felt the pull of Poe at his side, the weight of Mithraâs stare on his back, the touch of Organaâs Force, smoothing his edges. âWhat ship in their right mind would risk a jump like that to set a trap? What sort of trap would they set, with only two ships, one of which is catastrophically crippled, against a fleet of seven? What do I have to do to convince you that these people are here for our help?â
Hux took a step towards Ofant. Too close to be polite, too far to actually touch, and entirely heedless of the smile that greeted him, the height disadvantage he so rarely encountered.
âYour petty attempts at sabotaging this rescue mission have not gone unnoticed. But I already know your problem is not with the people of the Order, but with me. So, here I am, you have my undivided attention, say what you will, while you have me.â
âOh, I have you alright,â Ofant demurred, gesturing intimately with his hand, a glancing brush over his cheek, so close Hux could not tell if he felt it or merely the disturbance of the air. He staggered back as if struck. Ofant continued, undisturbed, âBut Iâve already said my piece regarding you, to all the people that matter, you understand.â
Smoothly, Ofantâs smile was replaced with a grin, not as long-toothed as Hux had once imagined, more self-satisfied, fat like a well-fed cat, lazy and indulgent but just as rapacious for more.
Poeâs fist, when it collided with Ofantâs face, made such a satisfying thunk.
âPoe!â Organaâs reproof struck sharp, but not deep, and certainly not effectively, as Poe had already pushed himself between him and Ofant, glare darkened to match the color of his voice.
âSorry Leia,â Poe said, not sounding sorry at all, âI donât know what came over me.â
But as Ofant straightened, the back of his hand pressed to the split Poe had made in his lip, he looked just as satisfied as if Hux had thrown the punch. Like this break in decorum had been his intention all along. Where he could paint the Resistance as nothing but a rabble of ruffians not fit to lead the Galaxy in anything, let alone negotiations with the First Order.
His riposte, when it came, felt like the real punch.
âI should throw you in the brig for assault,â Ofant suggested, as if the idea had only just come to him.
Hux pushed forward beside Poe, the words he wanted to speak crawling over his tongue, taking formâ
âMaybe would have, if his voice wasnât stolen by the vision that suddenly befell the sprawling viewport.
From the depths of hyperspace emerged a third ship. A ship Hux knew, just like he knew the Conqueror and the Absolution. Knew its weaknesses and its weapons, the number of its engines and the length of its halls. And he knew who commanded it. Knew, then, with terrible certainty, that Ofant was right â that this was, in fact, a trap.
But the Swiftly Striking was not its prey.
Hux barely heard as the bridge behind him frenzied into a panic: the passing shouts of the captain to throw all power into the forward shields, to man their own battle stations, to brace for emergency maneuvers that would be too slow, had they even the time to execute them. And as if in slow motion, Hux stumbled forward, pushing past the bodies that surrounded him, feet finding their way across the bridge to the railing of the viewport, where he gripped, hanging on, to watch in looming horror as the Class-VI Siege Dreadnought descended, cut its shape from the stars like some cursed spectral beast sent down from the heavens.
Watched as its laser cannons energized to life, light flooding the turbines in that same sickly, ambient glow Hux had once observed with such virile glee.
Watched as the beams hit, the Absolution erupting in an energetic inferno. The explosion of her reactor core manifesting first as wobbling bubble, before contracting and expanding into a burst of blinding white, scattering across the viewport a moment before the sonic boom hit, a howl without sound that tore through his body like the sterile strike of a Force-forged fist.
He fell to his knees, hands gripping the railing, hanging on to whatever was left, blinking against the bright and the tears and the grief that struck through him. And as the light scattered, and his eyes readjusted and the wet ran streaks down his cheeks, he watched as the Absolution returned to matter. Watched as over one hundred thousand souls disintegrated back into the star-flung particles that had once formed them.
Watched as hope died, when the Mandator set its course for the Conqueror, the breadth of its shape befalling the Star Destroyer like the shadowed pass of fateâs hand.
Noâ He was shouting. He could feel the sound in his throat, the shape of it, the long drawn syllable echoing empty in the static that had filled his head. But Hux heard nothing of his voice, let alone the footsteps that approached him, or the name that was surely his. When Poeâs arms came around him, lifting him from the ground, pulling him into his embrace, the sights and sounds of the bridge crashed back to life. Warnings indicating, consoles alight with status reports, beeping and screeching in tandem with too many voices barking orders. Organa and Ofant and Mithra clashing in an impotent duel of wills.
ââretreatââ
ââif we jumpââ
ââyou would leave themââ
But Hux could not tear himself from the viewport. Could not turn away as the dreadnaught pivoted on its axis, avoiding the dusty remains of the Absolution as it re-targeted it sights. The Conqueror would not fall right away. Its shields would deflect the cannon fire for the first several dozen rounds, until they became overloaded and fell. They maybe could outrun the Mandator, if their engines had the opportunity to prime, but their shields would need all their resources, and only their TIE could buy them time. Except their weapons had been taken offline, and their TIE would have no cover, no support, and they would drop one by one, until the Conqueror was as exposed as the Absolution. Resources wasted on a futile few minutes of life that would end scattered across an empty star system, no one to mourn their fate but a man already doomed to death.
âPoeââ his voice didnât sound like his own. Roughened by his shouting, swollen thick with emotion. He felt like he had shattered apart alongside the Absolution, and only the gravity of Poeâs presence held him together. His hands twisted into Poeâs shirt, chasing away their shaking with the strength of their grip, ââwe have to help them.â
âWe need to get to the Falcon.â Poeâs face had hardened, emotion pushed aside in favor of his resolve, âAnd we need a plan.â Hux clawed at the strength he found there, like his hands clawed at Poeâs shirt, unable to let go, clutching for a hope he ever dared to have.
But hope had never served him. And hope would not save the Order now. Only action would. And as the ship around him prepared for escape, as the New Republic turned their backs on his people once more, Hux knew, suddenly, what he had to do.
âI have a plan,â words spoken as he dragged his shattered pieces back together, his shape reforming into not that of Armitage, but General Hux, the man who would save the First Order.
And he knew how he looked. Understood the choice he was making. Because just like Ofant had been right about the trap, Hux could not help but think that Poe might also, in fact, be right about him.
âYou need to get me on that ship,â Hux said as he drew up, drew away, hands de-tangling from their hold on Poeâs shirt, fingers slipping free, letting go.
âI need to get on the Mandator.â
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Notes:
Y'all don't even know what your feedback means to me.
The saving grace of writing this chapter was definitely the Finn scene. I have such strong feelings for Finn, and it felt so good to let him say his piece to Poe regarding Hux. And I'm glad that piece turned out to be positive, because that scene was literally 'Poe and Finn have a broment about Hux' in my outline, and I did not actually expect it to turn into Finn spilling his heart. Poor man, I'm glad it's now canon that Rey is training him in the Force (thanks, Lego Star Wars, for all your gifts).
I am almost at 300 kudos! Please, if you like this story and have not left one yet, it would mean the world to me <3
Chapter 12: The Conqueror
Notes:
No warnings, except a brief suggestion of Reylo in the first segment.
Future chapters will have more than brief mentions. If y'all think I need to add a tag to this story for that pairing please let me know!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The halls of the Swiftly Striking passed in dissevered parts. The bright white glare of the halls froze over in blood-tinted red, throbbing in time with the blaring klaxons as each alarm commanded the crew to action. Poe had known these alarms, once. Had traversed near identical halls as a junior officer, and later as a Captain, his body reacting with the conditioned training befitting his station, let alone the piloting reflexes he was so espoused of. One series of whoops signaled the engine room to warm the sub-light engines. Another called on line the heavy laser cannons, the shield operators, the bridge crew, the fighter pilots. Command after command repeated in harried succession, until the whole of the ship tumulted into practiced operation, like the nerves of some great beast wielding its many and varied limbs.
Once, Poe had obeyed these alarms. Now they blared meaningless, commands left to fester in the pit of his chest where his heart once beat, as he pulled Armitage along beside him, heading towards the main hangar bay where the Falcon awaited. And with it, the trussed up noose of fateâs final foil.
You need to get me on that ship.
Poe would. Of course he would. Of all the people that would come between Armitage and the Order, Poe as no longer one of them. Armitage would save his people, Poe knew, with the same fearsome confidence that assured him each time the transparisteel hatch of Black One descended over his head.
Armitage would save the Order, and he would either leave in the process, or die as the result.
The Falconâs engines were already warmed, when they arrived.
âPoe!â Rey shouted from the top of the boarding ramp, flanked by Rose and Finn. Theyâd all been of the same mind. Unsurprising, for Poe, but he felt the traction to Huxâs steps, the not quite tug against their reckless momentum.
But then a shadow shifted behind Rey. A glimmer of the void against the dark. Familiar in shape, more memory than reality, in the same way a deep wound leaves a scar.
Kylo Ren.
Fuck.
They took the ramp in three long strides, side by side, hand in hand; Poe tried to ignore the way Armitageâs shook.
Rey greeted him with a clasp to his shoulder, brown eyes earnest when they darted between him and Armitage. âLeia wonât answer her comm, is she coming?â
âNoââ Poe cut off, glancing to where Armitage hovered just inside the closing hatch, all frozen limbs and severed thoughts. Poe didnât have the Force, but he was so attuned to Armitage in that moment that he may as well. Armitageâs eyes followed Ren, tracking his movements through the shadows, face hardened over the emotions that had spilled so honest but minutes ago, aboard the bridge. ââshe was fighting with the Senate when we left. We need to get off this ship now, before they decide to jump.â
Rey cursed, as Finn took off for the cockpit, to where Chewie would be manning the stick. Rose swept away in the opposite direction, towards the gun station. Poe didnât miss her glancing touch to Armitageâs sleeve.
âI need to get on the Mandator,â Armitage spoke firmly. Not a command, but close enough that Reyâs mouth drew a line. âIf I can not commandeer that ship it will not stop until it has destroyed the Conqueror and likely as much of this fleet as it can.â
âAre you sayingââ
âTheyâll have tracked the Order ships through hyperspace. Parnadee mentioned the in-fighting they were hiding from. The Mandator must have been waiting for them to jump, knowing their dwindling resources would eventually drive them out of hiding.â
As Armitage spoke, his eyes traced the shape of Ren from the darkness. Silent, he returned Huxâs attention, posture easy, powerful, unperturbed despite the heat of Armitageâs stare.
Rey remained silent, glancing over her should to Ren, something silent passing between them, wordless but knowing. âOkay. I understand what youâre saying, but getting you onto that ship is not going to be easy, even with Ben and I bothââ
âNo.â
If the hand in Poeâs grip had been shaking before, now it was outright vibrating.
âHe will have no part in this,â Hux spoke lowly, the snarl Poe expected traded in favor of a darkened revulsion.
âHuxââ Ren spoke for the first time, the modulated voice from Poeâs nightmares far too caustic for this boyish whine to be any match.
Yet despite his own personal reservations, no one could deny the power Ren represented, the opportunity he offered. But Armitage would hear nothing of what Ren might say. He turned from Rey and Ren, towards the cockpit, and it was all Poe could do to keep up â to not abandon his hold on Armitageâs hand.
Because Armitage had not let go, was in fact gripping all the tighter.
The grin he gave Rey flashed brief, apologetic.
The words he spoke to Armitage eased soft, soothing.
âIf he can help usââ
âHasnât he helped enough?â
Isnât he the reason any of this is happening?
âArmitage,â it was Poeâs turn to tighten his hold. Beneath his fingers, beneath the glove, Armitageâs hand leaked heat. âAt least let Rey help, Iâve seen her move whole ships with her mind. If weâre going to get on the Mandator, weâre going to need all the help we can get.â
When Armitage drew to a stop, it was so abrupt that Poe very nearly stumbled into him, would have knocked them both to the floor. Instead, he pressed into Armitageâs side, free hand finding his waist to draw him into a shadow, out of the spilled-over light from the open cockpit door ahead. From behind, he could hear Rey and Ren; voices low, words tenderly murmured.
Poe pushed Armitage into the wall, gently, carefully. Beneath his hands, his body strung tight, coiled with tension, and Poe could not help but think that the release would be what finally broke him. Poe had witnessed it before â the self-destructive quality of Huxâs determination, the ends he would gladly meet if it meant achieving his goals. Heâd seen it aboard the Steadfast, when heâd committed himself to treason and the execution that accompanied it. And he had seen it again but a week ago, when heâd offered his life to the Senate. And he was watching it happen again now, as Armitage chased his goal across enemy lines, straight into the heart of conflict, as if his own life didnât matter at all, if it meant he could save the Order.
Each time, Armitage would have propelled himself head first into death, if not for Poe; if not for the tempered touch of his hands drawing him back from the edge, out of fatesâ grasp.
Which was why, when Armitage clasped his hand all the tighter, Poe recognized his desperation not in any words, but in the temerity of his touch.
Help me, it asked. And Poe would. He would do everything he could.
Armitageâs hand felt feverish, beneath the glove. Poe resisted the urge to remove it, folded his other over top instead, so Armitageâs hand was clasped tightly between his two when he lifted it to his lips. His kiss was soft, lingering. His words, when he spoke them, were quiet. âLet us help you, Armitage.â
âIt has to be me. Ren canâtâ heâll justââ Huxâs eyes were steadfast upon their clasped hands, body honed sharp where it pressed into Poeâs, ââthis is not his fight. These are not his people.â
âI know. I understand, it can only be you,â Poe assured, even as it felt like he was tearing his own still beating heart out of his chest, âbut that doesnât mean you have to do this alone.â
When Armitageâs eyes met his, Poe saw all the desperation and fear he harbored. Watched each and every second of time between that moment and their arrival on the Swiftly Strikingâs bridge replay itself in the glassy flicker of his stare. And Poe struggled alongside Armitage, wrestling with the knowledge that what needed to be done next truly was all on Armitage. Poe could only watch on while Armitageâs whole life hemorrhaged out around him, the only person who could staunch the wound Armitage himself.
Not me. I canât save him. Not this time.
âWe need to hail Parnadee, perhaps togetherââ Armitage cut off, eyes drifting distant as plans were made and unmade; thoughts picking through every possible path and potential destination, each discarded in favor of the next. Poe was unsure if Armitage had a plan as much as he had a conclusion. ââmy greatest chance of success lies with getting onto the Mandator. Once on board I should be able to take the ship from within.â
âAlright,â from the cockpit Poe could hear the telltale series of indicators that precluded the initiation of the Falconâs main engines, and the distorted voice over the comm as the Swiftly Strikingâs dock team reluctantly confirmed the Falconâs disembarkation request. âNo easy feat, Hugs. But weâve pulled off worse. Youâve got the galaxyâs best of the best here to help you.â
Poe held still, praying â hoping â Armitage would hear him, really hear him. Not just the facade his words painted, but the truth to them: that he was not in this alone, did not have to be. That everyone aboard the Falcon cared, actually cared, in the way the New Republic never could. In the way anyone who had watched this war from the sidelines never could.
When Armitage leaned forward to rest his forehead against Poeâs, it was intimate, touching Poe in a way little else could. His breath staggered in his lungs, his heart hammered in his chest. And when Armitage whispered, thank you, it was Poeâs hands, this time, that shook.
They entered the cockpit just as the Falcon slipped through the hangar bay door and into open space.
Before them, the Mandator loomed, the yawning nothing of deep space consumed by the wedge-shaped hull of the Star Destroyer. Over twice the size of Conqueror, it dwarfed the already massive ship in an artificial shadow, the running lights along its hull winking with the still scattered energetic remains of the Absolution which hung heavy between them. The radiation cloud would be massive. And while those aboard the Star Destroyers would be safe, the TIE fighters that were currently funneling from the Conquerorâs port side hangar would barely be shielded against that level of radioactivity. Poe had ran a ship through a radiation storm, once. Had been sick for days after.
But the Conqueror did not have a choice. Not when they were stranded alone and near defenseless, their only potential ally too busy fighting among themselves over whether they were worth whatever scrap of humanity was left inside their ship. The Conqueror would send her pilots to die, just as Armitage would drive himself into deathâs hands, because that had always been the way of the Order; where loyalty meant totality, and commitment understood no compromise.
Beside him, Armitage took a step forward, the hands clasped behind his back flexing so tightly his gloves gave a squeak. It was the final betrayal of his emotions, before they were absconded in favor of a critical eye that flicked over the view port in quick pulses.
âWill you hail the Conqueror, please?â The politeness of the request sounded strange even to Poe, let alone Finn and Chewie who both looked to him for confirmation. The co-pilotâs seat was not empty, however. Phasma looked as gray as Armitage, face shuttered against the shift of her own thoughts as she examined Armitage from what otherwise appeared to be a relaxed lounge.
âAlready tried, our comms are jammed,â she reported, pausing before adding, almost thoughtfully, âSir.â
âThen try again, Captain, and this time donât use the Falconâs signal.â
Phasmaâs face lit as she pursed her lips, fishing her datapad out from beneath her battered armor. It looked like she had tried to polish it â tried and failed â the pitting far too deep, too permanent, to ever be buffed back to its original gleam. And as Phasma connected to Order net, and the Falcon set a course for the Conqueror, Poe felt his world shift, just a little, on its axis. Whoâd have ever thought the lines of his life would change so drastically? Whoâd have ever predicted heâd be running to the rescue of the very people he had once shot down from the cockpit of Black One?
How many TIE had he blown from the sky? How many Star Destroyers had they watched burn bright over the horizon of Exegol? How many Stormtroopers had he set his blaster upon, putting holes through their armor as if an individual person werenât hidden behind each identical mask?
And how many of his own men and women had he led into battle against these very people? How many lives had he sacrificed for the sake of ridding the galaxy of the First Order, of the people he now understood were never all that different â not really â not in the ways that mattered. Not in ways that could be addressed, with respect and understanding. With a negotiation that should have taken place after the war his parents had fought, when victory had been a sure thing, and the open wound of the former Empire had not the time to fester.
Order.
That was the First Order Armitage had fought for, had grown up idealizing. A Galaxy who left no one behind, where the light of the Core worlds wasnât the only beacon of civilization. Where home was a place crafted from a seat among the stars, a ship that knew no worldly bounds, unlike the planets that had birthed them, and then turned their backs.
The Order had built itself on the labor of the downtrodden, the overlooked; envisioned by the very people the New Republic had condemned to exile and then hunted in fear. Who could fault them if they turned fanatical? Who could place the blame of the galaxyâs problems solely at their feet, when the New Republic had not so much as lifted a finger to extend their protection and wealth beyond the safety of the Core, after a war had left the whole Galaxy reeling?
And who could be surprised, when the abused bit back, more vicious and violent than the hand that had tried to subdue them?
Beside him, the light of the Conqueror limned Armitageâs profile in stark relief. Poe had thought heâd understood, for so long, what this all meant for him. Had thought heâd understood what is was Armitage had given up, in defecting to the Resistance. And he thought heâd been able to frame it all in the same way Armitage surely saw it, saw the Order, and his responsibility to the ideals he had dedicated his life to. But as Poe stared at Armitage, the straight back, the clasped hands, and all the little telling signs of stress carefully composed into the perfect picture of uncompromising control, Poe realized he had only ever scratched that surface.
It had all seemed so clear, when he had thought theyâd still been the good guys â when Armitage was âseeing the lightâ or whatever bullshit had made it easier to watch the man he loved struggle to give up on everything he had worked for all his life. But right and wrong were constructs touted by the naĂŻve, the men and women who watched their worlds turn from the safety of their privilege. Because life was not black and white. This war had never been black and white. And certainly, the battle taking place before them, was every shade of gray on the spectrum.
âShouldnât we hail the Swiftly Striking? Are they really going to jump? We canât do this without the fleetââ
âNo, we donât need them, let them jump,â Armitage spoke coolly, wearing authority as easily as he wore the tailored cut of his uniform.
âWe canât get close to the Mandator with only the Falcon and a Star Destroyer with its weapons offline,â Finn spoke, âThere is no way we can get you close to that ship.â
âTake a second look,â and Poe knew he wasnât imagining the smugness he heard, âThe Mandator is not planning an attack, so much as a commandeering.â
Finnâs frown fell away as he turned back to the view port. Poe felt his own mouth fall open in shock.
âTheyâve got her in their traction beam,â Poe breathed it out, taking a step closer, sliding between the two cockpit seats to get a better look. It was faint, obscured by the glittering debris of the Absolution, but there it was, the beams tethered fast to the Conquerorâs bow. âThey want the ship. Of course they want the karking ship.â
âIndeed, and the first thing they will do when they have it is slice her systems and take control. So we best get aboard the Conqueror while we still have the opportunity,â Hux stepped up alongside him, observing Phasma with a peculiar intensity. âAny luck, Captain?â
âIf this was your pad Parnadee would have picked up already, I am sure she has bigger problems right now than my ghost coming back to haunt her.â Phasma frowned down at the unanswered comms call, blinking screen glinting off the dulled sheen of her armor. âHell, I could be on the Mandator for all she knows.â
âKeep trying,â said Armitage, voice bereft of emotion, posture comfortable in the way only years of command could inhibit, âsheâll answer.â
It shouldnât be curious, Poe thought, that Armitageâs confidence was so infecting, his tone brokering only an abiding assurance. But as Poe felt his nerves calm, the tightness in his throat release, the pound of his heart slow, he understood something else, then. Something that should have been so very obvious for far longer than the time it took to release his held breath. Armitage wasnât just another commander, one of the figureheads that topped the pyramid of the First Orderâs command. He was a leader. An actual leader, as natural as any Poe had worked under, as natural as he had once thought himself to be, before his leadership had led so many to their deaths.
And as the sing-songy chime of Phasmaâs datapad clattered through the cockpit like a mallet to a skull, and as Poe looked to Armitage when he accepted the pad from Phasma, his face inscrutable under the dim light of the cockpit, his mind consumed in the careful consummation of a plan he had only just wrought, Poe realized that yes, Armitage Hux was a leader, and a damned good one, and Poe couldnât help but think that was what the New Republic should really be afraid of.
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Bellava Parnadee emerged from the dark like a ghost. And with her came the poltergeist of his past: spindly fingers that dragged up his spine and coiled tight around his throat, a knife sharp pain plunging deep into his temples.
A punch to his gut, so deep the the air in his lungs rushed out in staccato breaths.
It was only the presence of Poe behind him that kept Hux at all together, as the phantom shape of his past came back to claim him with an ownership that, Hux thought, would never truly be surrendered.
The hangar bay of the Conqueror was dark, the emergency lighting doing naught to flood the arching space now that the Falconâs landing lights had dimmed. There was barely any room for the ship, let alone the men and women who stood rank and file along its walls. A space had been hastily cleared for the Falconâs arrival, but debris still littered the floor â scattered, now, from the disturbance of the Falconâs engines. All around him were little remnants of life lost among the landing gear: a torn blanket there, someoneâs discarded helmet there, and a stank that permeated the air; the very cloying scent of human biology at work without the confines of a basic standard of hygiene.
Parnadee stood in frozen attention, eyes wide, mouth tight with a tension Hux felt mirrored in himself. How many times had Hux stood in this very position? At his desk aboard the Finalizer, or around Renâs command table, meeting with Parnadee and the other generals to discuss strategy? How may times had she pursued his alliance, during those early years, when Snoke had set upon Hux his favor alongside the brutal touch of his Force? And how many times had she approached him aboard the Steadfast, when Huxâs favor had been all but spent, as if there were still some value to be found in his alliance. As if Kylo Ren had not kept him around only because it was easier than actually dealing with Snokeâs leftover rabid cur.
It was only after the long drag of her eyelids that Hux realized, of course, it was not Parnadee who was the ghost here, but him.
âGeneral Parnadee, thank you for receiving us.â And Hux wondered then, as Parnadeeâs eyes slid from his companions to meet his gaze, and her face fractured over an emotion that resembled relief, if it wasnât his favor Parnadee had courted, but his respect.
âGeneral Hux, so the rumors are true.â Echoed words, meaning lost to everyone but Phasma and Poe â Poe, who shifted closer, an imperceptible movement, for anyone but Hux. âIâm sorry we could not receive you in the main hangar, we need to keep it available for the returning TIE.â
âThatâs quite alright.â He stood rigid, flanked by Phasma to his left, Poe to his right. Behind them, Rey and Finn stood with Rose, hovering at the bottom of the Falconâs loading ramp. Together, they made an uncanny menagerie, he knew. And his own words echoed true, If you are to survive, foes must become friends. âAm I right to presume Captain Peavey commands the Mandator?â
âYou knew?â Parnadee kept her voice clear of inflection, but Hux knew this woman, knew her mind.
âA guess. We spoke weeks back, it was not a pleasant conversation.â His feet felt heavy, as he fell into step beside Parnadee. âThe Millennium Falcon will remain for a short stay, I apologize for the disturbance weâve caused your crew.â
The sniff Bellava gave him was a break in decorum and entirely out of character, but a break Hux readily welcomed. âBelieve me, they are grateful for your arrival. I presume you have a plan, General?â And there was no mistaking the flick of her eyes past Huxâs shoulder, to where Phasma and Poe followed.
To where Kylo Ren hid, relegated to the shadows where he belonged; stowed away inside the Millennium Falcon, the only part of Huxâs plan he could not account for â could not predict â because Ren was as obtuse as a Kalak with a skull just as thick.
âThe plan is a peaceful surrender, of course.â Hux inclined his head at the out-of-armor trooper who had just stumbled into the hangar bay unaware. To be caught out of uniform during a militarized movement, despite the hangar bay having been transformed into living quarters, should earn him a demerit and a potential demotion. The fear on his face bled freely, his salute impeccable. Hux passed him by with a tilt to his chin, a lift of his brow, held back the turn of his mouth when the trooper somehow stood straighter.
âGeneral,â Parnadee lowered her voice, attention dragging over the very same trooper, the line of her mouth hardening. âWith all due respect, if we surrender, Peavey will execute all of us.â
âOh we wonât be surrendering, General, the Mandator will.â
It was taking everything within her not to snap. Hux could see it in the frail way her mouth trembled, the hooded weight of her eyes. The way her attention kept darting to the crew around her, as if the convergence of their stares were dragging her apart bit by bit. âAnd how do you plan to achieve that?â
âThere is a reason Captain Peavey did not rise further through the ranks during his long tenure with the Order. His command over the Mandator is born of opportunity, not from respect of his crew or the support of his peers.â His step didnât falter, as he crossed the threshold from hangar to hallway. Even here, the ship was lived-in. Lights darkened to a dim brown, the floors dulled with the scuffs of boots, the scattering of dust, the grime of a well-trodden path taken by thousands of footfalls every day for months. âDameron, youâve flown a TIE before, havenât you?â
Poeâs step staggered, Hux barely held back his smile. âYeah, except Iâ uh, crashed it, that one time. But sure, I can fly a TIE.â
âI am confident you can.â He would have to, if they were to get on the Mandator alive.
âOur laser turrets will need another thirty minutes to generate enough power to fire, General Hux. And our TIE are far fewer in number than the Mandatorâs compliment. I advise a strike team of bombers, to compromise the shipâs hull. Perhaps led by your pilot there, heâs destroyed one of our Dreadnoughts before, he canââ
âWe will not be destroying the Mandator, General,â Hux snapped, highly cognizant of Poeâs presence behind him, the sheepish grin he was likely to be wearing at the mention of one of his moreâŠeffusive victories. âI plan to preserve as many First Order lives as physically possible. Those are still our brethren, despite what ship they call home,â he said it with all the conviction he felt â the surety that rendered his plan from what, he acknowledged, looked as foolish as the stripped down trooper scrambling for his armor.
âWhat Peavey wants is the Conqueror, so we will give her to him. Allow the tethering, it will bring us close enough for our TIE to cover the transport of our strike team. Iâll lead the team, to board the Mandator and take it from within.â
And when Peavey sliced the life support system to drain the atmosphere out of the ConquerorâŠwell, Hux had a plan for that too, one he did not much care for, but could make work.
âYou think theyâre just going to let you walk onto that damned ship?â When she finally snapped, it was with months of pent up aggression, weeks of sleepless nights, hours of harrowing doubt that had sundered her mind from her emotions, âAnd what of the tethering, heâll take control of our systems, could cut life support, suffocate us allââ
âNot without overriding your command codes, General. He may have the superior ship but he still only has the credentials of a Captain. Heâll either need time to slice your systems or will take you alive, so he can finally get that promotion heâs been so unfairly denied.â
âAnd if youâre wrong?â
He wasnât wrong, he didnât have room to be wrong.
âTrust me, General. Iâve dealt with men far more dangerous than our dear Captain Peavey.â
A ripple moved through the ship, barely more than a tremor beneath the rubber sole of his boot. The tethering. The Conqueror would be hauled so close to the Mandator that it would make jumping to hyperspeed, let alone average maneuvering, too dangerous to manage. Soon the local network would be tapped, the systems sliced. A risk he was only willing to run because he had Kylo Ren.
Kylo Ren, whose command codes would override all others.
If he cared to use them. If he at all lifted a finger to help.
âTo the bridge, General, I am sure Peavey is eager to speak with you.â
Stepping onto the Conquerorâs bridge, was like stepping through time. Hux took a steadying breath as the thready twang of his boots on the durasteel flooring dislodged memories of another life. Aching things he had buried in the months past, when duracrete had replaced steel and an acrid humidity had ballooned heavy in his lungs. The Finalizer had felt much the same, so damn near identical; twin ships birthed from Kuatâs ship yards but eighteen months apart. Sisters, if ships were to have one, the differences in their builds so minuscule as to be overlooked by the undiscerning eye.
Hux though, had a very discerning eye. And he tethered himself in the present through the construct of the Conquerorâs trivial tells, the little bits that set her apart from the ship in his dreams, the one he had once called home.
Transparisteel arched high overhead, revealing the underbelly of the Mandator. The running lights flooded so bright they struck shadows out of the figures standing at the Conquerorâs consoles. Darkened, they appeared more shapes painted into a portrait than actual people, frozen against a landscape even the most experienced bridge crew would be wary to behold. Beyond their silhouettes a team of TIE warbled past, heading in formation to return to the Conquerorâs port side, to where her own main hangar opened to space.
Hux imagined how these tethered ships would appear to the New Republic: two massive creatures merging to form an even greater beast, like the parasitic absorption of some dark Force-cursed predator.
The holo projector glowed empty, the blue cast spilling cool against the warm light of the Mandatorâs hull.
âGenerals.â The shipâs Captain, a man named Dolnovan, saluted with the same enthusiasm as the trooper, eyes drifting over Huxâs face quickly before falling into place at a point over his shoulder. âComms are not jammed, but the Mandator will not answer our hails. Status of the ship is stable, no damage to our hull or reduction in power to the deflector shields. Our TIE have disengaged from preliminary maneuvers as commanded, without engagement on either side.â
âThey want our ship whole, Captain Dolnovan, and her TIE intact, I imagine,â said Hux, while Parnadee pursed her lips and stepped away to approach the viewport. âHail Captain Peavey again, this time with an amendment, tell him General Hux would like to speak with him.â
âYes, sir,â said with only a waver of pride. And all around him, Hux could feel the crawl of eyes, the twitter of unvoiced expectations, notes passed via knowing glances and smothered smirks. General Hux is here. General Hux will save us. General Hux has returned to the First Order.
Hux clasped his hands behind his back, imagined it was Poeâs hands gripping his gloves so tightly, rather than his own feeble fingers. He could feel Poe, there, just beyond the physical reach of his body. Imagined the way Poe must see him, right then: a figment of the past re-birthed anew, the man Poe had grown to love eschewed in favor of this haunted memory, something even more horrid than the specter of his past. Because Hux recognized how easily he slipped back into this role. How naturally he wielded the command of a General, and surely that meant something. Something Poe would never be able to forgive.
The comm clanged loudly as their hail was accepted.
Peaveyâs holo, when it rendered into its blue-tinged three dimensions, was placid, almost deathly with his constructed calm. Only the slow blink of his eyes gave away that this was something actually living. His hair was hidden beneath his Captainâs cap, face framed ghastly by the under-lighting of the Mandatorâs forward bridge pit. It exposed the length of his torso in cool relief, and across his tailored uniform splashed a dark spot, almost unnoticeable in the strange cast of the holo, but there, and recognizable, because Hux had seen it all before.
âCaptain Peavey, congratulations on your new commission. The Mandator is a fine ship, isnât she?â
âFar finer than the Finalizer. Is it true what they say, you scuttled her on some backwater Rebel outpost?â
No correction to his title, Hux duly noted. Not a confirmation, but close enough.
âDecommissioned beachside, enjoying her golden years under a planetâs sun. As such, I find myself missing the halls of a Star Destroyer, so Iâve decided to take yours. Your crew will understand I am sure. It wouldnât be the first time the Mandator has been commandeered.â
Peavey sneered, and it all felt so predictable. âI wonât insult your intelligence by pointing out that it is the Conqueror which is currently being commandeered, General Hux. My strike team is readying for departure, your crew should prepare to be boarded, and yourself and General Parnadee available for arrest. Iâd hate to have to use undue force upon your ship, this can be peaceful.â
There was no strike team, Hux gave Peavey that much credit, at least. âAs peaceful as your destruction of the Absolution, Captain?â
âThe ship was dying, I put it out of its misery.â
âAnd her crew?â
âUnfortunate casualties.â
âYou murdered those men and women, Captain Peavey. Over a hundred thousand First Order souls executed for no other crime than being aboard a crippled ship you had no use of. I agree, very unfortunate. How does your crew feel about it? Was it your hand that triggered the cannons or perhaps you passed the buck to a poor Lieutenant? Or maybe the weapons crew down in the pit? Did they gasp when you shot the first person who protested your order?â
Peavey's face twisted, his words snapping rabid, âDo not think me stupid. I recognized the ship you arrived with, the rebel scum you have made your tides to, and I see through your attempts to start a mutiny aboard my ship, General. I assure you, your efforts are wasted.â
âAnd I assure you, they are not. Iâll see you shortly, Captain.â
The comm cut off immediately. Hux didnât even have to give the order. Despite the state of its halls, Parnadee ran a tight ship.
Hopefully tight enough to hold out against the oncoming wait that would surely drive their dread to newfound depths.
âPrepare a transport for myself and Captain Phasma, and a TIE for our rebel pilot here. Peavey wonât be sending a team to board the Conqueror, he will get to work on the slicing of her systems. Without a generalâs command codes, he will not be able to do so quickly though.â
âAnd if he has those, then what, weâll all die?â Truly, the question of the hour.
Hux pressed his lips together, inclined his head, âHe doesnât, but Iâve a team who will assist against the slicing. All I need is enough time to get aboard the Mandator and take command.â
âYouâre so confident?" Parnadee breathed. "With all due respect, General Hux, how can you expect me to put my entire crew at risk for a plan that hinges on Captain Peaveyâs incompetence? Heâs hunted us for the last six months, I will not be insulted on my own bridge.â
Unconvinced, but begging to be proven wrong, Parnadee stared up at Hux with a desperation he would not have understood, not before. Hux could not fault her doubt. Not when sheâd come this far on her own. Like the Finalizerâs crew, when theyâd put their future into the hands of the enemy, casting their own ship into an unfamiliar atmosphere, hoping the intentions of the people they sought for help were as true as their reputation rumored.
Hux took a breath, released it quietly. Watched as Parnadeeâs face fractured open â all the stress of the last several months bleeding free with a quiet fury. And then he reached into her, and he found the shape of her heart, and he tugged.
âI am not insulting you at all, General Parnadee. You kept nearly four hundred thousand First Order souls alive with a crippled ship while being hunted by someone who should have come to your rescue. You answered a vague call to action for the sake of your crewâs survival and trekked into enemy territory on nothing but a thread of chance. And youâre here now, fighting for that same crew in the face of your own death. You have nothing but my utmost respect, General, and I will do everything in my power to make sure you and your crew did not make this journey in vain.â
Parnadee had never been a person of many emotions. None of them had been, the generals of the First Order. Emotions had no place within the duty of their positions, but before him Bellava broke down. The past months and weeks and days had harrowed from her something so deeply buried that Hux could not help but see reflected in her the very same journey he had set upon. Conditioning fell away in favor of humanity, and when he reached out to clasp her shoulder, he did not hide the tremble in his own hand.
Her eyes did not weep, when they lifted to hold his, but they were filled with something that struck far deeper than any tears could.
Hope.
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The flight-suit looked good, it looked damn good.
The TIE fighter before Poe gleamed black enough that he could examine his reflection in the sheen of her shields, and he had to admitâŠat least when it came to uniforms, the First Order had gotten something right.
âDameron, why are you grinning?â Phasma sighed as she tugged the last belt into place, securing the seal of his flight-suit, a precaution he had always taken even if heâd yet to get ejected into the vacuum of space. He wasnât that reckless.
âI look good. Donât you think I look good? Think I would have made it through Order ranks just based on how good I look in this flight-suit?â
Her snort was derisive, the mirthful flash of her eyes sharp. Her voice, laced with amusement, âYouâve already fucked our general, what more do you want?â
Poeâs grin was playful. Turned absolutely lecherous when he saw the aforementioned General appear across the bay, so slow in his approach, eyes roving over Poe with that carefully composed expression Poe knew hid all his best thoughts.
âPoeââ said Armitage as he stepped up beside Phasma, voice trailing weak at the tail end, like he meant to keep speaking but had lost all his words. Speechless. Poe looked so good he had left Armitage speechless.
âEvening, General Hugs,â Poe fell into his role, a role he couldnât help but be excited to play, even if it involved flying right into enemy fire, as if something like that had ever stopped him before. âFirst Order pilot Poe Dameron at your service.â
When Armitageâs lips pressed into a line, Poe bit his instead. Armitageâs flush, when it came, was the prettiest, most delicate pink. Poe couldnât stop the somersaults that took up space in his stomach. Refused to acknowledge they were just as inspired by the look Armitage was giving him as the mission they were about to embark upon.
âYou two are disgusting,â muttered Phasma as she shoved Poeâs helmet into his arms. âIâm going to load up the platoon, make the last checks on the transport. You have ten minutes, tops.â The last part she directed at Poe, as if it wouldnât take him less than five to get out of this thing, and another ten just to get back in. Let alone everything else in between.
âAye aye, Captain,â Poe chirped with an overly flamboyant salute, even though Phasmaâs back was already turned, the ice blond of her hair barely concealing her mocked disdain.
Armitage, when Poe turned back to him, looked like he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
âAre youâŠâ Armitage trailed off again, this time in tandem with the path his eyes took across Poeâs face. Poe wondered if Armitageâs expressions had always been this easy to read. If everyone else could also pick up on all the little microshifts, things that said so much more than any sneer or frown ever could. Or maybe they were all for Poe, maybe he was the only one who could speak this language, like the secret code Armitage and Phasma used in Force.
âAm I always this devastating in a uniform? The answer is yes. Every time.â
âPoe, thatâs not,â and there it was, the smile Poe had sought. It broke free, a momentary sundering of that shifty mask, exposing a bit of the man underneath. Poe wanted to reach out, capture him, draw him to the surface and make him stay â discover what he would feel like against the press of his lips. Instead, he pushed a hand through his hair, loosening his curls into something messy enough to surely be out of Order regulation. It worked. Armitage fractured again, a little deeper, a little longer, breathing out quietly, âYou do look good. VeryâŠorderly.â
âGeneral, Sir, are you coming on to me?â Poe placed a hand on his own chest, made his gasp bashful. Made his eyes smolder, as he turned his head just right, so a loosened curl of hair fell over his brow.
Armitage swallowed. It definitely made a sound.
Poeâs laugh was low and knowing. Because this was easy. Always had been, always would be. So much easier than any goodbye, than some Force-cursed final farewell.
Poe had made it a point, a long time ago, to never say goodbye before a mission. Goodbyes were too final, suggesting an end that no one wanted to confront. And Poe had yet to confront one, had yet to have his luck run out, so who could blame him if heâd become a little superstitious over the years.
But never before had anything felt as final as this. If a goodbye were to be uttered, now was the time. Not because of some pilotâs superstition, but because Armitage was back with the Order, whether he had realized it yet or not.
When Poe looked to the shuttered mask that had once again fallen over Armitageâs face, Poe thought, maybe, he was finally beginning to understand.
âThank you for this.â Armitage held Poeâs datapad out, the black of its housing worn gray, the bottom left corner just a little cracked. Poe took it, idly wondered if he shouldnât let Armitage keep it. There were memories on there, his memories. Holos and recordings and messages that told so many little stories, mundane things that Poe would take for granted, but he had a feeling Armitage would cherish, if it was all he had left of Poe.
But that too, would feel like a goodbye. And Poe was not going to say goodbye. The words wouldnât come even if he tried.
âDoes Rose have everything she needs?â he asked instead, tucking the datapad into his flight-suit pocket.
âThe program I coded for her will monitor the network security weaknesses I am aware of. Unless the Mandator has a network technician more knowledgeable than myself, the Conquerorâs own security and my program should catch most slicing attacks.â
âAnd if not?â
âThen let us hope Ren remembers his Supreme Leader command codes.â
Poe grinned, stepping a fraction closer, âGlad Iâm gonna get another chance to pilot a TIE. You ever fly one of these before?â
Armitageâs eyes flicked up to observe the TIE, catching instead on what Poe assumed was their shared reflection, by the way his eyes slowly moved over something Poe could not see.
âI have never flown a TIE. Did Phasma go over the flight systems or do I need to have a pilot show you?â
âNaw, she showed me the important stuff.â The propulsion booster, the turret controls, the comm scrambler, the emergency evac lever.
âAnd the astromech?â
âNot too friendly, that one, a bit of a know-it-all if Iâm honest,â from over his shoulder he heard the indignant chirp of the BB-9 secured in the droid port, he hadnât taken a liking to Poe. Most of the Order personnel he had interacted with hadnât taken a liking to Poe.
Poe just figured they were jealous of how good he looked in their uniform.
âAnd your flight-suit fits? The seals are secured?â
Secure was one way to describe them, âWhy, you trying to get me out of it already?â
Armitage outright flushed then, face twisting alongside the blossom of red, âI only want to insure yourââ
âArmitage,â Poe closed the distance, finally stepping up flush against Armitage, heedless of the surrounding hangar bay and the Order crew that manned it. âIâll be okay. Stop worrying.â He said it softly, daring to reach out to the hand that had fallen out of Armitageâs clasp â touch the pale strip of wrist he knew heâd find there, above the leather edge of his glove. âEverything will be okay.â
âYouâre so sure,â he breathed, eyes roving his face for an explanation, like Poeâs confidence was something to marvel, a curiosity he could only observe from afar.
âOf course Iâm sure. Because I believe in myself, and I believe in our friends, and I believe in you, Hugs,â Poe said it with all the strength he felt, the confidence that had always been as natural to him as the curl of his hair, the snap of his reflexes. Before him, Armitage stared down with a barely concealed wonder.
And a fondness, a fondness that almost felt sad.
âThis doesnât bother you, me, like this?â He asked quietly, ominously, as if Poe might not know what he was talking about. Poe let himself examine Armitage from a vantage outside his own experience. Saw a man in his natural habitat, playing a role he had been groomed his whole life for, making decisions that would affect not just himself, but hundreds of thousands of souls depending on him. And then there was Poe, just some rapscallion pilot with too much luck and really great hair.
First Order or not, Hux as he was...he was incredible.
âNot at all, General, sir,â Poe said with all the fondness he felt, an honesty that was as genuine as the words he spoke next. âI love you, Armitage. All of you.â
Armitage looked shaken, in all the best ways.
âWe donât have much time,â said with his breath, as Armitage dropped his head down so their foreheads nearly touched. Around them, the Conquerorâs crew toiled over the final preparations of their ships, but Poe could feel their attention, the brush of their glances as they watched General Hux crack open for this rebel while all could see. âPoe, promise me youâll beââ
Poe captured Armitageâs words with a kiss. It was soft, and it lingered. Continued to linger, long after he drew away, but only in favor off tipping his forehead to rest against Armitageâs. They stayed like that, lips hovering a breath apart, as the galaxy spun on around them, caught in a moment together that Poe bottled up and stuffed away somewhere time could never reach.
When he pressed his hand over Armitageâs heart, he could feel the faint outline of his motherâs ring, tucked safely away beneath his uniform and the body armor he wore underneath. The hangar around them remained quiet, despite the weight of the stares. Armitage didnât seem to care. Poe counted it a victory, a claim he could make in the future, when everyone doubted that Armitage had ever changed at all.
âGo on,â he said eventually, time ticking away despite how frozen he felt in this moment. One that might be their last. âIâll see you aboard the Mandator.â
Still, he would not say goodbye.
Poe would never say goodbye.
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The seat of the TIE was far more luxurious than any X-wing Poe had flown. It conformed to his body, holding him tightly while adjusting to his height, his girth, and the reach of his arms for the flight stick. The rituals Poe had grown comfortable with, dependent upon, if he were honest with himself, were shadows of what he would have performed if this were Black One. Instead of the manual switches that would warm the TIEâs engines and engage the flight gear, there was a touchscreen with a computer that controlled all operating functions. Above his head, where Black Oneâs hatch would have lowered down into place, the TIEâs transparisteel closed together like a clamshell on its side, covering both him and the BB-9 unit that would serve as his astromech for this short, yet sure to be treacherous flight.
Four thousand five hundred and thirty two meters between them and the Mandatorâs main hangar bay. Four thousand five hundred and thirty two meters of a Dreadnoughtâs hull manned by over two dozen defense lasers. Four thousand five hundred and thirty two meters that should take less than twelve seconds to close, if he could open the TIEâs engine and take off at full speed. But the transport he was escorting was not a TIE, and it was not fast, and it would need nearly two full minutes of flight time to close that distance. Almost ten times the amount of time as his TIE, which meant tens times the danger, and ten times the opportunity, for the Mandator to get off just one good shot.
Poe had never been one to count his odds, but never before had the odds felt so grim.
This wasnât the Galaxy in balance. This wasnât even a whole planet at stake. This was just one man. But the man that Poe loved.
âDameron on line, checking in, ready for flight,â he spoke into the comm, awaiting the confirmation that was sure to come, unsure if it would be Armitage or Phasma who would be commanding the shuttleâs flight.
âDameron confirmed, prepare for departure. Ten seconds,â the voice was neither, the unknown pilot speaking in an imperial accent that was not nearly as refined as Armitageâs. Snobbish where Armitage was aloof. Almost over-performed, as if the accent had been adopted in some attempt to raise his station in the eyes of his peers. Poe knew it was cruel to think that way about a man he didnât know, but now that he was stuck here in a ship he had only ever flown once, and subsequently crashed, just two sheets of thick durasteel and the soon to be emptiness of space between him and Armitage, he could not help but feel it should be him in that pilotâs seat. The one that maybe mattered more, because then he would at least be beside Armitage.
âCountdown started, ten to takeoff.â The comm went quiet, the seconds passing in slow tendered silence. Too slow, Poe thought, as the hangar's exit loomed before him, the black swatch of deep space looking flat against the bright lights that lit the bay from above.
The transport lifted off first, crawling her way towards the hangar door in a lazy hover. The other two TIE lifted off nearly in tandem, and Poe felt the muted shudder of his own ship raise just a fraction later. Due to safety precautions, the ship AI would control their departure from the hangar, unless Poe decided to override her system. He did not. He let himself drift forward, fingers skimming the unfamiliar flight stick that would serve as his true connection to this ship. More than the safety harness that secured him to his seat. More than even the life support system that transformed oxygen into atmosphere so that he could breath inside the cockpit while tetherless in the nothingness of space.
The Conquerorâs shields would protect them for the first thousand meters, and then they would be exposed; four tiny targets skimming the hull of the Mandator, too close for the computer targeting system, so that whoever was tasked to gun them down would have to take manual control of the turrets. A small blessing, if they were to have any. Because nothing changed that there were only four of them and over twenty four guns, which boiled Poeâs odds down to six in one. Worse, when the transport was taken into account, whose weapons systems stood no chance against a TIE, let alone a Star Destroyer.
Space spilled over his cockpit, the horizon line of the Mandator turned topsy, hanging from above so that the vertigo Poe felt almost made sense.
âSix hundred meters until weâre out of shield range,â Phasma said over the comm. âTIE to prepare for fire, all weapons authorized for use.â
âConfirmed.â His response came on the heels of the other two pilots, and Poe watched as they swept up overhead, to put themselves bodily between the Mandator and the transport.
Poe checked his speed, did the math, and counted down the distance.
Five hundred.
Four.
Three.
TwoâŠ
Shield range came and went without so much as a shimmer of indication.
Without so much as a single shot fired.
Poe knew better than to let his guard down, knew better than to think they could make this flight without a single complication.
So it was no surprise when the telltale glow of a laser turret coming on line alerted him to its position. Here, underneath the Mandatorâs belly, it was more difficult to parse the placement of her turrets, or the locations of her gunner seats. And while the TIEs advanced gravity system would allow Poe to roll the ship upside down, take his aim form the comfort of a righted position, Poeâs job wasnât to take out the gun turrets, not unless the other two TIE failed, because Poeâs sole objective was the direct protection of the transport, by whatever means necessary.
The gun turret bloomed with a blast of red, not from its own shot, but one taken by their TIE. One turret down, just twenty some more to go.
There should be more. They should be assaulted with a barrage of laser fire, not some singular charge that fizzled out before it could even make its shot. There should be TIE sweeping from the hangar bay, hunting them down like the targets they were, rather than this barely attempted affront to their too bold approach. Poe chewed his lip, flipped his TIE around to check their rear, again confronted with nothing which in his experience meant something far worse than whatever his imagination could supply.
So he wasnât exactly surprised, even if he was shocked, that when the killing blow came, it was from something he would have never, in all his experience, expected.
A spark of white, a halo like glow, and then, it bloomed.
The beam of energy swept from behind in a downward sloping arc, a beam meant not for fighters, but for planetary surfaces. The Mandatorâs auto cannon.
Poe only saw it because he was watching their rear. And there was nothing he could do as it cut through space in a bright white shear, bearing tears to his eyes as Poe squinted against the massive wall of light. But even as he saw it coming, and as his futile warning fizzled out alongside the static that tore through his helmetâs comm, Poe could only watch as the beam tore right through the TIE to his left.
It didnât so much explode as disintegrated, and Poe could feel the heat of the beam reach him through the cold expanse of space.
âTIE two down,â Phasmaâs voice finally shattered brittle over the comm as the light died away, the interference from the cannonâs energetic debris still interfering with the signal well after the beam has dissipated. âStay aware, theyâre firing the fucking auto cannon.â
âWant me to take it out?â Poe asked, already planning his shot, the time it would take to get close enough that he could sweep underneath it and level his guns with the interior housing.
âNegative, Dameron. Hold your position,â Phasma snapped, not sounding panicked, but certainly not assured he would obey her command. It seemed his reputation really did proceed him, even across enemy lines.
âTighten the distance between us and the hull, they wonât fire that cannon again if they think theyâll hit their own ship.â This time, it was Armitageâs command that came over the comm. Steady. Calm. Not at all fractured by the danger he was in, the danger they all were in.
Poe eased back in his chair, flicking the flight stick lightly so his TIE nudged upwards, following the slower ascent of the transport, as if he could bodily block a cannon beam with his ship alone.
He couldnât, of course. But it never hurt to try.
âWeâve got about twenty seconds before they can fire that thing again.â Not enough time, Poe almost told Phasma, kept to himself instead. They were about sixty seconds away from reaching the hangar, fifty from entering the gravity field that would maintain the atmosphere within the open bay where it was recessed up into the lower hull of the ship. That would mean the Conqueror could get two more shots off before they were safely out of danger. And two shots of that thing would beâŠwell, it would be enough.
The second came right as twenty one-thousand breathed past Poeâs chewed lips. It bloomed with the heat of an ion engine, blinding and awful and far too massive to maneuver around, not that Poe had to, not when the beam swung wide, sweeping below them in a shallow upward arc, not reaching them, but close. So close that Poe instinctively nudged up again on his stick, riding the wave of danger as if it would make a difference.
And maybe it did, because the next thing he knew, the remaining TIE beside him jerked upwards and then sputtered dead, lost to a glide that took it careening into the Mandatorâs hull. It flamed, briefly, the oxygen of its tanks exploding in a shower of quickly smothered fire, and Poe was already too far away to see if the pilot had made it out safely. Not that there was a rescue coming. Not when an auto cannon was between them and whatever rescue team the Conqueror might send.
Poe realized, as he watched the shattered material of the TIE catch the light of the hull in dusty sparkles, that it had been the heat from the cannon that took out the ship â burned out its circuits, its controls, likely its very pilot.
Well, it wasnât the worst situation Poe had ever been in.
But it was close.
âDameron, you need to get to the hangar.â
It burst over the comm, Armitageâs voice, still controlled, still calm, but the words stretched through the speaker, their meaning tainted with the fear Poe somehow didnât feel, but knew Armitage must.
âNot leaving you behind, Hugs.â
As easily as it had been constructed, Poeâs character broke â just like his formation, as he swept beneath the transport, ready to do what he had to when in fifteen seconds the last beam came. And he saw now, how the transportâs lower hull had swelled and warped from the heat of the beam. How it struggled to gain the momentum it needed to angle into the hangar bay above.
It wouldnât make it.
Armitage wouldnât make it.
âGet to the hangar, Dameron, thatâs an order,â and this time Armitageâs voice did break. His snarl cracked over the comm, breaking apart with the interference, or something else.
And maybe this was how they would spent their last moments together, fighting over a comm as each tried to save the other, while the galaxy around them ambled on in age old orbits, indifferent to these two which had somehow aligned against all odds.
Poe didnât count odds, though. So he aligned his ship just below level with the transport, nearly touching, barely skirting.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
Twoâ
And then everything came together in one ruinous crescendo.
The cannon took its final shot, all hot white and too bright, sweeping in a shallow arc towards the underbelly of their ships. The gunner knew his mark, now. Had learned the lessons of the two past near hits. Understood that all he needed was to get close enough to compromise their electronics and then let momentum do the rest.
The beam of burning light closed the distance in a catastrophic inferno, burning so hot that Poe felt it on his face, through his suit. Smelt the acrid tang of burning electronics as the computer screen on his dash shivered with static, and the comms cut cold.
And he watched as the transportâs compromised hull heated to a glowing orange. Watched as the engines sputtered weakly and then flooded out.
Watched as Armitageâs ship staggered in the air, listing into a forward momentum that would take it directly past the entrance to the recessed hangar bay, missing its mark entirely so that it drifted off into deep space, where the Mandator could find its mark without risk.
It all happened in slow motion: the approach of the beam, and all those moments before it, the ones Poe had spent with Armitage over the last days and weeks and months. And Poe knew what he had to do. He nudged the stick, gave it a twist, felt as the TIE rolled underneath the transport, just between him and that awful sundering beam, ship shuddering, durasteel heating, and then he pulled up.
His TIE collided with the transport with a teeth grinding scream. The collision jolted through the cockpit of his ship, marking the transparisteel with thick gouges, as he ground along the underside of the transportâs belly, pushing it bodily out of harms way, up towards the wedge of light that marked the open hangar bay with the last rumble of its failing engine.
Weâll make it, he thought, as his TIE sputtered dead and the lights winked out and the flight stick gave way to a deadened freeze. Hope bloomed as their ships careened towards the open mouth of the hangar, closing the distance quickly, just a few hundred more meters, thatâs all it would take.
But then the gun turret above them bloomed red.
A volley of lasers cut through space, barely missing the transport, streaking by in quick succession, until the last of the bolts found their mark not on Armitageâs transport, but with Poeâs TIE.
If he had thought the heat of the cannon had burned hot, nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of the air in his cockpit erupting around him, the sensation of metal shattering to fragments beside him, or the cool relief that came when the vacuum of space swallowed him whole.
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Notes:
Your feedback is precious to me, as this and the next chapter are probably two of the most important chapters of this whole story, Thank you for sticking with me this far! It means the world â„
Chapter 13: The Mandator
Notes:
Warnings: a very brief mention of unacted upon suicidal thoughts during the first segment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The ship screamed. She cried. She fought and she denied. And she wept with the blaring sounds of her systems gone critical, her final moments spent harrying her crew from her hull for a safety she could no longer provide.
Within her, Hux tore and screamed and fought to claw himself to the surface of his existence â away from something that kept dragging him under. A something that threatened not just his physical wellbeing, but the mental trappings of a mind already worn thin. What was wrong, he refused to acknowledge, because the admittance would be his end. And yet it stared at him from that dark place inside, that place he had never really been able to escape. A place where his father still hid, and Snokeâs gnarled face still watched. Where Kylo Renâs Force amassed, the furrowed eddies of its trenched path leading Hux, unfailing, towards that festering pit deep inside him.
Something was wrong. Something was critically wrong.
Hux gasped to awareness, to pain and to panic. Vision swimming, the cant of his head hanging strange, the smear of red in his vision a warning. Hux pressed his hand to the side of his head despite the pain it caused. Gasped as that pain pounded alongside the alarms, aching echoing throbs that beat at his brain with the pulse of his blood. And when his glove came away wet, blood running free from a laceration to his scalp, deep, but not large, his skull tender, but not cracked, his mind scattered, but thought still intact, he knew whatever was so fundamentally wrong had nothing to do with him.
His memories crested, drowned out by a wave of nausea before they could surface alongside the cataclysmic thunder of his heart.
Below him, Phasma wrenched at his safety harness, hands moving fast over the quick release clips, his body half suspended from the seat that had likely saved his life. Around them, the transport tumulted in its death throes. The viewport screens were useless, already cracked so badly as to produce nothing but the static of damaged electronics. But Hux knew they had made it into the hangar, had crashed into some unknown object that had wedged their transport up into a sever tilt. From the broken console a thick acrid smoke leaked, filling the cockpit, finding its way into his lungs. It made his throat feel like it was bleeding, the taste of electricity collecting on the back of his tongue no matter how many times he swallowed.
The pilot of their tiny transport hung beside Hux. Body mangled, a wedge of the broken console plunged deep into his chest, dark hair loose over his unseeing eyes.
Dead. He was dead.
Memory crested once again, bare for but a moment, a moment that plunged Hux into the darkened depths of his subconscious, fighting against a thought that would surely take him under with it, if given a chance.
It was just a dead pilot. One of many Hux had lost, but notâ not himâ notâ not the one who matteredâ
And then the memory broke the surface, a quick breach of the tenuous hold Hux had on his mind: a flash of dark hair, of darker eyes, and a smile so generous that it threatened to spill out of him something as acrid as the smoke leaking from the console. Images and sounds and the final message of a man Hux hadâ he hadâ he wasâ
No.
He would not think of that.
He could not think of that. Not now. Not ever. Not if it meantâ
No. No. Noâ
Hux closed his eyes, closed his mind. Closed his mouth over his scream. And he shoved himself back into place, stuffed all the little broken pieces into whatever shape he could manage. But they wouldnât stay. They kept sliding through his fingers, like Hux was no longer solid but made of mud, and these waves of memory would dissolve him until there was nothing left but a million scattered grains of sand.
And his grip was slipping, the pieces fallingâ
His boots hit the uneven ground with a dull thud, his legs collapsing under this weightâ
When Phasma hauled him to his feet, then turned and slammed him into the side of the transport, Hux gasped. Pain exploded through his head, made him cry out, made his eyes water with tears he struggled to keep inside, and it all felt like a transgression, a breach of conduct he was not privileged to have. Because Phasmaâs face, when she leaned in close, was twisted into a half snarl. And her eyes, so cold from where they stared, traded emotion in favor of resolve.
An expectation. One spoken clearly in the way her fists gripped his jacket.
Strong. Phasma was strong. Phasma expected him to be strong.
But Hux wasnât strong. He hadnât been strong in such a long time. Maybe not ever. Except whenâ except when heâ
âArmitage,â Phasma snapped at him, the hands at his shoulders gripping so hard the pain fought against the throb of his head. Something was digging into his back, it was sharp, piercing, a focus for him to hone down on. âSnap the fuck out of it.â
He pushed into the pain, ground his spine against the sharpness, jerked his shoulders beneath Phasma's hold. A snarl escaped him â a single wrench of emotion, despite the thoughts he would not let fully form. And then he stoppered it all up against the pain, shaking and pulsing and screaming for release. It wasnât right, he wasnât whole, but he came together in a shivering golem of half-life. A thing that could walk and talk and act like a man, but whose heart was rendered null, a hole in his chest that would never again be filled. Only made mobile by the implacable force of his will to survive.
He had done this before. He had survived. He would survive. He would persevere, despite this setback, despite thisâ this panicâ this dreadâ this anguishâ
No. Shut it out. Shut it down.
His mission. He had a mission. He had to complete his mission.
Phasmaâs eyes burned into him, held him to that expectation. The promises he had made to others. To people who still needed him. Needed him to pull through, because there was no one else.Â
Hux was all that was left. It was only him, now.
His hands shook when he lifted them, flushed cold from the shock he felt poisoning his veins. Still, he shoved Phasmaâs hands away, shakily smoothed them down the creases she had made in his jacket. And when he tugged at his cuffs, they closed over his wrists until all that was exposed of him was the twisted bloodied mar of his face.
âAlright?â Phasma not so much asked, as stated.
No. Hux wanted to say. Wanted to scream.
Instead, he shut down. Down to nothing. Emptied of everything but that darkened pit.
When Hux lifted his head, Phasma was watching him closely. Her gaze lacked the concern Hux was afraid he might find, and for that, he was infinitely grateful.
He dipped his chin in a shaky nod.
Turned his back on the dead pilot.
Turned his focus onto the immediate situation at hand.
The cockpit was nearly completely destroyed, the shape of it warped from not just the collision, but the heat from the accelerated particles of the cannon that had nearly melted her apart. The door frame that led to the cargo area had folded upon itself, heated so severely as to weld the blast door shut. Behind that door was the platoon of troopers. Sealed away by this unlikely sarcophagus, fateâs grip on them already released â untethered â sacrificed to that beam of light as it burned through the dark, its mark found, its purpose served, its damage done.
Damage done, but to what effect? Because Hux still stood. He lived. And the Galaxy still turned. It still twisted round itself in awful relentless orbits, momentum unbroken by these wasted lives, these purposeless deaths. These already tiny fragile things that burned out fast enough without his intervention. Faster than the Galaxy could ever remember them, their memories lost to the sparking burst of light in the infinite pan of time.
The console at his hip sparked again, little living flames burning so bright and so fast, fading away faster than the bellowed burp of tinny tasting smoke could consume them.
Hux covered his mouth, the taste of bile thick on his tongue.
Closed his eyes in another moment of weakness, one that felt distant now, in the way a memory replayed too many times began to feel distant.
Beneath his feet, the transport moaned and shifted with the muffled rumble of an engine catching fire. Despite what awaited him outside this wreckage, he needed to evacuate the transport. And the only way out was the emergency escape hatch impregnated into the support cage of the port side wall.
The port side wall, which now may as well be the ceiling.
Phasma was strong. And she used that strength to heave at the hatch. An archaic thing with a manual wheel lever, it agonized open in slow dragging seconds, inches giving way to one, two, three full rotations, before yawning open to a spill of cold white light. Beyond the hatch, the Mandatorâs hangar hung still. Absent was the sound of marching boots or readied blasters, not even a single shout of command. No one appeared in the hatch â no trooperâs helmet, no Lieutenantâs cap. Only that cold white light, cast bright in a spotlight upon them, little embers of the sparking console twinkling like stars in the dark space of the cockpit. Phasma hefted her rifle into her shoulder, cocked and ready. Waiting.
Waiting.
They waited. Time waned thin, threading fine through the sluggish pulse of every long second. The noxious smoke, where it rose, filtered gray against the white, spilling free in lazy curls to dissolve into the open hangar above them.
Hux felt something important inside him dissolve along with it.
âWell,â Phasma eventually sighed. âGuess Iâll do the honors, then.â
Experience, more than concern, made Hux reach out, place his hand on her arm before it could grasp the ridge. âYour rifle, first.â
Phasmaâs mouth split sharp, her eyes flashing understanding, as she raised her rifle so the butt peaked out from the top of the hatch.
Nothing. Not a single whisper of life from beyond the hatch.
Hux had not gotten a good look at the hangar when they crash landed inside it â had not been able to do anything more than than brace himself against his screams, against the impact, against the inevitable surge of emotion that threatened to destroy him far more succinctly than any collision could. But even had the hangar been evacuated in those moments leading to their arrival, troopers should still be in position, should be at the ready to arrest them, to haul them out of this dying transport and execute them on the spot.
Unless.
Unless his plan was working. Unless the hangar was empty for reasons far more important than the arrival of a traitorous general.
The arrival of a rumored savior.
A hero.
He wasnât a hero. He knew a hero. A hero wasâ He wasâ
The hero was dead.
Phasmaâs grunt as she hauled herself through the hatch was half pain, half victory, and fully distracting. Hux stumbled when he pushed away from the wall, when he pushed away from his thoughts.
âItâs empty. The fucking place is empty. What a karking riot.â
Hux blinked up at her shape against the light. Her armor, already so damaged, was scorched black, new dents pocking its dull surface. Its integrity, surely, had finally been compromised.
She needed to be careful, he distantly acknowledged. âThey still shot us,â he said from afar. Then closer, âdonât let your guard down just yet, Phasma.â
âNever do, itâs why you keep me around,â Phasmaâs grin was wide, feral, when she reached her arm down through the hatch to hoist him up.
It hung there, a tether he could take. A offer as much as it was his only option. He lifted his hand, hovered it just within reach, gathering together a conviction he did not actually feel, because outside this transport was a world he no longer knew the shape of.
But Phasma was not going to wait for him. She grabbed his wrist, hauling him from his feet while snapping, âNot leaving you behind, Hux.â
And that was it. That was all it took.
Not leaving you behind, Hugs.
Hux faltered, his whole body jolting, as the final words of the man he loved were dredged forth to crash over his head with the strength of a storm. He would have fallen, if not for Phasmaâs solid grip on his arm. But there was nothing he could do against the memories that swept him away.
Tendered to the black depths of his mind, the memory screamed to life: Poeâs TIE whining too close, too loud, the flat side of his wing nudging their transport out of the direct line of fire, the scorching red beams that barely missed their mark, only to find another, the explosion of debris as the TIE took the pulse of the laser head onâ
Noâ noâ he canâtâ I need toâ I have toâ Poe. Poeâ
âPoeââ whispered ragged to himself, only to himself, and then he shattered apart.
Phasma hauled him into the white light of the hangar, so bright, too bright, all white and blinding and flushing the sight from his eyes but doing nothing for the thoughts in his head. His body dropped, heavy, empty, knees buckling towards the still warm durasteel of the transportâs half melted hull. And he melted along with it, felt as his body flashed hot, then cold, and then numbed, bled out, a carcass, as dead as those troopers, as dead asâ
Poe.
Poe was dead.
Hux wailed. A long broken thing that wrenched out of him. The singular sound he made, before closing his mouth over his anguish in favor of trembling apart where he knelt. His body shook. The breaths he drew rattled in his soured chest, lungs wet with phlegm, with tears, with blood, like someone had taken a blaster and shot it directly through his heart.
Poe was dead.
And Hux felt like he was too.
Sobs rasped out weak and catching, breathless things that sounded too loud in the unnaturally quiet hangar, while the teeth of the universe tore him apart, piece by tiny fractured piece, to reveal the creature his father and Snoke and Ren had always known him to be.
Weak, coward, uselessâ
Poe was dead Poe was dead Poe was deadâ
Phasma jerked him upright, held him aloft, hands fisted into his shoulder pads, pale stare spearing ice into his burning wet eyes.
âShit,â she spat it, dropped it at his feet alongside everything else that clawed at him, all the little tendrils of guilt and grief and denial that licked at what little was left. âSo weâre doing this now?â said more to herself than Hux because suddenly the hold she had was released, and Hux was again curled over his knees, sobs wracking his body as Poeâs face swam through his thoughts, alongside all the memories Hux could no longer stomach.
When the bile clawed up his throat with the same searing intensity as the smoke that had filled his lungs, Hux did not even try to swallow it back. It purged from him, sick spilling down the side of the transport as he turned his head to retch. This couldnât be true, this couldnât be real, this had to be a nightmare, his head wound warping his memories, or the poison from the smoke that clogged his lungs.
Because Poe was not supposed to die. It was supposed to be Poe at Huxâs side, to keep him going when nothing else could, to guide the course of his hand when Huxâs own judgment reared ugly and awful. But how could Poe do that if he was dead. And how could Hux be shocked when he had already learned this lesson? That the universe may lay its favor at the feet of the lucky few, but Hux had never been lucky. He had always paid a price. And it should come as no surprise that finally, the price asked had been too high.
A groaning sound and a dull slam barely registered, just like the next tremble through the transport barely caused Hux to flinch. It was all he could do to not grab Phasmaâs rifle and end this for himself there and then, join Poe wherever heâd gone, in whatever peace was supposed to be waiting. But he knew enough, now. Knew there was no peace awaiting him. He knew that now with a surety he had never felt for anything else, before. Because this was the closest he had ever come, this painful assault of memory and emotion around a man who had made him hope for so much more, only to have it all taken from him in an awful reminder of his place in the universe. Where happiness was never something to be had but something that would destroy him, and how dare he ever forget that.
Poe.
The shape of him traced through his mind, the cadence of his voice, his warmth, his touch, his smile, his laugh. It hurt. It all hurt so much. But it was all he had. And no matter how much it hurt, Hux could not let any of it go. Instead he gathered it to himself, collected it carefully, greedily, into a thing he could have forever. Something he would hide away from fate herself. A place he could go, inside himself, where the world could not reach him. Where he could be safe, safe with Poe, and safe from a galaxy that would only ever see him suffer. And maybe it was crazy. Maybe he had finally snapped, but Hux thought maybe he could stay there, forever in that place, alone with the memory of the man he had so desperately loved. Because he could feel Poe there, as if he were right beside him, the shape of his hand where it touched his back, and the velvet plush softness where his lips brushed his wrist.
But then the hand pulled away, and the lips receded, and it all slipped from his grasp, fading distant, a memory of a memory. And in its place was a mourning Hux could not escape. A sundering of truth that shattered the construct of reality Hux was never meant to live. So Hux sobbed. Quiet and wet, he let it all go, until the tears took away so much more than the pain. Took him away. And everything inside Hux that felt like living.
Time passed in fractured parts. Too slow and too fast, from a distance Hux felt far removed from. Until eventually, when his tears had dried and the durasteel beneath his hands cooled, so too did the waves calm their crashing â ebbing placid, licking at his ankles where Hux now stood, staring out a lake that felt like an ocean, towards a mausoleum he once called home.
A breach of black against a too blue sky. A beacon. A calling. An unlikely comfort, where none else could stand.
And a reminder.
Hux released his breath, and with it the last of his sobs. Because he knew now, what needed to be done.
When he lifted his head Phasma met his eyes. She sat atop the wheel of the escape hatch, hunched over her spread legs, rifle resting across her thighs, pitted armor a memory of its former glory, as she stared sentinel across the hangar bay. Like a guard at her post, a soldier to the end, strong where Hux was weak. And as the smoke curled up around her in twining tendrils, framing her within a picture that ached painfully familiar, she held his gaze, and she said simply, âBetter?â
There was no empathy, no kindness in that stare, or in her word. Just that burning expectation, and a fearsome confidence in him that Hux wanted to push away and scour from his skin. But he didnât have that choice. He had never had a choice, not really. Because Hux was only ever meant for one thing. And that thing wasnât peace, it wasnât happiness, it certainly wasnât love.
The only thing Hux was meant for, was ever meant for, was the First Order.
The First Order, who needed him. Needed him now, more than ever before.
Or Peavey would win.
And Peavey couldnât win.
Where grief had burned through him, left behind the scorched fields of ash and smoke, something else sparked. An ember of a thing that smoldered with the fuel of his sorrow, tainted and familiar and lurking in his shadows.
Peavey was a threat to the Order.
And Peavey had killed Poe.
âPeaveyââ Hux swallowed at the raspy sound, throat burned sour from the smoke, from his vomit, from his grief. ââPeavey will be at the forward bridge. We have to reach him before he breaks through the Conquerorâs security protocols.â
Phasma nodded, an affirmation, face fierce in the exposure of his failing faculties. âAnd then?â
âIâllââ
Iâll kill him.
He would kill him. For the Absolution. For the Order.
For Poe.
He took Poe.
He took Poe, and for that, Peavey would die.
Because despite his grief, despite his time at Poeâs side, despite the shape of the person he had thought he had become, Hux was nothing more than this man. This man that fate had twisted him into, formed from the wet clay in his fatherâs image, made rabid by the spear of Snokeâs Force, and foolishly cast aside by the clutch of Renâs hand.
âIâll kill him,â Hux whispered, voice hardening over the words, tremulous things that he dared not speak but days before, when wrapped up in the arms of the man he loved. The man who had loved him. The only one who ever had. The only person who mattered. Who had ever mattered.
And now he was gone.
And Hux was alone.
So Peavey would die.
And Hux would save the First Order.
And then, he would see it flourish.
Â
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They stuck to the service passages, the droids they passed ambling along on protocol alone.
Phasma led the way, rifle edging along each turn of the corridor, every crossroads they encountered. The blaster Hux had at his hip had been taken from a dead trooper, his helmet cold, the hole in his armor still warm. There had only been two bodies, piled carefully atop one another, at the hangar bay door. Identity plates exposed and already accounted for, still, Hux had taken Phasmaâs datapad, had documented their numbers, their classifications, their brief, if comprehensive, end of life requests.
And then he had taken their weapons. A blaster for himself, a second rifle for Phasma, and a coil of plastibombs that wouldnât get them through a blast door but could take out most any other barrier.
The magnacuffs he had left behind.
The Mandator was a massive ship, over twice the size as the Finalizer, with service passages that switched back along their routes as to make the trek to the bridge a slow, teethâgrinding affair. That they had not yet encountered a single person would not be unusual, under normal circumstances. But Peavey should have alerted the droids to potential hijackers. Should have updated their protocols to report upon these passages being used by anything other than a droid.
Should have positioned a platoon of troopers down the next corridor, blasters armed and aims taken, targets to be eliminated upon first sight.
Instead, beyond each service door they passed Hux could hear the steady pound of boots, the muffled shout of voices â sometimes confused, sometimes angry â and occasionally, when the anger turned to fear, he heard the sharp whine of blaster fire.
The ship was in mutiny. Just like he had planned. Just like he had known.
And Hux could not bring himself to care. All he could think about was what Peaveyâs face would look like when he put a blaster bolt through his chest. How satisfying it would feel to step over his cracked open body and assume command of this blighted festering plague ridden hand he had been dealt, where happiness had been flaunted like a cruel joke.
âDo you have a bad feeling about this?â Phasma asked after another empty crossroads, voice cutting knife-sharp through the quiet. âBecause I have a bad feeling about this.â
He did not respond. Had not said much, since they had clambered down from the wreckage of the transport.
Part of him was afraid if his mouth opened, something other than words might spill out.
Another part of him, a larger part, was afraid of what words he might speak.
So he followed Phasmaâs lead, allowing her to shield their way forward, while he covered the ground they left behind.
And he let Phasma guide his thoughts. Let the sound of her idle chatter fill his head, rather than the screaming sound of a TIEâs wing scraping along their transportâs hull, the red glow of a laser melting through all that transparisteel, or the impact of his heart bursting in his chest, as fate took not his life, but the life of the one person in the galaxy Hux had thought immune to her trappings. He should have left Poe on the Conqueror. Should have never put him in that TIE. Should have let them leave together when they had the chance, stolen away on that secret transport, to live a life of anonymity among the stars.
Now Poe was dead. And despite the role Peavey played, Hux could not help but think it was truly all his fault.
âSo Iâm beginning to think this is a trap,â said Phasma from where she crouched.
Beside her arched a closed door that led to the main corridor that connected the forward bridge to the upper decks. The officerâs living quarters would be beyond these doors, the hallways too open to be sufficiently covered by a rifle and a blaster. They would be exposed, and among the men and women who would be most likely loyal to Peavey. But this was as far as the service passages could take them, the closest they could get to their target. And Hux could only hope that the Mandator was operating under capacity, that her command was tied up with the mutiny, and that Peaveyâs plan was to allow them to reach the bridge where he would make an example of the once revered General Hux: the bastard son of an esteemed Commandant and cowardly runaway who had turned traitor at the Orderâs final hour, leaving behind the very men and women he now sought to lead.
A mouse droid nudged the toe of Huxâs boot where he crouched beside Phasma, nuzzling around the edge of his sole in search of its programmed cleaning path. He pushed it away gently before it could trigger the door, watching as it trundled off, seeking an alternative route to its most critical parameter, hyper-focused on the single task it had been given, mindless with its need to see it fulfilled.
Hux did not have the luxury of a computer program. He had the unfortunate complication of emotions, and despite his once untenable ability to lock them away to uselessness, Hux found himself unable to completely stay shut down. Precious spans of emptiness would bloom, where thought fizzled down to instinct and the coldness in his chest felt like relief; and then everything would rear to life once more. The sounds, the images, the memoriesâ
And then his anger would roar to a fury, and Hux found his way forward, step by heavy step.
The messages he had sent to the Conqueror had been simple, near wordless confirmations: Boarded, En-route, Dameron down.
Dameron down.
Hux swallowed, throat catching dry now that the bile had been purged. Phasma had not said much, when heâd asked for her datapad to send the message to Poeâs friends, fingers shaking so violently as he typed that it had taken him nearly thirty precious seconds to get the words out.
Time. Something he never had much of â had even less of, now that moments meant lives and the only future Hux dared imagined involved him killing the man who had taken everything from him.
What would Poe have done, if he were here beside Hux, crouched low in some service passage, weighing odds like he had a choice, like the obvious solution wasnât the very thing staring him down the nose? Poe hadnât depended on plans. Poe had let luck lead him, had let her lead him right into fateâs hands. And then he had faced her head on, without fear, without reservation, wholly committed to the risk, all for sake of what he stood to lose.
Poe had died, but he had died for Hux.
So Hux knew what Poe would do, if he were here at his side, creeping through some cold corridor on a ship that wasnât his, the lives of so many dependent upon his ability to face fate head on.
âForty meters up ship we turn right, fifteen meters more, and a left turn. The bridge will be at the end of that corridor, approximately thirty meters of open breezeway between the crossroads and the bridgeâs blast door.â
The map glowed up at him, the tiny holo projected clearly enough to denote the various doors and security cams that lined the halls. The entire path to the bridge would be under observation, and if there werenât guards already stationed, they would arrive shortly after their exposure. âWe should run, if we can.â
âItâs too fucking quiet out there,â Phasma growled as she hefted her rifle aloft, giving the safety one last check and insuring the power cell was primed. âYou got body armor on under that thing?â
âLight armor,â said simply, without inflection. He hadnât had time, hadnât thought to ask for something heavier. Had thought for sure heâd be flanked by a whole platoon of troopers, rather than one veteran Captain and her compromised vanity armor.
âYou can take a hit from a blaster but nothing more. So donât go and get shot, Sir,â Phasma clucked, as if Hux wasnât well aware of the risk he was asking of the both of them.
The service door slid open with a silent whoosh. Beyond the threshold, the corridor was quiet. So quiet, Hux thought for sure someone would hear the rush of his very blood as it pooled in his stomach.
The mouse droid trundled past, protocol leading it down the hall in the direction Hux should be headed. He watched it from his place near the floor, still crouched low, still gripping his blaster as if it would make a difference against a security detail of highly trained stormtroopers.
âClear,â Phasma whispered from where she knelt, rifle level at her shoulder, sighted down the hall where the mouse droid ambled along entirely indifferent.
The sounds of their footfalls as they slipped through the threshold echoed too loud in the corridor. The melodic chirp of the mouse droid too familiar to be a comfort in this unfamiliar hall. It was possible that Peavey had taken command of the lower bridge, had come to his senses and made his stand in the more fortified belly of the Mandator. But Hux knew Peavey, and he knew himself, and he knew that to the Order, optics were as powerful as any superior officerâs command. Peavey would be on the forward bridge, surrounded by a vast expanse of transparisteel, presiding over his worldly domain like the Supreme Leader he imagined himself to be.
Hux had been that man once. Had stood upon a similar bridge. Had observed the depths of space like it was something to be tamed, too wild for its own good, in need of a strong hand, in need of order.
Peavey would be on the forward bridge. And Hux would reach him.
And then he would kill him.
âLetâs go,â his voice, when it slipped free, sounded as programmed as the mouse droidâs chirps.
The hallway slipped by, meters closing in staggered steps, mouse droid leading the way until the first turn arrived and it rounded the corner without them. Phasma made a quick check, called it clear, and then they pursued the droid down the hall. Five meters down, they encountered the first stack of bodies. Three laid atop one another in careful respect, identity plates revealed, armor sprayed black with dried blood. Just several paces down the hall several more bodies lay. These were more recent, their blood still running red, their bodies crumpled lifeless in the center of the hall, splayed out like puppets whose strings had been suddenly, cruelly cut.
The mouse droid paused there, protocol demanding it obey its primary order and scrub up the mess â the blood â the leaked out life force of the fragile organic beings it lived its life in service to.
Service.
Duty.
Order.
Hux let go of the breath he had been holding, let go of the thoughts that clogged up his head and lumped in his throat.
Tried to let go of his fear, as they edged around the stack of bodies, more careful now, but even less prepared.
The sound of boots drew them up cold. They struck echoes through the open corridor, voices following shortly after, loud enough to be close, but the hall open enough that it became impossible to determine their source, not when a crossroads of four hallways converged but ten meters up, where lay the very juncture they desperately needed to reach.
âBack,â Phasma breathed, the tread of her sole squeaking as it slid through a trail of blood the mouse droid had smeared.
Hux took a single step back, and then all hell broke loose.
He saw the rifle first, when it slipped round the far corner, black against the gray durasteel, the red light of its power cell bold against the shadows. The helmeted head emerged just a fraction of a breath later. Expression empty, emotion un-bared, the stormtrooper paused, but Hux didnât need to see a face to know the troopers shock.
Didnât need to hear the shout of his voice when he cried out to his platoon, not when he was already running.
The sharp screech of Phasmaâs rifle screamed through the air, the heat of the bolt searing enough to be felt on the back of his neck as he pursued a retreat. Noxious in his nose, the scent of burning hair curled sick as the bolt made impact with something; Hux couldnât tell what, but he thought it might have been the trooper's head from the smell and the gurgling sound and the panicked shouts that quickly followed.
Hux didnât stop to wonder. Didnât stop to remember if the trooper had shot at them first, or if his shout had been in alarm, or in relief.
Realized, as he approached the turn in the corridor that would take them back to the service door, that none of it mattered, when the sound of marching boots echoed up the hall.
From around the corner, a second platoon of troopers emerged in full force, blasters leveled to sight, aimed and primed and heating with the burning red fury of a dozen bolts birthing bright. Time slowed as he was framed within this moment, what was to be his last, Hux idly thought, with a relief that at least now it would all finally be over.
Hux hit the floor with a muffled oomph.
Air left his lungs in a rush, sight swimming as his head wound was knocked hard against the blood stained durasteel beneath him. The weight of Phasmaâs body held him down, covered him, as boots stomped heavy past his face, feet landing but inches from his nose, his sides, his fucking trembling hands.
Boots that were surrounding him.
Shielding him.
Protecting him.
Just like Pâ
Phasma grunted into his ear, a victorious thing, threaded through with a mania he recognized from years past, when regular field duty had been something she had insisted he maintain, despite the increasingly overwhelming hours spent at his desk.
âWould you fucking look at that,â she seethed brightly, as the troopers around them cut through their brethren in efficacious, if impetuous, aptitude. âArmitage you fucking genius.â
Hardly, he wanted to say. Wanted to scream, not when his genius fucking plan had gotten Poeâ
A body hit the ground beside Hux, head bouncing off the floor in a dull thud as it rolled round to face him. Hux stared into the lifeless face, empty of so much more than the identity the helmet hid. Compulsion nearly made him snap an order at the trooper, a snarled get up and return to your position soldier as if the blood leaking from the blown out side of his head wasnât a death wound. Wasnât the end for this nameless trooper who had died defending a man who had left him behind, a man who had once promised him something so much greater than a life slaving away in an over-worked mine shaft, begging scraps from the hand that refused to feed him, growing up in the same kitchens his mother had been shackled to.
A life of purpose, and responsibility, and fairness, and order.
He didnât notice when the blaster fire died out. Didnât think much beyond the formless face staring at him from his place on the floor. His head hurt again, and his face was wet, and Hux would have thought he was crying except for the metallic taste of blood that leaked sharp between his teeth.
Phasma didnât say anything when she hauled him to his feet. But he didnât need her words to know her mind, to hear the fucking pull yourself together that spoke so loudly through the harsh clasp of her hands on his shoulders.
Behind her, the platoon of stormtroopers fell into a salute. Eleven of them, the twelfth laid out dead at his feet. And beyond them, twelve other dead bodies scattered across his crossroads, the mouse droid beeping erratically as it tried to determine its best course of action.
Slowly, he dragged his attention back to the still living troopers. His troopers. His soldiers. They stood at frozen attention. Impeccable despite the men they just killed. Well, all but one of them, because Hux didnât miss the catch in that trooperâs salute, the falter as he caught sight of his fallen comrade, the secret waver of emotion he had the benefit of armor to hide.
Hux wanted to tell him was okay. That he was okay. That he would survive this.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, and he opened his mouth to speak words he no longer had a taste for.
âAt ease, all of you,â his voice was clear, unaffected, as in control as he felt out of it, the fallen facade of his years in command erecting quickly around the person he really was, the person they could never see. Not because Hux was ashamed of that man, but because that man wasnât who these soldiers needed him to be. âWho here is in charge?â
âSir.â The trooper who stepped forward looked like all the others. Somehow, Hux was able to prevent himself from asking his name. âIâm troop leader TY-0909, itâs an honor to serve you, General.â
âThe honor is mine, soldier. What is the status of the ship?â
âInfighting has taken over all levels. Weâve secured four through seven, with ten and twelve nearly cleared. Captain Peaveyâs men are few but loyal. We prepared the ship for your arrival as best we could, but the Captain has locked himself in the forward bridge. Without access to the bridge we can not confirm the security of the ship.â
âAnd the status of the Conqueror?â
âIâm not privy, sir.â
Hux had assumed as much, that the bridge would have been locked in the presence of the mutiny. The bridge, with its own dedicated life support system, meant that it was entirely within Peaveyâs power to end this mutiny by shutting down the Mandatorâs systems just as he was trying to do to the Conqueror. And if that were to happen, maybe not even the Supreme Leaderâs command codes could save them.
âIt is imperative that I access the bridge,â he left out the why, not when it would make fate all that more impossible to endure for these soldiers, if the worst came to pass. âWhatâs your rank, soldier?â
âJunior Lieutenant, sir.â
A child. A child in a soldierâs armor.
âTake your men and secure that crossroads, Lieutenant. Captain Phasma and I have work to do.â
âYes sir.â His salute was sharp, quick, proud.
And his men were well-trained, solemn, as they stacked the dead in careful, respectful piles. The mouse droid chirped balefully at them, circling the pools of blood to impotent effect as its directives became overwhelmed.
âHux.â
Phasma.
âArmitage.â
âWhat?â He snapped, snarled, as he rounded on her too pale face.
âWhatâs the plan?â asked as if he had one, as if any plan he could come up with wouldnât lead to someone elseâs death. As if Hux knew what the fuck he was even doing, anymore, when the sight of some nameless trooper was enough to bring him to his knees.
âWe get on the bridge,â was as far as he had got. Then Peavey would die. And then Hux would be back where this all had started, as if nothing in his life had ever changed at all. As if Poe had never dragged him from the Steadfast, let alone shown him what it meant to live.
And as Hux stared into Phasmaâs eyes, all he could think about was a blasted trooperâs blown open skull and a Junior Lieutenant who didnât have a name, and how even that was his fault, in the way maybe all of this was. And if given the choice, he would let go. Let it all end. Become as empty as that dead trooper, head blown open in a death so instant it surely couldnât have hurt as badly as he did then.
Phasma stepped up close, ice blond head bent down in private advisement, âHux, you need to fucking pull it together.â
Fuck you. âThatâs General, Captain,â snapped with a viciousness he actually felt. Fuck Phasma, fuck her and her fucking refusal to let him fall apart.
âSir,â dripped from her tongue like venom, âwe canât secure the ship without access to that bridge,â What the fuck are we going to do, Armitage, Iâve gotten us this far, now itâs your turn to pull through.
Could they reach out to Ren? Could they slice the system so it only required the code string, rather than the biological confirmation? They could, he could, but it would take too much time. Time they no longer had, not if the mutiny on-board drove Peavey to purge his own karking ship.
âGeneral, what is your order?â Phasma hissed as she pushed in close, eyes so heavy with expectation that Hux suddenly thought this would be what did it, what finally broke him, the failure his father had always expected: that moment when he led the Order not to victory, but to absolute ruin.
Over Phasmaâs shoulder, Hux watched the mouse droid pause in calculation, as it decided the blood spilled over the crossroads was a bigger job than it could handle, and it should resume its scheduled maintenance cleaning.
Watched as it turned left. As it trundled its way onto the breezeway that led to the bridge.
Peavey had ignored the service passages. Had ignored the droids that could have given their position away.
Ignored the droids entirely.
Phasma barely budged when he shouldered past her, feet falling quickly as he closed the distance to the crossroads. Before him, the breezeway opened to deep space, the blackness a hollow visage that leaked inky through the blue light. If he looked, he knew he would find the Conqueror docked off the starboard side, would see her dimmed hull lights winking weakly among the distant stars. Knew he would find the New Republicâs fleet gone, jumped to safety light years away, a safety Hux was never meant to know, only get a taste of, so fate could make it all the crueler when she tore it away.
And he knew heâd see the shattered wreckage of Poeâs ship floating dead among the scattered remains of the Absolution, a fate even he had thought too unlikely to fear. A fate he had tempted to life, with his audacity that he could do this, any of this â save anyone when he had spent his life barely saving himself. He couldnât save Poe, had in fact gotten him killedâ
But he didnât look. He couldnât. Not when the mouse droid toddled its way forward, heedless of anything but its programming, never giving up on its mission despite every insurmountable setback it encountered.
Hux had tried once, to give up. Poe hadnât let him then, and as Hux watched the mouse droid single-mindedly pursue its purpose, he realized he wasnât going to let him now, either.
Poe wouldnât give up. Not now, not when victory was so close.
The mouse droid paused, scanning a spec of dust in its path, sweeping it up and away, beholden to nothing but its mission.
It turned again, back on its path, a path determined by its programming. A programming that was taking it to the bridge.
âSoldiers, to me,â the command came forth almost too easily, and he would be lying if the thump of trooper boots assembling behind him wasnât the most satisfying song he had ever heard. Phasma hefted her rifle from her shoulder as she stepped up to his side, attention falling upon the mouse droid as it slowly made its way towards the closed bridge door.
Her face lit manic, blue light edging her ghostly, like a vengeful spirit birthed to life. âNow youâre talking,â words whispered ferocious, behind teeth that should have sharpened into fangs.
âWe go in shooting,â Huxâs voice bottomed out, the thinnest thread of glee curling alongside his exhale, âPeavey only. Heâs our primary target.â
Lieutenant Ty acknowledged him with a firm Sir, the sentiment echoed in the murmured confirmations of the men under his command.
His command, General Huxâs command.
The Stormtroopers flanked him, Phasma at their lead, barely a step ahead, all thirteen moving as a group. And it might have been his feet that propelled Hux forward, but it was the thought that Peavey would be his to kill that made him keep pace with Phasma.
Peavey had killed Poe. And now he was going to kill Peavey.
They moved quickly, closing a short distance that had felt so insurmountable but minutes before, following the path of a mouse droid as it reached the end of the breezeway, the automatic doors to the bridge yawning open on slow silent treads.
It should not have been so easy. He should have heeded easiness as a warning. When nothing else had ever come easily to him, that the revenge he sought would be dropped into his hands should have been cause for trepidation. Not even his fatherâs murder had gone this smooth, it had required planning, unlike this strange luck that guided him now. Because there Peavey stood, just beyond the opening doors, blaster in hand, shouting at a network technician whose hands were raised in alarm. From the console before him flashed a red status report â denials, Hux recognized, from the continuously thwarted attempts to override the Conquerorâs systems.
And then Peaveyâs words took shape, just barely caught above the muffled fall of their boots, What do you mean the Supreme Leaderâs command codesâ
The rush of his breath drowned out the rest.
Pushing past Phasma, Hux sprinted. He closed the distance on heaving lungs wheezing in pain, burned wet with the taste of that acrid smoke, eyes squinted to tears against the competing brightness of the breezeway and the dark operating lights of the bridge. And his heart pounded, knocking heavy against the twisted clutch of his ribs, threatened to crack them wide open. But instead he let all his anguish spill out with his voice, a gnarled scream wrenched out of that deep pit, wild and awful and threaded through with a lifetime of grief. Of pain. Of hatred for all the men that had had finally managed to take everything from him.
This is for Poe. He thought, as he lifted his blaster and found his mark. I'll kill you. He affirmed, when Peavey looked up, to meet Hux's wild charge with an expression that morphed from anger to shock to fear.
And Hux wondered then, as his boots hit the floor and the trigger depressed, if Poe had looked just as scared when he had faced down his death.
That was all it took. His step faltered, his mind floundered. The moment broke, only by a fraction, but long enough for Peavey's blaster to lift and fire first.
It was all Hux could do to keep breathing as red bloomed bright and awful, searing his eyes and blinding his vision. And he couldnât help but think, I've been here before, when the volley of shots erupted from the muzzle in beams of red. Hux closed his eyes against the burn of the blaster, felt each bolt streaking past him, singing his shoulder, shrieking in his earâ
âmissing their mark, Hux realized, when Peavey let out a strangled grunt as Phasma's rifle found hers.
Before him, Peavey dropped heavy, body folding to the ground with a dampened thunk. Behind him, a loud crash; the sharp clatter of armor meeting the floor. And Hux knew, before he even had the chance to turn, what he would find.
As Peavey writhed and gasped at his feet, as the bridge fell hushed in lieu of the shift in power fluxing before them, and while he should have been claiming his place on the bridge as commanding General, all Hux could do was slowly turn around.
Knee to the ground, rifle braced against her shoulder, free hand cupped over a crack in her armor, a blackened crevice opened amongst Phasma's shadows. A wound that tore open her armor like cheap steel, to bleed ink against the dulled sheen of her glamour. And where Phasma knelt, she swayed.
And then, still gold against the dark, bathed ghostly in the dim blue light of the breezeway beyond, Phasma crumbled.
No.
Hux dropped to his knees beside her. Peavey forgotten, mission abandoned. Again a price had been named, and again it was not his life that had paid it, but that of another.
Phasmaâ
The telltale click and whine of a blaster priming barely broke through the scream he hoped was only inside his head. But Hux didnât care. Not anymore. Because too late he was realizing, if survival meant losing everything he cared for, Hux didnât think it worth the cost to live.
But maybe in death he would get to see Poe one last time, in the Force, as the stories told.
Maybe heâd get his chance to say good bye.
âArmitage Hux,â heaved with labored breaths, voice cast out in a cadence all at once too familiar, âSo fortunate you survived. I am going to enjoy this.â
Hux closed his eyes, and he dropped his head, bared his teeth in a snarl as fateâs hand levered to strike one final blow.
But the whine of the blaster never came. Instead, the bloated silence of the bridge burst into one catastrophic crash of sound.Â
Peavey shouted, a shocked thing that seemed to only surprise him, because as Hux turned to see that the network technician had abandoned his post to instead tackle Peavey to the ground, while the pit crew reached up to grab at the guards who had ringed the room. But his trooper's commands to lay down their arms echoed empty, lost amongst soldiers who had already discarded their weapons and raised their hands in surrender, as Hux was held witness to his plan converging onto victory.
He had done it. He had won.
He should be excited, Hux thought. He should be ecstatic. The First Order was finally his, but even as mutiny consumed the bridge, and victory swept fast through the men and women gathered there, Hux turned back to Phasma. His hands found the places where Phasma the warrior gave way to Phasma the woman. The places between her armor where a pulse might be found, where a wound might be staunched.
Where a heart might still beat, where his only friend might yet still live.
His friend. Phasma. Phasmaâ
âPhasmaââ
âStop touching me,â rasped inky with the same blood that smeared black over the dull sheen of her armor. âHow many times have Iââ her words caught in a cough, as wet as the ink â as the blood â but alive. ââhave I told you. Iâm not interestedââ
âShut up,â Hux snapped, hands shaking as he peeled the armor back to find a shard buried deep between her ribs, leaking blood in slow but thick rivulets. Too high to have missed her lungs, too low to have gotten her heart. A wound, but one that could heal, if attended to. âShut the fuck up Phasma,â and those werenât tears in his eyes, or a wavering laugh in his voice. Certainly, that was not joy in his heartâ not whenâ not afterâ not when Poeâ
âArmitage.â Phasmaâs glove was still hot with the pulse from her rifle when she touched his cheek, but even that didnât burn nearly as much as the heat that bloomed with his emotion. âYou did it.â
He had done it, but never before had victory felt so hollow.
Mere meters away, Lieutenant Ty was affixing a pair of stun cuffs to a snarling Captain Peavey. Beside him trembled the network technician, eyes edged white as he looked from Peavey to Hux with near fearsome pride. And all around the bridge, heads turned to observe him, there, on the floor, hunched over one of their own, face hardened against the tears he would never let fall, not when the men and woman of the Order looked at his like this. Looked to him for strength, for assurance.
For leadership.
For order.
Phasmaâs hand fell from his cheek, shoved weakly at his side. Get up, she would have said, but didnât dare â not in that moment, so tenuously wrought that Hux knew without reservation that what he did next would forever define the direction of these men and womanâs lives. Lives he now held in his hands, despite how much they might tremble.
Slowly, Hux climbed to his feet. Slower yet, he turned to Peavey.
His breath was ragged, the rifle bolt to his heavy armor having collapsed the material into a sharp divot. It would have broken several ribs, perhaps punctured his lung. Wounds that would not kill him, not quickly, at least, if at all. He looked up at Hux from his place on the floor â his place on his knees â face twisted into a snarl so severe that Hux wondered how he had ever survived a man who harbored so much hatred for him.
Then he thought of his father. Of Snoke. Of Ren.
His blaster hung heavy, still gripped loosely in the curl of his gloved hand.
âTell me one thing,â Peavey hissed, as his eyes listed to the blaster Hux leveled at him. âHow did you get the Supreme Leaderâs command codes?â
And this was it, he would do this, he would claim this for his own, tell Peavey I am the Supreme Leader, and take complete command of the Order. He would have the codes, now. Have them logged and filed and secreted away from even Ren himself, recorded by the program he had given to Rose. The little string of code that would have captured every keystroke they entered and saved it to his personal data cloud on the Order net.
And he would kill Peavey. Would end this shit smear of a man who had cost Hux so much â cost Hux everything â everything that mattered. Everything in life he actually wanted. Everything that had made it worth living.
Poe.
His blaster primed ready with a quite whine, the glow of its muzzle a beam of red, tearing through space like the bloodied hand of fate.
From his prostrated position, Peavey looked up, eyes blown black. A bead of spit from his snarl collected on his lip, as his face contorted with such virile revulsion that Hux couldnât help but think that this was what Snoke had seen when heâd looked down at him from his throne.
Iâll kill him, he had thought.
Iâll kill him, had said that man, the man he had once been, the man he still thought he was.
But as he stared down at Peaveyâs sundered face, as he watched him bleed not blood but hatred, Hux realized he was wrong, because he was no longer that man.
And neither was he this man, the one on his knees for the ego of another â not anymore.
Red bled to black as Hux lowered his gun, dropping it to the floor in a teeth shattering clatter.
The bridge had grown quiet now in the absence of conflict, a tentative peace that smoothed the torn edges of these men and women who had been forced to turn on their own. And they watched him with the weight of a whole generation of people who had known nothing but this life, this world, and the laws and logic that shaped it. And now they knew what happened when those laws failed them, when logic gave way to mania, and order revealed itself as nothing but the guise of one man's clutch on power.
A power now clutched in the same trembling hands Hux clasped behind his back.
At his feet, Peavey was silent, teeth clenched in a grind. He glared up at Hux with an accusation that needed no words, not with how it bled out of him, like he knew precisely what Hux was about to do.
âTake him away,â he told Lieutenant Ty.
And then Hux turned away. Turned towards a fate he had once feared, but now knew, was his only path forward.
From the viewport he could see that the New Republic had made their jump. Only the sprawling expanse of wild space rolled velvet and winking at his feet, the glowing crest of the Conquerorâs hull a breach in the darkness. Out there, in the Unknown Regions, were places they could hide. Places they could go to lick their wounds and gather resources, reforge alliances with the fringe factions that ran along those trade routes, where the settlements would be ripe for a source of stability within a world that did not know order. And there, they could maneuver themselves along the playing field until they once again emerged from that space with an untenable force of power, and claim their place among the wealth of the Core worlds.
He could do it. He could take the Order for himself, lead them to the glory his father had always dreamed of, but had never been able to achieve. Pursue this burden of purpose he had inherited not just from his father, but from a whole generation of men like him. Men who saw power as something to wield like a weapon of fear and submission, rather than inspire, or nurture, infect even, into loyalty and idealism.
He could do it. He could make that choice.
But he wouldnât. Because he wasnât that man anymore. And because he realized now, none of this was his choice to make.
âI have an announcement,â he told the network technician who had shakily reclaimed his post. âPatch me through to the Conqueror as well, I need all of us to hear this.â
Hux had made a promise to these people, that he would not just save them, but offer them a better path forward. And he knew now, with complete certainty, where that path would take them.
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Men and women of the First Order, I urge you, lay down your arms against one another. The soldier who stands before you is not your enemy, but your comrade, your brother, your sister, your friend. The First Order was built not on adversity among our ranks, but on brotherhood. When a galaxy turned you away, the Order welcomed you. And she welcomes you again. Every one of you, without division.
Because the First Order is not the ship beneath your feet, or my voice in your ear. It is not the machine we have built, but the blood that has fueled it. You are that blood. And the heartbeat of the Order has always been found in her blood. You are the First Order, as much as the men and women beside you are. As much as I am, and always will be.
And it is critical to the survival of the First Order that you never forget this. That what I say next comes not as a shock, but as an opportunity. An opportunity for the First Order.
The New Republic has extended to us an offering of peace. A chance to seed Order values in a galaxy that once felt so out of reach. Now it is not just within your reach, but held in your very hand. Our enemy has never been the people of the Republic, but the broken ideals of a system that would turn its back on so many of its number. That back is no longer turned.
There comes a time in every personâs life when they are presented with a choice. Today, your choice is not between commanders, or between sides. It is a choice of life versus living, a choice that has no more consequence than the direction your future will take. A choice that can not be made wrong, but can not be made for you.
The First Order has prepared you for this choice. She has worked you from the clay you were born from into men and women who understand the critical need for purpose, the value of your brethren, and the indelible potential that can be found in the structure of order.
Now, you must put those tools to work. Not for the First Order, but for yourself.
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Hux stood from the console, allowing the network technician to resume his position, to ensure the recording of his words would be heard not just to the Mandator, and the Conqueror, but all remaining First Order frequencies that could be reached.
Around him, the bridge murmured: a quiet susurration of conversations taking place in a privacy that had never before been afforded these people. They watched him with widened eyes, parted lips, and a question in their eyes. And Hux could not help but feel he was now surrounded by the men and women he had not so much saved, he considered, as released. The cage of Order command had been surrendered alongside his words, because Armitage acknowledged now that he was no more the General of these people than he was just another one of them.
The sensation landed strange, almost comforting. Maybe he was not as alone as he had always believed. Because his own words rang true: the Order was not the ship they stood upon, but a thing inside them. Something as fundamental to his being as the air he breathed, or the blood in his veins.
The love he had, would always have, for Poe.
Poe would be proud of him, Hux thought. Heâd be mad too, surely. But only because with his deliverance of the Order to the New Republic, his purpose would be served, and his fate would be sealed.
âHail the Conqueror,â he told the woman who had stepped up beside him, the acting Captain in Peaveyâs absence, âI need to speak with General Parnadee.â
It was not Bellava who answered the hail, however, but Rey.
âHux,â she sounded breathless, a little tired, maybe a little proud. âYou did it.â
âYes,â he said, unable to hide that little bit of smugness, the very same that made him think of Ren and how often he had stormed from the Finalizerâs bridge in a huff when one of Huxâs plans had worked, to his formidable dismay. âThe Conqueror, is she well?â He asked, in the loosest sense.
âEveryone here is fine, but Huxââ and he knew what she was going to say, and he swooped in before the words could come.
âPoe is dead,â he pushed the syllables out. Struck from them the tremble of his staggered breath, reporting the casualty as he might any other, but quickly, before emotion reduced him to a creature of instinct, too fearful of what his instincts might demand of him in that moment. âHe perished during the escortââ
âHux, heâs alive.â
It punched into him, like a blaster bolt to his chest.
No.
Poe was not alive.
Poe was dead.
âHux, listen to me, heâs on the Mandator. Weâ it doesnât matter. Heâs not dead, Hux. Heâs aliveââ
âImpossible,â Hux rasped, breathless and shaking. And then the sensation of Renâs Force slammed into him, knocking from his mind the festering coil of his thoughts, to replace it with a vision, one so acute and whole that Hux felt like heâd been physically plucked from the bridge and dropped back atop the wreckage of that doomed transport.
Because there, just out of reach but so close Hux could almost touch him, was Poe.
Poe was alive.
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Notes:
Next chapter will be the reunion y'all have been waiting for. It would be a Christmas miracle if it got posted before the holidays are over, however. But I couldn't leave y'all with that last cliffhanger, so this one gets posted a little early compared to my usual schedule. Also, chapter count got bumped again during the last update. I no longer promise anything but that there is a happy ending coming.
This chapter was so important to Hux, and I really tried to spend the time it needed to make sure it landed right. Not sure I pulled through. This was a really tough headspace to get into, especially right now in my own life. Hopefully his journey through this felt earned. Even without Poe there to physically help him along, I hope it came through in his actions how much Hux has grown.
As always, your feedback keeps me going. Thank you so much for reading, it means the world to me!
Chapter 14: Adrift
Notes:
Warnings: While Reylo is a pairing, and they make an appearance in the first segment, none of it is romantic. Also, there is some smut towards the end, with no specific warnings, it's all very soft â„
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He woke not to the rush of sound, or the catch of his breath, but in long dragging pulses, like a buoy in a vast ocean bobbing above the crashing waves of tumulting sea. Poe had no anchor, no pulse of life to grasp hold of, because his body was cold. Too cold to feel much beyond the icy weight of shapes that should feel like fingers, like hands, like his nose and maybe his toes. Poe was numb, and he felt peaceful, and would have been happy to drift like that, except someone kept calling his name.
Poe.
Relentless, the voice called out from the vast nothing that cocooned him. Not so much a person as a presence. Further away than even his unconscious thoughts. Someone who kept flashing a beacon of warning when all his body wanted was to float away. The voice, however, would not allow that. It harried at his edges, peeling back the cold to reveal first warmth, and then pain, and it was the pain that finally anchored Poe in his body â that drew his eyelids open.
He was floating, that was for certain, but it was no open ocean that had caught him in its current, but the absent vacuum of space.
Shit.
Above him, the Mandator loomed. Here, outside the cockpit of his TIE, it felt far larger than it had it had any right to, and Poe couldnât help but marvel at the sheer impossibility, the incredible scope of human engineering that had brought such a massive monster of technology to life. And again, like that buoy in the ocean, Poe was content to drift there, a tiny speck of life in a galaxy far too large for him to matter, caught in a current he had no control over, drifting away from a fate he had lost his grasp on.
Poe, can you hear me?
He could. He could hear them â hear her â and suddenly it struck him that this was not some disembodied voice, but Rey, reaching out to him through the Force.
Rey?
And when the relief washed warm and clean over the breadth of his mind, Poe was certain it was not his own feelings, but hers. Because with the restoration of his consciousness, memory slammed back into Poe with the same force as the volley of lasers that had torn his ship asunder.
Armitage.
Wedged into the hull, the open hangar bay glowed a pale cool white. Poe was too far away to see any more than the shape of it, could not see any wreckage, or smoke or even the orange cast of a fire. All he had to cling to were those final moments, memories that assaulted him with their harrowed desperation, a reckless maneuver that would have succeeded if not for that fucking laser.
Poe, listen to me.
Rey again. Rey, who was taking up too much space in his head, pushing out his memories in favor of the present moment, tugging him back into place despite the path his mind forged ahead on.
Poe, Iâm trying to help you. Iâm trying to save you. You have to listen to me.
Rey. The strength of his thought made her pause, because Poe had to knowâ Rey, did he make it?
Her silence hurt far more than his body ever could. It stretched too long, too thin, before Rey finally responded.
Ben says heâs alive.
Kylo Ren. Of course. Rey and Ren, two sides of a coin Poe would never risk flipping, not that he had ever counted his odds.
But as the Mandator drifted by in slow aching inches, he thought maybe he should start.
Listen, Poe, I think we can get you to the hangar, but you donât have much time. Youâve been out there for too long, and Ben says those suits only have enough oxygen to last an hour.
An hour. Poe canât help but think that would have been long enough for Armitage to complete the mission, if heâd more than simply survived the damage to his transport. Again he looked to the hangar bay, squinted against the warm running lights of the hull in a futile attempt to observe something that was literally, entirely out of reach. Armitage was out of reach, and Poe could not help but think in so many ways worse than the physical.
What do you need me to do?
Rey was silent again, but this time her absence didnât hurt so much as frightened him.
Ben says he can move you, with the Force.
Of course. What was one human when Rey and Ren had the ability to move whole ships? But Poe heard the catch in her voice. Understood this was not as simple as Ren lifting his arm and twitching his fingers. Because this was not the Light side at work, but the Dark, and the Dark always demanded a price.
Heâs going to need access to your mind.
Poe would have swallowed if he had any saliva left. His mouth had gone dry, his body rigid, his mind hard. The price. He would pay it, of course he would pay it. There was no price he would not pay, to see Armitage again.
He had to get to Armitage. Armitage might still need him. To complete the mission. To save the First Order. Because Armitage would do it. He would succeed. And despite his refusal to say goodbye, Poe could not leave Armitage like this â let Armitage leave like this â with the pain of Poeâs death â his sacrifice â weighing on his heart. Heâd be committed to a life not just without Poe, but convinced of his death by what Armitage would deem his own hand.
Alright.
The word did not come easily, nor did it come quickly. The touch of Renâs Force, however, did.
Even if Poe had never been subject to Kylo Renâs Force touch, he still would have recognized the taste of it. It snaked through his synapses like a poison, not so much finding the furrowed path it had once taken but forging new ones, burning through Poeâs head and leaving him feeling not just full, as with Reyâs, but too small. Ren did not fit, not only in a physical sense, but in the very nature of their diametric beings. Where Poe was airy, Ren was dense. And where Poe was content to drift, to bend and flex alongside the ebb and flow of his life, Ren crashed through with a shattering propulsion, a velocity that swept Poe up and away into this manâs control, a control he asserted with a swiftness that almost felt empathetic. But then Poe remembered before, and he doubted that empathy to be anything more than the lingering touch of Rey at the edge of his mind.
And as Ren threaded into the fabric of his thoughts, and his mind spilled open to be privy to Renâs private consumption, Poe realized this was what Armitage had to deal with on a daily basis. This violation. This weaponized assault on the delicate egis of something already so private for Armitage, that place he had built inside himself where he could escape the trappings of the world he had fought to have any sort of control over. No wonder he hated the Force â no wonder he despised Ren and all the men in his life just like him.
Something balked inside him, a twist of a knife in a spot that didnât feel so much like it were inside Poe as it did somewhere entirely outside.
Iâm sorry.
Distant words. More distant than Reyâs had been. But before Poe could construct a response he was moving. Not drifting, but moving. He traveled through space in a slow glide, closing the distance towards the hangar bay in quickly depleting meters. Around him, debris listed â the debris from his TIE â pieces of the wreckage trailing a path towards the hangar in a shadow of their momentum. How Poe had ended up so far outside the wreckage he may never know. Maybe fate â maybe the Force â maybe that BB-9 unit that had gone strangely silent for the entirety of the flight. Or maybe just sheer fucking luck.
The hangar swallowed him in cool blinding light. With it came the sensation of weight on his feet, and then suddenly, Poe was collapsing to solid ground. He hit the floor with a relief that tasted as incongruous as the flavor of Renâs Force separating from his thoughts in quick, staggered measures. Ren was as gone as Rey was there, filling in the gaps Ren had left with a warm soothing balm. He closed his eyes over the sensation â against the wreckage of the transport that smoked before him â and he clung to Reyâs words when she next spoke.
Iâm so glad youâre okay, Poe.
Poe wanted her to know he was too. Wanted to thank her, but she sounded distant, tired, like this endeavor had cost her more than a physical strength. And then she left him as well, abandoned Poe to this strange ship, this unfamiliar ground, where a battle was taking place not just for the survival of the First Order, but for the future the galaxy at large would see take shape.
Armitageâs future.
Poe fumbled with his helmet, released the latches and tugged it off to breathe in the sweet scent of recycled air, sucking in lungful after lungful. Armitage. Armitage was alive. He was alive. Poe had saved him. He had, he had done it, where so many other times he had failed. But not this time. This time his luck had pulled through yet again, just when he needed it the most, when Armitage had needed it the most.
Poe closed his eyes, dropped his head to the durasteel between his hands, and he shook. He shook and he smiled and he bit his lip against the joyful sobs that threatened his already fractured composure. This wasnât over, not yet, no matter how impossible this moment, but they were close. They were going to do this. Armitage was going to do this.
âWhat the hell?â
Footsteps. Heavy ones. A whole platoonâs worth.
âShit, man, itâs a TIE pilot,â a voice, modulated to a mundane uniformity. A Stormtrooperâs voice. Poe stayed as he was: collapsed on the ground, fingers spread over the comforting solidity of durasteel, head dropped to obscure his features. He wasnât sure these troopers would recognize him, let alone if they were allies, or if he had traded a peaceful death for another far more brutal ending.
âThe only TIE out there were escorting the transport,â another voice spoke as the sound of armor shifting came close enough that Poe had to look up. A trooper knelt on the floor beside him, helmet cocked to the side in question. âHey, man, you okay?â
The trooper was as monotonous as the rest of his platoon, identity left to the unique warble of the voice modulator that gave away an outer rim accent Poe could place within the Batonn sector.
âYeah,â Poe answered slowly. Let the words drag out, hopefully long enough that the troopers gave themselves away first, so Poe didnât have to walk completely blind into his own death. âYeah, Iâm alright. My head,â Poe gestured at his discarded helmet, âitâs a little shook up. I donât remember much. Just an explosion, and my shipââ he shook his head for good measure, ââthink I crashed it. Or got it blown up.â
âYou come from the Conqueror?â
No luck, because there it was, the question that would decide Poeâs fate all over again, because a wrong answer would leave him far more dead than even Reyâs intervention could salvage. But, he had come this far. And as grim as the odds he refused to count may be, he was still Poe Dameron â he had still skirted death by the skin of his teeth. His luck had not run dry. Not yet. He had made it this far â Armitage had made it this far â and a platoon of troopers was not going to stop Poe from seeing this through to the end. Or seeing Armitage again.
âYes, sir.â Poe eyed the blaster in his hands, the rigid posture of the troopers behind him, the short distance to the smoldering wreckage; knew he could maybe get two â three shots off before the element of surprise wore off and someone else got lucky. âAm I the only survivor?â
He held his breath as the trooper regarded him, as those behind him shifted with the quiet understanding that despite the uniforms they wore, the lines dividing the Order right then were as in flux as the thoughts running through all their heads. But then the trooper stood, and he held his hand out, and when Poe allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, he was met not with a blaster bolt to his head, but the clap of a friendly hand. Gravity was an unusual sensation upon his body, his limbs moving as if they were still caught in the vacuum of space, but the trooper helped him up, held him steady, until Poe could stand on his own two feet.
Like a friend might. A fellow soldier. A comrade.
âYou got lucky, the rest of em not so much. Someone survived though, the hatch to the cockpit was opened from the inside. Whoever was in there is long gone now, though.â
Armitage.
âItâs General Hux,â Poe said it proudly, âHeâs come to help.â And the relaxed slope of the trooperâs shoulders said all Poe needed to hear.
âYeah, we were hoping it was him. Shipâs gone into mutiny. Weâve secured what decks we can, but this ainât one of them,â the trooper gestured to the men behind him, a signal Poe did not recognize beyond that it was a command. A trooper stepped forward to take his arm, and Poe nearly jerked it out of his grasp before he saw the small marking on their shoulder guard â a medic, this trooper was the platoonâs medic.
âAny known injuries?â The trooper asked as their fingers curled over his arm.
Poe relaxed, just a little. âNo, Sir. Just a little knocked around.â The trooper maneuvered his forearm around to open a hidden panel on his flight suit, and a small screen flashed with a series of readouts that were more numbers than words. Whatever his vitals were, they must not be good, because Poe could feel the way the trooperâs grip on his arm tightened, and the heavy weight of their stare when the helmet shifted to regard him.
A long pause, then, âYouâre hot as an ion engine,â said simply, and Poe thought surely a First Order medic would have better bedside manner than that.
Still, Poe couldnât help but grin, âSorry, bud, Iâm taken.â
The trooper cocked its head again, hand flexing a fraction, before rolling their helmet in a way that could have been their eyes, âIâm talking about radiation, youâre way over the safe levels. You must have been out there a while. Iâm going to give you a stim and a series of anti-radiation hypos, but youâre going to need to get treatment in medical and go through decontamination. Ever suffered from ARS before?â
Fuck. The Absolution, of course he was hot. âBriefly, just a few days of nausea. That bad, huh?â
âYou can expect worse than nausea. Medbay is secure but thereâs fighting round the closest lifts leading to it. We can get you there but it will take some time.â
âI canât go to medical,â said as the medic pulled open a seal on his glove to expose his wrist. The hypo-needle was cold against his skin, numbing the injection site of the stim. The anti-radiation injections that followed were harsher, hurt more despite the numbing agent of the needle, and there was nothing Poe could do to stop the way his arm ached and his vision swam. But even as he staggered, the medic catching his elbow as he listed forward and his blood stream flooded his brain with the sudden influx of drugs, all he could think was how he needed to get to Armitage. Armitage, who may be alive, but could be injured â or in danger â captured or worse. Poe pulled his arm free of the medicâs grip, took a step forward while breathlessly, he demanded, âI need to get to Armitage.â
The awkward silence that followed hung heavy, Poeâs slip a strange reveal that exposed him as something unknown, a factor they could not control. And Poe knew that made him dangerous. He held still, but hardly steady, rocking on his feet as exhaustion caught up with him all at once. Suddenly, he wished he hadnât shrugged off the medicâs grip. And when he turned his head to regard the trooper who must be the head of the platoon, he wished he had done a lot of things in his life differently, the first of which being, not crashing every fucking TIE heâd ever piloted.
âWe donât know where the general is,â the trooper spoke calmly while hefting his blaster, edging the muzzle at an angle that would make it easy to level on him. Poe didnât think it was a threat, just caution, because when the trooper asked, âWhat is your designator, pilot?â Poe knew he had been caught out.
Poe swallowed, looking into the space where the trooperâs eyes would be, if they werenât wearing a helmet. âMy name isââ
From across the hangar, the shout of voices was almost too unimportant for Poe to acknowledge. But the whizzing bolt of a blaster rushing past his head had Poe and the rest of the platoon flattened to the durasteel floor in the space of a half-breath.
A second platoon of troopers had taken up position by the door. Just as identical as those surrounding him â the differences blind to him but obvious to each other. And Poe could only watch on as these two different platoons engaged one another in battle of attrition. As equally equipped as they were homogeneous, they traded fire alongside the shouts of command, their urging for the other side to lay down their weapons â surrender to the other. Neither were going to surrender. And despite the word of the trooper, it occurred to Poe that this was the real proof that he needed. The proof that Armitageâs plan was working, because this was the mutiny he had hoped for.
No. Not hoped. Had planned. This was Armitageâs plan. A plan he had believed so acutely would work that he had risked not just his own life, but Poeâs, and Phasmaâs, and the fate of the Conqueror and the Order itself.
Pride and excitement and something so close to relief kept Poe there, collapsed atop the durasteel, smothering a laugh that wanted to spill manic. But a hand to his shoulder would not allow for it, and Poe could only scramble along with the medic as he was dragged to the wreckage of the transport, to take cover from the blaster fire that filled the space of the hangar. Another injured trooper collapsed against the smoking hull alongside him, leaking blood and the singed smell of burned flesh from a wound to his thigh. Poe watched on as the medic worked over the injury: injecting an analgesic before carefully removing the plates to apply a tourniquet.
âDidnât hit an artery, youâll be fine,â the medic assured, and Poe watched how gently they pat the trooperâs knee, the kind way they addressed their injury, how they knew just the right thing to say to alleviate their hidden, but surely felt panic.
Watched as the rest of the platoon took up positions around their fallen comrade, using the transport as a shield as they gave up ground in favor of protecting their own.
Suddenly, it was all Poe could do to help. He gripped the injured trooperâs other arm, as he helped the medic positioned them against the transport, sliding a piece of debris under their knee so their leg could be elevated and the blood flow slowed. And when the blaster bolts came closer, and their position converged together into a circle of protection, Poe took the blaster that was offered him. Offered him, a stranger they chose to trust, in the face of this shared threat.
âRC-4401, alert Beta Five, they should only be a level up,â the head trooper calmly spoke between volleys, as the injured trooper at his side patched his comm into what Poe assumed was another friendly platoon. And as it happened: as the injured trooper called for help, as the platoon around him returned fire on the opposing force which would see them dead, Poe was struck with how familiar it all was. How many times he had been in this position, with the Resistance, with the New Republicâs navy, and even with his little band of spice runners? There was no difference between these people and the people Poe fought alongside, nothing besides the uniforms they wore and the command they answered to.
War had revealed a lot of things to Poe. And though this was hardly the most monumental of them, let alone something truly new, rather than one of the many thoughts he had ruminated upon during the accumulation of sleepless nights that had plagued him since the first time he took up a blaster against another living being, to see it so starkly represented left Poe reeling in a way he could not shake. These simplistic human gestures of protection and comfort and camaraderie knew no boundary, despite a personâs side or circumstance, or their goals, or even their flaws.
But most revealing of all was that Poe had seen what happened when those values in society broke down, what sort of result was born when community was abdicated in favor of power or wealth or territory, values he had thought the Order had placed above all elseâŠhe did not see that here. Where there should be that insidious thread of decay that would reveal these troopers as nothing more than cogs in a corrupt system, Poe found nothing but familiarity.
Finnâs words echoed. Theyâre just people. Theyâre all just people.
Was this what Armitage had seen? Was this the version of the Order he had envisioned? These men, who were loyal to a general who represented something to them Poe was not sure he could reliably put into their words â only his own â which felt disingenuous when things like hope and goodness were terms Armitage had only just recently allowed for himself. Because it didnât feel like these troopers were only following orders, or acting on the idea that Captain Peavey was a usurper, rather than their rightful commander. No, because that would not explain why they helped some designation-less pilot, the concern they showed when they prioritized getting him to medical rather than securing the hangar, or the careful way the medic still watched over their injured comrade, as if a non-lethal wound to the leg required the same level of care as a blow to the chest. They were loyal to Armitage because he represented the values they held close, rather than Peavey, whose act of violence towards his own people surely must go against everything the Order stood for.
What the Order stood for.
The First Order were just people. People like any other. People who had come from the far reaches of the galaxy, not by choice, maybe, but still given up on by a galaxy who did not want them, taken in by a power that offered them this: somewhere to belong, alongside people who could understand them. People with the same values Poe held, who could have been members of the Resistance if only they had been born a little closer to the core. And Poe already knew this, this should not feel so important â so pivotal â but it did. And all he wanted was to find Armitage and tell him, I get it now, I understand.
And then truth shattered him, reduced him to a trembling mess, when the sound of Armitageâs voice broached the scream of blaster fire, to fill the hangar bay not with the echo of his command, but with something far more remarkable. Because as Armitageâs words landed, as they weighed heavy on not just Poe, but the soldiers in the room, Poe understood the gravity of what was happening. The choice Armitage was making, and everything he was giving up to provide that same choice to these men and women of the First Order.
He could only watch in awe as the blasters hummed to a quiet throb, and the shifty sound of armor filled the burden of silence instead, to finally be replaced by the dull clatter of blasters dropped to the ground.
And he could only barely meet the shielded eyes of the head trooper, when their hand landed on his shoulder, and their head cocked to the side in question, as tears welled in Poeâs eyes and a half-smile cracked his face.
âMy name is Poe Dameron,â he said, âand I really, really need to speak with Armitage Hux.â
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There were moments in Huxâs life when reality detached itself from his senses. Where despite his pain, or terror, or grief, he was left emptied, discarded to float through time at the whim of some greater force, an external circumstance his control could not extend to, and his future was remade into a vision that he would not have ever predicted.
These moments always had a way of converging upon him in a series of blows that felt as if the galaxy itself were trying remind him of his place: Jakku, when he watched the Empire fall as he was whisked away to the far reaches of the galaxy, leaving his childhood behind on the bloodied sands of a battlefield he should never have stepped foot on. And again, when Starkiller Base had crumbled beneath him, and his lifeâs work was dismantled before his eyes in a rupture of ice and fire that should have, by all rights, taken him with it. Later, when Kylo Ren would kill Snoke, Hux would again be caught, this time with his fingers curled over his blaster â frozen alongside the rest of himself â the moment lasting just long enough that his chance to take out Ren would pass along with his opportunity to craft a future for the First Order of his own design.
And most recently, when Poe had died. When Hux had been dragged back down into that pit inside him, lost to a grief he had never felt before â had never thought he could feel â not when the galaxy had already shown him what shapes grief could take. And while he had grown to expect these moments, he could not predict when they came, or what fundamental shift to the tides of his future they would make.
So as he leaned over the network technicianâs shoulder, the whirring idle chatter of the medical droid attending Phasma felt distant, shrouded in fog, or submersed in some great ocean. And the image on the screen mocked him, because it revealed a version of reality that Hux did not feel a part of. Like this was just another cruel joke the galaxy had a way of making him the punchline to, where the blow would come the moment he let his guard down enough to believe what his own eyes saw, but his heart refused to accept.
âCan you identify that platoon?â asked in a voice that could not be his, for how steady it sounded. Hux did not feel steady. He felt un-moored in every way, already stretched thin by the events of the last several hours, so that what was left of him felt brittle, barely patched together.
âYes, sir, that would be Delta Four,â the technician was already pulling up the platoonâs team profile, the array of identity cards revealing an elite squadron made up of soldiers from several different Star Destroyers, lead by a trooper designated as FR-6060. âWant me to patch you through?â
Hux swallowed, eyes lingering over the image on the screen, where Poe was huddled beside an injured trooper, only the dark curl of his hair and the occasional flash of his profile visible beyond the half circle of armored bodies. But it was him. It was Poe.
Poe was alive.
âYes,â the word almost, almost caught in the tightness of his throat. Hux would not cry. Not now. Not when he had nothing left to cry about.
Because Poe was alive.
âDelta Four leader, this is the bridge, what is your status?â The technician asked as Hux leaned in close, eyes following the shape of Poe beyond the cast of figures surrounding him, as if now that he had him in his sights he could not look away â maybe should not even blink â lest he slip away again.
âDelta Four to the bridge, confirmed. Weâre in the main hangar, weâve got one injured and have recovered a survivor here from the crash, a pilot from the Conqueror.â
And as he placed his hand on the technicianâs shoulder, his other held out for the microphone the technician quickly removed from his ear, he did shake. But the technician said nothing, only glanced up at him with a curiosity Hux would not fault him for â not when his question would reveal a concern for what should be a no-name pilot, âThis is Hux. Delta Four, what is the pilotâs condition?â Is he okay? Is he hurt? Is he another sith ghost come back to haunt me?
âGeneral Hux, sir, he requires medical attention for radiation exposure,â came over stilted enough that Hux could read something of their emotion through the modulator. Then, all at once, the voice cut out, to be replaced by another â a familiar voice, a voice that crashed over him, shaking free the emotion he had maybe only ever pretended he could hide.
âArmitage, you karking did itââ
On the screen, Poe had stood so he was in front of the trooper Hux now knew was the platoon leader. He leaned in close enough that the trooperâs blaster was pressed between their chests, gripping either side of the trooperâs helmet like it was Huxâs face in his hands. It took everything inside Hux to resist reaching out and layering the trembling tips of his fingers over the shadowy image of the man he loved, who yet lived.
âPoe Dameron,â he said, voice wavering only a little, as he absconded the hold he had on the technicianâs shoulder to slide his hands behind his back. He twisted them together in a clasp that did nothing to hide his shaking, but felt like the only tether that would keep him standing, âyou will unhand that trooper and report to medbay immediately. That is an order. If you defy me I will have that platoon throw you in the brig. Is that understood?â
And while maybe he could hide the shaking of his hands, there was no way he could hide the way his lips trembled when he pressed them together, or the relief softening the harsh syllables of his words. And even if Hux had been able to hide all those things, Poe was still gripping the trooper like it was Huxâs face in his hands, his grin visible despite the distance of the camera, maybe only because it poured through his voice.
âWhich is closer to the bridge?â
âExcuse me?â
âThe brig or medbay, which will get me closer to where you are?â
âDonât be an idiot Poe,â Hux finally broke open, and through those fissures he breathed, âIâll meet you at medbay.â
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Medbay glowed with an antiseptic sting the medical facility on Ajan Kloss would never be able to achieve. But it was a testament to the First Order that even now, with an influx of injured and dying, that the floors were scrubbed clean of blood, the main lobby kept free of the wounded, and that there was still a private room left for Phasma, whose prep for a surgery was scheduled within the hour, just as soon as her vitals were confirmed stable.
âYou lucky bastard,â she said not for the first time since theyâd left the bridge in the capable hands of the newly appointed Captain Lorne. And that too, was a testament, but instead to the faith Hux had in the people of the Order: that he could trust his newly won command, no matter how superficial, to a stranger from a strange ship.
A strange ship which now was, by all rights, his. The mutiny had ended with his announcement, his speech as heâd heard whispered amongst the crew they had encountered. There was a raw sort of awe to the expressions of the people he passed, a curiosity he was not sure existed before. It was entirely possible that the pall of command had blinded him to such things in the past. But something told him that this was as new to the people of the Order as it was to him â this leveling of the playing field â where everyoneâs futures were as unknown and possessing the same potential as the person beside them, no matter what rank they held, or what role they played aboard the Mandator.
If his circumstances had been different, Hux thought he might have considered the greater implications of what that meant. Instead, all he could think of was Poe. Where he was, was he okay, when would he arrive, and how the stars had he survived?
Luck, it seemed, played a far larger role in all their lives than he was once willing to admit.
âAs if youâre one to speak of good fortune,â he murmured softly, fondly, despite Phasmaâs sneer. Her armor lay discarded in a bin beside her gurney, the mangled piece of her chest plate blackened with dried blood where it had punctured between her ribs. Now, as she lay back â Hux almost wanted to say lounged â against the pillows the nurses had propped behind her back, fiddling with the drip that had been inserted into her wrist, Hux thought she might just be able to give Poe a run for his money when it came to all this luck stuff.
âWant to go check for him again?â Phasmaâs voice seethed with an indulgent pleasure, as if Huxâs obvious inability to settle was something purely for her amusement.
âNo, the nurses know to get me when he arrives,â he tried to convince himself. It still had not stopped him from checking with the lobby at least half a dozen times within the last thirty minutes. Nor had it stopped him from pacing the shortened length of the room.
âArmitage, calm down. Heâs alright, heâs alive.â And that this little bit of truth from Phasma came at no cost left Hux reeling with the expectation that he had only put off the inevitable price he was going to pay for all of this: for Phasmaâs life, for this swift surrender of Peaveyâs forces, and Poeâs apparent survival of a wreck that, by all rights, should have killed him.
âCalm is no longer an option for me,â he breathed out, pacing across the room in the same quickened step he had kept since their march from the bridge. And in his weakened state, he fell into old habits. The pacing, the anxiety, and the focus upon the tasks that needed completed â these real and tangible goals he could work towards in the face of what suddenly felt so insurmountable: his feelings. âThere is work to be done, andââ
ââAnd a man who needs you, who you need. Bellava can fill in, sheâll know what needs to get done. The hard part is over, you can worry about your own shit. She can run both ships for now. Weâre not going anywhere, for a little while at least.â Weâre not going anywhere until we figure out if weâre even still welcome within the Core, a fact that went unspoken. That the promise he had made to these people still hinged upon a good will he wasnât sure he had not also surrendered, alongside his position within the Order, and the claim he had over his own life.
Yes, there was still a price to be paid. One that had been easier than ever to accept aboard the bridge, when heâd believed Poe dead.
But Poe was not dead. Poe was alive â was on his way here.
A soft knock was the only warning he was given, before the door whooshed open and Hux was confronted with not only his sudden good fortune, but the reversal of the greatest price he had ever been asked to pay.
There was no nurse to announce his presence. No ease of command to frame this encounter within a structure Hux could accommodate. There was only Poe, filling the threshold of the room, taking up a space that felt larger than the insubstantial mass his body had any right to still claim. But right then, Poe felt like both the largest and most important creature in the universe, like a god from the fables he knew as a child, or the burning sun of a falling meteor, coming to crash into Huxâs world and remake it into a brand new image.
âHeya, Hugs,â he said, like it was nothing. Like he wasnât some ghost, some cruel joke the galaxy was playing. Like he was just Poe, his Poe, in all the ways Hux would never take for granted again, if he ever had at all.
He made a sound, aborted with emotion, nothing but a futile attempt at words, before he lost control of his body to the shock that had been chasing him since their crash. Finally, as Poeâs easy smile leveled on him a weight Hux could no longer carry, he felt himself succumb to the physical weariness he had buried in the face of his mission. Like atop that transport, when memory had crashed violent and reduced him to a heap of flesh, Hux collapsed again. But this time, as his knees buckled and his body did not just tremble, but shook, he did not meet the ground. He was caught in the arms of the man he loved, who he had lost, and now regained all over again.
âHey hey,â Poe said while wrapping an arm around his waist and cupping his hand to his cheek. Poeâs eyes were dark and as sparked through with life as they had ever been. Because Poe was alive. âYou okay?â
âPoe,â he could only whisper, as he held on â held fast â because he was never letting Poe go ever again.
âYeah, youâre okay,â he murmured, he smiled, his lips immediately brushing over his the corner of Huxâs down-turned lips. Shaking, Hux leaned into it. Canted his head to catch Poe in a touch of their mouths. It could not be called a kiss, particularly compared to those they were accustomed to, but here he could feel the life in Poeâs breath, taste his warmth, and that was enough. And if it were all Hux would be allowed for the rest of his days, it would feel far too generous. Hux would hold onto this, cherish it, in a way he wasnât sure he would have been able to manage before. And even as his head swam and his vision tunneled, and he thought surely he should close his eyes before he caused himself to completely collapse, he could not relinquish the hold he had on Poe; whether that was his physical grip or just the sight of him alive and well and right there, with him again.
âYouâre injured,â Poe observed, fingers brushing over the blood caked to the side of his forehead, as if it was him who had nearly died â had died. It made Hux want to laugh, he meant to laugh, he really did, but the sound broke more like a sob, and then the awful tears in his eyes gave him away.
He cried. He couldnât stop now that he had begun. The little control he had left abandoned him in a rush of emotion: relief, but also joy, and the strangest sensation of gratitude. Because Poe was alive. However impossible it felt, and against all the odds, Poe was okay. Hux's sob broke wretched where he buried it in Poe's shoulder. And his hands trembled where they grasped at Poe's flight suit. And his mind flew off with the idea that no matter what happened next, he would never let go of this â of Poe â never again.
Poe was aliveâ Poe was alive.
âThatâs the third time heâs cried in the last two hours,â drawled Phasma from where she lay. âYou should probably make him get his head checked out, for brain damage, you know.â And that did turn his sob into a snarl, a vicious thing he threw at Phasma, so different from the last time the two of them were together like this â positions reversed â but a shadow of the same moment, like an echo reaching through time.
Despite this display of emotion, one she had so adamantly rebuked aboard the bridge, Phasma seemed happy enough to return his snarl with a toothy half-grin. Hux hid his face in Poeâs neck. Pushing back the tears, he breathed in deeply as he felt Poeâs hand travel from his cheek to his hair. The way he stroked gentle fingers over the mat of blood felt like an audacious act of intimacy when performed in front of Phasma. But after all they had been through, no one seemed very bothered.
âHere, sit down, okay? Just take it easy,â Poe guided him to a chair in the corner, forcing him into the seat while he followed him down to his knees. They had been here before, long ago, under the sun of an unfamiliar planet, atop the sand of a beach that would come to represent so much to Hux, and the journey he had not expected to take alongside Poe Dameron. âIâm here, youâre here, and weâre both okay.â
âPoe,â he said as his head tipped forward, âIâm not okay, Iâm not at all okay.â
Poe only smiled as he pushed his way into Huxâs space, hands cupping his face like he was going to kiss him. He didnât. He only wedged himself between Huxâs knees, shuffling close so their shared warmth closed the distance separating them, a coming together where their bodies could not. âAlright, thatâs fair. Weâre alive though, thatâs what matters, right?â
âYou were dead,â breathed out with another wave of vertigo. He let his head drop into Poeâs hold, let his face be cupped and his cheeks be stroked by Poeâs thumbs. Let his heart be heard, over the quiet whine of the medical equipment that somehow only enhanced the silence between their words. âYou were dead, Poe. I donât know how I went on, believing you were gone.â
âYou did though,â Poe spoke softly, guiding Hux with his voice like how he guided his face with his hands, holding it up so their eyes met, and then held. Hux couldnât help himself when he lifted his hands to cover Poeâs â to hold them together, fingers tangled, gripped so tightly Hux thought they would never be able to let go. âYou did it because youâre strong, and you knew what needed to be done. You saved everyone, Armitage. You saved your people. You saved the First Order.â
How Poe could speak with a smile right then, Hux may never understand. Maybe he wasnât supposed to. Maybe that was why he and Poe fit together as they did: filling in each otherâs gaps, propping each other up so they stayed aloft when alone the other might fall.
 âIâm so proud of you, Armitage.â
And that, in the end, was what finally made Hux look away: the idea that Poe was proud of him, of this heroic version of himself that Hux nearly tore apart in his desire to avenge Poe. There was a guilt hidden there, within that break of attention â a fear of the mantle he had come so close to donning, and the person he had thought he no longer was, but almost chose to become.
âI was going to do it,â he said softly, like a secret.
âWhat, do what?â
âLeave,â Hux admitted, eyes lifting to catch Poeâs again, like a dare, a bold thing he threw at Poeâs feet, a truth that felt as much an accusation as it had a premonition, âwith the First Order.â
Poe was quiet, mouth parted with his breath, a gentle pulse that swelled his chest in slow arching waves. But there was no disappointment in his stare, nor surprise. Just a question, one he was particularly careful to ask, âWhat stopped you?â
âMy heart.â The words released with his breath â with his grimace. It was a confession, and a burden, but one that felt lifted.
âNow Iâm really proud of you,â Poe said, then added, softly, so maybe only he could hear, âI love you so much, Armitage Hux.â
Only then did Hux close his eyes and allow Poe the kiss he had been seeking.
It landed gently on his lips, like the press of fingertips to a flowerâs petal, mindful of something that felt as delicate as it did precious. It left Hux shaking. The grip he still held to Poeâs hands a stability he literally clung to as the rest of himself unraveled â as untrusting of this turn in his fortune as he had always been of fateâs looming toll. Heedless of his worry, Poe pressed slow, soft kisses across Armitageâs mouth, until he was left shaking with more than the fester of fear in his gut.
As monumental as Poeâs survival felt, Hux understood they were not safe â not yet. But Poe was alive. And he was here, with him, now. Armitage may not have skirted paying fateâs price entirely, but maybe heâd been offered a temporary respite.
The shifting of blankets and the beep of the medical pager was what finally broke the moment. And as he and Poe pulled away to stare at one another â Poeâs grin far outshining whatever broken expression Huxâs face surely must have donned â Phasma announced loudly, âDonât worry, Iâm getting you two a room.â
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In the end, it wasnât Phasma who procured them a room, but Captain Lorne.
Armitage assured him that the quarters theyâd been assigned were modest. But Poe supposed a general of the First Order possessed a different definition of the word modest than that held by a rapscallion rebel pilot whoâs own promotion to general had only come with increased responsibilities and not an upgrade to his sleeping arrangements. That was to say, their quarters aboard the Mandator were large. They were clean. And most of all, they were private.
They were also beautiful.
Space sprawled in a blackened expanse across the floor to ceiling viewport that was the far wall. Their rooms looked out over the port side, so the hull of the Conqueror was hidden, suggesting an unbroken stretch of deep space that felt as isolating as the sound-proofing that protected them from both passing foot traffic and the adjacent quarters. As charming as their little collection of cubby-like rooms were back on Ajan Kloss, the Mandator offered a level of refinement that made Poe wonder how the hell Hux had never once complained about their Resistance base home.
âAnd youâre telling me, your quarters aboard the Finalizer were even nicer?â
âThey were certainly larger, I would not have called them nicer,â Armitage said as he pulled a hand down his face, eyes drifting to the discarded report Parnadee had sent over; the collection of transfers that had been selected to board the Mandator. Armitage had just given the final approval, after working out the priority boarding and how much crude fuel could be spared for the transports. They couldnât get all one hundred and eighty thousand of the over-populated Conqueror aboard the Mandator â both their capacity and resources would not allow that â but they could get some. Enough, certainly, to make a difference.
At the top of the priority list were the few children and their extended families, a fact that had first left Poe reeling, and then asking if that was common aboard a Star Destroyer. The confused twist to Armitageâs mouth had been answer enough. So much that when Poe smiled sheepishly during Armitageâs attempt to explain a family unit and how small children depended upon their parents during their critical infantile years, Poe had taken the opportunity to shut him up with a kiss.
âI know what a family is, Hugs,â he had said into the soft press of his mouth, leaving out the probably better than you do, and opting instead for, âthink if we tried hard enough we could start one?â
Before Armitage could go off on another tangent, this time about male anatomy and how neither of them were equipped with the appropriate biological parts to incubate a child (Poe stopped wondering when his internal Armitage voice had become so accurate), Poe had pulled the datapad from his hands and deposited himself in its place atop the desk. Armitage had not protested. He had hardly done anything more than look up at Poe with that same unreadable expression he had worn since his breakdown in medbay.
Now, space framed Armitage from where he sat in the swivel chair, inky and dark against all his pale fire, despite the shadows that hung beneath his eyes. Poe knew he was barely holding it all together. Exhaustion and stress were catching up now that his adrenaline had run dry. He looked tired â worn in a way Poe had never seen before. And he supposed that had something to do with recent events, but also that his guard was down. Poe had watched it fall almost immediately when the hydraulic door had sealed them away from the eyes of the Mandatorâs crew; General Hux absconded in favor of the man Poe had grown to know simply as Armitage.
But regardless of the lack of walls, and the discarded datapad, Poe recognized the turning machinery that made up Armitageâs mind. Even now it worked overtime. Poe observed it all from his perch on the desk: the way Armitage sunk back into his slightly disadvantageous position in the chair, mouth pulled to a frown, eyes following a path Poe could only guess at â but had an inkling of â when his attention lingered over the patch on his forearm. Armitage could not stop thinking, and he most certainly could not stop worrying.
âIâm okay, Hugs,â Poe said like it would make a difference. Because it was true, he was okay â or at least would be. At the opposite side of the desk sat a large case. Inside it was a hypo, along with three days worth of injections for two and a medpak. The doctor had insisted, when heâd explained anyone within close proximity to Poe for an extended time needed to take similar precautions. He was, funnily enough, hot as ion engine. And he was in for a miserable couple weeks at the absolute worst possible timing, but it would not kill him.
âIâll be alright, even the doctor said so,â he continued in the face of Armitageâs silence. But Armitage only looked away, lips pursed against words he didnât speak, gloved hands clenched over the arm rests of his chair. Armitageâs anxiety was plain, and all Poe wanted was to chase it away, reveal the man he knew was buried beneath it all. The man who had clung to his back on a wild speeder ride across Ajan Klossâs countryside. Who had climbed a mountain beside him to watch sea creatures play beneath the waves. The very person who had designed a game sim to spite a world of men who would smother him in their archaic tenets, only to have it become the vehicle of salvation for the whole of the Order.
This was a victory, and Poe wanted Armitage to enjoy it â not rot away worrying.
âStop worrying,â murmured as he reached out to Armitage. Eyes drifting closed, mouth parting, head tilting into Poeâs meandering touch as he brushed the backs of his fingers over his cheekbone, Poe watched Armitage finally break open.
âI canât help it,â he breathed. And it was like he hadnât meant to say as much, his mouth closing over his worry, even as Poeâs fingers carded through his hair. A little bit of bacta clung to his fingertips when they brushed past his wound, but that did not stop Poe. Because this gentle touch was dragging Armitage out from his brooding, and that was all Poe cared about right then. He considered it all a success when Armitage continued speaking. âIâm worried for you, and if our return to the New Republic will interfere with your treatment.â
âWeâve got hospitals too, Armitage,â Poe teased with the best grin he could manage. âWe even have families who live together.â
And that did it. Like the sun breaking through the cloud cover, Poe watched Armitage emerge. His sneer was smothered by an ever so small smile, as his face turned to the side to brush his lips over Poeâs fingers. It was the sweetest suggestion of a kiss, and Poe ached when it just as quickly vanished. It was all Poe could do to keep from sliding off the desk into Armitageâs lap and kissing him open again. Nothing was stopping him, except the thread of hesitation that connected this moment to the last. There was something important on Armitageâs mind, something that if left unsaid, was sure to fester.
âTell me,â Poe murmured, fingers trailing past Armitageâs cheek to his chin. He didnât so much as tilt Armitageâs face up as he encouraged it. âWhat are you thinking about?â
âToo much,â said as Armitage chased the touch of his fingers. Poe saw how his hands slid from the armrests to fold in his lap, resisting an urge, likely one to touch Poe. âYou died, Poe. And I thought everything that mattered inside me died with you.â Armitage spoke softly into the palm that now cupped his cheek.
âI didnât die, though,â Poe reassured not for the first, or even second or third since their reunion in medbay. âAnd all that stuff inside you didnât either. Youâre a hero, Armitage, to all these people. You saved everyone.â And then he went and offered them a path towards opportunity, something arguably more valuable, more precious, to a people who had never known choice. Poe had seen it there in the hangar, and again in the passing faces of the Mandator's crew. Armitage wasn't just a hero to these people, he was something closer to a savior.
But, when Armitage met and held his eyes, and he said, âEveryone except you.â Poe realized, finally, exactly what was on Armitageâs mind.
Silenced befell them, bloating heavy, and there was nothing Poe could do to stop it, despite how sad it made him feel. Armitage thought he had failed him. Because Armitage had been able to save everyone, except the one person he must have wanted to save the most. Poe wanted to tell him, It's not your fault, but instead he stroked Armitage's cheek with his thumb, encouraged by the simple fact that he had not pulled away.
âHow did you survive, Poe?â And there it was, the very end of this thread, the thing that Armitage had been hesitating to ask, as if he already knew the answer, and what parts of his world would require shifting to accommodate it.
âIt was ReyâŠand Ren,â Poe said as kindly as he could manage, hoping to pull the punch of Kylo Renâs involvement. He couldnât, but that would not stop him from trying. And when he explained how it happened, how he had been knocked unconscious by the explosion while pulling the evac lever, only to awaken to Rey reaching him through the Force, but that it had been Ren who had entered his mind and moved him through space itself in order to reach the hangar bay, Armitageâs face twitched closed.
Poe hadnât the time to read the expression, but he imagined it could have been anger as much as defeat.
Beneath Poeâs touch Armitageâs eyes pled as he said, âI left you out there, Poe. I didnât even think to look for youââ and Poe cut him off with his thumb to his lips.
âStop.â The command was there, gently buried with the press of his thumb. He could feel Armitageâs quickened pulse against the press, the flutter thin quality of his breath as it spilled past his thumb. But it was his eyes that gave him away: glassy and wet, Armitage looked up at Poe with a wild edge of desperation.
With guilt. Armitage felt guilty.
âYou could not have gone back for me even if youâd known. That cannon would have torn apart anything you could have piloted, and then we would both be dead. You did not fail me, Armitage.â
Expression once again a calculated mask of control despite how the whites of his eyes ringed his blown pupils, Armitage looked away. He appeared shaken, and Poe understood why. They had come so close to loosing one another, and whatever balm this moment of peace might bring them, Poe knew just as well as Armitage how the stakes in their lives had changed.
And though it might be the first time, it certainly wasnât going to be the last time they would face death together.
When Armitageâs lips opened under his thumb, Poe moved it to the corner of his mouth so he could speak. âKylo Ren saved your life,â he said simply, and Poe didnât need to meet his eyes to know what he was thinking, this time. Because Poe would be lying if the same thoughts hadnât already crossed his mind.
âYeah, I guess he did.â
Armitageâs mouth fell open, closed just as quickly, before he finally said, âI am indebted to Ren, for many things heâs done today.â
âI dunno,â Poe smiled, abandoning Armitageâs cheek for his jaw, stroking with a little come hither motion that had Armitage leaning forward. âMaybe heâs just making up for the past. He actually told me he was sorry.â
That, at least, inspired a scoff â and that was so much better than this festering worry.
âFor being a shit, I think. We didnât really have a discussion, but he must have seen the thoughts having him in my head dredged up, about my interrogation, and his treatment of you.â
âI wonât hold my breath that Ren is sorry regarding anything in our past.â And then, carefully âIt didnât hurt, having him in your head?â
âNo, Ren didnât hurt me,â said as Armitage turned his face into his hand, seeking, until his lips found the open cup of Poeâs palm where his breath pooled. Poe held him like that, rooted to his place on his desk, his hand their only physical connection, but one that Armitage sought, like he thought to ask for anything more might break what they already had. That this would be taken away from him â Poe would be taken from him â all over again. âIâm okay, Armitage. Iâm not going anywhere.â
The breath Armitage exhaled shuddered alongside his body, and then he was standing, moving between Poeâs legs to lean against the desk and into his space. Gloved hands bracketed his hips, as Armitage hung his head down between them, face still tilted into the cup of Poeâs palm, eyes roving Poeâs like the truth would not be found in Poeâs words but his soul. He stayed there, breathing into their tenuous separation, waiting for something Poe couldnât predict. Whatever worries were consuming Armitage were certainly far too numerous to name, let alone address all then. But they had time, now â room to breathe. There were no senators asking questions, no droids following them around, no countdown to reach the people of the Order before death claimed them first. Despite the work that needed to be done â and there was a lot â this was the most calm Poe had felt in weeks.
Maybe coming close to death did that to a person. Maybe now he understood how precious this all was, now that both of them had come so close to loosing it.
âCome here,â he murmured, as he pet his free hand down Armitageâs side. The belt at his waist was cool to the touch, but where his jacket pressed into his body Poe could feel how warm Armitage was beneath it. Poe wanted to touch him, undo his seams and seek out the velvet of his skin. He had grown used to the soft drape of Armitageâs green button down and the easy access it provided to the body his uniform seemed committed to hiding. So to have him back in the stiff gabberwool, despite the alluring shapes it made of his figure, felt like something Poe needed to rectify; a disguise that needed purging, now that it had outworn its usefulness.
Or maybe he could put it to a different kind of use.
âYouâre exhausted,â Poe murmured, fingers trailing down Armitageâs cheek, back under his chin. He directed his face up, so the spill of his breath fell over Poeâs mouth, rather than into his hand.
âYou will be too, when those stims wear off,â collected warm and buoyant into the scant distance separating them.
âYeah, so lets rest for a little bit. The transfers will take a few hours anyway. How about we test out that bed?â Poe said the words over Armitageâs lips, the height of the desk placing Armitage at only a slight advantage. When Armitage leaned into the almost kiss without closing the distance, Poe nuzzled into him instead; let his lips brush up his chin to follow the path his nose traced. And his hand dropped to Armitageâs collar, to play over the clasp that lay hidden there. All an offer, an opportunity for Armitage to take, but still that hesitation lingered, just there, toiling beneath the surface Poe was so desperate to reveal.
But Poe recognized these defenses. Knew them not as reluctance, but apprehension. Armitage wasnât going to make the first move, because he was worried about Poe. And he thought, maybe, he knew how to bolster him back into the confidence he had so swiftly left behind in the halls of the Mandator.
âAs much as I like seeing you in this uniform, Iâd much rather get you out of it.â
Quietly, Armitage regarded him, silence stretching fragile as his mind turned over the idea, before he responded with, âWhatâs stopping you?â and it may as well have been a âyes, pleaseâ, with how he breathed it out.
âWell,â Poe mused, carefully feeling out what he said next, unsure if Armitage was as on board with the idea as he was. After all, medical had taken his contaminated flight suit, so that now all he wore were the simple training fatigues that were near identical to those that had been stashed away in Armitageâs chest. But he remembered that look from the hangar, when Armitage had come upon Phasma strapping him into his suit. âI donât want to go against direct orders or anything.â
It was curious, how easily he could now read Armitage â the subtle micro-shifts of his face exposing more than his words may ever admit. The dilation to his eyes was obvious, but it was the flickering pull of his lashes up as their eyes met, and the twitch to his mouth that truly gave him away.
So when Armitage murmured, âDid I give you an order?â Poe couldnât help the grin that cracked his face wide open.
And all it took was for Poe to lean in close enough to breathe out, âNot yet, sir,â for Armitage to finally kiss him.
Despite the playful suggestion, the kiss was slow to start, slower yet to deepen. Armitage kissed him with a careful deliberateness â like he was committed to treating Poe as if he were something that might break. Or maybe that was just Poe projecting, because when Armitageâs palms found his waist and his fingers curled tightly around his sides, his grip trembled, and his breath hitched. Possessive â thatâs what this felt like. Like Armitage was afraid Poe might slip away â might disappear.
But Poe wasnât going anywhere.
âHow do you want me?â He asked into the kiss as his thumb made a flicking motion. The clasps to Armitageâs collar came easily undone, exposing his throat, and with it, his pulse. Poeâs fingers skirted the fluttering pound of it â a betrayal of Armitageâs anatomy that even his officerâs uptight facade could not hide. Trailing down to dip into the cusp of his clavicle, Poe stroked at the skin he so desperate sought. It was as soft as he knew it to be; familiar, now. Poe smothered that sense of wonder, and pulled away to murmur, âOn the desk, maybe? Or over it?â
âAre you suggestingâ" Armitage bit off, quite literally, his teeth catching his bottom lip as Poeâs free hand suddenly found his half-erect cock. Poe let his lips rest just at the corner of Armitageâs mouth, while his hand traced the shape of him through his jodhpurs. Yes, Poe wanted Armitage to fuck him â if he wanted. Poe really hoped he wanted.
âWould you like to fuck me, sir?â Whispered softly, like this was some forbidden fantasy he was allowing Armitage to play out. Who knew, it might be. This wasnât something they had tried before â not this playful game of roles nor Armitage taking the more assertive position during sex. But for fucks sake, the man was the general of the First Order, if he didnât get off at least a little bit on power then Poe had a lot more than his opinion of the First Order to reevaluate.
âYes,â Armitage breathed. And then, âOver the desk.â While it might have only been the answer to his question, it came out like a command, and Poe was suddenly, undeniably hard.
âLeave this on?â Poe requested as his fingers trailed down Armitageâs uniform to unclip the belt from his waist. Armitage only nodded, eyes following the path of Poeâs fingers as he slowly drew down the hidden zipper of his jacket, far enough to reveal a wedge of his upper chest. Beneath where his motherâs ring hung, Armitageâs skin was already flushed an evocative pink that matched the color painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. With an anatomy like Armitageâs, there was no hiding the tells of pleasure Poeâs own warmer skin could sometimes hide. Right now, however, Poe didnât want to hide a thing from Armitage. He wanted to give him anything he wanted. Poe wanted to give him everything.
By the way Armitage hovered over him, eyes drifting to his lap, mouth slightly parted and fingers twitching beside his hips, Poe thought he had an idea of what that might be.
âThis what you want, sir?â Poe asked as he gripped himself through his fatigues. The shape of him was obvious where it rested over the curve of his thigh. And where the tip rubbed against the dark fabric, a wet spot was already forming. Just the idea of Armitage being inside him had Poe leaking already. âWill you touch me?â He encouraged the idea by pushing his hips up into his own hand, pressing his palm down over his cock and loosing a soft moan.
But Armitage didnât need any encouragement. His hand lifted from the desk to lay over top Poeâs, thumb finding the wet spot and rubbing into it with a motion that was as much a âyesâ as the words he didnât speak. Poe sucked in a breath, hips rolling up again, this time into the shared pressure of two hands. Armitageâs thumb relentlessly circled his tip, and Poe could feel the slick way his precome smoothed the movement through the now saturated fabric. Fuck he was hard.
âYouâre so wet,â Armitage mused almost darkly, and Poe was suddenly caught in the idea that he had unleashed something dangerous in Armitage, something he wasnât going to be able to put back in its place â that he maybe didnât want to.
He quickly popped the button on his fatigues, shimmied them down his hips while Armitage helped tug them free, until it was just his erection and his thighs exposed. Armitageâs gloved fingers traced his skin in long tenuous brushes, avoiding where Poe wanted to be touched the most. Teasing â Armitage was teasing him â and that more than anything had Poe loosing his breath. Lifting his eyes, he caught how Armitageâs were locked onto his erection. There was no expression to read on his face, no rush to his movements. Instead, he took his time, finding Poe slowly, his testicles and his cock and the tip of him where it shone slick in the cool ambient light of the room.
The gloves dragged with an unusual friction, soft but unfamiliar, and it had Poe asking, âGonna take those off, sir?â Or was Armitage going to get him off with his gloves on? Poe was not adverse to the idea â not adverse at all, in fact.
âNo,â Armitage replied simply, fingers pinching the tip of Poeâs erection, collecting the leaking precome with Poeâs foreskin and then using it to slide down his length, never once getting a spec on his glove. Poe was gasping before Armitage even commanded, âI want you to touch yourself for me, Dameron.â
âHoly shit,â Poe broke character, he couldnât help it. Which only caused Armitage to break as well, but by meeting his eyes as he dipped his head.
âIs that too much?â He asked softly, tentatively, and the dichotomy of the twoâ that assertive, coolly in control general and this careful observant man had Poe kissing Armitage like he needed him to breathe. How could both those people exist in one person? General Hux and Armitage, two halves of a whole and Poe could only think of what had to have happened in Armitageâs life to create such a compelling juxtaposition of character. And heâd known â of course he had known, heâd seen both often enough â but something about encountering General Hux in the bedroom had him a little overwhelmed.
âYouâre a chameleon,â Poe breathed into the kiss, his grin wide.
Armitage pulled away, eyebrows drawn just slightly together, as he asked, âI thought thatâs what you wanted?â And it struck Poe how convoluted that sounded, because Poe wanted Armitage, âDo you get off on the idea of me as your superior?â
âI get off on you.â Poe closed the distance, first with his fingers in his hair, and then his mouth. âAll of you, every last bit of you,â he said over Armitageâs lips before pressing into him a slow, gentle kiss.
Armitage moaned, a little broken, a little hesitant. As if that alone was enough to bring him to the edge: the unending breadth of Poeâs ability to love him. And it was true. It was all true. But when Armitage breathed over Poeâs mouth, âDo you still want me to fuck you?â it was with a heat that made his earlier command as General Hux feel like nothing but a performance.
âFuck, yeah I do,â Poe grinned as he bit Armitageâs bottom lip, firing the kiss into an inferno as his hands found their way to Armitageâs pants. He freed his erection quickly, pushing the little black briefs down his hips just far enough to get his fist around his cock. It was hot, and it was heavy, and it was turning a ruddy pink color that peaked red where his foreskin drew back. There were many things Poe wanted in that moment, but he wasnât going to last long enough to have them all, so he choose, âDo we have lube?â
âThe medpak,â Armitage indicated and Poe stretched around to grab the case. Inside he found several sealed packages of lubricant, all of which he took before replacing the case. But when he turned back to Armitage, he was captured by the image he painted: his torso a long line of pale skin, reaching down to a shimmer of red-gold hair where his unbuttoned jacket allowed his cock to curve alluringly against the edge of the desk. A single drop of precome beaded the tip, and Poe had to resist leaning down to scoop it up with his tongue.
Instead he tore open a package of lube, coating his fingers so that when he did finally reach out to touch Armitage, his hand moved down his erection in a smooth slide. Armitageâs shudder would have been reward enough, but then he went and rolled his hips into Poeâs hand, mouth falling open over a long drag of an âahâ like moan that was more air than sound. Poe felt spoiled by the sound. Chased it with his touch and drew out another longer, louder moan. He was still learning all the things that took Armitage apart the best, and these confident strokes to his cock were one of them. For a man who had hardly been touched in his whole life, he sure liked it when Poe did the touching.
Hands back to their place beside Poeâs hips, torso hunched forward so their foreheads tipped together, Armitage rocked into his hand. Every little thrust Poe met with a slide of his thumb over the tip, and the firm pressure of his curled fingers, encouraging Armitage until he was panting hot breath against Poeâs lips. He kept leaning into Poe like he was going to kiss him, only to brush their lips in some mindless search for connection. Poe might have mistaken it for teasing, but the broken rhythm of Armitageâs hips and the way his arms shook gave him away. He was quickly coming undone by Poeâs attention, each layer of his carefully constructed façade peeling away in the face of Poeâs touch. Gone were both the stricken man from the medbay and the general he had been forced to once again become, revealing Armitage beneath it all â a person maybe only Poe had ever known. Because while everyone else in the galaxy thought they knew exactly who Armitage Hux was, only he had ever gotten to see this man.
Poe suddenly felt a little guilty that he had ever asked him to be anything else.
 âI love you so much, Armitage,â Poe said as he slipped his hand to the back of Armitageâs neck and closed the distance with a kiss. Armitage trembled against him, hips jerking into Poeâs first. And when Armitageâs mouth fell open with a small sound, maybe something that was meant to be words but came out breathless and aching, Poe took the chance to push in with his tongue. He held Armitage to the kiss, tongue curling past his teeth and while his hand stilled so his thumb could massage around the head of his cock. The next sound Armitage made was pleading, a little wrecked, coiling so deep into Poeâs gut he had to answer it with his own moan.
Yes, he wanted Armitage to fuck him, and then he wanted to get him on his knees and return the favor.
âAhââ Armitage broke the kiss with a gasp, ââPoeââ moaned when Poeâs thumb pressed hard into the sensitive ridge beneath his slit. Armitageâs whole body was shaking, the leather gloves making a sort of dull squeak where his hands grappled at the shiny surface of the desk, barely able to hold his weight aloft. Poe would have been happy to watch him come like this, half undone of his uniform, cum coating his fancy First Order desk as some rogue pilot took what he wanted from his uptight straight-laced general. Instead, he nipped Armitageâs lip with one last roll of his fist, and then he slid off the desk to turn around and bend over it.
Armitage made a sound, long and drawn â a whine that collected in Poeâs cock.
âSo you want to watch me touch myself, huh?â Poe teased over his shoulder as he grabbed another package of lubricant. This one tore open faster than the first, and Poe wasted no time coating his fingers enough to get two inside himself. The moan Armitage released as he watched Poeâs fingers breach his anus made it seem like he wouldnât lastâ not long enough for Poe to properly prepare himself, let alone for Armitage to fuck him.
âDonât come yet,â Poe may as well have purred, âwait until youâre inside me.â
âFuck,â whispered broken. Poe could see over his shoulder how Armitageâs eyes were leveraged on the movement of his hand, mouth open, tongue darting out to wet his lips, entirely focused on the slow slide of Poeâs fingers in and out â and that more than anything had Poeâs blood flooding his erection. It gave a twitch, a dribble of precome leaking out to slicken the surface of the desk where it was trapped. Poe rocked his hips into it, which in turn made him take his fingers deeper, and Poe could not stop his own broken moan.
Armitage made a sharp sound, like air through his teeth, before he was begging, âPoe, may Iââ the question hanging there, as Armitageâs palm tentatively brushed the swell of his ass. Heâd taken his gloves off, and now his bare hand skirted where Poeâs fingers were buried. The sensation sparked across his sensitized skin, and Poe pushed into Armitageâs touch, the unfinished question prompting him to respond.
âGo on,â he encouraged, shuffling his legs as wide as he could what with his fatigues bunched around his knees. He needed another finger anyways, why not have it be Armitageâs?
The press of Armitageâs palm receded to be replaced with his fingertip, âDo you mean?â
âYeah, hereââ Poe slid his fingers free, caught Armitageâs hand in his instead to thread their fingers together. Their eyes met and held, Armitageâs wide with something wild that could be mistaken as fear, but Poe knew to be excitement, as he pressed their fingers inside himself. The lube from before was enough that his two and Armitageâs third slid in easily, stretching him open in a way he could not have ever achieved on his own. It felt like his body was making space for more than just their fingers; preparing him for something far more significant than Armitageâs cock. Strangely enough, it wasnât the first time that day his world had shifted to accommodate something new, and Poe moaned with the feeling, body throbbing with a desire that had always been there, but now felt markedly different â in a way Poe could not reliably put to words.
Suddenly, it all felt like so much. Dropping his head to the desk, he breathed in deeply, steadying himself against the shared sensation of their joined fingers, and the heavy fall of Armitageâs breathing. For a long moment, it was only these small intimate sounds that filled the room, and Poe found a comfort their familiar cadence cast to these unfamiliar walls. But then he felt the brush of Armitageâs lips over his spine, and then Poeâs moan was too loud for him to hear anything else.
Stars, he wanted him.
Poe found his own prostate quickly, pressing into it hard as Armitageâs own finger continued its slow slide. It felt goodâ no, it felt incredible. Before, just the idea of it was enough, but the reality left him straining against their combined touch, taking Armitageâs finger deeper while his own worked himself to his edge. His eyelids fluttered closed, and his mouth parted with his shallow breathing, gasping as his hips tilted up to get a better angle. Forgetting his prostate as he slid his fingers in alongside Armitageâs, clenching down hard when both their hands pushed in deep.
âFuck, Armitageââ
âIf Iâm a chameleon, youâre a minx,â Armitage rasped, and it was as if all the blood that had collected in his cock moved to his heart, as Armitage smiled at him, wrist twisting so he could curl his finger down alongside Poeâs. Poe couldnât stop himself from moaning. âWill you come from this?â
âI could, but, not this time,â said with a rush. âI want you. Now, Iâm good. Iâmâ fuckâ Iâm not going to last long at all.â
He was going to come right then, because Armitage had leaned over his back to brush his cock against their hands and his lips against his ear, murmuring, âDonât come yet,â and then, a little slower, like he were testing him out, feeling his way through Poe with his words just as he did the length of his finger, Armitage breathed, âwait until Iâm inside you.â
Holy fuckâ
âIâve created a monster,â Poe laughed breathlessly. Yeah, whatever heâd unleashed in Armitage might just be the end of him, and Poe found he really couldnât care. In fact, he encouraged it, breaking off into a whine as Armitage moaned softly into his ear while pushing their hips together. Armitageâs erection throbbed hot, lube and precome slicking its way as he pressed his hips into where their fingers were buried together inside Poe. âOhâ stars âfuck me, nowââ
âYesââ Armitage pulled back, just enough to slide his finger free and replace it with the tip of his cock. Poe pulled his own fingers out, twisting his wrist to clutch at Armitageâs erection, squeezing it tightly as he gave it one hard stroke. And when Armitage choked out, âPoeââ while hips cock twitched a copious amount of precome into Poeâs hand, Poe rolled his hips so his anus dragged over the tip in a slow grind. Armitage gasped, and then whispered with a rush, âIâlâll comeââ
âInside, now,â Poe groaned, and then Armitage was gripping his hips and pushing forward â pushing in. Poe chewed his lip while he held Armitage steady, guiding him inside, as Armitageâs hips stuttered into his fist, the tip of his erection breaching Poe to stretch him open around the flare of his head. It felt good â it felt great â but it was the whimper that Armitage buried into his hair that had Poe gasping, âFuck, thatâs it. Stars Armitage, I want you.â
âPoe,â Armitage whispered, voice absolutely shaking.
âYou feel so good,â Poe pulled his hand away while pushing his hips back, taking Armitage deeper, taking him completely. Poe gasped again as Armitage cried out softly when he bottomed out, the girth of him stretching Poe wide, while his head rubbed over and past his prostate. They held still like that, shaking against one another â Armitage hunched over Poeâs back, fingers clawed into his hips, breathing out those little catching sounds Poe had become so familiar with â addicted to â so much that his cock twitched at the sound of them spilling alongside Armitageâs breath. And when Armitage pushed in with a little involuntary grind, his cock rubbed directly into his prostate, and Poeâs anus clenched at his cock. He was leaking all over the desk, likely all over his fatigues, and he just could not bring himself to care. âArmitage,â he moaned, he begged.
âPoe, Iâmââ Armitageâs hips twitched, going a fraction deeper, before they drew back just enough to thrust shallowly inside. âTell me if Iââ broke into a whimper, as Poe pushed back into his next thrust. The slide was good, the stretch was better, but Poe didnât want Armitage to hold back. He wanted him to loose control, to abscond the worry he seemed so determined to hold onto. Looking over his shoulder, Poe caught Armitageâs eyes. Desperate, they stared at Poe, searching for something Poe at first thought was concern, but then realized was assurance â the need to know Poe would not break under his attention, or from it. An unfounded fear that he would hurt Poe, or worse yet, fail him.
âFuck, Armitage, Iâm okay,â said as he strained back. Pushing up on one arm, Poe twisted round to get a hand to Armitageâs neck and his lips to his mouth. âYou feel incredible." he said into the press of their lips as he rolled his hips, holding Armitage to this â not just their kiss but this joining, and the commitment they had made to one another, and all the strings he would happily attach to it. And when Armitageâs inhale shuddered and his eyes closed and his cheeks flushed, both with pleasure and surprise and something else that was buried too deeply for even Poe to identify, he said, âI need you so much, I need you Armitage.â
âI need you too,â Armitage admitted, and then whispered, like a secret, âI love you desperately, Poe,â as he pushed his hips forward. Poe moaned, smile there but breaking alongside the rest of his control as he pressed back into Armitageâs next thrust, and then into their kiss. He opened his mouth to Armitageâs tongue as his hips drove directly into his prostate. The sensation left Poe moaning against Armitageâs whine, their mouths sliding messily as they swallowed the sounds each could not help but make.
âArmitageââ Poe gasped into their kiss, when Armitage did it all over again. Except this time, he pulled back on Poeâs hips as he rocked forward, so Poeâs cock dragged over the desk, catching his tip along the smooth surface in a delicious slide that left it twitching. And that was it, that was what Poe needed. âYeah, just like thatââ Poe gasped out, legs straining as he took the next thrust. Armitageâs inexperience manifested in a broken but earnest voracity, but it was the very nature of this desperate need that had Poeâs anus clenching at Armitageâs cock as his own leaked all over the desk, while Armitage chased his pleasure with Poeâs body.
And it was the grasping clutch to his hips that was sending Poe quickly towards orgasm. Armitageâs fingers dug furrows into the cusp of his pelvis as he held fast, possessively pulling Poe to him like he was all he had, all he needed, bringing them together over and over until Armitage had a rhythm â a mindless rutting that left him panting into Poeâs open mouth, all those little sounds spilling free with the last of his tenuous control. Armitage was coming undone and he was taking Poe along with him. âOh, stars, Armitageââ
âPoeâ Poeââ whimpered with another broken thrust, a deep thing that ground in hard enough that Poeâs toes nearly lifted from the ground, his body pressed so far forward into the desk that his erection became trapped between the soft skin of his belly and the smooth slide of the surface. âPoe, Iâm coming, I canât stopââ Armitageâs voice shook alongside his body as his lips dragged at Poeâs, hips locked in that forward thrust as his hands grappled at Poeâs hips.
âDonât stop, come inside me, fuck Armitage, do itââ Poe gasped against Armitageâs mouth, and those little catching sounds turned into a sob when heat and slick flooded Poe in an overwhelming sensation of fullness. Armitage came: hips rutting deeply, mouth opening with his nearly silent cry. The sound of it strained in his throat until just at the end when it cracked with a long drawn out wail â a keening that dragged Poe along with him, into his own orgasm that tore through his defenses with the force of a collision, or maybe an explosion. Poe was shouting, his orgasm seizing so hard it felt as if he was expelled from his own body, to be left suspended, floating tetherless, with nothing but the fastidious clutch of Armitageâs arms to safely catch him.
He drifted like that, bundled up in Armitageâs hold, time passing in long meandering moments, only the thready cadence of Armitageâs breath in his ear anchoring him to awareness. Maybe Poe was more tired than he suspected, or maybe the stims had finally worn off. Or perhaps it was simply the relief he found in Armitageâs surrendering of that festering worry to this more sincere avariciousness that finally let Poe relax. Because even as his head was tilted up into the tender press of Armitageâs lips, Poe could feel the possessive nature to the way Armitage now touched him.
Armitage held him close, lips unrelinquishing of their claim over Poe, despite the way they both trembled. They stayed like that, seeking and finding one another in the slow passing of time that now felt strangely bloated with potential. And Poe thought, surely, if they could survive this, they could survive anything else.
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Notes:
This chapter would have been posted days ago, but then current events reared ugly, and I decided to spend a few days getting back into a healthy mindset before posting. I hope y'all are staying safe and sharing some love with the important people in your life â„ I love you all, and thank you for sticking with me through this story.
Chapter 15: The Terms
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
From the Mandatorâs bridge, Hux observed the arrival of the last remaining Star Destroyer of a fleet that had once numbered over sixty. The Harbinger emerged from hyperspace as whole as she could be. A third of her blackened dead, the partially amputated length of her port side a ghostly limb of flickering running lights along where her wing tip should have been. But unlike the crippled Absolution, the Harbingerâs engines had mostly been spared. According to her preliminary reports, she was stable enough for hyperspace travel and capable of maintaining life-support without too much strain on her systems.
Of course, what crew remained were so few that the ship could have been nearly in pieces and still could have supported those aboard. Approximately twelve thousand souls manned the Harbinger now, the rest having been harvested for the Sith fleet. The Harbinger had barely made it out of the battle of Exegol, their risky atmospheric jump taking out the wing-tip when they skimmed a fellow Star Destroyer, lucky enough that the damage had spared most of the engines and not caused an eruption within the oxygen and fuel lines.
Acting Captain Sipio had provided the report alongside what had been recorded by their former Captain. The accounts from Exegol painted a harrowing picture of the last six months. Other Star Destroyers, survivors of the Sith fleet who had somehow broke atmosphere amongst the chaos of battle, crewed by Order and cultists alike, had turned on one another after Palpatineâs death. Without the voice of their Lord in their mind, the cultists had gone rogue, slaughtering the Order crew and then hailing the scattered remains of the First Order. Some of the fleet had responded to their distress calls, to be boarded and purged like the rest, before their ships had been driven back down, through that storm of an atmosphere, and into the surface of Exegol itself.
It was just as Hux had feared. Just like Jakku. Just like the Academy. That same âto the endâ mentality that had nearly wiped out the Empire, and now tried to lay claim to the First Order.
It was not useful information, so much as it filled in the gaps of the accounts Parnadee had recorded; fleshed out the report Captain Lorne had given, where the details of Peaveyâs transgressions against the Order had lacked the embellishment his personal logs had included. The idea that the Order had suffered this level of loss after the events of Exegol lodged deep alongside all the guilt he already harbored for their fate. He could not help but feel like, in this, Peavey was right. Hux had abandoned the Order when they needed him most. Left them to the wolves of the old guard, and the metaphorical claws of Palpatine himself.
General Hux, traitor to the First Order, now their unlikely savior.
Supreme Leader, if he cared to take the title. Earned, finally, despite the events that had led them all here.
You have it, what you always wanted. The First Order is finally yours. The thought came unbidden, and not for the first time. Over the last two days heâd met the reality of it head-on, confronting not just the man he had once been, but the future he had always dreamed of.
So it struck particularly strange, as he stared down at the last of his tiny fleet, how much he yearned to simply walk away from it all.
He wanted to shrug off this uniform, roll his shoulders and stretch his arms against Ajan Klossâs heavy heat, squint against her sun and breath in the earthy scent of her rich loam as it sunk beneath his boots. Instead, he shifted under his great coat, finding what warmth he could between the layers of gabberwool. It was not enough. It would never be enough, now that heâd known something better.
Poe stood off to his left side, voice low as he spoke to Captain Lorne.
It should be Hux having this conversation. Him coordinating the necessary arrangements that would prepare the Harbinger for the days to come, and the future the Order was to expect. But his mind scattered across the things that needed to be done, like waves crashing against a cliff side. Inevitably, the waves would wear the cliff down, erode it enough that those once impenetrable rocks would slide into the ocean and drown under their own weight. Hux clung to what he could, wondering how the fuck he had done this for so many years: stood aboard a bridge just like this, commanding a fleet against odds that had been far more dangerous than those they currently faced.
But now, as he observed the people on this bridge and the momentum of the machine as it toiled on without him, he couldnât help but feel like he had nothing left to offer. That his work with the Order had already come to a close.
âHey,â Poeâs voice seeped warm into his thoughts, pushing them away not with the violence of a crashing wave, but the gentle ease of a rising tide. His fingers, when they touched his wrist, were as warm as his voice. So warm they almost felt hot. âWeâre all set here, if you wanna head to medbay?â
âYes,â said as Hux pushed down his swelling thoughts, grateful for the escape Poe offered, and the anchor of his touch. Maybe he couldnât walk away from all of this, but at least he still had Poe at his side. Poe, who looked as exhausted as Hux felt, with the dark circles that had crept beneath his heavy lids, hung so low that the light hardly caught his eyes. But that smile remained. Small and unassuming, pushing at the boundaries of Order decorum, just like his training fatigues broke every bridge rule in the proverbial book.
Hux didnât care. Just like he didnât care about the eyes that followed them across the durasteel, or the small smiles Poe seemed to inspire in the officers they passed. And he allowed the back of Poeâs hand to brush his, grateful for that singular connection; a quiet intimacy that was surely a far larger break of decorum than any rogue smile.
No, Hux didnât care about any of that, not anymore. He took Poeâs hand into his own once the bridge doors closed behind them, a brief squeeze beneath the breezeway that days prior had felt like a mad dash towards death. Now, it only felt like a slow march.
âYou seem tired,â Poe said as they turned the corner off the breezeway. âYou worried about Phasma?â
âWorried about the grief sheâll give me for allowing you to walk around dressed like a scoundrel? Absolutely.â
Poe grinned at him, eyes crinkling at their corners as he let out of soft laugh. âDonât worry, Iâm gonna head to the officerâs lounge, actually. Give you two some privacy.â
âThatâs really not necessary.â Hux felt a misplaced jolt of panic at the thought of separating himself from Poe.
But Poe appeared unaffected, half-smile still rooted in place, as easy as the swing of his gait, the fall of his curls. Too easy, like it was all a well-practiced act.
Hux pressed his lips together and said nothing.
The crossroads unfolded pristine, the durasteel keeping silent the secrets of the mutiny from just days prior. Nothing was left of the bodies they had stacked, or the blood that had been spilled. All of it swept away under the careful guise of order. But there were cracks. Hux could feel them in himself. See them in the men and women who passed them. A wound to the soul that would take far more than a few mouse droids and a bacta patch to heal.
More than a series of anti-radiation hypos, Hux acknowledged when he glanced at Poe. Beneath the lights of the hall he looked pale, gray, despite the warmth of his skin. Poe was sick, and he was trying to hide it, but Hux was no fool. The doctor had warned them that his condition would deteriorate, but Hux knew enough to recognize the sudden severity of Poeâs symptoms was not normal.
He should be dragging Poe to the medbay, kicking and screaming. Wresting him into a bed and knocking him unconscious with a cocktail of suppressants. But as Poe lazily returned an officerâs salute as the door to the lift slid open, mirthful eyes drifting to Huxâs when that same officer stumbled over their feet in their haste to make room, Hux did not have the heart to force Poe into anything. If Poe didnât want to spend what time they had left together relegated to medbay, Hux was not going to fight him. And it wasnât like the treatment he needed would be found in an Order sick bed. For all the Orderâs technological advancements, their medical sciences endeavored for the preventative health of the community: disease mitigation and genetic optimization â not the kind of treatment an acute illness like radiation poisoning required.
Poe needed medical care, advanced medical care. The kind best found upon a planet within the Core.
âThis is my stop,â Poe murmured when the lift slowed to an almost unnoticeable halt. The chime as the door opened came far too quickly, and Hux almost reached for Poeâs hand again. Instead, he watched him back up a step towards the hallway beyond, the officer already long departed.
âMessage me when youâre through, okay?â Poe touched his wrist again, lingering this time, long enough Hux could still feel him when he finally pulled away. He flexed his fingers against the sensation, resisted the urge to bring his hand to his chest.
âOf course,â Hux forced out, calm in the face of this storm inside his heart.
âIâll see you soon,â said as Poe stepped over the threshold and raised his hand in farewell, dark eyes still heavy, still smiling, as the door slid shut.
Hux chewed his lip as the lift resumed its descent, Poeâs face burned into his mind, eyes held fast to the control panel at his side. His fingers twitched against the compulsion to stop the lift and return to the officerâs level. To find Poe and drag him back to their quarters, where they could be together. Safe. Protected. Hidden away from the trappings of a world that had begun to feel like nothing but a burden, one he had carried for far too long.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and rode the lift down, deep into the protective belly of the Mandator, where the medbay was housed. The bright hallway he was deposited into glared with light and life. Here, the walls were white instead of steely black, a visual indication of the cocoon levels that housed the Mandatorâs medical facilities and her critical support systems. Within them, life teemed. Officers and troopers alike passed before him. Some surely visiting their injured brethren, others heading for the medical mess hall which, if it was anything like the Finalizer, always served the superior food.
The sheer amount of people struck him all at once.
Without Poe by his side Hux felt untethered, adrift, tipped over and poured out empty, so all that was left was this fractured shell of a man he did not recognize. He really should go back. Find him. Find Poe. Find his warmth, his touch, his words and that ineffable ability of his to make light out of his laughter, and allow it all to fill him back up and make him feel whole. He took a single step back, shifting his weight to his heel as he turned, just as the lift door abruptly slid closed in his face.
It chimed a gentle farewell, durasteel reflecting back at him his own pale expression, and the familiar stare he had spent so many hours of his life dissecting. Now it gazed back unfamiliar, surrounded by a reflected miasma of life he no longer felt a part of, and it suddenly struck him, then, what it was he felt.
Loneliness. He was feeling lonely. Something he had once been so accustomed to. Something he had found refuge in, back when the company heâd been forced to keep were more monsters than men. But it wasnât the realization that someone had been at his side constantly since his release from his cell on Ajan Kloss that hit him like a blaster bolt to the chest, nor was it the idea that this was simply the first time that he has walked the halls of the Mandator alone. No, it was that Hux felt irrevocably out of place that tore him wide open, made his breath stagger and his palms itch.
 And he was suddenly reminded of the base on Ajan Kloss: the filled hallways, the gentle hum of voices, the dampened thunk of boot falls. It rang achingly familiar, and he yearned to feel like a part of it all. And again, just like the base on Ajan Kloss, Hux did not fit. He walked between these worlds; displaced, there but not. Stuck in some liminal space, like heâd already shucked the shackles of his life and now observed the world as a ghost.
He remembered that panicked moment on base, when heâd observed how his crew had moved on without him. When their lives had adapted so quickly to their circumstances. Far faster than his ever could, not when the tenets of duty and responsibility had held him to an expectation of command he had always lived his life in service to. No, command had no place here. He had said so himself. Because while he might have saved these people, they had suffered under a flawed system long enough that they had already changed. So much, that General Hux had no place in the Order, just as General Hux had no place inside him anymore, and was nowhere to be found in the man reflected back at him.
Slowly, Hux turned. Slower yet, he met the eyes of the men and women passing by.
Recognition dawned alongside their hasty salutes, their drawn up shoulders. Despite his efforts to remain disengaged, he met each in brief moments of connection. While most looked away with a quick flicker of panic, faces pinked, steps quickened, others let their stares linger, their heads dip. Little shows of respect, of gratitude, that he did not know how to hold onto. All of it a scattering of change that maybe he should have already grown accustomed to after weeks spent on Ajan Kloss, amongst his former crew, observing as they were assimilated into the Resistanceâs fold.
But here, aboard the Mandator, the changes hit hard. Each a blow that left Hux a little more winded, a little less stable, as the weight of what heâd done, what he was doing, and who he had become, settled fully onto his shoulders.
It was their smiles, however, that struck the hardest. Small things, barely there, oftentimes hidden behind a swift salute, or a hang of a head, but striking deeply just the same. But what struck strange, was when he found himself returning each. And then that feeling of loneliness was plucked apart, bit by bit, smile by smile, until it crumbled under their attentions, because Hux was reminded that here, within the Order, no one was ever truly alone.
You are the First Order, his own words came back to him, cutting clear through his mind, as sharp as the knife he used to wear up his sleeve, as much as the men and women beside you are.
 As much as I am, and always will be.
Because in the men and women who passed, Hux saw not a stranger, but himself. And it was not General Hux who reflected back at him, it was Armitage.
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For all the times Poe had been aboard a Star Destroyer, he could not honestly say heâd ever bothered to slow down and look at one. The differences were monumental, even if it wasnât the Millennium Falcon he was comparing the Mandator to. Not even during his military career had Poe ever been aboard a ship of this sheer size before. Corridors criss-crossed each other in a vast network of halls and breezeways, these upper levels wedged out into Mandatorâs outer hull as to provide views of deep space that did not depend upon a viewport. And the hall he now traversed was far different from the lower levels, where the hangar was housed and where the brig could be found. Places Poe had been, if not on the Mandator than on one of her sister ships. Here the walls were sleek, unblemished but for the doors that patterned the length, and the ambient floor lights that reflected warm off the shiny steel: the officerâs quarters, and before him, the double doors that led to the lounge.
Sprawled wide open before a seamless transparisteel window, the lounge overlooked the massive hull of the Conqueror. It was a dark, dimly lit atmosphere of gentle voices and tinkling glass. Almost comfortable, considering the stringent norms the Order kept. Tables were worked into alcoves lining the walls, little pockets of privacy among the exposed high-top tables where many chose to stand together over their shared drinks. At the center of it all was the bar, manned by two droids and what must be an on-duty officer, the three serving drinks to the slow yet steady trickle of patrons that filled the lounge.
A comfort in its familiarity, even if the patrons were people Poe had once called his enemy.
But two days of this same powerful realization had done little to relieve Poeâs unease. The comfort he had felt days before, when victory had felt fresh and heâd been locked away in his and Armitageâs quarters, already felt like so long ago. Because those two days had also been spent hunched over a fresher bowl, or sequestered away under the thin Order-issued blankets of his and Armitageâs bed.
If there was some blessing to be had from how busy the management of the Orderâs impending surrender kept Armitage, it was that Poe had mostly been able to hide away the evidence of his sickness. Because while the shots certainly had to be working, he knew it was only a matter of time before the circles under his eyes grew too dark to be explained away by simple fatigue. He recognized his symptoms were more severe than what the doctor had warned him to expect; that his gums werenât supposed to bleed when he wasnât brushing them, that the nausea was only supposed to come after he ate, and that the chills should be able to be smothered by something other than the press of Armitageâs body.
Of all the things Armitage had to worry about right then, Poe didnât like to think that his health was the most pressing.
A tinkling sound broke melodic across the lounge, through his thoughts. Close enough that when Poe turned to look, the sight of a child in the arms of a protocol droid struck so strange he took a step back, shoulder nearly colliding with an officer. Eyes glanced his way, but he couldnât tear himself from the sight of a man hurrying over to the droid, arms reaching out to scoop up the child into their chest. The child could not be older than two, and obviously was not supposed to be in the lounge, if the stern expression on the manâs face as he addressed the droid was any indication. Yet, the child in his arms was coddled carefully, protectively, as the officer swept through the doors with the droid on his heels, to disappear into the network of hallways beyond.
What the hell. Poe could not help but think. The sight of a child was way too weird for his radiation-addled mind to fit into this picture, despite his knowledge that there were families aboard the Mandator. After all, heâd been with Armitage when heâd prioritized their transfers. But that didnât change how utterly bizarre it felt to see one. To know that beyond these walls were secrets kept hidden that werenât the next planet-destroying super-weapon, or a sith lord who was supposed to be dead.
Suddenly desperate for something actually familiar, Poe headed for the bar. If anywhere on a Star Destroyer might resemble something of normalcy for him, it would be here.
âGreetingsââ the bartender observed Poe with a careful propriety, lips only twisting together for a brief moment before he pushed out, ââsir.â
âHey, howâs it going?â Poe forced out his best smile as he leaned against the bar, hoping his discomfort wasnât as painfully obvious as it felt. The bar top was shiny, as perfectly polished as the walls he had just traversed, not a drop or a spill to be seen. A quick glance down the length showed no one else leaning, or even drinking at the bar. Quickly, Poe shifted his weight back. Right, so maybe even the kriffing bar wasnât normal. âWhat are the options for a guy who doesnât have a credit to his name? Is there a choice to like, charge this to my room?â
âPardon me?â the bartender, somehow, looked more uncomfortable. âForgive me, sir. I donât understandââ
âMoney. Iâm flat broke.â
The bartender cocked his head, eyes roving Poeâs face before something like recognition finally dawned. âThe first two drinks are on the house, after that, you may use your monthly allowance for anything more. That is a daily limit that resets with each Alpha shift,â the bartender paused, then slowly added, âsir.â
âOkay, great. Iâll have a whiskey. You have that right? Doesnât have to be Corellian, anything is fine.â
âCore world spirits are reserved for High Command, sir. Your designator, please?â
Ah. Right. Of kriffing course.
âSo yeah, âbout thatââ
âCome on Lieutenant Garrison, donât give him a hard time.â The voice would have been familiar even without the modulator warping his Batonn sector accent. âYou know who he is.â
âHey, itâs you!â The platoon leader from the hangar bay. The very same man he had grabbed the face of â well, the helmet of â and basically declared his intentions for Armitage to. Outside of his armor, he looked like any other officer in the lounge. But there were differences, when Poe looked closely. The cut the gabberwool was not identical, less tailored and more utilitarian. And his boots were laced where the others were seamless, the belt at his waist a bold holster for his blaster. But it was the voice that gave him away, and the comfortable camaraderie Poe immediately felt in his presence. Like Finn, it seemed the troopers were given a little more freedom from that decorum that Armitage and the other higher-ranking officers so strictly held themselves to.
The bartender placed a glass of golden liquid on the bar top before Poe, but the platoon leader grabbed it before Poe had the chance. âFollow me, you can sit with us.â
Across the lounge, Poe was led to one of those alcoves, already occupied by another out-of-armor trooper. This one wasnât as easily recognizable, at least not until she reached for her drink and Poe noticed the medical officer insignia patched onto her sleeve. The medic, the kindly medic who had cared for her comrade with a gentleness Poe had recognized as empathy, and not just a trooper performing their job. When her eyes lifted and met his, they widened with her own obvious recognition.
âOh, so youâre alright!â
âHey, yeah, good as new, and just as hot, hopefully,â Poe grinned, hoping the charm of his smile would distract her from the shadows he knew hung under his eyes. Heâd wanted to avoid medbay for a reason, he really didnât need her threatening to drag him back across the ship all over again. But she said nothing as he slid into the booth across from her, her eyes following him with an interest that felt comfortably unprofessional.
âDameron, right?â The platoon leader asked as he sat next to Poe.
âYou can call me Poe,â said as his drink was placed before him. He reached for it, if only to occupy his hands. When he had decided to come here, he hadnât quite thought through what it was he wanted to do. People watch, likely. The same sort of thing he would do at a normal bar.
Definitely, he had not expected to get accosted into a conversation. What would Armitage do, if he saw him surrounded by a bunch of troopers? This break in ranks had to be a breach of decorum â even on Ajan Kloss Poe had seen very little intermingling of officers and troopers, not until weeks into their defection. Not that Poe was an officer.
Except maybe he was. At least by proxy, because the whiskey was absolutely Corellian.
âPoe Dameron,â the medic said slowly. âYouâve got a reputation around here.â
âTo be fair, I have a reputation just about everywhere,â Poe let his grin become sheepish, as he lifted his glass halfway into a salute. The medic returned his gaze, smile reserved but there, as she twirled her own glass atop the table beside her datapad. âWhat can I call you?â
âIâm EN-0029, and that isââ
ââIâm Fort.â
âFort,â Poe repeated, smile widening again as he turned to meet his eyes. âItâs nice to meet you both, officially, that is.â
âI still donât know why you chose Fort,â the medic, or rather, EN-0029 said as she lifted a hand in a wave. âYou can choose any name you want and your pick something that sounds like passing gas.â
âIt sounds strong, resilient. A fort is aââ
ââI know what a fort is, and I also know I wonât be calling you Fort for the rest of our karking lives.â
âI dunno, I like it,â Poe said, looking between these two troopers and feeling the unease of his presence dissipate with their comfortable banter.
âYou would, Poe,â EN-0029 leveled him with a withering look, âFort and Poe, cut from the same kriffing refresher cloth.â
âEN-0029ââ
âStars,â Poe laughed, the sound spilling genuine, âI like you. Youâre funny.â
âOne of us has to be,â said as she turned to Fort and rolled her eyes. âSo you found the General, I take it?â
âYeah, I did. Thanks for that, by the way. Not sure what would have happened if you guys hadnât come across me first.â He looked between them both as he said it, curious to see if there was any emotion to be read, some hint of the trauma they might have suffered. He sure knew he had dealt with his own share of guilt after his mutiny, but then again, neither of these two had led theirs.
âJust doing our jobs,â Fort said as he met EN-0029âs eyes. The frown on her face revealed that none of this was quite so simple. âThough to be fair, it will be us owing your lot, soon enough.â
Poe swallowed, suddenly feeling out of his depth in the turn of their conversation. He was as unsure about the future of the Order as these people were, the details of their surrender an ongoing negotiation that Poe had only caught snatches of.
âI wouldnât approach it like that. The New Republic isââ Poe said carefully. He couldnât promise these people anything. It wasnât within his power, though the desire was there, demanding he say something. But the words of comfort would not come, not when he knew what he did of the New Republic, and what had been bartered in trade for all this. ââthey are just as eager as we are, for this war to end,â he settled on, eyes steady on the glass of whiskey between his hands.
âWhat are they like? The Core worlds?â Fort asked, voice dropping low enough to not be overheard. His curiosity felt like a secret, as sequestered away as the families who haunted this ship.
âWell,â Poe considered what to tell them, unsure how to frame what would surely be a cultural shock that nothing could prepare them for. âTheyâre technologically advanced, way more than the Rim. And their cities are big. Bigger than anything Iâve ever seen out here, but there are a lot of jungle habitats too, and deserts. Itâs got a bit of everything, and it doesnât take too long to jump between each. I grew up on Yavin-Four, but spent a lot of time on Coruscant, both have their charms.â
Fort nodded, attention focused inward upon something Poe was not beholden too, but appeared in the tilt of his chin, and the pull of his lips. Poe gambled to call it excitement. EN-0029, however, shifted where she sat. She looked at Poe as if he were a specimen to be studied, something as strange and curious as the child in the arms of that Order officer.
âItâs hard to believe this is happening at all,â she said softly, eyes darting to Fort as she continued, âIt feels like a trick. Like gravity is going to be pulled out from underneath us the moment we step foot off this ship.â
âIt wonât,â he and Fort said in unison, and Poe could not help but meet him with a grin.
Fort returned it, briefly, but genuinely, before turning it upon EN-0029, âThe General wouldnât let that happen.â
Ice crashed over him. Poe forced himself to remain calm. To not excuse himself from the table and run all the way back to medbay, damned radiation poisoning or not.
âNow that I can cheers to,â EN-0029 said from what may as well have been a great distance, Poeâs vision swimming as she lifted her glass to him. âTo the General.â Poe couldnât hide how his hand shook as he met her salute, how the liquid trembled when the rim touched his lips. Nor when he set it down, and a little spilled over onto EN-0029âs datapad. He offered a quick apology but she had already pulled a kerchief from her pocket to wipe it up.
The touch of her fingers illuminated the screen, and there was no mistaking the familiarity of Force.
âHey, you play Force?â Poe latched onto it, desperate.
And he clung to it, when EN-0029 nodded her head quickly, the dim light of the room finally reaching her eyes, as her grin split her face genuine. And as he pulled out his own datapad to navigate to his deck selection screen, Fortâs presence beside him a comfortable weight of attention as he watched his partnerâs and Poeâs game unfold, Poe could only think of Armitage and the promise he had made to protect these people.
They didnât know. They wouldnât know. And the more time Poe spent around the Order, the more he realized they never could.
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10:26:22 Captain Lorne: Peavey has been discovered dead in his cell. The coroner has confirmed his death to be suicide by final directive.
He stared down at the message, mind struggling to construct the appropriate reply. Something less âAbout karking timeâ and more âThe Order will mourn his lossâ.
10:28:03 General Hux: Do not jettison the body. Have it preserved within the morgue until ordered otherwise.
If Armitage were honest with himself, and he was trying to be, now more than ever, Peaveyâs death came as a relief. Certainly, he could admit to himself that it was to be expected. Imperial and Order tradition had bestowed upon all of them not just a deeply rooted sense of âto the endâ, but also a very physical trigger to ensure they carried it out. The final directive, a fake tooth that, when broken, triggered an electrical shock to the brain that would have provided Peavey with a quick, if not entirely painless death.
His tongue smoothed over his own tooth. The implant was the same pearlescent cast as his natural enamel, his trigger long since removed. It was a choice he had made shortly after Snoke promoted him to General, when his Force chokes had become frequent enough he grew legitimately concerned the trigger would be activated by accident. Heâd had it removed under the guise of a short leave, not entrusting the procedure to remain secret within even the Orderâs hushed medical privacy practices.
Now, as he hesitated outside Phasmaâs door, the idea of âto the endâ took on a whole new meaning, and Armitage wondered if maybe he hadnât made a terrible mistake.
Three short, sharp raps, and a half-smothered âcome inâ helped end that train of thought.
âHux!â
Phasma was exactly where he had left her, wolfish grin splitting her face as her icy eyes latched onto his. Not much had changed, except perhaps for her coloring. Where she lounged against the propped up pillows, she beamed with a radiance befitting her heroics. And she knew it. The smarmy self-indulgent grin was as cheeky as Poeâs own, and Armitage was suddenly confronted with the knowledge that maybe he actually did have a type. Because for all their differences, Phasma and Poe shared an uncomfortable ability to make him smile.
And a knack for saving his life.
âSo the rumors are true, you survived surgery,â he drawled, equal parts bored and disappointed, his voice only wavering a little as the door snicked shut behind him. Phasmaâs eyes caught his, held them for a fractured moment, surely recognizing the tumulting sea of his thoughts. But just as Phasma had propelled him through the Mandatorâs halls but days before, here she dragged him out of them and into her not quite gentle care. Here, tucked away with Phasma in this medbay room, Armitage felt himself unravel, just a little.
âYeah, I survived, but you should see the med droid.â He watched her grin turned vicious, her shoulders rolling back in something like a preen. Armitage didnât miss the flinch, however. Nor did he overlook the bandage that peeked out beyond the medical shroud.
âI was unaware we were running short on bacta.â
âI want this one to leave a scar.â Her face transformed with her words, grin splitting into a sharpened snarl. âI left Peavey for you, now I wish Iâd just blown the fuckerâs face off.â
Armitage remained quiet as he took the chair from the corner and placed it beside Phasmaâs bed so he could sit. He arranged himself carefully: leaning back far enough to not be proper, ankle crossed over his knee, so his leg fell open lazily, all an attempt to appear unaffected as he finally spoke, âHeâs dead, you know. I received word on my way here.â
Phasma regarded him, a beat longer than a breath, so he knew she meant it when she said, âSure took him long enough.â Armitage noted the way her jaw shifted, thought he could imagine her tongue sliding over her own implant. Sheâd have been too old when she joined to Order to have had it be required regulation. She would have voluntarily opted for it. Not at all surprising, Armitage acknowledged. Having a deadly tooth implant was very much the status-quo for Phasma. âPeavey was a coward, but at least he got something right, in the end.â
To the end.
Armitage shifted, comfort elusive. Beneath him, the chair dug into all the wrong places. His body screamed to stand, to pace and to fight. Instead, he said, almost softly, âHe might have made a good peace offering.â The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Not that he necessarily would have turned Peavey over to the New Republic. He was aware he could be cruel, but he would not wish his own fate on anyone else of the Order, not even Peavey. âHowever, this is for the best.â
âYou think it would have made a difference? Handing him over?â
âNo,â spoken with an honesty that was becoming more and more difficult to swallow. âPeavey means nothing to them. For all his ego, the only damage he ever caused was to the Order. The New Republic might have lauded him as a hero for how many of us he got killed.â
âHow many are left?â Phasma breathed, cheeky façade finally falling away to expose something of the vulnerability that, in this, they both shared.
âNo more than half a million, including the Harbingerâs crew. They made contact at the end of last cycle, it seems our messages finally got through.â
âHalf a million,â left Phasmaâs mouth with her breath. âHalf a fucking million. Sixty Star Destroyers, down to just three.â
âFour percent of our population,â he clarified. Not that he needed to â not to Phasma. She would know. She would understand.
âFuck.â
Silence stretched into thin lines, barely connecting this moment to the last. Whatever sense of normalcy being back aboard a Star Destroyer lent him was lost to this revelation, where his mind spiraled off into a confrontation with everything he had lost, and everything he still stood to lose. He had promised to save the Order, and he would, no matter what little was left. And no matter the cost asked.
âWeâre still working out the logistics of the Orderâs surrender,â Armitage eventually spoke into the quiet. âI anticipate weâll have an action plan ready within the cycle. Weâll need to give everyone time to prep for disembarkation. I have a feeling theyâll want to start immediate decommissioning of the ships,â he rattled off as Phasma watched him. There was another conversation to be had with her, one he was not ready for. Phasma, however, was of another opinion.
âArmitage,â she drew his name out, so it hung bloated between them, swollen heavy with the weight of what she asked, âwhat about you.â
Armitage looked past her, voice thin as he responded, âIâll oversee the planning alongside the New Republic. I will see this through until the end.â
âThatâs not what I mean,â Phasma sighed, âYou know what I mean.â
âI believe my role in all this was already made clear.â
âYouâre not actually going through with it, are you?â The question he and Poe had been avoiding, laid bare by Phasma, as raw as the wound seated in her side.
At least her wound would have the chance to scar.
âI am.â
Air blew out her nose in a harsh snort, sucked back through her teeth in a jaw-clenching hiss. âWhy are you doing this? Why donât you run?â
âAh, and itâs Peavey you call a coward?â
Phasma glared at him. âItâs not the fucking same and you know it.â
âNo, youâre right, itâs not.â Not nearly the same. âMy surrender is the only bargaining chip we have left. And they have already agreed. I will not gamble the safety of our people to the New Republicâs good will. Iâve made my promises, to them and to the Order.â
Ninety-six percent of the Order was dead, their memory reduced down to nothing but the numbers in their database and the stories their comrades would tell, the stars themselves the resting place of souls who had never known soil as a home.
The Order, reduced to stardust, the same kind that surely scattered thick through the debris of the Hosnian System.
It was a frail mercy, perhaps, that in this the fate of the Order felt just. But what justice was there, really, in the aftermath of war? Armitage could not help but think none of this was just. Not the lives that had been lost, nor the acceptance of this surrender, or the execution that loomed. No, Armitage could not help but taste the sour curdle of revenge under this false guise of mercy. But the victors make the rules, and Armitage was not a victor. He had lost this game, just like he had all the others.
âIf there is any hope for peace, a sense of justice must first be achieved. I wish to keep this quiet, to preserve the good will Iâve built for the New Republic amongst the Order. It will make the assimilation into their news lives easier to undertake. I can only predict that time outside the structure of the Order will break down the loyalty their conditioning has inspired in me. What I worry about the most is a revolt against what they will certainly view as a personal attack, when I am executed.â
âDonât say that,â Phasma breathed out with a rush, face breaking over what must be pain, though from her wound or his words Armitage did not know. âI thought it was up for discussion? You donât know what they will choose to do.â
He did. He knew. Because this was the promise he had made, and the lesson he had been taught. Mercy may be granted to the whole of the Order, but it was never meant for men like him.
âDonât be naive, Phasma. I destroyed an entire system.â
âThe seat of their very government. Their military fleet. We were at war. And they destroyed us.â
âTechnically,â Armitage mused, âthat was the Resistance, and Palpatine. Perhaps, by extension, myself. After all, I was the spy.â
Her snarl was sharp, but it was her eyes that cut into him the deepest. âGuilt does not suit you, Armitage. It seems to me that the only judgment being passed is that on yourself.â
âI am guilty, Phasma,â Armitage said quietly. âIâve never claimed I wasnât. The only difference was that I thought we would win. We did not. And now itâs the victors who get to decide what constitutes justice.â
âWe did what we had toââ emotion slipped past her snarl, the sharp glint of her eyes turning wet. ââto survive. How is that justice?â
âSomething tells me that argument wonât get me far in front of a jury.â
âArmitage.â Her shout ended with a gasp, her hand coming up to press into her side. And when her wet eyes met his, Armitage felt an echoing pain in his chest, a deeply rooted ache that may as well have taken the place of his heart. âYou canât stop fighting. Not now, not when weâve come so far. So what, you go to trial, and you just let them have their way? Youâre not the man they think you are. Youâve proven that already, to the fucking Resistance of all people.â
âMaybe.â
âNot maybe,â the anger was gone, to be replaced with a plea. âYou donât deserve this, Armitage. You know it, I know it, Dameron and the rest of the Resistance knows it. Fuck, the whole Order knows it, and the New Republic must too, by now. We were at war. People die during war. That we struck a large enough blow to potentially end everything right then and there doesnât make you guilty of anything. It was a strategic choice and fuck, if it didnât work. Or at least would have if Ren hadnât thrown it all to literal Sith hell.â
Armitage had felt much the same, but very little of what Phasma said would make a difference. Not to the people of the New Republic. Not to men like Fineas Ofant.
âWe canât blame Kylo Ren,â Armitage said calmly, âHe was as much a pawn as we were. If he hadnât been so stupid to play along Palpatine would have found some other way to secure his power over us. The Order was never going to be what we imagined it to be, what I thought it was. We were all played for fools. But that doesnât change our circumstances.
âIf I could walk away from it all, I would,â his voice breaks then, the emotions he thought he could keep buried pushing through his surface like the roots of some ancient tree, âbut walking away has never been an option for me, and I donât expect it to become one now.â
Phasma stared at him, through him, reading his thoughts like they were carved into his very flesh. He had to look away.
âBelieve it or not, but I donât actually want to die, Phasma. Not anymore.â
âYou would have let Pryde kill you.â
âYes.â
âBut that was before.â
âYes.â
âBefore Dameron.â
âMust you?â Armitage sighed, feeling his face flush, eyes flicking back to meet hers for the briefest, yet somehow most drawn out moment in time. âYes, alright? I want to live for him, for us.â
âFor your future together.â
Armitage grimaced, âSince when were you so romantic?â
âSince my only friend fell in love.â
âPhasma, donât.â Armitage hunched forward as he said it, sinking his head into his hands, curling up against the emotions Phasma seemed determined to expose. This was not their dynamic. Not this blunt disarming of his defenses or the subsequent quiet attention. Certainly, not the hand that touched his shoulder, and then his hair. Phasmaâs fingers lingered with a weight that felt heavier than they had any right to bear. And if this had been before, he would have brushed them away with a sneer.
But this was not before. Before had long since become another lifetime altogether, one where the future was no more than the tamping down of some vermiculous rebel uprising, the plotting of their next maneuver against an enemyâs supply chain, or an evening dissecting his recent actions and their likelihood to inspire Snoke or Renâs wrath. No, the future Armitage now envisioned, in those fragile moments between reality and dreaming, involved nothing more than him on the back of Poeâs speeder, going nowhere but their next somewhere, because each other was all they could possibly ever need.
Armitage wanted to live. He wanted that life. He wanted it for Poe, but he also wanted it for himself. Over and over Armitage had learned that the things he wanted were not actually his to be had, but he could not shake the something that had lodged in his chest, a warm bloom that felt as unfamiliar as the fingers stroking his hair. Something that told him that it was worth it, if only for the chance. Because he may not believe he could have that future he imagined, but he also could not help but want it.
He and Phasma remained like that, locked in this unfamiliar familiarity, something that belonged back in the wilds of Ajan Kloss, not here aboard a First Order Dreadnaught. Armitage could not help but confront all that had changed, in himself, in Phasma, and in the uprooted system that had once been the First Order. None of them were the same, and there was no going back. There was only forward, and Armitage had to trust that where this was all headed would be different enough to possibly thwart fate itself.
âCare for a game?â Phasma eventually said, when his emotion had passed and the acute arch of his shoulders had relaxed. Her fingers slid from his hair, to touch the datapad at the edge of her bedside table. And when Armitage nodded his head, grateful for not just the distraction, but the reminder of why he had done this, and what it all meant, he thought maybe it wasnât so much about thwarting fate, as out maneuvering her.
He stared down at the selection screen, fingertip hovering over the droid deck. It glowed up at him: the droid emperorâs face an emotionless shield, its black cape half-hiding the blaster arm hanging at its hip, a single foot resting atop a fallen enemy, dragging behind it the broken housing of an injured comrade across a battlefield that smoked with the remains of an army that bled, rather than sparked. A card as familiar as the strategy he had spent his life playing, a deck he knew like the back of his hand: its strengths, its weaknesses, and the sort of conflict he had spent years mastering.
It had served him well. There was no denying how far it had gotten him. But as his finger hovered over the image, and his heart hammered a different beat inside his chest, Armitage thought, maybe, it was time to choose differently.
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Space unraveled into a distant swath of darkness, the stars of the Unknown Regions thinly sprinkled across a landscape that had always felt familiar despite its changing patterns. Somewhere among those stars would be Yavin-IV, Ajan Kloss, Coruscant, Chandrila, Naboo: worlds full of life, of people and plants and creatures, all beholden to the passing of their sun, and the shadows of their moons. But here on the Mandator, staring across this scattering of stars, as deep into space as Poe had ever gone, it was easy to feel like this ship was all the life there was. Like everything else was only an idea, rather than something he could reach out and touch.
Across the observation deck, two First Order officers were bent together in hushed conversation. Homogenous in ways different from the Stormtroopers, yet different enough that Poe watched on in idle fascination. The two woman were close, that much was obvious. They stood together before the transparisteel, staring off into space beyond, shoulder to shoulder but bodies angle together in a way to suggest a private intimacy. Friends, Poe had at first thought. But now that heâd the time to watch them, he knew them to be lovers.
It was curious, really. The tells he recognized, little things that he had thought unique to Armitage. Between the women existed a quiet conservative connection. A careful orchestration of touch that came together into an intimacy that felt so much more poignant than the displays of affection he had spent his life participating in. It seemed that the strict adherence to structure that the Order had built itself upon knew no boundary, not even within interpersonal relationships. So when one of the women took the otherâs hand, drew her close enough to tip their heads together, and shadow closed over the star-flung light of space beyond their faces, Poe could only presume it a bold display of affection within a world where touch, let alone emotion, were things only meant for behind closed doors.
He ached for Armitage. Wished heâd gone with him to visit Phasma, rather than opting to wander the Mandator alone. But in all honestly, right then, medbay was the last place he wanted to be. EN-0029 had not remarked on his condition, but a droid or one of the doctors would have been bound to, and then heâd be relegated to a bed, locked away from Armitage and all the work that still needed to be performed to ensure the safe surrender of the Order.
Locked away from Armitage, who had been slipping into that distant place inside him far too often. Not so much avoiding Poe as he was the impending conversation around what came next; not with the Order, but for himself.
So Poeâs health could wait â it would wait.
His datapad buzzed within the pocket of his fatigues. A message, from Armitage, asking where he could be found. Relief consumed him, as he quickly typed out his location, eyes straying to the women across the way and the whisper of words being exchanged. A glint in the dim light suggested a smile, and Poe briefly considered relocating, but he didnât know if he had the energy to walk the long halls in search of somewhere new. He liked it here. Liked the way the stars unfolded before him, the strange companionship these two Order women unknowingly offered. He felt peaceful here, and content. And soon Armitage would join him, and they could share this together. Make another memory, a memory that would be so different from all the others Poe had of Star Destroyers. The ones where the halls werenât long and peaceful, but short and panicked, filled with anxiety, with bodies and blood and the screaming burn of blaster fire.
Poe hadnât seen then, what he saw now.
While her weapons were meant for battle, the halls of this place werenât. They were a home. A planet of durasteel without the tether of a sun. A fortress of souls who wandered space like a tribe of nomads might wander the dunes of a desert. Always moving, always searching, taking what they needed from a world they were told they did not belong in. But just like Fort and EN-0029 and their platoon who had saved his life, these two women were no more different from the people he had spent his life surrounded by. Comrades who cared for one another, finding a moment of solace together outside the burden of battle and responsibility.
They glanced over, when the door to the observation deck whooshed open. Light spilled too bright from the hallway, briefly silhouetting Armitageâs lengthened figure across the darkened room. He was wearing that coat again, the same Poe remembered from all those early holos. A greatcoat, Armitage had told him, when a droid had delivered it to their door two days before.
Heâd been cold. An admission, quietly confessed.
âIâve grown used to it,â spoken so, so softly, when heâd slipped the coat on.
Ajan Kloss.
âI miss it,â had been left unsaid.
Armitage would never see Ajan Kloss again. Not soon, at least, if it all.
His boots thumped dull against the floor, measured steps that brought him swiftly to Poeâs side, and then upon the bench next to him. He sat close enough to touch.
âHey,â Poe murmured into the silence. Heâd never been on a ship as quiet as the Mandator, a silence so dense it made every stray word feel like a transgression.
Armitage, however, had no problem breaking that silence. âI should have known I would find you here.â
âWent to the officerâs lounge, first, actually. Not the easiest crowd, those officers.â After his game of Force, Poe had excused himself, not eager to leave EN-0029 and Fort, but unsure if he could manage being picked apart piecemeal by their questions. Not when the secrets he kept felt so close to his surface, just one feverish slip of his tongue away from exposing all this for what it actually was. But Armitage didnât need to know that. What Armitage needed was for Poe to be strong, for the both of them.
âTheyâre curious about you, thatâs all,â Armitage read the situation as well as a commander of people should. âTheir lives will be changing very quickly over the next several weeks. Adaption is something we are good at. Outright change, not so much.â
âI know,â Poe breathed, âI remember.â
âYes, well, the crew of the Finalizer would have been better prepared than most. I always sought a certain individuality in my officers. Homogeny does not inspire creative thinking, nor an ability to think on oneâs feet.â
Poe smiled, he couldnât help it. âI didnât mean them, I meant you.â
âAh,â Armitage glanced at him, his pale eyes bright in the starlight. âOf course.â
âYou donât remember?â Poe leaned in closer, so their own shadows closed between their bodies. âThat time your life changed too quickly, and I had to drag you into a supply closet, and then steal you away on a camping trip, so you could re-find your center?â
âIs that what you were doing?â Armitage asked in a hushed voice, âI thought you were simply trying to get into my pants.â
Poe laughed, sound spilling loud and booming, until it didnât. A small cough wracked his chest, and his voice sputtered out into a series of short, sharp gasps. He covered his mouth with his fist, turning away to smother the sound, out of place in the quiet of the observation deck, but he was too late. Armitageâs eyes were boring into him, peeling away the humor and the ease to reveal everything Poe thought heâd managed to hide. His coughing tapered off as quickly as it came on, his breaths drawing in full if not deeply. But when he turned back to Armitage, their eyes met, and Poe knew heâd been found out.
Or maybe Armitage had known, all along. Because when his lips pressed into a line and his gaze drifted down to Poeâs fist and the flecks of darkness that stained it, there was not shock in his expression, but concern.
âIâll be fine.â
âYou need to be in medbay.â
Again, their eyes met, and somehow Armitageâs face had not closed off. No, Poe could only see a pleading helplessness, the same sort of expression Poe knew heâd worn himself too many times to name. Not when the past several weeks had been nothing but them fighting fate for every shred of time together they could hold onto to.
âI know youâre sick Poe.â
âThe injectionsââ
ââare not enough.â It hissed out like a command, and from the corner of his eye he saw the two women look over, the stillness of their bodies saying more than the words theyâd never dare speak. Theyâd recognized Armitage, that much was clear.
âNot here,â Poe said quickly, a plea of his own as he met Armitageâs stare. âI know I do, but it can wait, thereâs too much left to do.â
âStubborn fool,â harsh words, spoken fondly â desperately. Poe felt the flush spread across his face, the pull of a sheepish smile at the corner of his mouth. Armitageâs lips pressed closed again, words stoppered up as his eyes flickered over Poeâs face, then down to his fist, and back again. His worry was plain, what he wanted to say obvious, but they both knew where this conversation was headed, and neither had any desire to face it. Not now, not when time was already running so short.
Whatever placid ease the last several days had offered them had already been spoiled. Now, all they had left were these last few dredges. And Armitage would not relegate him to a sick bed, not when these last few cycles may be all the freedom they had left, together.
A pattern of footfalls broke over the silence that had replaced the shadows between them. The two women walked by with a careful consideration, moving quick in the dim light as they took in the sight of their beloved General Hux spending his own intimate moment with his rebel pilot lover. Like the base on Ajan Kloss, here on the Mandator the rumor mill worked in overtime. Poe had seen the internal message boards. Heâd read the threads, the ones no longer hidden behind the grayed-out filter of the security algorithm Armitage himself had lifted as one of his first commands.
Their heads both bobbed with small nods. An acknowledgment which landed so strangely familiar that Poe could not smother his grin. And when one of the women met his eyes, for the briefest, most finely threaded moment, something communal passed between them. A relief and a mutual understanding that should have felt out of place, but did not. It felt normal. It felt comfortable. It felt human.
âYou really sure you want to do this?â Poe asked softly after theyâd left, and he and Armitage were alone. Humorlessly, he admitted, âI could do it, if you wanted. Run away with you. With the Order.â
âSince when were you this selfish, Dameron?â Armitage spoke into the quiet darkness. His voice was steady, but his eyes did not meet Poeâs. Instead, he stared out the viewport, face sallow in the cold light, pale enough to again resemble those old holos, but still so different, because only now could Poe see what had maybe always been there.
âSince I realized how wrong weâve all been about each another.â
Armitage stayed silent, but it wasnât because he was considering his not-offer. They both knew where this was all headed, even if neither possessed the will to voice the words. Instead, Armitage said, âThe Order is not what you think it is.â
âI know.â But that didnât mean it couldnât become something worthwhile, under Armitageâs care. It was a thought Poe didnât dare share, because he also knew now, that the sort of Order he could envision only existed because Armitage was no longer the person he had been before. And the man he had become held no desire for things like galactic dominion, because he had only ever sought those things as a means to an end, an end he had found in Poe.
Safety. Protection. Acceptance.
Love.
âIt is also not what I thought it was,â Armitage continued, as Poe watched on. âBut there was value in it, despite the intentions of the men who shaped it. There were also good people. Smart, intelligent, visionary people. Their voices were smothered, long before mine was. But what I believed in, what we all believed in, it may have been a lie, but it was not worthless. It canât be. Not if these people are going to adapt, move forward with their lives and become healthy, contributing members of society.â Armitageâs eyes dropped, to stare at the hands clasped in his lap. As calmly as his words came, his hands were fisted tight together, beguiling an anxiety Poe knew they both felt. âI want to ensure they believe that where they came from was, if not good, then not bad. That they are not irrevocably broken. That the lives they build for themselves after this will be worthwhile.â
âI think you have,â said Poe gently, âI think you are doing just that.â
âThat is my hope.â Armitage turned to him then, eyes glinting like the distant stars that scattered across the swath of space before them. âBut not all of them will have someone like you in their life, to help remind them.â
Poe felt the warmth in his face before he felt the sting in his eyes, âYou can keep helping them, it doesnât have to end here.â
In his eyes, Poe saw the truth. Not the finality Poe expected, but a determination to see this thing through; a strength, one that had not been there, before, but did not inspire within Poe confidence, but fear.
He was not ready for this. He would never be ready for this.
âI have accomplished what I set out to do, and for that, I am proud of what Iâve done for the Order, and confident in the choices Iâve made on their behalf. But my part in all this has come to a close.â
Poe opened his mouth, to say no, it doesnât have to be this way, but Armitage silenced him with a shake of his head.
âWhat comes next will not be easy, Poe. But it must happen. If I want at all to have a life with you, a real life, not one spent running from my past, I must first face it.â
Poe didnât remember when heâd begun shaking, but it was there, beneath his skin, a faint tremble that quivered in his shoulders, in his hands. And his voice, when he breathed out, âWho are they to decide whether you deserve that life or not?â cracked over his words.
âThe same people you have been fighting for, all this time.â
His laugh rushed out, short and sickly. What was he to say to that? To the truth?
âPoe.â Suddenly, Armitage was close, close enough that Poe could feel his breath on his cheek, and then his fingers, at his chin. Poe looked at Armitage, and saw the honesty in his eyes as he said, âI will fight for myself. And I think, if it comes to it, others will fight for me too. But just like I need the Order to believe in the good will the New Republic has offered, you and I do too. Maybe we could run, and maybe the New Republic would still accept the Orderâs surrender, but that would not be living, it would be surviving, and Iâve spent my life surviving. Now, I want to live.â
There was a conviction behind Armitageâs words. An assurance that didnât quite reach deep enough to comfort, but touched that noble, dutiful hero still inside Poe who had once believed in the system that now felt so much like an enemy. As corrupt as the First Order had been, at least their corruption made sense: the black to their supposed white, where a Sith lord pulled the strings of the puppets he had placed.
Within the New Republic, there was no enemy. No evil player to blame for the things Poe felt. They were the galaxy itself, and all the shades of gray that encompassed it. Not right or wrong or good or evil. They were mistakes, and they were miracles, they were mercy and revenge and kindness and cruelty. And they were as fallible as gravity itself was infallible.
Poe said, voice breaking. âI canât lose you Armitage, not ever, and not like this.â
âWhere is that hope you rebels are always espousing?â said as Armitageâs fingers trailed his cheek.
âYouâre too important,â Poe whispered, âto leave to hope.â
Armitage smiled at him, a small thing that looked as frail as Poe felt, and said, âI need to do this Poe. Not for them, or for the Order, but for myself.â Despite his words, Armitage looked as terrified as Poe felt, and something broke inside him â some dam of a thing that released with his grief, and all the truths heâd been denying, in his crushing desire to hold onto Armitage forever.
Emotion caught in Poeâs chest, wrenching sound from his lungs as he shuddered in a short, staggered breath. He grabbed Armitage without warning, arms sliding inside his greatcoat to wrap around the insubstantial width of him, to pull them together in a hard press. There, cheek to Armitageâs shoulder, lips pressed to the skin above his collar, the past two days caught up to him in a rush. Adrenaline had kept him going, fueled by the victory theyâd achieved that had felt so monumental, like he was standing atop to very axis of the galaxy itself. Not it all crumbled beneath the reality he faced.
Poe wept for it, and the hope he had once held. Because all he had left to hold onto was Armitage, and even he would be taken from him soon.
No, not taken. Handed over, surrendered, by the terms Armitage himself had set.
I need to do this Poe. Could he ever understand the guilt Armitage felt? Could he really ever place himself into his position, where the machine he had dreamt up, had built and had fired, was singularly responsible for so much suffering?
How could any single man shoulder that burden?
Was that why he needed to do this?
Armitage had spoken of it, once, so many weeks back. There at the edge of a cliff watching a blood red sun set over Ajan Klossâs mountain tops. The desire for forgiveness, and the surety that it would lead to his death. But the Armitage that sat beside him now did not sound like a man facing down his death. He sounded like a man facing a reckoning of his soul.
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He couldnât say how long he sat there, eyes trained on the datapad in his lap, gazing down at the holo coordinates he had received from the Falcon. Here, under the dimmed lights of the bedroom, sat at the small desk efficiency so similar to the ones heâd spent hours at throughout the course of his life, his loneliness should not feel so acute. But then again, anathema to his life on Ajan Kloss, the Mandator was cold, harsh, sterile â particularly so when Poe was not at his side.
In the adjacent room, Poe slept. Armitage had waited, determined that he do this alone.
Swallowing, his finger hovered over the icon that would make the call. It trembled with his racing heartbeat, beating so fast that Armitage had to force himself into a tenuous calm by counting out his breaths, slowing his inhales, extending his exhales, until his heart no longer felt like it was hammering a hole through his chest.
Then he tapped the padâs screen, the icon illuminating with the outgoing hail.
Over the long light-years of distance, the connection dragged time to a crawl. He shifted where he sat, stretching out his legs against the stiffness that had begun to settle. Everything in his body felt coiled tight with tension, muscles rigid as he held still, refusing to fidget, to show any form of weakness, despite the fact he was alone. Hadnât he done the very same, when making those calls to Snoke? Sat at his desk aboard the Finalizer, dreading a conversation that at the best of times devolved into scathing ridicule, and at their worst a Force attack that left him choking on his own bile.
This chair was not as comfortable as that at his workstation aboard the Finalizer, and the call he was making was not to one of the men from his memories. Like so much else in Armitageâs life, even this brief interlude with his past was nothing more than a haunting transience.
Now, as his datapad chimed a confirmation for the accepted holo-call, Armitage felt his past and his present slide against one another, like two tectonic plates fighting for dominance, two halves of a whole that no longer fit together, but still suffered, as it tore itself apart.
He transferred the call to the holo-projector embedded into the desk, schooling his face into an indifferent mask as he accepted the transmission.
Leia Organaâs holo broke with the static of hundreds of millions of light-years. A strange dissonance to the clear cut crystal of her voice as it emerged from the holo-projectorâs speaker.
âHux, it is good to see you well.â
âGeneral Organa, I apologize that we have not had the opportunity to speak together sooner,â he said carefully, unsure how to meet the friendliness of her greeting. He had been dreading this call for so many reasons, and he almost wanted Organa to snarl at him, snap out a dressing-down, reach through space and twist her Force into his mind, around his throat â something familiar that would root him in reality.
Instead, she carried on with that same affable comfort.
âRey has been keeping me up to date, and General Parnadee has been more than gracious in providing us with detailed reports on the Orderâs current operations. The Mandator has been keeping you busy, I understand.â
âNo more than you might expect after a spontaneous coup.â The sarcasm emerged before he could stop it, and he could only hope the distance of space buried the break in his expression as he realized his slip.
It didnât. Organaâs smile was plain, even with the broken flicker of her holo. Armitage didnât know if it was humor or something else, however, because the smile remained as she asked, âAre we alone?â
âWe are.â
âTo be entirely honest, I was not expecting this call.â Her smile softened, the wrinkles around her eyes receding enough that she looked younger than her actual years. He was suddenly reminded of the call with Poeâs father, and the strange ageless quality the holo had cast. Before him, Organa also looked ageless. Features smoothed over, face relaxed in a disbursed light. So different from the holos he would have taken at a desk just like this, aboard the Finalizer, when his father or Pryde or Snoke had come calling.
They had never looked like this, or like Kes: soft, kindly. They had looked harsh, edges honed sharp, shadows darkened into bottomless pits.
But maybe it wasnât the quality of the holo. Maybe it was the quality of the people themselves.
âI have information for you,â Armitage forged ahead, evading her not-question as he typed a command into his datapad. âThe Supreme Leaderâs command codes, so your people may assume control of the ships, along with what intelligence I have been able to unearth regarding First Order funding. There are credits being stored in several accounts across the Outer Rim, with data trails to the New Republic Senators who have supplied them. The links between them are tenuous, but I trust you would rather this information first, before it goes conveniently missing.â
âHux,â Organa said, strong enough that he almost flinched. Almost. He met the holoâs eyes, so dark against the bright blue. âHow are you?â
âHow am I?â He repeated carefully.
Organa smiled again. He could not see if it reached her eyes.
âTired,â he said, releasing the word as his shoulders relaxed. Somehow, his guard came down in the face of her honesty, so much he could not stop himself when he breathed, âscared.â
Quiet befell them, stretching long. Armitage thought perhaps heâd spoken too quietly for her to have heard. He lifted his eyes to the holo, and the softening of her expression said otherwise.
âI will not tell you what to do, Hux. Your choices are yours to make, despite whatever obligations you hold yourself accountable to.â
âAre you telling me to run?â His voice didnât tremble when he asked, but it didnât need to. Surely Organaâs Force could reach through space time just as Snokeâs had, even though Armitage didnât think she needed it in order to get a read on him. Not with how utterly exposed he felt.
âI am not. I am also not telling you to return.â
Armitage broke, then. Hands lifting to push into his hair, he felt the pomade release between his fingers, palms digging in hard over his heavy, sleep-sticky eyes. Heâd thought he was ready for this: ready to have this conversation, ready to face his fate. Now, he only felt terrified. Poeâs distance suddenly felt like an awful mistake. How did he expect himself able to do this? How did he ever think he was strong enough to follow through with it all? How was he ever going to be able to be alone again?
Spineless coward, weak-willed boy.
âArmitage,â his name broke like a cold wave, like he was back on Arkanis, treading water while staring off at a Nesig that had crested the white-capped sea as it swam straight towards him. He felt frozen, overwhelmed by awe and terror and rooted entirely in place. âTalk to me, Iâll listen.â
I canât. His fingers twisted into his hair, pulling tight. His breath was coming fast, too fast for words, even if he wanted to speak. He did, and he didnât. But mostly, he couldnât. I canât do this.
Survival. What he had spent his whole life elevating above all else. The only balm for wounds as old as his were, inflicted by a world that had never shown him mercy before. So how could he possibly expect it might now?
A buzzing reached his ear, different than he remembered, low and rolling, like a felines purr. And the touch of fingers emerged on his arm, delicate at first, before spreading warm, like a palm to his skin.
âTell me and Iâll stop,â Organaâs voice gentled over his panic, words as careful with him as the touch of her Force. And just as strange, because for the first time in his life, he did not recoil. He leaned into it, sought it, welcomed it.
He allowed it to envelop him. Allowed it seep soft and warm into the cracks that would maybe never go away. Maybe they wouldnât, maybe they werenât meant to. Maybe the most he could hope for was a scar, healed but for the memories that would always remain. And that was okay, because that, of all things, felt like justice.
âWhat can I expect?â He finally asked, eyes lifting to meet Organaâs. Dark in the light, but bright with something that held no physical form, her eyes held his gently. âHow likely is my execution?â
Her smile flickered, but her words were clear, âAre you asking me if there is hope?â
Was he? Was that what was missing? The name to this feeling, where he could not help but pursue an unlikely, yet desperately yearned for future?
Youâre too important to leave to hope, Poe had said. But Poe had lost his hope. And Armitage, he had never had any to begin with. Like mercy, hope had never served him before. But also like the touch of Organaâs Force, Armitage now sought it like it was the answer he needed to hear.
âI am, yes.â
âArmitage,â she said his name kindly, âthere is always hope.â The words dropped heavy, smothering, as untenable as the terror that still coiled in his gut, two opposing forces that would tear each other apart, except then she said, âbut in your particular case, Iâd say there is more than hope. There is a chance.â
A chance.
âA chance?â spoken as he met her eyes again.
âYes.â
âAnd hope?â
She smiled. This time, it reached her eyes.
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Line after line of armored troopers filled the hangar, bodies edged in the cool overhead running lights that scattered shadows into shades of gray. In his peripheral, their bodies bled into one another, an endless sea of pristine white armor. Evidence of the mutiny theyâd all participated in but days ago had been buffed to obscurity, each soldier present having returned their armor to regulation, as if they were still held to the standards of the Order, rather than men now free to make messes of their own lives.
Instead, theyâd chosen to maintain the strict discipline the Order had always expected of them. And though their attention landed on Armitage with the weighted expectation of strength the Order held of her command, Poe would be lying if he didnât acknowledge it was their strength which he knew Armitage sought. Because though his fate remained a secret, it did not make this march towards his death any easier, for either of them.
Beside him, Armitageâs face remained shuttered. Poe wanted to take his hand, thread their fingers together, and steer him off towards one of the other transports; make that jump to somewhere and nowhere, anywhere that wouldnât matter, because at least theyâd be there together. But that wasnât Poe's choice to make. It was Armitageâs choice. And while maybe a bargain had been struck, Poe understood it was not solely Armitageâs responsibility for the Order or the guilt he held which propelled his boots forward.
It was the future he sought, and the beginning of a life lived for himself, one where they could be free to pursue their happiness together. Thatâs what prompted Armitage down this path.
A path that could as easily lead to not a beginning, but an end.
The end. His end.
And the Order didnât know. They couldnât know.
But it felt like they must know, in the way their gazes followed him across the vaulted expanse of the hangar, lined up in tidy rows, hands raised in a salute that was meant in respect but instead made this march towards the Falcon feel like Armitage was already a dead man walking.
A trooper broke formation, stepping out into the path that had carved itself through these lines of people as they approached. Arm lifted in salute, her heels came together as her helmet dipped in a nod so sharp it may as well have cut Poe down to his bones.
âGeneral Hux, it has been an honor, sir.â
 A bold statement. More brave than the break in formation. An independence that Poe suspected never would have been tolerated, before, but was now flaunted for all in the hangar to see. And Poe did wonder, then, if maybe Armitageâs secret had been let out. Because the trooper regarded him with a salute that felt as final as this march, like Armitage wasnât just leaving the Order behind, but his soul; to be buried among the scrap that the Mandator would one day become, after she was stripped of not just her worth, but her story and all the memories these halls once held.
Or maybe it was simply the nature of the Orderâs precarious position, and the understanding that war was never a thing to be traded for peace, only bargained away by the losers for some shred of decency in a world that would otherwise leave them to death.
âThe honor was all mine, soldier.â
Poe knew Armitage had wanted to avoid this. In the abdication of his position within the Order, he had wanted to be able to disappear quietly. That his work to secure the negotiation of their surrender could be performed without the expectation of this production. But now Poe could not tear his eyes from his: Armitage, standing among his people, saying good bye to a nameless faceless trooper who he meant more to than her own biological family, and none of it felt like a production. None of it felt like a lie.
It felt real, and it felt authentic.
But most of all, it felt final.
Their gazes followed them up the Falconâs ramp, to where Rey stood off to the side, Ren a shadow behind her. Poe went to her, eyes meeting Renâs briefly when he came into reach of her outstretched hand. He took it, grateful for the anchor of her touch and the kindness in her dark eyes as she said nothing of how obviously unwell he was. Behind her, Ren looked past them, attention so focused on Armitage that Poe thought maybe he should go to him, steer him away to some other part of the Falcon, where Renâs presence could not destabilize him further.
Armitageâs attention was not on Ren, however. It was focused on the First Order. At the top of the ramp Armitage stood, looking out over the assemblage of people, face composed, hair perfectly coiffed, the tailoring of his greatcoat making him appear larger than life. But Poe knew it was only him who could see all the little things hidden beneath his façade: the press of his lips over words he dare not speak, the too tight twist of his fists behind his back, and the subtle cant of his body towards Poe. All a seeking of their connection that Poe wasnât even sure Armitage was aware of.
His hand lifted in a solemn salute as the Falconâs ramp levered upwards, his posture held until the moment the seals hissed closed.
Then, he fell apart.
Rey let go of his hands before Poe realized he was moving. He was upon Armitage, folding him into his arms, hauling him close. He was silent but for the ragged sound of his breath, head bent so his cheek aligned with Poeâs, the arms slung around his shoulders heavy with a trembling weight. He did not cry, but Poe felt the heat of emotion in his face, heard the wet quality of his inhale when he drew in a long, shuddering lung-full. Here, aboard the Millennium Falcon, sealed away from this chapter of time he had spent his entire life writing, Armitage must have felt more out of his depth than he had yet. Poe could not imagine how he must feel, was unsure if he would ever understand it.
Six hours had felt like so long, when Finn had told him their eta. Six hours was certainly long enough for him and Armitage to have some of that time to themselves. But how dare Poe forget that time moved fastest when it was running out. Most of those hours had been spent with the two of them sequestered away within the bunk room, curled together in a dreamy half-sleep of slow kisses and drawn-out touches. But Poe barely remembered any of it, his body feverish where it was tucked into Armitageâs, his mind slipping into a fugue state that left him only half aware of the kisses Armitage bestowed upon his cheeks, and the tickle of heat as his breath coiled against Poeâs neck. He thought he remembered a wetness too, but that would mean Armitage finally stopped running from those emotions he refused to bare, and Poe didnât want to think that he had slept through that.
Really, Poe wanted to tell him it was okay; that he would feel better if he let it out. But he would not lie to Armitage, not now. Not when he would also be lying to himself.
He was asleep when Roseâs voice came over the internal comms to announce their arrival outside Coruscant. The Falcon dropped out of hyperspeed with a judder, one that maybe hid the jolt of Poeâs body as awareness slammed into him. Except then Armitageâs arms came around him in a fierce hold, and Poe suddenly didnât care about hiding anything. He gave into Armitage, body pliant as he was wrapped into a hug that felt like it would take a whole army to pry them apart. Maybe that was what they faced. Maybe what was left of the New Republicâs military would be awaiting them when they landed. Was it possible that they would take Armitageâs promise to task the moment they stepped foot off the Falcon? That the trial Armitage expected would never come?
They still had a chance. Poe could get them out of this. He could make a plan that would see them off the Falcon and away to safety before the New Republic would have the chance to intercept them. Rose and Finn would help, and Rey too â probably Ren too, for Rey's sake.
But Poe didnât have time to consider their options, because Finnâs knock at their door was only a precursor to the greater rumble that was the Falcon breaking atmosphere. They had arrived. He was too late.
Armitage held his hand as they entered the cockpit. He did not let it go even when he leaned between Chewie and Rey, in towards the viewport, eyes slightly widened as he took in the cityscape that unfolded before them.
Coruscant was a planet of skyscrapers, vast towering fingers that stretched towards a sky sundered by a moon that never set. Before them, those towers silhouetted against a late afternoon sun. It shone blindingly between the spires, throwing into relief the density of the structures, the deep cracks of pathways that intersected platforms of habitats, to expose the layered depths of her underbelly. The city not only breached the planetâs surface, but tunneled far below it. Home to over a trillion souls, Coruscant was probably the most densely populated planet within the Core, and Poe himself had called it home for several years. Sometimes even he forgot how vast it was.
Beside him, Armitageâs eyes had widened, and his mouth hung slightly parted.
âItâs enormous,â his voice softly broke the tenuous silence.
âIâve never seen anything like it,â Rey whispered, and it was only then Poe realized she would have never seen Coruscant either.
Poeâs heart fluttered, then pounded, and then fractured, as he realized the real enormity of this moment wasnât the planet before them, but the two lost souls beside him, discovering a part of the galaxy the rest of them had always taken for granted.
Chewie directed them towards the tallest tower of the sector. A skyscraper Poe recognized as the former seat of the Republic. It was somewhere heâd been before, years ago, long before his naval career, when his father had brought him to Coruscant on a field trip of sorts. They had visited the tower then, ridden to the top where theyâd looked out over the stretch of city planet like it were some amazing feat of sentient engineering â something to be marveled.
Now, Poe simply felt dread.
A dread that only grew as the Falcon slipped out from beneath the sun to be bathed in the artificial lighting of a large hangar bay.
The hangar was mostly empty. Several figures lined the far wall, most of which appeared to be members of the Senateâs police force, by way of their uniforms. The Falcon settled upon the durasteel with a gentle shudder, and Poe was afflicted with the idea that Chewie had taken particular care with the landing, as if trying to make this easier on him. Maybe, on Armitage. His quiet whine as he turned in his seat was a question Poe didnât expect to hear, an âI can go back if you wantâ that broke Poeâs heart almost as swiftly as Armitageâs wet eyes did when Poe turned to him.
He didnât know if it was the question, Armitageâs expression, or the fever that caused the shiver in his body.
âWeâll go first,â Rey said as she stood, the hand on his arm again an anchor. But it was Armitageâs hand he took this time, not Reyâs, as he pulled him aside to let Rey and Chewie by. This would be it, their last moment of privacy. Their last chance to make another memory, a good one, if there was still any goodness in the world to be had.
âYouâre still sure about this?â Poe asked him as soon as the others were gone.
âA little too late to change my mind now.â Armitage didnât meet his eyes when he replied. Instead, he looked down at their entwined hands. âBesides, you need a hospital.â
âI need you, Armitage.â
Armitageâs mouth pressed closed as he finally looked at Poe, but despite the controlled line of his lips, Poe saw in his eyes how he fractured apart, felt in his hands a tremble that consumed his whole body.
Poe let go only long enough to cup his face and pull him in. Poe kissed him softly, slowly. Armitage opened immediately for him, the emotion heâd been hiding spilling free as his lips parted and his breath rushed out in a quiet sob. Poe kissed him through his tears, holding his face in his hands and smoothing the wetness away with his thumbs, until Armitage was heaving against his open mouth, gripping Poeâs waist so tightly that surely no one could ever pry them apart. No one tried to. No one came for them.
It was Armitage who finally broke them apart.
He pushed Poe away, just enough to look at him again, as he said, âI love you Poe.â It sounded so humble, coming from him then. Not the strike to Poeâs heart he expected, but a heavy weight upon it.
Poe pulled Armitage close again, kissing him somehow slower than the first time, layering their mouths together as he said, âI love you Armitage. I love you so much.â
Rose and Rey were standing together when they reached the ramp down to the hangar. Remaining out of sight of what waited for them, Rey met him with a hug, something Poe didnât realize he still needed from anyone that wasnât Armitage. He sank into her hold as Rose stepped up beside them, eyes only for Armitage, however.
âYou look like a mess,â Rose said boldly, a little smile on her lips that somehow didnât seem out of place. Poe marveled at how Armitage returned it, and suddenly it was Rose who he wanted to pull into a hug. Only Rose could make someone smile at a time like this. But it was true, Armitageâs face was splotched red and his irises were too green against the blood in his eyes. He looked like more than a mess, he looked like a wreck, and Poe had a feeling he did not look much better.
When Rey drew away it was with one last squeeze. Her brown eyes kind in a way that reminded him of Leia, holding his for a long moment as her hands rubbed at his shoulders and he felt the touch of her Force against his mind. Almost immediately, the heat bled from his cheeks, and the sting faded from his eyes. Even his fever felt as if it abated, though the tremors beneath his skin remained. Rey smiled at him again, biting her lip as he raised his eyebrow, because this was something strange and new for her Force. She shrugged at him, a little sheepish, a little âKylo Ren showed meâ sing-songing through his thoughts, and then she looked to Armitage.
âI can,â she gestured at her own face, âIf you want.â
It wasnât Rey Armitage looked to, though, but Poe. So that when he stepped up alongside him, to take his hand, Poe was not expecting it when Armitage said, âAlright.â
Rey worked quickly, efficiently. Armitage held Poeâs eyes for the entire time, held them as firmly as he held Poeâs hand, squeezing it so tightly it hurt. Poe squeezed it back, surprised himself with how much strength he still had left to give.
A strength that at once felt impotent, when Armitage breathed out a sigh and broke Poeâs gaze. Poe followed his attention to where the light of the hangar beyond spilled into the Falcon. This was it. No more excuses, no more time, fate had arrived and all they had left was how they would greet her.
They stepped onto the top of the ramp together.
Beyond them, the arrangement of people gathered immediately struck Poe as odd. The police he expected, alongside Leia and Jain Mithra. Maybe he had even expected the man he recognized as the acting General of the New Republicâs Navy, and the handful of aides that accompanied them all. That Fineas Ofant and his droid were there felt appropriate because Poe knew that man to involve himself in anything he could reliably reason his way into, if only to make Armitage uncomfortable. Who he was not expecting was the medical team, because they were not there for Armitage, they were there for him.
âYou did this?â Poe turned to Armitage as he said it, not so much accusing as he was terrified. He didnât want to get taken away. He wanted to be beside Armitage until the end. Even if that end was him getting dragged off while Armitage was escorted to some secret cell in the bowels of Coruscant.
As if reading his mind, Armitage said, âYou canât help me if youâre unwell, Poe.â And for all that unfolded before them, Armitageâs voice sounded light, easy. Strong, considering the weight of Ofantâs attention upon him. Poe could feel the drag of his eyes as if it was his skin they crawled over.
âI also canât help you from a hospital bed,â Poeâs voice broke as he said it, Reyâs careful composure peeling away in the face of what was actually happening.
Armitage squeezed his hand as his other came up to touch Poeâs cheek, eyes holding his as he stepped in to enfold Poe into a hug.
Armitage didnât look out at the gathered crowd. He didnât freeze up when Poeâs arms came around him. And he didnât let Poe go, not when he drew out of their embrace, or when they walked down the ramp hand in hand.
It wasnât until Poe was met by the medical team, and Armitage had helped him onto their stretcher, that Armitage let him go. And by that point, there was a hypo against Poeâs arm, and the quiet snick of the needle injecting something that made him at once feel light and easy, like gravity had given way, fallible in the face of Armitageâs towering figure suddenly receding into a distance Poe didnât remember putting between them.
And he wasnât sure if what he would later recall was something his mind had conjured, or actual reality. Because the last thing Poe remembered before darkness took him, was the sight of Armitageâs arms being drawn behind him, and the quiet snick of cuffs closing over his wrists.
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Notes:
Not gonna lie, this chapter was a beast to write. I hope y'all enjoy it.
Kudos and comments are appreciated, but really, can someone come over here and give me a hug? Because that's what I really needed while writing this chapter.
A big thank you to Sourlander, who let me bounce ideas off of her regarding the machinations of what is to come. Thank you so much for talking me through this! There is some particularly important set up in the last chapter and this one too, if you can find it :)
I promise to do right by Hux and give him his happy ending, but man, he sure has made that difficult â„
Chapter 16: Discovery
Chapter Text
The overhead lights flooded a dim, sickly spectrum of yellow against walls that collapsed around him like the sallow skin of a closing fist. Maybe Armitage should have been more concerned by the unfortunate state of the cell he was to call home for the indefinite amount of time it took to bring him to trial. Maybe he should have taken more time with the guards on his rotation, particularly during those first few days when their curiosity had been greatest, their checks upon him most frequent, their simple words beguiling an opportunity that could have, perhaps, been forged into a symbiotic coexistence.
But his cell had a window, and that had been, as they say, all she wrote.
Coruscant was, for lack of a better descriptor, a technological marvel.
Armitage could only presume that he was still housed within the tower the Millennium Falcon had brought him to, because from a sea of already tall spires, his vantage afforded a sweeping view of a cityscape that sprawled beyond the curve of the horizon, spilling past the low-hanging clouds that drifted by his window with almost the same impunctual schedule as the many transports and ships and shuttles and air speeders and droids that swarmed Coruscant like it were not a planet, but a hive. A hive working in perfect, if incongruous order.
Every chaotic interaction belied a system that functioned not on timetables or logic, but on the sudden congestion of too many vehicles vying for the same airspace, the blathering wail of an emergency siren, or the impromptu shut down of a busy street for what, Armitage could only guess by the flashy colors and bombastic music, was some strange native festival; all of it scattering the inhabitants of the city like so many insects hurrying about a business that at once felt incredibly important, and infuriatingly too obtuse to hold any real purpose.
Armitage could not look away. He stared out his window and watched the city breathe. Watched the throes of life crest and fall and crash against one another until the chaos was no longer a baffling impossibility, but a secret language to be learned.
For instance: daytime, on Coruscant, was determined by her sun, but never by her inhabitants. Because nighttime did not bring with it the slumber of a city gone to rest. No, if anything, it was at night that Coruscant came alive.
Every night, as the sun descended and the sickly yellow of his room gave way to a dull gray darkness, a menagerie of lights belched rainbows across the towers spearing a sky of faded stars. The lights glowed almost brighter than the sun itself, bathing his cell in a constant flux of flickering pinks and yellows, cold blues and vibrant purples, the city sounds crescendoing into a lament of life lived not for any purpose or goal he could determine, but for the simple fact life existed at all. Certainly, the people of Coruscant had jobs, families, responsibilities that encumbered them with more than this apparent lack of direction. But where each tiny thread of a story wove into another, Armitage saw not so much a logical pattern, but a beautiful tapestry.
Watching the passing of time through the lens of Coruscant was as much a fascination as a distraction. Something that, at first, had kept his thoughts at bay, but now more infrequently dredged up questions of what may be, and what was, surely, to come.
And what, his mind quietly supplied, had been.
How many cities like this had he destroyed? How many souls had been lost to the ideals he had once held? How many other inconceivable wonders had he felled with the firing of Starkiller Base? These were not questions he thought could be answered, not in any real tangible way that would put into perspective just what the galaxy had suffered by his hand.
Despite the wild beauty of this planet, there was no escaping the constant uncanny reminder of what he had done. And while maybe each subsequent day spent here, at this window, was one day further from the life he had lived in service to the First Order â a life that now felt as incongruous as the haphazard logic of a city without purpose â it also brought him closer to a future that proved, day after day, it did not need him to thrive.
Because in Coruscant he saw not just lives being lived, but a whole galaxy forging on without him; where he was nothing but that spark in the pan of infinite time. Something so small and insignificant, his story nothing more than a finely woven fiber in a tapestry that was beautiful not because of one thread, but the convergence of so many together.
He had put a hole in that tapestry. A hole that still festered, that unraveled with all the frayed edges that had ended too abruptly to be patched back together.
So while maybe he had never before felt as small as he did then, he thought he understood, for the first time, the true implication of what he had done.
Understood, unfailingly, what it was Poe had been fighting for.
Just out of sight, a transport wailed by, siren singing through the early morning gray of dawn. Armitage strained onto his toes to catch a glimpse of the bold red of an emblazoned cross â a herald of warning to the thinned out flow of passing vehicles that scattered to allow its passage. A medical transport, he acknowledged. Perhaps similar to the one that would have taken Poe away.
Armitage watched it until he could no longer discern its shape, its destination. Until it disappeared into a distance that was as out of reach as the man he loved, and the future he once thought they could live together.
A future he couldnât help but dream of, every time the light of dawn touched the horizon and the city sounds faded and sleep eventually called him from his position at the window.
It was almost worse than reality, those dreams. Because each time his eyes opened, he was brutally reminded that reality didnât allow for softly spoken assurances, or warm, lingering touches. So he fought sleep from his position before his window, until his eyes sagged and his knees buckled and he collapsed onto his cot in a desperate, fitful bid for a sleep deep enough to keep the dreams at bay.
But it was those moments before sleep when the strangest thoughts emerged, when the early morning hours waned so thin that even the hustle of the city quieted to a peaceful hum, and Armitage found himself drifting not into dreams, but memories. Those he had buried, not because of their pain, but because of their ability to obfuscate the image of the world he had been taught to hold. Things like his motherâs voice, and the feel of her hand in his small fist. The taste of warm bread sweetened with a spread of lard and sugar and a heady spice that had made his eyes water and his nose tingle.
And that vaulted attic with the staircase he had climbed to another world. A world he had escaped to when he still had nothing to escape from. Where a childhood had been allowed to flourish for those few short, fleeting years before reality came to collect him and fate had laid her claim on the life he was to live.
They were a welcome change from the dreams, and for that, at least, Armitage felt grateful.
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Inmate : Armitage Hux
Patient ID : 0681
Timestamp : 35 ABY 11:19:11:05
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âGeneral Armitage Hux, my name is Doctor Edwin Goss, and Iâm here to evaluate your mental state. I hope you donât mind that I record our sessions?â
âOf course not,â The sharp scratch of cuffs against the table's security bolt briefly drowned out all other sound in the recording, ââhowever, if you intend to ensure I am of sound mind to stand trial, I can assure youââ
A finger lifted â a request to wait as Goss typed something into his datapad. A short note, no more than a few words. Across the table, Armitage had gone stiff, though his hands remained neatly folded together. The composition tightened, as the hovering holo-recorder focused for a sharper image.
âRight then, weâre all set.â The datapad was set aside as Goss leaned closer, face obscured by the stark shadows cast by the too-bright overhead light. A light that cast blindingly onto Armitage's face: a careful, meticulously composed mask of calm. âHave you ever spoken to a mental health professional before?â
âThe Order took mental health quite seriously. For her officers, a monthly session with a psychiatrist was protocol, to ensure we remained fit for duty.â
âA psychiatrist? Were you given a diagnosis, treated with medications?â
âNo. Wellââ a pause, almost too short to be noticed, ââI suffered from an anxiety disorder for most of my career. Panic attacks. They were diagnosed as stress related but the recommend treatment was regular weekly sessions with a therapist and my schedule hardly allowed for them.â
âDo you still suffer panic attacks?â
Another pause. Longer, this time, âLess frequently.â
âWhen was the last time?â
âWhen I boarded the Mandator to engage in a mutiny.â
âWhat triggered it?â
âI believed someone to be dead.â
âWho?â
The staticy sound of a breath being released overwhelmed the holo-recorderâs microphone. The view dipped, lens fogging out of focus, as the tiny recorder tried to find its subjectâs face. It was hidden behind a loose fall of golden red hair, but the droid angled low, closing in until pale eyes finally met the recorderâs lens in a brief, intangible moment of exposure.
âYouâve seen the holo-news, havenât you?â spoken slowly.
The doctor nodded, made a note.
âWhen did your panic attacks first start?â
âWhen I was a child.â
âDo you know how old you were when you had your first?â
âI must have been five or six.â
It felt as though the gravity of what was spoken reached out and grabbed hold of time itself, with how long the moment stretched.
Eventually, Goss made another note on his datapad, then set it upon the table and folded his hands in his lap. âI assure you the questions I ask are relevant to your situation. As much as we know about your life, General Hux, we know very little about you. I have been tasked to document a picture of who that is. Your honesty with these questions can only serve you, and rest assured that I have no desire to rehabilitate that person.â
Almost suspiciously, âIs that not your job? Rehabilitation?â
The holo-recording caught just the shadow of a smile, there on Gossâs face, burned into the glare of the lights.
 âMy area of expertise is the sentient mind and how it functions under extreme conditions. Believe me, I tried to clear a brain scan prior to this session and was unfortunately denied. So weâll have to make due with these questions instead.â
Silence. One that festered; broken only by the clatter of cuffs as Armitage shifted.
âDo you know what triggered your first panic attack?â
âYes," spoken carefully, like a secret, "It was the Battle of Jakku, when I fled the planet with my father and the remaining Imperial high command."
âYou were surface-side during the fighting?â
âI was a soldier.â
âYou saw the battle?â
âI fought in the battle.â
A pause. âFought?â
âYes,â said softly, then louder, âIt was supposed to be a safe assignment, but, we all know how Jakku unfolded.â
âYou would have beenâŠâ
âI was five standard at the time. Nearly six.â
Gossâs hand reached for his datapad, as he said, âIâll have to make a note of that as well, you understand.â
âOf course, doctor.â
Hands clasped tightly, the cuffs gave another clatter, as the holo-recorder dipped in close to focus upon its subjectâs face. This time, Armitage turned away.
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He woke to the clatter of his cell door opening, the heavy girth of the double-bound durasteel grinding against gears that still, after days of use, resisted his release. It was as if the cell had taken it upon itself to determine his fate, and Armitage imagined that one day it would simply decide to never open again. There were worse places for him to rot. Places that didnât have a window; that were flung so far into the reaches of the galaxy that the comfort of a climate-controlled room with a cot to sleep upon would have been considered amenities worth slitting another manâs throat for.
Heâd seen those places. Observed them from the vantage of the Finalizerâs deck as heâd dispatched platoons of troopers to their surface. Paid their inhabitants for the children they had maybe never wanted to rear, but had been saddled with because of a lack of other options. Then heâd traded supplies in exchange for their loyalty, for men and women and bodies to be sent to neighboring mines where maybe the working conditions were as harrowing as their current circumstances, but there would be credits in their pockets and food in their mouths.
It hadnât been a perfect system. Not all the worlds they conquered had been poor, or desperate. They had to subdue many who would have been happy to keep their ports closed and their airspace absent of First Order or New Republic influence. But for as many people they sent to labor camps, or conscripted into the trooper program, there had been just as many happy to take their place. To leave their desert world behind for the rainy moon with the plentiful mines. To rear their children from the comfort of a roof over their head and a military protecting their town. Because in a galaxy where the wealthy had collected itself to these Core worlds, and then absolved themselves of any responsibility for the rest, it had been the chance for something better. Not even the looming silhouette of the New Republicâs swinging gallows could convince him otherwise.
But it was not the gallows the two guards ushered him towards, but the cold expanse of an empty refresher room.
Only after the guards sealed the door shut did they release his cuffs, his wrists aching and chaffed from where theyâd been secured too-tightly behind his back. Because even with two well-armed soldiers and a labyrinth maze of cells-blocks, he was still considered enough of a threat to garner the maximum amount of precaution.
Heâs not a flight risk â heâd turned himself in for kriffâs sake â but the guardâs eyes still roamed his exposed body with quick, perfunctory stoicism as he shed his clothing, as if the danger they expect was to be found scrawled on his skin rather than tucked away safe in his mind. But just like all those months ago, when two other guards had collected him from a much different cell, and another officer had stood sentinel over his apparent grooming for a mission heâd not yet understood the scope of, Armitage hardly cared. Because this was the first actual opportunity to bathe he had been allowed yet.
Just like before. It was enough to make him laugh, a thin reedy thing that wheezed out of him after days of not speaking to a soul. The guards heads turned towards him, eyes narrowed at the surely strange sound of his voice. Maybe they would think heâd lost his mind. Maybe he had.
The shower head sputtered a weak spray of barely warmed water. But there was no denying the joy he felt at the tingle of soap against his scalp, the way the bubbles slid down his neck and slicked across his chest. Atop the small caddy that held the soap sat a sponge, and Armitage scoured his skin like it was something to be shed. Layers of dirt peeled away, and that, more than anything, made him wonder if he hadnât actually lost track of time â if maybe Coruscant's chronos worked on a different scale, though heâd learned at an elementary age that this planet had been the source of most galactic standards as presently kept.
Coruscant, the original seat of the New Republic â the home of the human race â if the ancient historical accounts heâd learned from were believed accurate.
And his once planned seat of power, when dreams of the First Orderâs conquest had led his mind here, to the Core, and a planet which represented far more than a single raceâs heritage, or the New Republicâs long fraught clutch on power.
Now, all he wanted was to be allowed to walk its streets. To follow the pathways down into its underbelly and discover the places all those people were always going. See for himself firsthand what it was that Poe had fought so hard for. Because there was value in this world, he understood that now, even if his commiseration had come too late.
There would be food to try, better stuff than even what the Resistance had served. Certainly better than the rations the Order had provided. He would find something sweet to take back to Phasma, maybe search out a tea house, somewhere that might know how to prepare Taurine in the traditional way. Poe would know where to take him â he had lived here, after all â and he would show him all the things Armitage could not even think of, because his mind had not the vocabulary to dream in the right shapes.
Hux tamped down his thoughts, refusing to allow himself the indulgence of imagining a future with Poe, let alone escaping into what that might look like.
Heâd had his chance to escape, had chosen surrender instead.
âHurry it up, weâre on a schedule here.â
A schedule? It would explain the break in routine, and the fact that theyâd allowed him to bathe suggested something more significant than a simple deviation from the standard agenda. Unfortunately, the guard saw no reason to expound further. Their eyes remained fastened to the far wall, as Armitage shut off the water and retrieved a towel from the bench beside the stall.
There was a clean jumpsuit beneath it, socks and underwear and, curiously enough, Poeâs ring.
Armitage felt a tremble jolt through his body, his stomach dipping, and then threatening to come up. It had been taken when theyâd processed his arrest, stripped alongside everything else heâd had on his person. He had not expected to see it again, let alone here, atop a pile of prison clothes without a word of explanation.
âWhatâs this?â he at least tried, voice just as rough as it had been when heâd laughed, but this time, it was not from disuse. But both guards stared stoic into the middle distance, as if he werenât standing there at all, let alone asking a question.
He slipped the chain around his neck, let the ring slide over the tip of his thumb, rubbing over the familiar shape as he twisted it around. Against his skin, the metal was worn smooth, rapidly warming from the heat of his body. Familiar, where everything else in his life felt detached from reality. And it hit him, all at once â memories: the feel of Poeâs skin against his, the texture of his hair, his scent, his voice. The way his hands felt when theyâd take his own, so careful, and honest, like all his touches had been. There was nothing Armitage could do to prevent the sudden swell of emotion. Heat prickled his eyes, strung his nose. And he turned away from the guards as he felt his cheeks warm over with a flush Poe had long ago pointed out he was terrible at hiding.
The ring pressed hard into his scarred palm, the metal biting into the curl of his closed fist. His hand shook as the rest of his body turned weightless, and for one long, protracted moment, Armitage thought he might pass out. But as he closed his eyes and found himself staring face first into the memory of Poe's blinding presence in his life, he found he couldn't push it away. He clung to it, like it were a lifeline; like the memory of him could be enough to ground him in the absence of his hands, his arms, and the strong fold of his hug.
And despite the pain of it, there was a strength there too, in the knowledge that no matter what happened next, he'd had Poe's love â still had it, no matter how out of reach it felt â and that of everything that he had left to give, that was not something that could ever be taken from him.
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Inmate : Armitage Hux
Patient ID : 0681
Timestamp : 35 ABY 11:21:11:38
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âYou were raised on Arkanis?â
âYes, I was born there.â
âYour father, Brendol Hux, was he a large part of your early life?â
âNot particularly,â spoken with a barely perceptible waver: emotion, or a flaw in the recording â it would have been impossible to tell, except for what was said next. âMy mother raised me during my weening years. After it became clear my father wouldnât sire a child with his wife, he came for me, insisted I be raised in a proper Imperial home, receive a proper Imperial education. Shortly after I moved into his estate, but even then I was cared for by a nanny droid.â
âYour memories of your mother are pleasant, then?â
The voice that answered broke when it eventually answered, âYes.â
âAnd those of your father?â
A sigh, or a hiss, quickly released, âHe was a violent drunk and made no secret of it.â
âDid you continue seeing your mother after you moved?â
âI was not permitted to interact with her, but she was a cook in his kitchen, and I was a child with an uncanny ability to outsmart my nanny droid.â
âAnd now?â
A cruel question, but she understood why it needed asked.
âWhen Arkanis was put under siege, I fled with my father. I have no idea what happened to my mother, and I have never returned to Arkanis to find out,â spoken so softly as to sound like a secret.
A note, quickly tapped out. âYou were there for that, too? The siege?â
âI was.â
âWhat can you remember?â
âEverything.â
âDo you care toââ
âI remember the shriek of shells dropping from the sky, the crack of star fighters breaking hyperspeed within atmo, the screams of the servants as they evacuated the manor house, only to be driven back inside when they realized there was nowhere safe to run. I remember being dragged across the lawn by my nanny droid, because my fatherâs arms were full of whatever of worth he could carry from the house. I remember his wife's screaming as he left her behind, and her equal unwillingness to chase after him. And I remember the family who did follow us to the shuttle craft, and the way they begged as they tried to bargain their way onto the ship. And I remember the look on the motherâs face, when my father agreed to take only their children, and the sound of her sobs when they came aboard.â
Goss remained, gratefully, silent. Long enough that Armitage was able to visually compose himself, though his breathing remained ragged long after his words tapered off.
Eventually, Goss asked, âHe took the children?â
âDo not mistake it as kindness," wrenched out, roughened with emotion. "They would not make it out of Jakku alive.â
Here, the recording quieted, the figures unmoving, only the slow tightening of the lens into better focus betraying that this was a live recording, and not a paused image.
Goss made another note, and another. Time passed in slow, meandering seconds, long enough that when the silence broke, it was like a chasm opening, like someone had gone in and spliced the feed, inserted this abrupt, crudely manifested confession into a conversation that felt as dissonant as it did unexpected.
âBesides your father, who else took care of the children during those early years of the Order?â
âHe remained in charge of the Academy until his death. The instructors were as close to parents as we had. Most days, we were worked hard enough that we went to bed exhausted. There was little time left for childhood squabbling. We had our classes and our duties and we would fulfill them or we were disciplined.â
âDisciplined?â
âBeaten.â
âDid your fatherââ
âYes.â
âBecause you struggled in classes orââ
âBecause I was a weak-willed boy and an embarrassing bastard.â
Goss paused, not because he was awaiting more, but to type out a note.
âAs your primary adult caretakerââ
âHe was not my caretaker,â snapped out like a strike. It seemed to surprise them both, as they stared across the table at one another.
âOf course, Mr. Hux,â Goss carefully deferred, though his head inclined, curiosity peaked.
It took five maybe ten seconds, for the confession to come.
âI killed him,â Armitage said quickly, quietly, his eyes cast down to the table but chin held high. âPoison. I watched him disintegrate in a bacta tank. The Order never connected me to his death, it was ruled an accident.â
Goss was silent, but only for a beat. âThat is not in the file we have on you.â
âIâve not revealed it to many.â
âWhy tell me now?â
âI donât know,â Armitage said softy, voice barely broken, like it was the real confession.
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Consciousness drifted intangible, just beyond the dim cast of a gray light and a gentle voice that was as familiar as it was unnamable. The desire to reach out to it came and went, less an intention than an idea, one discarded more easily than the thoughts attempting to surface from the miasma of his mind. Because as familiar as the voice was, it was not the one he sought. It was not Armitageâs voice, and that realization traveled like a crack through the durecrete walls of the dam that was his unconsciousness, until the weight of his thoughts overwhelmed all else, and reality came crashing down upon him with the strength of a tidal wave.
A shrill trilling precluded the chirp of a droid, as Poeâs eyes opened, blinking against a sticky film that dragged at his lashes and made foggy shapes out of the figure hovering above him.
âHey there,â said a voice that was too old to be his father, the person above him too exhausted to be the man Poe had left behind on Yavin-IV so many years ago. But his smile was the same, even if it produced too many wrinkles across his sun-browned cheeks. âItâs good to have you back, son.â
âDad?â Poe croaked, sounding as wretched as his throat felt, though his heart swelled at the sight of his father hovering over his bedside. Eyes dark, face kind, he smiled down at Poe like it hadn't been years that had separated them, but decades. Poe felt swallowed whole by that stare, and for one long moment he wondered if this wasn't reality, but his subconscious mind at work. If only he could rememberâ "Are youâ where areâ"
A cough caught in his chest, and then a hand slid behind his shoulder to prop him up, and a straw was quickly brought to his lips. The water just this side of cool to be refreshing without seizing his nerves with a shock of cold. Poe swallowed in large, thirsty pulls â throat working, nostrils flared. And as the water eased over the desiccated landscape of his esophagus, relief welled like a revitalized spring, cool and calming like the water, until Kes pulled the cup back with another easy smile.
âNot too fast. Youâre not a fish Poe, last I checked.â
âDefinitely,â Poe tried again, relieved when his voice only sounded worn, rather than completely wrecked. Even if, when he flopped boneless back down to the bed, he imagined he might look like one. A fish out of water, that is. Poe grimaced, âdefinitely not a fish, dad.â
A string of binary, and an almost offensively trilled, bird, and BB-8âs lens peeked over the side of his bed with a long, plaintive whistle that sounded, somehow, as tired as Poe felt.
âHeya BB.â Poe stretched his fingers out, too worn out to do much more than brush them over its housing in an affectionate greeting. BB-8 wobbled in place, chirping again as it bumped Kes aside so it could roll closer.
âYour droid has been worried sick. Hasnât left your bedside in weeks.â
âWeeks?â Poe breathed as he shifted, again trying to push himself upright and finding he didnât have the strength.
âOh here, like this.â Kes fumbled with a small remote, before the head of the bed lifted with a gentle hum into a steep enough incline for Poe to sit up, revealing a small room with a large window obscured by a light-diffusing curtain that set the walls aglow in a cool green-gray.
Green-gray, just like the sea foam on Yavin-IV. The same color as Armitageâs eyes.
If reality had crashed down upon him before, now he felt drowned by it. Memories surfaced: a fraught farewell in an unfamiliar hangar, as he'd been taken away, and Armitageâ Armitageâ When he looked up to meet his fatherâs eyes, he saw a mirrored concern, as if Kes knew exactly where Poeâs mind had gone, because his was already there waiting for him.
Kes had to know about what was going on â he wouldnât be here otherwise. Someone would have reached out to him, told him what they could. At this point, he was bound to know far more than Poe did.
Anything could have happened, in weeks.
âDad,â Poe whispered, already feeling fatigued enough that he could hardly keep his thoughts straight, let alone wrangle the fear seizing his chest, âwhat have I missed?â
âYouâve been in an induced coma for sixteen cycles,â Kes said as he stood aside to allow BB the room it wanted to get fully under Poeâs palm, where it settled into a quiet trilling hum. âDoctors wouldnât even let me see ya until you were out of the radiation unit. That was just this morning, been waiting for you to wake up ever since.â
Kesâs eyes did not leave his as he settled himself into a seat on the edge of Poeâs bed. His face was cast in shadow, deep enough to hide the usual sparkle of his eyes. But the angle put in relief the datapad tucked into his back pocket. Poe couldnât help but want to reach out and take it, open up the holo-news and find out what his father wasnât telling him.
âWhat about Armitage?â He tried instead. Only a little guilty that the first time heâd seen his father in over three years was being spent talking about a man who, to his father, was nothing more than a name in the news cycle â a man who was to be put on trial for the murder of billionsâ
âHeâs alright, as far as I know, which isnât much. No oneâs been allowed to see him, not even Leia. But the news has been quiet about it all. Just the same recycled updates for the last week. Most of it are talking heads turning themselves blue in the face, but no real substance about whatâs going on. I figure thatâs for the best. If they were making a spectacle out of it allââ
âDad,â Poe cut him off, eyes pleading, âI gotta see him.â
âSure know how to make your old man feel special, son.â It would have cut to the bone if not for the smile plastered across Kesâs face. âGo three years not seeing your old man no problem, but a few weeks without your beau? I get that youâre making up for lost time butââ
âDadââ Poe pushed out, panic festering fully to life, triggering a rush of adrenaline he thought he could only feel in Black Oneâs cockpit, ââdad, theyâre gonna kill him.â
And then he was shoving the blanket away, hands shaking as he gripped the guard rail of the hospital bed, unused muscles seizing as he drew his legs up and over the side of the mattress. BB-8 squealed as it rolled back, trilling a shrill song of admonishment when Poeâs feet hit the floor and his legs wobbled unsteadily under the sudden weight. But heâd pushed through worse, and he would get through this too. Had to, because Armitage needed him â needed help.
And here heâd been for sixteen long cycles, safe in a hospital bed healing from injuries sustained while saving the life of the man he loved, while that very man rotted away alone in a prison cell. He must think everyone had abandoned him. That Poe had abandoned him. That heâd be left forgotten without even a visitor before they fucking dragged him to the gallows so all the world to watch him hang.
He made it one short, aborted step before his legs crumbled beneath him.
He never hit the floor. Kes was there, arms coming around his waist, to haul him against his barrel of a chest, solid and warm and as familiar as the embrace winding a fierce vice around Poe. It was laden heavy with years of yearning and worry, all the fear and terror of losing a person who meant the literal world to him â that was what he felt in his fatherâs grip, in his fatherâs hug.
âPoe, itâs okay. Youâre okay. Heâs okay.â
Nothing was okay. But there in his fatherâs arms, it almost felt like it could be.
Was this how Armitage felt, every time Poe whispered those words into his hair? Every time he pulled him into an embrace? Every time Poe affirmed, with a somehow insurmountable conviction, that everything would be okay?
That was all it took. Poeâs chest tightened and his throat seized, and he imagined all the water he had drank had already turned to tears because how else would they be streaming down his cheeks. There, crumpled against Kesâs chest, Poe sobbed. He wept, openly mourning for so much more than what he could ever put into words. For the man he loved and the time he had wasted in finding him, who was now slipping through his fingers, beholden to a world that Poe thought heâd already given everything up for. Somehow, it still asked for more. And somehow, Poe still had something left to give.
âItâsââ tears clogged his nose, ran into his mouth, and he had to swallow the phlegm in his throat before he could rasp, ââitâs not fair, dad.â
âI know, son,â his fatherâs voice wavered, swelled with his own grief, his own memories, of a life taken from him. Of a love lost too soon, and a war that had spanned generations, âI fucking know it isnât, Poe.â
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Inmate : Armitage Hux
Patient ID : 0681
Timestamp : 35 ABY 11:22:11:29.
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âDid you keep many secrets from the First Order?â
âNo, never from the Order,â was quickly clarified with a perfunctual honesty, âfrom Supreme Leader Snoke, and Kylo Ren, and Enric Pryde, yes.â
Gossâs finger pushed up his spectacles, quiet stretching for a long, long moment. The question he eventually asked was not, however, the one she expected.
âThat necklace youâre wearing is unusual, it belongs to Poe Dameron, doesnât it?â
It might have felt like a shot from the dark, if not for the target that hung over his chest. Her plan, it seemed, had worked.
âYes,â said softly.
âThe relationship you and Mr. Dameron have is romantic, is it not?â
âGeneral Dameron,â snapped like a reflex, and then, very carefully, âYes.â
âHave you pursued other romantic relationships, previously, during your time with the First Order?â
The quiet, tremulous, clatter of the cuffs locked into the tableâs bolt was his only betrayal. âNo.â
âWhy not?â
Despite the way his hands shook, his face remained neutral â a calculated mask, as devoid of emotion as his hands were full of it.
âMy father was a very influential man, and as his son I was held to a higher standard than other recruits. My commitment was always to the Order,â a pause, a swallow, loud enough to be audible over the ambient hum of the recording, âbut even had I been interested in pursuing a relationship, I would not have done so. There were very few people I would have trusted with that sort of knowledge of myself. I was already viewed as weak, I could not risk any sort of activity that would actually make me physically vulnerable.
âAnd,â this time, the pause drew out long enough to sour, so that the implication of what was said next was not lost, âthe older men of the Order took liberties with their positions, I saw this through my father as well as the men he surrounded himself with. My view on intimate relationships was not a healthy one.â
Another note, another drawn out pause, and then Goss asked, âWould you call the relationship you have with Poe Dameron healthy?â
âYes,â he confessed quietly. âYes, I would.â
âWhy so?â
âI donât have toââ he cut off, looking away from Goss and to the holo droid which hovered above. His eyes didnât reflect fire, but a woeful, desperate panic, ââI donât see how this is relevant.â
âI assure you, Mr. Hux, it is all very relevant to your situation. My colleagues would happily diagnose you sans this conversation, based solely on your actions as recorded until now. You have a unique opportunity to shed light on your own internal machinations, and I am, in this respect, happy to have the opportunity to hear them.â
Armitage swallowed again, eyes flicking back over to Goss, though the droid remained focused on his face alone. âMy relationship with Poe Dameron is very private to me. I think enough of it has been publicly shared with the galaxy for me to want to keep what I can to myself.â
âYet, I insist. Considering your history of abuse, do you feel you are capable of judging what constitutes a healthy relationship?â
This time, there was no hesitation, no inkling of doubt, âYes, I would.â
âAnd how would you describe a healthy relationship?â
âHe has never hurt me, and I have never hurt him, if that is your definition of healthy.â
âIs that yours?â
He balked, taken aback, mouth hanging open a brief moment before he answered, âI don't know, butââ
"Is it at all possible, Mr. Hux, that your judgement in this might be unreliable?"
Armitageâs voice broke, then rasped, âHe loves me." It dragged out of him like a tooth gone to rot, pulling at the root of it all, when he pushed out, "âand I love him.â Said like that was enough. Like anything else would be asking too much.
Wasn't love enough, though? Shouldn't it be? After all, love kept proving, over and over, that it was strong enough to overcome even the darkest layers of the Force. She had seen it first hand herself, too many times to count.
In the recording, Goss paused, waiting time out with a calm, placid ease as if he expected more to be said. But silence stretched, until it became clear the conversation had reached an end. Goss turned back to his datapad with barely a blink.
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âYouâve got forty minutes.â
The sun was bright, glinting gold into his eyes enough to make him blink back tears. And the air had a mild, slightly arid quality that filled every corner of his lungs as he pulled in a deep, satisfyingly fresh breath. It was clean, surprisingly unburdened by the taste of pollution, something he had expected from a city-planetâs atmosphere. But so much of Coruscant had already defied expectation, maybe this shouldnât come as a surprise. Or maybe it was simply that Armitage had not been outside in weeks.
The last planetâs air he had breathed had been Ajan Klossâs, and those memories felt like a lifetime ago.
Around him, the yard sprawled unassuming. Tended into a state of almost hostile perfection, the grass was short, the sand of the path unscattered, the duracrete walls arcing above as white as the day they were poured. There were slats in the walls, long narrow things that peaked out over the city but were far too small for a leg to fit through, let alone a body. Or sound, apparently. Absent was the distant clamoring of the bustling city that filtered through the window in his cell. Instead, wind breathed through the reedy vines of the trees, scattered as they were amongst the plots of grass, somehow able to thrive in the thinner atmosphere of the high altitude. A gust of wind caught their drooping branches in a symphony of gentle, whooshing rushes, the only sound besides his footfalls to break this peaceful, if somewhat tenuous solitude.
It reminded him, suddenly, of the mountaintop on Ajan Kloss.
He took a single, careful step, fully expecting it all to be swept out from beneath him. Instead, his feet landed on solid, ineffable ground.
The yard was empty of any other prisoners. Armitage had already come to the conclusion that the prison itself housed only him. If there were any other inmates being held, he was not privy to their existence. The cell block he was kept in had been silent but for the occasional pattern of footfall from a passing patrol, as few and far between as they were. The guards stationed outside his door kept dutifully quiet when not exchanging shifts, and even then the perfunctory hand-off of responsibility bartered no words he could discern.
So it seemed particularly strange, as his shoes sunk into the soft white sand of a narrow path bisecting a plat of vibrant green grass, that he thought he could see a figure in the distance.
Stranger yet, was that as he drew closer, and the figure began to take shape, he was hardly surprised when Reyâs form emerged from the fragmented shapes surrounding her.
There was a crystalline quality to her body, like her skin was made of glass, her clothing poured silk. Details that could easily be mistaken for the rippling pattern of sunlight that dappled through the willow tree above her.
Armitage knew better. Heâd seen Snokeâs Force projection enough times to identify that Rey was not so much here, as much as her spirit was.
âHux, itâs good to see you.â
âHello,â he said simply, waiting for his unease to rear, but instead feeling himself drawn closer, until he was sat on the wooden bench beside her.
Rey smiled at him, not the calm platitudes of a passive politeness, but a toothy grin that revealed a genuine pleasure in seeing him. It would have been infectious, if Armitage hadnât noticed at that very moment another figure, hidden away behind the drifting tendrils of the willow tree, tucked so deeply into in the curve of its trunk to almost be mistaken as a shadow.
Ren was here. Of course Ren was here.
âSorry,â Rey dipped her chin as she said it, sheepish enough that Armitage knew her to be honest. âIâm not too good at this Force projection stuff yet. But together we canââ she gestured around them like the explanation was obvious. It was, Armitage duly admitted.
âCan the guards see you?â
âNo, just you. And the trees.â
âThe trees?â
Rey just shrugged. An obvious âyour guess is as good as mineâ.
âLeia wanted me to pass on her apologies, and make sure you got the ring.â
Immediately, his hand went to his chest, to press over the ring where it hung against his jumpsuit. He hadnât bothered to hide it. Had in fact worn it like it belonged there, its rightful place against his heart. âDid sheââ he cut himself off, eyes casting over to where Ren sat, unmoving, still almost indiscernible from the shadows surrounding him, ââwhat can you tell me?â
âPoe is okay,â Rey read his mind without the use of her Force, something Armitage was infinitely grateful for just then, because even after spending years reporting to Snokeâs projection, this ghostly exchange landed too strange for him to easily swallow. âThe doctors kept him in a coma while his body purged the radiation, but he woke up this morning. Heâs going to recover.â
Relief unraveled within him, a binding he hadnât realized heâd tied quite so tightly. And with it came all the thoughts and worries and fears heâd managed to tangle up with it. If Armitage had done anything with his near infinite hours alone, it had been to craft a safe place within in his mind where heâd placed every memory, every feeling, every passing thought that had surfaced around Poe. He had not been able to do much against the fleeting emotions that inevitably reared, but he purposefully tucked the rest safely into that hidden place. Here with Rey, the absence of Poeâs presence in his life felt acute, a consummating lack of something that had become pivotal to his everyday function that now ached empty â still there, but not, like the haunted presence of a shadow he could never catch sight of.
âWhat else?â he asked with a rush of breath, attempting to mask his emotion but only succeeding in sounding desperate.
âNot much.â Rey shifted as if to touch him, kind face breaking in open commiseration. âThe surrender is underway. The ships have been directed to the Kuat yards, and transports have been collecting the crew to shuttle them to the intake facilities where theyâll be processed. Itâs taking some time, however. Finnâs adamant we shouldnât just place everyone without some sort of support system established first, and the Senate agrees, and then theyââ she shrugged again, just as sheepish, maybe a little comical, ââthey just sort of put him in charge of that. He hasnât slept in weeks.â
âWeeks?â Had it really been that long?
âYouâve been here for almost three,â Rey said softly, âthey really keeping you on that tight of a leash?â
âIâm Starkiller, of course they are,â Armitage meant it as a joke but it mostly sounded sad, the words wretched as they tumbled out of his mouth.
Silence befell them, meandering away with minutes that grew more precious with the lengthening shadows across the yard.
âThis used to be where the Jedi trained, when they came to Coruscant.â
Armitage started, looking back at Rey with a coiled wariness, and then up at the tree hovering over them.
âI think thatâs why the trees feel different. I think theyâre touched by the Force.â
âI thought everything was touched by the Force?â
Rey laughed, âYouâre not wrong. Theyâre different though, I can hear them. And they can hear me. Itâs strange, Iâve never experienced anything like it before.â
A sound emerged from behind them, indignant, but amused. Ren. Of course â how could he have dared forgotten?
âOh shush,â Rey tossed out with a roll of her eyes and a wide smile, and then quietly â privately â like Ren was not listening to every word she said, âHe doesnât like it here, says it reminds him of his grandfather.â
Darth Vader. Anakin Skywalker. Whatever.
âHow long can you stay?â
Rey laughed again, a twinkling thing, like glass in the wind.
âLeia managed to arrange this for us. Well, your access to the yard, no one knows about our conversation. Sheâll be coming to speak with you as soon as she can,â Rey said like that was supposed to make him feel better. Strangely enough, it did. âIn person, though, so itâll be another couple days. Youâll be getting another visitor first. A doctor, or a psychiatrist?â she paused, head cocked to the side, as if to ask, did I get that right? before forging on, âheâs coming to evaluate you. Leia wanted you to be prepared.â
Prepared. A warning. A scout sending a message ahead, urgent and important and of dire consequence.
âThank you,â he said simply, allowing himself to accept the knowledge that this, along with Poeâs ring and perhaps even his cellâs window had been things fought for on his behalf.
âChin up, Hugs, yeah?â
He did not need that name catching on. âNot you too?â Armitage grimaced for full effect.
âYeah, me too. But timeâs up,â Rey did lean forward then, hand reaching to touch his knuckles, the shimmery length of her fingers passing through him with a shock of warm tingles. It was a bold move, and the closest thing heâd felt to a comforting touch inâŠwell, in weeks. Armitage shuddered, lips pressing closed over the breath his lungs wanted to suck in, hand trembling with its urge to turn over and feel that touch slide over his palm. To feel a warmth and kindness that was beholden to nothing but this strange urge for human connection, something Armitage had never realized he needed so much, until he was entirely without it. Without Poe.
Reyâs eyes, when he lifted his to meet his, made it clear how much she understood. âIâll come back, if I can. And if you need anythingââ
ââIâll be sure to let the trees know.â
Rey laughed one last time. Standing as if to walk away, she instead stepped out from the shade of the willow and into the sun, light catching her clothes in a blaze of fiery refractions that burned and burned until Armitage had to look away. He blinked at the tears collecting, the sting in his eyes receding only after heâd taken a moment to close them fully and breathe through the swell of emotions that attempted to surface. Emotions he had spent weeks successfully smothering. Now was not the time. Not when the guards would be coming for him shortly, and these last few minutes of peace were all he might have left under the warm rays of a planetâs sun.
Which was why, when he opened his eyes to find Kylo Ren sitting beside him on the bench, he very nearly called for the guards to collect him early.
âRen,â he spat out, unable to mask his unease behind his typical drawl.
âHux,â Renâs voice brokered no obvious emotion, his face betraying nothing but the same soft doe-eyed banality that had driven Hux to near blinding rage aboard the Finalizer too many times to count.
But he looked well. Healthy. Like he wasnât awaiting judgment before the people he had terrorized from the stolen throne of a dead Sith Lord. Like he was a man free to walk a new path, and leave the burden of his past behind.
âSo theyâve let you go free, I presume?â
Renâs face remained unchanged, but his eyes flicked away from Armitageâs face and that was all the answer he needed. Certainly, he could have done without the confirmation Ren deigned to give.
âHouse arrest,â he muttered, then, âand therapy.â
Hux laughed, he couldnât help it. It tore out of him, nasty and awful and slightly manic and entirely too loud for the serenity of this space. Neither he nor Ren fit here, in this peaceful sanctuary meant only for the people who curried the galaxyâs favor, rather than her riotous, heavy-handed contempt. No amount of therapy would change that.
âSo what is it you want, a chance to gloat? My apology?â
Renâs face screwed up, just a little, and only for a moment, but Hux knew this manâs moods as well as he knew his own â had been forced to learn them, so many years ago.
âIsnât it me who owes you an apology?â
Hux snorted at that, hoping it sounded as derisive as he felt. It would figure that the peace leading up to his trial wouldnât last. That Kylo Ren would be the person to disturb it seemed appropriate. Maybe his real punishment wasnât to be death, but never being able to escape the men who hurt him.
He turned away from Ren, hoped to Sith hell he got the fucking message and left.
âI am, though. Sorry.â
Armitage laughed again. Less manic, more wretched, burning as it came up, then bubbling over like acid. âYou canât even say it right.â
âHux,â and maybe that was a plea buried in his name. Armitage looked back at Ren then, letting all the hate he felt spill into his eyes as he met Renâs dark, pit-like stare. âJust listen to me. Iâm sorry. I truly am sorry for the way I treated you, Hux. I want to make things right.â
In another life, Armitage might have savored this moment. Might have made Ren repeat himself, say the words over and over again until the sound of his voice had etched itself over all the times it had not been those words spoken, but others, as his Force hand had come round his throat or his mind had been plucked to pieces. Instead, he pressed his lips together and stared into Renâs sallow-skinned face, and he chose his words carefully, so that his point remained clear, and Ren would not mistake whatever this was for whatever he hoped it might become.
âItâs Ben now, right?â Ren nodded, lips parting like he might say something more but whatever expression Armitage wore kept him quiet. âWell listen to me, Ben, because this might be the last time we ever speak, and while I might die happy never giving you another thought, something tells me this apology is more for yourself than it is for me. So I will say this for your sake alone.
âI accept your apology. But that doesnât mean I forgive you. And the reason I canât forgive you, is because what you did to me will stay with me until the day I die. You hurt me, in ways I will never be able to fix, or escape. All I can do is learn to live with them, to deal with them as gracefully as I am able.
âSo,â he said with a breathy rush, eyes locked onto Renâs, like if he stared hard enough he could see through his projection and into his soul, âif you care at all for making whatever remains between us right, you will leave me alone. We will go our separate ways, and maybe time will do the healing that I assure you, I cannot manage. Not right now. Certainly not in the way you probably want. I canât make you feel better about what you did to me. That is between yourself and your conscience. And I owe you nothing, least of all my forgiveness.â
It was true. It was all true. And it felt so good to say, to watch Renâs face contort not into anger, or defiance, but a distant, listless acceptance. For a short, brilliant moment, Armitage felt vindicated; saw the hurt he had caused Ren strike in ways he'd never been able to achieve before. But the catharsis didnât last. It too spoiled, carving out the space where all his anger had resided, as if the words heâd finally spoken had taken the substance of his pain and replaced it with an empty, vacant void.
He looked at Ren, into those too black eyes until they broke to rove over his own face in a slow, perfidious crawl, until Armitage could no longer take it and had to turn away.
An apology from Ren would never be enough. A lifetime of apologies would never make up for what he did. Maybe he never would forgive Ren, but he also realized he no longer needed the revenge he once sought, and that felt important. Because maybe it wasnât so much the apology that Armitage needed, but Renâs acknowledgment of all the ways he had hurt him.
âI think, what I want the most, is for you to understand what it is you did to me.â
âI do,â Ren breathed out. It sounded honest. It sounded like something Armitage could believe. âI understand.â
Armitage nodded, eyes focused on the hands folded in his lap, at how white they had become, caught in the vice of his grip. Sunlight scattered in a flickering array across his already pale skin, the rushing of wind through the tendrils of willow branches drowning out the heavy sound of his breath. He wasnât shaking, but the energy surrounding him and Ren felt edged, energetic, shuddering on the cusp of something Armitage couldnât name but felt important. This whole conversation felt important, and he had no idea why.
But there was something left between them. Something Armitage had not yet said, but needed to, for his own sake, despite how much he wished otherwise.
âI do owe you my thanks,â he finally managed, finding the words came far easier than he ever expected, âfor saving Poe.â
âOf course,â Ren said softly, catching his eyes, and for a brief, tenuous moment Armitage felt a peace settle between them.
He may never know if it would have lasted, because the sound of the guards approaching crashed over him like a klaxon call to arms. Armitage whipped around, to see how they approached via the same path he had taken, stirring the sand into dusty clouds that disturbed the perfectly coiffed path and stained the grass gray. And by the time he looked back to where Ren had sat, heart hammering in his chest, and a duly wrought, wait, donât leave me here, on his lips, he was gone.
The guards collected him, the cuffs back in place, to be led across the yard and into the looming tower before him, and then, Armitage too was gone â only the whisper of his memory left behind in the rush of wind through the trees.
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Inmate : Armitage Hux
Patient ID : 0681
Timestamp : 35 ABY 11:23:11:12
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âWell Mr. Hux, I am pleased with what youâve shared with me. I will be providing an official report to the Senate regarding our discussions, and the recordings will only be made available to those on an as-needed basis. I cannot grant you the full rights to privacy that, by law, doctors abide, but I can assure neither my report nor the holos will be made public.â
âWait,â said with a rush, the recording picking up on the breathless quality of his voice, âWeâre through? But you have not even asked meââ cut off sharply, as Armitage leaned back as if struck. He hadnât been, but Leia re-watched the recording more than enough times to be sure. âYou did not want to talk about Starkiller Base?â
Goss cocked his head to the side, hands folding neatly together atop the table. Taking his time, he asked, âDo you want to talk about Starkiller Base?â
âI only presumedââ glancing up at the holo-recorder, she saw how pale his skin looked against the dark shadows under his eyes, the lank fall of his grown-out hair. There was no trace of the man from those propaganda images, nothing of the General who had stood atop that dais and committed not just the Hosnian System, but a whole galaxy to a terror he had become the sole harbinger of. The person who stared into the lens was, quite simply, a frightened man. ââsurely, that is why you came here.â
âAnd I assure you, Mr. Hux, that if you wish to speak about the events surrounding Starkiller Base, I am happy to listen. But as far as what I am interested in, I have more than sated my curiosity. So?â
âNo,â said almost too softly for the recording to pick up. âI have nothing more to say on the matter.â
âVery good, then I believe we are done here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hux.â
âOf course.â
Goss stood, datapad tucked under one arm, and as moved across the room, the only evidence of the door opening to allow his passage the bright rectangle of light that briefly spilled across Armitageâs face. The holo-recorder was left behind, as if forgotten, to capture Armitage where he remained shackled to the table. Where he would sit, uninterrupted, for the next hour.
Leia had watched the recording enough times to know that at fifteen minutes he would begin crying, and at twenty, he would collapse atop the table in a shuddering fit of a panic attack. Shoulders hunched, hands fisted into his hair, he would sob and shake and heave in short, shallow gasps for almost thirty minutes, until the guards finally came to collect him.
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The room was different from the interrogation chamber heâd grown used to. For once, there was evidence of another person scattered about, solitary nods to life that seemed suddenly out of place considering the last few weeks of his own: a coat hanging off the back of a chair that was pulled out from a large, polished transparisteel table, and a tray of what appeared to be food placed between a pair of mugs, one of which had a stain around the lip, a peachy half-moon of color that stood out bold against the otherwise pearlescent white.
Goss had never brought anything other than himself and his holo-recorder to their sessions. Heâd sat in his chair and asked his questions and walked away with what felt like far more than the answers Armitage had given. And heâd certainly never offered Armitage more than the echoes of their conversations, the memories they dredged up, and the haunting reminder of a life he had, somehow, begun to forget.
Poe had done that â had shown him a version of life that wasnât filled with pain and fear. It had been so easy to tuck it away into the darkest corners of his head, in the face of the happiness Poe had offered; a balm to a wound that had festered too long, let alone been given the opportunity to heal.
Now, the wound had been ripped wide open all over again, and whatever healing Armitage was to get seemed, every day, more likely to be found at the end of a noose than in a life lived with the man he loved.
As the guards lowered him to the chair opposite that with the coat, his eyes lingered on the tray. There was fruit, and a wheel of pale cheese, and a scattering of crackers and biscuits and a tiny bowl full of multi-colored spheres he could not identify. His mouth watered at the idea of their taste, and his stomach knotted with the memory of the meal he had been served that morning: a pile of re-hydrated grains and vegetables and a nutrient shake that tasted of nothing but the tinny metal of the cup theyâd served it in.
The Orderâs rations had never been much, but even they had been more flavorful than the stuff served here. And though heâd never had much of a thirst for the finer details of cuisine, the food before him was simple, wholesome, and most of all, fresh.
But Armitage was not fooled. He knew how these things worked. The tray was to be a reward. A teasing temptation used to manipulate. What would he agree to, for a taste of that decadent slice of ripened fruit? What secrets would he reveal for the chance to sample the wheel of salty, rich cheese? And what part of his soul would he give up to be allowed a sip of the cold, half-drunk tea in the peach-stained glass?
Honestly, Armitage was surprised they expected he had anything left to give, not after all heâd already revealed to Goss. Well, he wouldnât give them the satisfaction. If what he had told them already still wasnât enough, he wasnât about to debase himself further by begging for their scraps. Heâd gone without the finer things in life long enough to no longer feel beholden to their temptation. Decades of a pious lifestyle would do that to a person, it would take far more than a tray of delicacies to change that.
He turned away, though his hands shook in their cuffs, his clenched fists hiding everything but the sound of metal trembling atop the transparisteel table. A quick glance at the guards revealed their usual hawkish attention â that same expectation that he would somehow shed his shackles and pull a blaster from the belt he wasnât even allowed to wear. Unlike his previous meetings with Goss, his cuffs were not bolted to the table, but instinct bade him to leave his hands where they were, no matter how much he longer to pull them into his lap and muffle the sound of his shaking.
Heâd sat through worse. This shouldnât feel so difficult. Not when heâd stared down Ren at his worst, when the head of his informant had sat bleeding out before him, the rumor of a spy flying off the tongues of his colleagues turned inquisitors. Heâd survived their hunt, had outrun the jaws of the monster the First Order had become. That should have been enough. Truly, if fate had any sort of sense of justice that had been his. To ask for anything more, at this point, was probably selfish.
But that didnât stop him from wanting it. Not now that heâd had a taste.
His eyes drifted to the tray again, his fingers twitching against his palms, fingernails scraping along the soft cusp of flesh as his mouth filled with the salt of his saliva. He could probably reach it before the guards realized, certainly before they stopped him. They probably wouldnât pry the fruit from him mouth, or the biscuit from between his teeth. He could take what he wanted, New Republic justice be damned, and still nothing would change his ultimate fate. But no, while this might be a test, it wasnât their judgment he risked. It was his own. They may take everything else from him, but Armitage still had his integrity, and heâd damn himself to Sith hell before he gave that up for a bit of fine food.
A notion which proved futile anyway, when the door to the room slid open on silent tracks, and it became achingly clear that it wasnât his integrity of which he was going to be asked for, because the moment had come when it was to be his life.
Leia Organa nodded to him, a small smile for his eyes only, before she turned to the guards to dismiss them.
âArmitage,â spoken affably, like the last time theyâd exchanged words hadnât been over three weeks ago. âItâs good to see you again.â
âGeneral Organa,â thankfully, his voice came out even, unaffected. But the emotion was there, cracking just under his surface, because as Organa sat down in the chair with the coat, she placed upon the table a steaming pot of what was, Armitage instantly recognized by scent alone, freshly brewed Taurine tea.
Well, apparently there were still ways to get him to talk.
âPlease, call me Leia.â Their eyes met as she settled into his seat, the smile on her face gentling into the wrinkles that spidered from her eyes. She said nothing of his obvious confusion, nothing of the weeks of silence he had been left to, but it was all there in her stare as she held his gaze. Something inside him cracked, something already weakened by time and memory.
âThey left your cuffs on?â Tskâed alongside the motion of her hand reaching for his. She stopped just short of touching him, palm up, waiting, allowing him the choice to close the distance.
Carefully, he placed his wrists in her hand. The clasp of the cuffs releasing was a near silent snick.
He resisted the urge to rub his wrists, flex his fingers, show any sign of weakness or evidence that the cuffs were a burden. But he wouldnât have gotten the chance anyway, with how swiftly Organa pushed the mug into his hands.
âDrink,â gently commanded, as if she knew what Armitage needed right then wasnât a kind touch or a soothing words, but the simple comfort of warm tea. âNo cream or sugar, but I have a feeling you take your tea black anyway.â
âAm I so easily read by the Force?â
Her laugh was not like Reyâs. It was loud, boisterous, and bubbling with genuine amusement.
âI donât need the Force to know how you like your tea.â
âNo, you have Poe.â
Organa grinned, âHe said Taurine is your favorite.â
Armitage nodded, staring down into the curl of steam as it coiled. A deep inhale and the scent filled his lungs, a clean, balmy earthen root that barely belied the bitterness of its flavor. Armitage did, in fact love Taurine tea. Poe had known, of course Poe had known. And heâd shared that knowledge with Organa in a distant attempt to reach him. A thoughtful gesture where words could not reach.
âHow is he?â Came out almost as a whisper.
âHeâs doing well. He woke a few days ago and should be cleared to leave the hospital soon. Heâll make a full recovery.â She paused, head cocked to the side as Armitage avoided her gaze, though he could still feel the crawl of her eyes as she said, âHe would be here, if he could, you should know.â
âI know.â But he wasnât â couldnât be. And it was very possible Armitage might never see him again.
âArmitage.â Maybe he wouldnât describe her voice as hard, but there was a command buried in it. âDrink your tea. And stars above, eat something.â
The tray gave a dull groan of protest as she pushed it towards him, loud enough to hide the grumble of his stomach. And the steam from his tea, where it curled over his face, hopefully hid the wetness in his eyes.
This was no trick. There was no barter being made, here. This was a kindness, pure and simple, of the sort he had, against all odds, grown used to; something else he thought heâd left behind under Ajan Klossâs heavy sun.
His hands shook as he arranged the tray before himself. The cheese was soft, tacky on his tongue, and the fruit burst with a flavorful juice the likes of which he had never tasted before, but was almost as decadent than the perfectly brewed tea. He ate slowly, savoring each bite and every sip, until his stomach grew full and the shadows grew longer, stretching over the tray as the sun crept across the sky.
Only once he pushed the tray away did Organa speak again, an easy, âThese came from Naboo, have you ever tasted anything so delicious?â as she plucked a cracker from the spread and scooped up a generous amount cheese.
âNever,â a simple enough admission, though he couldnât explain why it made him feel so foolish. His father had likely eaten from the finest tables in the galaxy, before the fall of the Empire. A native delicacy would have been served at his table every night, while Pryde and his like laughed over a bottle of the rarest casked whiskey known to Corellia. For that reason alone, Armitage would have never indulged in anything more rich than the occasional glass of aged wine, or the rare fine meal. âThe Order didnât often come by Core world goods. Some rare bottle of alcohol, here and there. Certainly nothing as exotic as what Naboo would trade.â
âNaboo is exotic to you?â Organa asked, her long, wizened fingers selecting a piece of fruit that Armitage now knew tasted like citrus, but had the texture of something soft and doughy. âNaboo is where I am from, wellââ she caught his eye, smile softening, ââAlderaan is where I grew up, but Naboo is my motherâs legacy. It is a very traditional place, but Iâve never thought of it as exotic.â
âIs that where Renââ Benâ
âWhere he is spending his house arrest? Yes, in fact, it is,â spoken with a wry smile, her wrinkles spidering deeper as her grin grew. âFor all the years I dreamt of having him home again, I never expected it to happen quite like this. Heâs as stubborn and obtuse as he was when he was a boy. It also doesnât help that I think Iâve grown used to my empty nest.â
Oh, did he know that feeling. âHe was a menace on the Finalizer. A week wouldnât go by without him destroying something on my ship. Consoles, droids, whole training rooms. The amount of reports I had to file against his whimsical destruction took up cycles of my life.â
Organa snorted, âIâm very familiar with his tantrums. Itâs why we thought sending him to train with Luke was a good idea, besides his affinity for the Force. Hanâs opinion of discipline was loose, to say the least, and my own was far too rigid for Ben to fit into it. In retrospect, we made our mistakes, and we could have been more aligned together as parents than we were, but he was always going to walk his own path. That said, it is good to finally have him home.â
âAnd now he doesnât have the choice to run away.â
Organaâs grin turned wolfish, all white teeth and deeply crevassed wrinkled. âNo, he most certainly does not. Rey will see to that, if not the Senate.â
Armitage had to turn away, then. As the noose swung out of the shadows, to cast its long silhouette across the light of the sun.
Organa gave him his moment; a chance to pull himself together without the buzz of her Force to reveal how much she already knew. Why else would she be here, if not to talk about his fate? The time had finally come, and somehow, he would have traded it all for just a few more weeks of this solitary confinement. At least here, hope had a chance to flourish, even if the cost was this impossible ache in his heart.
But when it became clear that he had no intention of addressing the proverbial Bantha in the room, Organa took it upon herself to say what Armitage could not.
âGossâs report from your sessions was very thorough. But in the end, I believe it was Ofantâs holos that influenced the Senateâs decision the most. That plan of his to besmear the entirety of our operation has made it impossible for them to put together an unbiased jury. You are going to trial, Armitage, but the Senate has agreed to a military tribunal. It will be a complicated affair, three judges to convince, and our argument will be a difficult one to make, but I believe in the justice I want to see served, and I am willing to fight for it.
âI told you before there was a chance,â Organa said as she took his hand. Her grip was strong, holding fast as he jerked against the unexpected touch. But even as his hand shook, he could not help but think, please donât let go, as she continued almost without pause, an excitement in her voice that felt out of place in the conversation they were having, âI meant it, Armitage. And I can feel its truth now. Weâre on the cusp of something, you and I. Something better for the galaxy. And I think if we work together, we can see it through to the future weâve both fought for.â
As he met her eyes, he saw someone else staring back. Not the general of an opposing army, but an unlikely ally. A person who cared, when no one else seemed to; when she had no reason to. Heâd been here before, a long time ago. When he was just a child, scared of a future whose brightness had been dimmed to the point of desolation, and another woman had offered him her aid, her guidance, her protection. He had not expected it then, and now, as Leia Organa held his gaze, he found himself just as completely taken aback by what she was offering.
âWe?â He asked, proud that his voice, while soft, did not break.
âYes, we,â her smile was well-worn, the webs around her eyes spun long, long ago â maybe decades, maybe generations. And when her Force buzzed against his mind, a soothing balm over his frayed nerves, he couldnât help but feel he finally understood why Poe had followed this woman across the galaxy and into a war they should have, by all odds, lost, but had instead won. âIâd like to represent your defense, Armitage. If youâll have me, of course.â
Across the table, the shadows stretched. Outside, the day was bright, sunny, broken only by a scattering of cumulus cloud cover that meandered by the window in big rolling coifs. They must be near the very top of the tower; high enough that only the tallest of skyscrapers broke through the horizon of the window. There was nothing to be seen of the city below. No sounds drifting through the transparisteel, no honking horns or whirring atmo engines. Just those clouds, coiling by on the gist of a gentle breeze, free to wander wherever the wind might take them.
Wherever fate might take them.
âYes,â he breathed, squeezing the hand the held his own. âYes, Iâll have you, General.â
âPlease,â Organa smiled, the widest she had yet. âYouâre going to have to start calling me Leia.â
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Notes:
I am so sorry this took so long â„ This chapter may turn out to be the most difficult to write (though, I say that about every chapter lately). Of all my notes for this portion of the story, most are for the trial itself, so chapter 17 won't take me nearly as long â„
Thank you so much for your feedback, any comments and kudos really mean the world to me. If you've gotten this far and have enjoyed yourself, would you check you left a kudos? Otherwise, please come scream at me on twitter or tumblr, I adore y'all to pieces â„
Chapter 17: Day One
Chapter Text
Armitage wasnât sure what he expected from the night before his trial, but he was sure it would not have been this.
Leia arrived late, entering through the door in a wet rush, brown paper bag clutched in one hand and a long flat box balanced on the other. The storm had arrived with the setting sun, and Armitage had spent the last quarter of an hour watching it through the transparisteel window of their small conference room. Lightning severed the sky in blue-tinted blasts, illuminating a dense curl of cloud that roiled over the surface of the city beyond. A heavy patter of rain whipped the window in horizontal sheets, violent and wind-swept and if heâd been in a similar storm before, he refused to acknowledge where, or with whom he may have been with.
Lightning struck again, flickering brief alongside the memory his mind desperately tried to conjure. Armitage pushed the thought away, not for the first time â certainly, not for the last.
For that alone, Leiaâs arrival was a welcome distraction.
âIâm so sorry Iâm late, Armitage,â said as she deposited both the bag and the box on the table and shrugged out of her coat. When she turned to drape the coat across the back of her chair, she paused momentarily, thinking better of it.
âItâs no worry,â Armitage feigned nonchalance. Part of it was the truth â he was happy to be here, wait here. If anything, this window gave a much greater view of the storm, even if he couldnât press his nose to the transparisteel like he could in his cell.
âNo, your time is valuable, and I am sorry to waste it.â
âIs that a joke?â Armitage schooled his sneer into a question, noting the coy turn of Leiaâs smile as she threw her coat across the table, alongside the bag but pushing the box towards him so it would not get wet. Well, any more than it already was. The bag she was less concerned about, the paper already stained through with something he suspected was not all rain, with way its contents wafted a warm, savory aroma. A tail of white hung from the folded-over handle, long and trailing, like a flag of surrender.
The snick of his cuffs was so quiet it almost got lost amongst the pound of rain.
Habit more than any actual discomfiture had him rubbing at his freed wrists.
âThat is for you,â Leia indicated to the long box with a gesture, âgo ahead, open it.â
Armitage hesitated, then asked, âWhat is it?â
Her shrug was small, her smile easy, comfortable â encouraging. Emotions that landed strange, despite the familiarity theyâd fallen into over the past week. She was different from the person heâd known on base. Gone was the general, in her place a woman Armitage could only describe as motherly. Her careful attention doted in ways he was unfamiliar with. This gift â or whatever it was â was something new between them, new for him.
The box was smooth under his palm, long, but thin, made of a flimsy cardboard printed with the logo of whatever vendor it had been supplied by. He tugged at the top, so the lid slid off to reveal a layer of crisp, delicate paper that crinkled under his fingertips as he pushed it aside.
Inside, a dark gray fold of stacked fabric sat beside a pair of hard, black leather shoes. Clothing. Leia had brought him clothing. Something as thoughtful as it was practical. Armitage blinked down in naked surprise.
âI figured youâd want to wear something other than your uniform or jumpsuit to the trial,â said as she watched him, though Armitage could hardly meet her eyes. This was another kindness, as pure as it was simple.
He drew his palm over the fabric. The fibers were soft, finely woven, made of a natural cellulose. Maybe gabberwool, maybe cotton. And the shoes shone with fresh polish, the black leather offset by a smart brown sole. They were fine clothes, and if he had to guess, tailor made to fit him. Not a small expense, certainly not one to be spared for a man who might only have a handful of days left to wear them.
âThank you,â came out almost as quiet as a whisper. Armitage cleared his throat, tried again. âThank you, sincerely.â For once he hoped she looked into his mind, saw the gratitude he could not properly express. He wanted to, even if the right words wouldnât come.
âOf course, Armitage. I hope you like them.â
I do, but Armitage pushed out a breath and a nod instead, eyes drifting back down to the open box where his hand layered over the fabric. His thumb was rolling circles over the dark gray, of its own accord. Armitage caught himself, schooled his hand into stillness, felt heat finally rise to his face.
âHave you ate tonight?â Leia took pity and swiftly changed the subject, turning her acute attention to the brown paper bag, though her small, satisfied smile remained. She dragged the bag to where she sat, tearing through the staples to begin pulling out an array of various sized cartons. âI got us some takeout from one of my favorite spots. Theyâve been around since I was a young woman and was first elected to the Senate. Itâs traditional Lasan street food, have you ever had it?â
Armitage, desperately grateful for the distraction, replaced the top of the box and set it aside. Of course, he presumed the question was asked to be polite, because Leia had to know heâd never so much as had anything close to Lasan street food.
âI typically prefer my food served on a plate than on the street.â
Leiaâs laugh filled his head, low and melodious, all warmth and a genuine amusement. She smiled at him again as she pushed a carton across the table, laughter trailing into a comfortable chuckle. It took him a moment to parse that she could laugh that way around him. Not even a week of this had made the acceptance any easier.
âWell youâre in luck, they even included utensils, not so barbaric after all, eh?â
The food was good. The textures different, the flavors familiar. The sauce his dish had been simmered in was savory, tangy with an earthen aroma, the batter crispy and mildly spiced, while the vegetable burst juices sharp and bitter over his tongue. Delicious, he gambled, as he took another bite, finding himself far more hungry than he had been that morning, when the guards had served his standard meal replacement shake.
This had become somewhat of a tradition, if traditions could be created over the course of a week. Leia would show up to each of their meetings with some new food for him to try, insisting that he eat his fill before they ever broached business, as she called it. Armitage had not yet resisted. Each new flavor he tried felt like an experience unto itself, like he was able to travel the Core through cuisine alone, which was seeming more likely with each passing day. Very little of their business revolved around the details of his trial. Leia was more interested in getting him talking about the Order â not their military, he had noted â but life aboard the star destroyers, at the Academy.
They were topics easy enough to speak of once he realized he neednât include the details of his own experience. Considering his experiences were not necessarily a great example of typical Order life, but also because Leia made it clear it wasnât him she was interested in. What she was interested in was the culture of the Order as a whole.
It had struck strange, those first few conversations, when sheâd directed him away from his pastâs painful details and instead asked him to expound on the daily life aboard the Finalizer: what did people do when they wanted to start a family? Did they get married? Was it arranged, or a love match? What about their children? Where did they give birth? Who raised them? Where did they live? Until what age? And then what? What kind of education did they receive? What sort of career tracks were available? All within the military? Were there no planets theyâd permanently settled? What about pay? Leave? Retirement?
Sometimes his answers surprised her. Mostly she nodded along as if he were confirming something she already suspected. Occasionally, a detail he shared would turn her eyes hard, her mouth thin, and her fingers would steeple as she pressed them to her lips, listening intently as if Armitage were spying again, and the secrets he gave up were far more valuable than anything heâd ever smuggled through during the war.
Whatever Leia was searching for, Armitage suspected she had found it, even if she refused to reveal what it might be. Trust me, she had said when heâd asked. It was a sentiment she requested often, one Armitage was naturally reticent to give. But when he laid awake at night, willing away the gray spill of dawn as each new day drew him closer to his trial, he found he wanted to.
He hadnât trusted many people in his lifetime. Phasma, Mitaka, PoeâŠ
Armitage smothered his thoughts with a quick, efficient swallow. The food caught wrong in his throat, dragged a cough out of his chest that he hid behind the back of his hand.
When he lifted his eyes again, Leia was watching him closely.
âThe Lasat were nearly purged during the war with the Empire, did you know? When they failed to join the Empire peacefully, their planet was bombarded. The race went into hiding, found a new planet, hidden deep beyond an asteroid field in the Rim. All before your time, but I remember it quite clearly. There was a man, an Imperial agent, who turned spy and helped the Resistance during those early days, do you know of him?â
âNo,â was the simple truth. Of all the things the Imperials brought with them to the First Order, their long slate of shortcomings was not one of them. A traitor would have been scrubbed from the datasets after an effort to dispose of them. That had been protocol for when Finn had fled. It did not do well to dwell on traitors, much better to sweep them under the rug, so to speak â lest insurrection breed.
âCurious, truly. His story reminds me of yours.â
âDid he stand trial for war crimes?â
âNo, he retired from the conflict, to live with the Lasat. He moved there with his life partner in fact. Still lives there, as far as I know.â
Ah, so a happy ending. Not quite his story, then. Armitage looked down into his half-empty carton, pushing at the remaining food, appetite suddenly lost.
âArmitage,â Leia said while reaching out with her hand instead of her Force, even if what she said next felt plucked from his mind, âyou still have a chance at a happy ending too.â
âIâd find that far easier to believe if you told me what our defense is.â She wouldnât, but that hadnât kept him from asking again and again.
âYou know I canât.â
âYou wonât.â
âNo,â Leia said with a softened smile, âI wonât. But youâre a clever man, and I expect you will figure it out during the trial. But for the sake of my argumentâs integrity, itâs best you remain in the dark for as long as I can keep you.â
Armitage dropped his eyes and schooled his face. This was hard â what Leia asked. Far harder than handing himself over to the New Republic, because at least with them, he knew what to expect, what he risked. Heâd spent his whole life surviving, and succeeding, to varying degrees. To hand that responsibility over to another personâŠit felt like giving up.
Because despite his surrender, he didnât want to give up. He wasnât ready, not yet.
In complete defiance of his best efforts, a question slipped untethered from his heart.
âMay I see Poe?â
Leiaâs expression softened. âIâm so sorry, they still wonât allow it.â It was the answer he expected, so he didnât know why it hurt so badly.
âWill I ever get to see him again?â broke uneasy in his throat.
Leia did not answer right away, reaching out to take his hand instead.
He couldnât remember when that had become something common between them.
But comfort never came; Leiaâs softly murmured, âIâll make sure of it,â as ominous as the secret defense she had crafted on his behalf.
Armitage did not meet her eyes, this time. He did not dwell on the emptiness left behind when her hand slid from his. Eventually, once their meals grew cold and the thunder grew distant, the topic of conversation changed from the curiosities of the Core Armitage may never experience, to what his immediate future could expect, and comfort became a far-flung supposition.
And later, after he was escorted back to his room and the rain-shattered glimmer of a city he would never really know, neither the comfort Leia had teased nor the reality of what was to happen offered him anything more than a displaced sense of numbness. One that lulled him into a sleep so empty and dreamless that it may as well be death, and perhaps that was the closest thing to comfort Armitage Hux could ever hope to expect.
Tomorrow, we go to trial.
Just as Leia had said, at precisely 0900, two guards arrived at his cell door.
Their uniforms were traded for armor, their stoic calm for an unwavering sternness. Armitage was prepared for their arrival, sitting at the end of his bed with hands atop his knees, close enough together that the guard with the cuffs only had to bend down to fit them over his wrists. The window remained forgotten, the early light of dawn leaking gold against the dark gray of the suit he wore.
Leiaâs clothes clung to him in all the right shapes. Like his own kind of armor, one that protected wounds he wore not on his skin, but on his mind, in his soul. The shirt collar was high, the fabric soft, the color a warm, off-white that gentled the already pale cast of his skin. A lapel-less coat hung off his shoulders, all straight lines tailored into a slightly narrowed waist, accentuating his height while also not hiding his weight as his Order uniform once had. There was no mirror to speak of in his cell, but he must look different enough from the general he had been â at least, he hoped as much. And the suit fit better than his Resistance hand-me-downs ever had. It felt different. Good. Right. Like it reflected the person he had become. He wasnât naĂŻve enough to think a change of appearance would be enough to convince the judges of anything significant, but the clothes bolstered him in the same way the prison jumpsuit tore him down.
Integrity, his mind supplied, strength, it dared suggest.
So when the guard beckoned, he stood tall, holding himself to this thing that he had wrought, determined to see it through; face it head on, upon his own two feet. He could do this. He had been here before, in many ways: each time heâd marched into Snokeâs throne room, each time heâd sat at Renâs war table, and again when he had found himself deep in Ajan Klossâs wilds, standing on the shore of a lake that looked like an ocean, watching the Finalizer fall from the sky in her own last bid on a future for the people she harbored.
The Finalizer had stood strong in the face her fate, and Armitage thought, I will too, as the guard ushered him through his cell door with a nudge from her blaster.
The fact you surrendered should buy us some sympathy, if not with the public than with the judges. Jaine Mithra will be representing the Senateâs vote, while Admiral Yorn Toth the Fleet. A representative from the Hosnian System has been elected as the third judge, a survivor, though you should be glad to know it is not Ofant. He made a valiant bid for the election, but the Senate saw his ownership of the major holo networks as a conflict of interest and smudged his name from the ballot. No matter, weâll have to convince two of the three judges, no easy feat, but not impossible either.
Very quickly they veered from the familiar path, to a lift that took them up, far higher than even that of the Jediâs garden. As the lift rose and the numbers above the door ticked away, Armitage felt his stomach drop. By now they were surely high enough to surpass the clouds, to ascend the top of what must certainly be the tallest tower in all the galaxy, and perhaps the closest he would ever get to touching the stars again.
The thought came unbidden, hammering his heart in his chest. Discipline demanded he pull in a slow, deep breath, release it past the loosened clench of his teeth. At his front, his hands flexed, fingers curling, as he directed the tension in his mind into his body, where hopefully it might find release. But still, his body resisted. Heat pooled between his shoulder blades, and his pulse fluttered in his wrists. Closing his eyes only resulted in a distended thread of vertigo, so he kept them open, fixated, upon the closed doors of the lift.
Tried to school himself into the control he'd once wielded like a weapon, find the calm that once felt like relief.
The guard at his right â the woman who had secured his cuffs â shifted closer. In his peripheral he could see how her eyes watched him: narrowed, focused, hyper-aware of his every twitch. Armitage willed his body to obedience, not wishing to give her any reason to doubt his cooperation.
He was cooperating. But if his peaceful surrender had not been demonstrative of his intentions, he very much doubted there was anything else he could do.
Very little he could say, on the stand or otherwise, to seek their benevolence.
As the weight in his stomach deepened, the lift slowed to a lazy, easy stop. The doors, when they opened, announced them with a trilling chime, a happy, melodious thing, entirely ambivalent to his plight.
At his feet, a corridor stretched, the white walls flushed bright with the recessed lighting that illuminated his path to the waiting courtroom. Slicked in a swirling pattern of waves, a delicate gray marbled the white in a seamless stretch of unbroken stone. Here, wealth shone, and it was humbly apparent that they had long left the cell block levels behind, and along with them that strange, placid tranquility that had suffused the last several weeks of his life.
He willed his feet forward, weighted as they suddenly were; one step ahead of the other until momentum was carrying him forward rather than his fractured willpower.
As lonely as itâd been to be locked away from the world, there had been a comfort to that quiet solitude. A liminal sort of suspension where time felt on hold, rather than running out.
This march towards his trial, however⊠it felt like a countdown.
The trial will be held over the course of two days, one day for the prosecutionâs arguments, and the second for our defense. Ideally sentencing will be held on the third day, but itâs possible the judges will come to their verdict at the end of the second, unless we do our job well, that is.
The corridor didnât so much as end as it did transform. The first warning was a change in lighting. The simple ambient glow of working lights was replaced by a path of tall, finely wrought sconces. The second warning was the dull thump of their footsteps blossoming into an echoing warble as the walls widened and the ceiling arched. But it was the distant murmuration of sound under an open canopy that barely alerted Armitage before he was led around a corner to be met by the open air of a large pendantive domed receiving hall.
Easily five stories tall and just as wide, seats ringed two thirds of the room, stacked in a series of descending levels that funneled down into recessed platform that was, for lack of a better term, a stage. A large white podium with several empty seats appeared to be the central focus, with a smaller podium for a single occupant set up directly across. While the stage was empty, the surrounding seats were filled. The Senate, Leia had warned â three-hundred senators from across the Core and Inner Rim alike, of every species imaginable, gathered together for the spectation of Starkillerâs trial.
But it was not the amount of people that gave him pause. It was what hung above them all that nearly brought him to a halt, because there under the domed ceiling hovered a large projection, the three-dimension logo of the New Republic spun in a slow, ominous crawl.
The Holo-Net news feeds will be live-casting the entirety of the trial. There is nothing I can do to stop it. The prosecution will try to use that to their advantage by playing off the emotions of the viewers, in the hopes that public pressure will be enough to influence the judges. I expect that to be the crux of their strategy, and I do not plan to let them beat us with it. Because itâs not the torch-bearing mob we have to convince, is it, Armitage?
He couldnât help the slowing of his steps, though his heart raced like he was running at a full sprint. The guards slowed with him, their proximity folding closer as if they actually expected him to make a run for it. The woman guard touched his elbow in silent warning. Thereâs nowhere left for me to go, he wanted to tell her. There was no going back, no retreat. Those bridges had been burned alongside the surrender of the Order to the very people filling the seats of this room. He could only move forward now, even if forward led him right into the open maw of fate herself.
Armitage swallowed as he tilted his head down, finding the guard watching him with a hard, monotonous expression. He looked away, step quickening, as he did his best to maintain pace in order to keep her bulky armored body between himself and the audience of this pedantic theater.
His arrival was not entirely lost upon the crowd. A brittle tension replaced the susurration of voices, the echoing quality of sound dimming into a low hum that was more revealing than any shout or gasp. He didnât need the Force to sense the eyes searching him out. He could feel their drag, heavy and stifling and filled with a promise heâd done well ignoring from the peace of his prison cell.
A peace that had completely fled, he admitted, as the enormity of the moment struck down the last vestiges of his control. Whether it was the New Republicâs intention or not, his weeks spent alone had done little but whittle away a composure that had once come so easily in the face of Snokeâs obsidian throne, or his fatherâs heated rage. And where his hands came together in a familiar clasp, one that should have been held at the small of his back, but instead twisted together at his front, they shook.
Of the war crimes they could have leveled against you, they have decided upon the singular charge of Crimes Against Civilization. It is the single official charge that carries a mandatory sentence of the death penalty. Starkiller Base will be their focus, and while there is no denying the fact that you designed it, or that you ordered the actual firing, I think that, with a compelling argument, we can get this charge completely cleared.
Another step, and the quiet tension burst into a gentle cacophony, as the light of the holo above flickered and a moving image of himself replaced the spinning Republic logo. The recording was familiar. A moment from a day that felt like another lifetime, when heâd stood atop a dais and called for the end of a system that had once represented to him everything wrong with the galaxy â wrong with the world the Order now sought to be a part of.
Above, the holo moved on broken repeat, the recording cutting to a close-up of his face as he screamed silent words he didnât need an audio track to hear. His holoâs eyes burned blue in the cool light of Illumâs drained sun, his face twisted, estranged with an anger he could no longer put a finger to, let alone embrace like the man in the recording. Behind him, the flag of the First Order hung, whipping blood red in the flickering glow of the projection, far brighter than he remembered â burning through the dome of the ceiling like the column of Starkillerâs beam come down.
That was all it took, to completely break his composure.
His feet stumbled, his pace slowed, then ground to a halt. The guards left him behind for an arduous moment that stretched too long, as he became completely unmoored. Without the protective barrier of their armored bodies, Armitage was completely exposed. Suddenly, the eyes of the hall fell upon him in ruinous tandem, a hush settling heavy as he was caught staring up at a reflection of himself that looked like a stranger.
A shrilly shouted, Itâs Starkiller! cut sharp, spilling the rest of the crowd into a loud, roiling frenzy of sound.
The name struck like a punch. It was enough to suck the air from his lungs. Blood rushed through his ears, his heart pounded too fast, and his nerves snapped taunt as all at once, reality crashed down upon him.
This is it, he thought to himself as he stared up at the man they called Starkiller, Iâm going to die.
Of all the advice I can give you, Armitage, the most critical is that you trust me. Iâm going to try to keep you off the stand, but if the judges demand it, be prepared to answer their questions honestly. There is no question of what you have done. Do not try to deny your involvement, and do not, no matter how upsetting their questions, or how audacious their attitude, get angry on the stand. They might want General Hux dead, Armitage. You must convince them that he already is.
When fingers curled round his bicep, and the shape of the guard breached the ghostly recording of himself staring out across not platoons of troopers, but the enemy's courtroom, Armitage was grateful for the anchor. Though, he quickly realized it was not an anchor the guard provided. Her stern expression had finally twisted, her eyes flicking to his as she recoiled with a disgust Armitage saw reflected in the sea of anonymous faces beyond, all looking to him â at him â at Starkiller.
Armitage held her stare, mouth opening with words that didnât come. A plea or an apology, anything to alleviate the emotions threatening to consume him. Something in his face must have read wrong, however, because her twisted frown deepened, and the hand on his arm tightened, then tugged â ready to dragâ
âForgive me,â he said with a rush, as close as he could get to the words he wanted, hidden behind an aborted glance towards the other guard, as he pushed his panic aside in favor of a bravery he did not actually feel.
Her grip twitched, tightening to the point of pain, before slowly releasing. Her expression did not change, but she allowed him the dignity of taking his next step independent of her grip. Armitage could not ask for anything more than that. Obediently, he fell back into pace with the second guard, to be flanked by each as they paraded him beneath the holo of his past, towards a future he had lost control of.
He was shaking by the time the guards led him down a short switchback of stairs and onto the staged platform. The table they brought him to was small, with a bolt for his cuffs like all the rest. He tried to remain calm as he was lowered into the chair, but his hands trembled as his wrists were guided to the bolt, to be clicked into place with a near silent snick.
Before him, the podium loomed large, while his position at the table put him in profile to the audience. If he turned his head, he would be able to see their faces staring at him, perhaps put words to the sounds that flooded his head with so many distorted shapes. But it would be obvious he was looking at them, and Armitage knew that the more removed he remained the better off he would be. So he focused on the podium instead, schooling his breath into something that was less shallow, less likely to fuel the vertigo curling to life, or deepen the pit that had formed in his stomach.
In the end, it all made very little difference. The roam of the audienceâs eyes burned alongside the hushed fall of their voices. And while few of their words made it past the whispery susurration of sound, he could guess at what was being said â hear the acidic contours of his name often enough to presume their meaning.
Only the Senate had been invited to the trial, but right then it felt like the ghost of every person he had killed was in attendance. Like far more than some three-hundred sets of eyes were scouring his face for a clue as to how the person before them could become the monster they all knew him as. Under their attention, he felt bereft, stripped down. The armor of his suit peeled away in the face of their converging accusations, to expose him as nothing but the person his father had feared him to be: a weak-willed boy who couldnât even keep his hands from shaking in their cuffs.
Here he was, laid bare for their hunt; already scented, marked, and growing weak.
He had thought heâd be alright. This wasnât the first time heâd been placed under public scrutiny. Certainly, it wasnât the first time that scrutiny had carried with it the threat of his death.
Armitage closed his eyes, sucked in a long, shuddering breath, and admitted to himself that it was, perhaps, just the first time he possessed anything more than his life worth loosing.
A shadow fell, a quiet whine trilled, and Armitage looked up into the face of Fineas Ofantâs droid.
He nearly jumped out of his seat, the bolt to his cuffs enough ambient tension to root him in place.
That Ofant should be here did not surprise Armitage. That heâd been allowed the indulgence of his droid should not feel as much like a betrayal as it did. His trial was never going to be fair, and his privacy was no longer his to have; but still, this went a step too far. The urge to turn his head and find Ofant watching him from amongst the crowd was nearly too great to resist. He could feel him now, an attention unlike anything else. Festering. Personal. Vindictive. A vengeance Ofant would see through to the end, despite his being barred from the panel of judges.
The idea settled heavy, as he stared up at the ocular lens at the droid sought a closer focus. Whatever the droid was looking for, he imagined it found it. Imagined, distantly, that very little of himself was left that this droid had not yet seen. But this time it felt personal, like maybe he didnât need to search the crowd for Ofant, because he was already right here before him, observing something Armitage would never give him permission to see.
He could not recall when the din of voices had rose back to a cacophony, but as the droid abruptly turned away, the chamber suddenly quieted again as Jain Mithra and her cohort of judges swept in from the same passage that he had arrived through.
As finely dressed as the spectators in attendance, she carried herself like a bolt from a blaster, driving a direct line to the center seat of the podium, sparing a brief glance towards him as she sat down. Her face was immaculately set, her pale blond hair coiled into a ropey plait that bisected her head to fall long over her shoulder. Equal parts severe and beautiful, she instead leveled her attention on the audience, inspiring a silence that required no spoken words.
Quickly, in her wake, arrived the man Armitage recognized from his arrest in the hangar: Admiral Yorn Toth.
Older than Mithra, but half as severe, his uniform cut an authoritarian shape from his otherwise stocky build. His beard was well-groomed, his long hair nearly white, and his slight limp suggested a prosthetic â an injury Armitage could only presume he gained in actual combat.
He knew enough of the New Republicâs former military leaders to recognize his name, if not his face. Toth was a man who had come out of retirement to take over after the fleetâs decimation. Heâd never been worth the deeper investigation the Orderâs intelligence would have performed, because by the time the New Republic had regathered enough resources to even call itself a governing body again, the Order had been well into Renâs Sith-inspired death throes.
But it was the Hosnian systemâs representative, a young man of undiscerning standing, who crossed the room to sit himself to Mithraâs left, that demanded Armitageâs attention. Across the short span of meters that separated them, the man â the boy â met his eyes. Hard-fastened to an emotion Armitage didnât dare name, he looked as shocked as Armitage felt, his young face an innocuous, open book.
In his eyes, the holo projection of his speech atop Starkiller Base caught, red flickering bright across the pale glassy expanse of his stare.
By the time Leia arrived with the prosecutor, he was shaking again.
âArmitage,â she said lightly, kindly, settling into the seat beside him and immediately sliding her chair closer. âThe suit fits you well.â
âPardon?â he heard himself ask from a distance, before the moment closed over him, and reality ripped him from the tow of his drowning thoughts. Beside him, Leia leaned close, the dove gray of her formal robes a far cry from the fatigues she had worn on base, or even the smart coat and day suit she had worn to their meetings. She looked sharp, like a honed weapon; like the blade of a finely crafted knife.
Again, he glanced at the judges, saw how Mithra leaned down to speak to the boy â the young man â head bent in quiet supposition. His eyes had never left him.
âThatâs Laslan Von-Arc. His family was on Hosnian Prime when Starkiller Base was fired. The Von-Arcs were a well-known line of aristocracy that traced their lineage far back into Coruscantâs archives,â Leia spoke softly, the careful, familiar lilt of her voice lulling his nerves. âHe was a fifth son, set to inherit a summer house and a comfortable trust, a respectable interest in the familyâs business affairs. Now he has more credits than the sky has stars and a whole team of advisers vying for access to his newfound wealth. No one is left, not an uncle, or a great aunt. Just him.â
Armitage glanced at her, found her blue eyes warm, without accusation. It made him feel bold.
âHeâs a child,â he said.
âHeâs twenty-six.â
Age was only a number; experience was what turned a boy into a man. When he was twenty-six, he was already a major, on track for colonel, would hold that rank by the time he was twenty-eight. By thirty-three he would rise to the rank of General, alongside his ascension into Snokeâs favor. And by thirty-five, as Starkiller Baseâs construction entered its final stages, his dreams of galactic conquest wouldnât feel so much like a spice dream, but an inevitability.
A buzzing at the base of his skull tugged him back into the moment. Weeks ago, he would have jolted at the sensation of Leiaâs Force, but over the last week, heâd grown accustomed to it. Carefully, he turned away from Von-Arc.
âNot everyone was groomed from birth to lead a whole military junta by the time they were thirty,â she said with a presumptuous smile, the spark in her eye decidedly out of place.
âHe was certainly groomed from birth for something.â A soft, leisurely life living off his fatherâs success, or perhaps his grandmotherâs, great-great grand-cousinâs. Managing an amount of money most men would never comprehend, let alone be able to spend. Life-changing wealth that could fund a fleet of star destroyers, pay the lifetime commissions of millions of soldiers, feed and clothe the Order for generations.
Wealth like that, there was no accounting where it came from, to whom it was actually owed.
The Orderâs Imperial fathers had possessed that wealth before, sought it again through their Centrist benefactors. The memory of his father trudging through the Arkanis rain was evidence enough, his arms struggling to hold onto all that wealth: baubles and jewelry and a bottle of the rarest Corellian whiskey, all objects of worthless value. Symbols of a dead era, a flawed way of life. It disgusted him as much now as it had then.
Armitage looked at Leia, sneer finally breaking.
âAh,â her smirk turned into a grin, as sharp as the robes she wore, long in tooth, a blade drawn, ânow youâre catching on.â
But before he could parse exactly what she meant, Jain Mithraâs voice spilled through the room, calling to order an event that Armitage could not help but think was already out of all their control.
âMembers of the New Republic Senate, today we gather for the tribunal of the Galactic State versus Armitage Hux, who has been charged with the gravest of infractions against our Republic, Crimes Against Civilization. Over the next two days, you will hear testimony and evidence on behalf of both the Galactic State and the defense. While the final verdict will be made by your appointed judges, it should be recognized that our verdict will reflect the justice our Republic has always held to the highest standard of integrity.â
She paused, looking out at the audience as if she could meet each of the over three-hundred Senatorâs eyes, let alone all those of the galaxy who watched over holo. When her attention swept over the trial stage, Armitage held still. Eyes up, face a mask, he met her in a brief, intangible moment of connection. He could not say what she was thinking, not in the same way that maybe Leia could, but he knew without a doubt that she believed the words she spoke, and was committed to the justice she promised to uphold.
His hands twisted together, tight enough to chase the blood from his flesh.
âIâd like to invite the prosecution to the floor for their opening statement. Prosecution, are you prepared?â
The prosecutor confirmed he was, indeed, ready, as he stood from his adjacent table. And as he took the center stage, to stand directly before the judges, below the now steady cast of the New Republicâs holo, he met Armitageâs eyes.
There was hatred in his stare. The same sort of stuff heâd seen in nearly everyone heâd encountered today. Here, it seemed only Leia was on his side, so it was her he sought as the prosecutor began reciting the speed heâd prepared. He found her in the closeness of her shoulder, the cant of her head towards him, and the near imperceptible buzz of her Force, just there, at the edge of his mind. And it was that touch of her mind against his that he clung to, as the prosecutor reduced his thirty-six years of life down to a short stretch of minutes. When heâd torn apart the galaxy in a literal rending of an entire system down to dust, by designing, and then firing, the most destructive weapon the galaxy had ever seen.
Forty billion, one hundred sixty million, five hundred seventy-seven thousand, four hundred and two souls dead, all because of the man sitting before them, the prosecutor said.
Armitage Hux would go down in history, he continued. And that his name would live on in infamy, his legacy staining the souls of generationsâŠwell, that was already more than he deserved, wasnât it? Because Armitage Hux was as cruel and he was prideful, as worthless as he was ruthless. And if this singular man had never been born, the galaxy would be a far different place, a far different shape, in the most literal sense.
Armitage could not help but think, he wasnât wrong.
When the prosecutor concluded his opening statement, and Leia left his side to give her own, he could not focus on her words. The only voice he could hear was that of his fatherâs. All the ridicule and the hurt that heâd buried beneath feats of strength that, at the time, had felt like the reckoning heâd spent his life working towards. Because standing atop Starkiller Base as it unleashed its power across the Hosnian system, it had been a triumph for himself as much as for the First Order. It had said to the galaxy: here is Armitage Hux, bastard son of an Imperial father, who has clawed his way out from the trenches of the Empire to shape the galaxy into something new, something better.
But, heâd been wrong. And nowâŠnow the real reckoning had arrived.
He scraped his nails into the cup of his palm, digging hard, grounding deep.
Time slipped by too fast. Leia was back beside him before he thought possible, her hand touching his shoulder in a brief moment of physical connection. It was meant as a comfort, a physical component to the buzzing that hummed away in the back of his mind. But he barely acknowledged either. Around him, the courtroom remained strangely silent, absent of the murmuring that had run rampant upon his arrival.
What had Leia said? What had landed so heavily upon their hearts to silence their tangential beating? He could feel eyes crawling over him. Feel the way they plucked and prodded, stripping away layers he thought he no longer wore. The man the prosecutor had described, he was not seated in this courtroom. But there was no denying Armitage had been that person once.
Now he was gone. Replaced with this version of himself heâd spent his entire life beating into submission. This person who felt too much, hurt too much, and sought the approval of those who held sway over his life. Heâd begged forgiveness at his fatherâs feet enough times to know he would do the same all over again for the people gathered here. What would they say, when Starkiller debased himself to their judgment? Would they believe him, or would they feel all the more satisfied that it was not the proud General Hux they sent to execution, but a man who had finally been broken?
âThe prosecution calls Doctor Edwin Goss to the stand.â
Armitage lifted his eyes to follow Gossâs ambling approach to the witness stand. He wore the same drab suit heâd worn to each of their sessions. His hair was a messy wave of gray, his mouth a line, his lips thinned, but his eyes were sharp when they met.
Heâd told this man everything. All his secrets, everything he had left to protect. That any of it would be kept private had never crossed his mind. What heâd told Goss was given up with the understanding that his life was no longer his. But he had never expected Goss to take the witness stand. And now that he sat there, the prosecutor rambling off an introduction that carved an image of a doctor who had been sent to compile a picture of Armitage Hux that fit perfectly into the New Republicâs perception, he knew heâd made a grave mistake.
When he turned to Leia, her eyes met his, then drifted to his clasped hands.
And when she reached out, it was to slide her fingers past the cuffs, between his palms, fingertips smoothing over the divots his nails had made, heedless of the slick of his sweat or the way that he shook, as she took his hand, and did not let go.
To the Court of the Galactic Republic & Whom It May Concern,
.
.
Of all the qualities one might expect a military figure of Mr. Huxâs rank to possess: a strong analytical mind, a calm and controlled demeanor, and a confidence born of years of command, he satisfactorily exemplifies in surface level interactions. He is assertive of his opinions, confident in the values he holds, and possesses no symptoms of an underlying mental disease that would affect the choices he makes or the logic controlling his decisions. In a professional capacity, he is high functioning, possesses a sound mind, and demonstrates an intelligence well above-average, likely bordering genius, but nevertheless acute enough to allow for a level of self-possessed authority which, outwardly, resembles established narcissistic traits of a clinical psychopath.
However, it is when topics of conversation turn towards the personal that Mr. Hux displays strong evidence of emotional distress. His aversion to speaking about subjects in which he feels positive emotions is notable, because unlike clinical psychopathy where a subject lacks a natural predisposition towards empathy, or at best possesses a constructed facade of emotional competence, Mr. Hux demonstrates neither. In fact, his repression of positive emotional responses within his psyche suggests unique neurological damage of which is undiagnosable without further study.
While I am confident of a form of psychopathy as a diagnosis, to what extent, or variation I cannot say. My recommendation of an in-depth series of brain scans remains. I feel would be beneficial to potential treatment, if Mr. Huxâs treatment is in the interest of the Court. In the very least, it would be valuable data for evaluating future offenders of Mr. Huxâs caliber.
What can be confidently deduced from our sessions, is that Mr. Hux suffers a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, born from his childhood abuse at the hands of his father, and exacerbated further by factors such as childhood soldiering, continued abuse in his adulthood, and the lifetime indoctrination into First Order conditioning. When demonstrated, the level of stress upon which his mind suffers is a factor for immediate concern, atypical of patients of similar backgrounds. While outwardly stable, his mental state is prone to dysphoria, and I believe if physically examined, evidence of self-harm would be found, likely in the form of self-inflicted abrasions of a manic-compulsive variation that would be easily concealed from immediate notice.
Regarding his confession to patricide, I am confident to recognize this as Battered Child Syndrome, in which a childhood abuse victim takes action against their abuser. If examined in a vacuum, the concern of a repeat offense would be undeniably of minimal concern. However, Mr. Huxâs history demonstrates a propensity towards violence, and in regards to public safety, I cannot confidently recommend his release into the population at large.
It is my hope that the Court considers these findings helpful in their evaluation of both Mr. Hux, and the other former First Order members of which our venerable Republic has welcomed into our fold.
With all respect,
Doctor Edwin Goss, M.D.
Â
Not even the mug Kes pressed into his hands could stop them from shaking.
The holo-projector took up nearly half the sitting room. The bright cast of the courtroom feed loomed larger than life, the details uncannily acute compared to the quality of the projectors theyâd had on base, or the feeds they were able to process so many light years outside Core space. Unlike the incandescent blue of deep-space transmissions, this holo was rendered in perfect full-color. It spilled three-dimensional, dropping him into each alternating view like Poe was there in the room, not locked away in Leiaâs suite some two-hundred stories below.
Two-hundred stories; a distance that didnât feel so vast, each time the feed cut to Armitage and his cold bright profile came close enough Poe felt like he could reach out and touch him. He couldnât, though. Even if the first time it had happened he had tried. His hand had passed through the holo, scattering the pixelated filaments in a sparkle of light, while something fragile inside Poe fractured apart.
They hadnât let him see him, after all. They had turned him away â General Poe Dameron was not a real general, let alone important enough to garner a private meeting with the infamous General Hux. Poe was not a husband, or a lawyer; just a lover. Some fleetingly unimportant character that didnât deserve more than a passing glance and a quick message to the warden, let alone a moment of a prisoner's time.
So this was what he had to settle for. The same live-feed the rest of the galaxy was tuned into, even though only two-hundred stories separated him from the actual courtroom floor.
Two-hundred stories between him and Armitage and this disgusting production of a trial, something that looked more like a holo-drama than it did a military tribunal. Two-hundred stories above Armitage sat, open and exposed, subjected to a justice system heâd never benefited from, but had still deferred to, all for the sake of saving what remained of the First Order.
Poe glanced at the door again. Rey remained where she stood, tapping away at something on her datapad, only a few meters between her and the hallway beyond.
He could make it, probably â if he was quick. He was quick. But Rey, she was quicker.
âItâs like you all think Iâm going to go charging in there after him,â he forced out as he placed the mug of caf on the sofaâs coffee table, not sounding nearly as sarcastic as he intended.
The glance Rey threw Finn said enough.
The hand Kes put on his shoulder said more.
âYou gotta trust Leia,â Kes said not for the first, second, or even third time since the start of the trial that morning.
âYou know I do, dad.â Poe turned back to the feed. Leia was questioning the psychologist Goss, asking him to expound upon the footage theyâd played of one of their sessions. Evidence, they called it, but all Poe could hear were Armitageâs secrets and trauma being flaunted for the entertainment of the Senate. âItâs the rest of them I donât trust.â
Rose snorted, dark eyes meeting Poeâs across the sofa. She was curled up against the opposite arm, her own mug of caf clutched tightly in her hands. Beside her, the holo flickered, zooming in on Leia as she asked Goss to clarify part of his statement about Armitageâs predisposition to panic attacks. Rose winced as Goss spoke. Poe had seen what one of those attacks entailed. And Rose? She had too. âAfter the shit on base, I donât trust the whole lot of them either,â she said at a near whisper.
âTheyâre not all bad,â Finn spoke from his position by the windows. Heâd drawn the curtains earlier, so the holo projection did not have to compete with the light of the sun. âAnd Mithra wonât let things get out of hand, at least.â
âYeah, but is she really that different from the rest?â Rose shifted where she sat, pulling her caf closer as if it were something to protect. She sounded doubtful. Poe was inclined to agree.
âLeia thinks thereâs a good chance sheâll vote in Huxâs favor,â Finn shrugged, turning back to the curtain and the slim wedge of window heâd left exposed, face bathed gold in the late morning sun. All morning Finn had remained distant. Tired. Exhausted in a way Poe had never seen him before. Yet he was here, here for Poe, despite the work awaiting him back at the shipyards.
The work with the Order, who had gotten wind of the trial, unsurprising to no one, least of all Poe.
âShe should, if she wants to keep the peace,â Poe said it like that mattered to the rest of the Senate, who she was voting on behalf of. âSheâd be crazy to stir the pot now, with half a million refugees who are also trained soldiers to place.â
âThe Order is upset, Phasma has been a big help keeping them calm,â Finn pushed out with a sigh, âBut they understand, I think they expected this for some reason. I donât know how.â
Poe bristled at that, and the memory of a month prior, when heâd sat in an officerâs lounge booth aboard the Mandator, sharing a salute to Armitage with two stormtroopers who had likely saved his life.
To the General, theyâd said.
And now this.
Before him, the holo cut to a wide view of the stage. There was a short five-minute recess between witnesses, and the judges had retreated from their places at the podium, leaving Armitage and Leia alone on the trial room floor. Poe could see them in the corner of the feed: their heads tilted close, the almost imperceptible nods Armitage gave to whatever Leia was saying. His cuffs were bolted to the table, but Poe could see how his hands remained clasped together. His skin was pinked, white long chased away by the constant grip he kept.
It was telling. An unfair exposure.
Poe wanted to go shout at someone to at least give him his gloves back.
Behind him, Rey shifted.
âAt least the reporters have laid off,â Rose lifted her datapad as she said it, âa bit, I guess.â
âThatâs one way to describe it.â Poe had finally read the articles, watched the live-casts. That they werenât calling for Armitageâs head on a platter so much as just re-running the original news reports from when Starkiller Base had fired really hadnât felt like a reprieve.
And of course, there was the newly released First Order propaganda. Stuff that had circulated Order net for years, now discovered by the New Republic. Images and holos and that fucking recording of Armitageâs speech atop Starkiller Base, when heâd called for an end to the New Republic and the Resistance, and then fired a super weapon that had destroyed worlds.
Poe had seen it all before, back when the Resistance was the only dog in the fight and they had piped into Order frequency each time their ships leveled an attack. But not like this. Not live-cast across the Holo-Net, not suspended over a court room like some cruel holo-drama theyâd all gathered to watch. Poe wasnât even sure how they got a hold of the footage. Was less sure why he was surprised they had.
âItâs tasteless,â Kes said softly, as the courtroom feed cut over to the recording. Poe had to turn away.
âThe public boards would agree with that, at least.â Rose met his eyes over the top of Kesâs head, and the anger he saw reflected in them validated something dark and awful deep in the pit of him. âA lot of people seem pretty upset at the way this is all being handled.â
âWhat, you mean a public lynching isnât exactly what they asked for?â Poe couldnât keep from snapping.
âMaybe itâs what Ofant wants them to ask for,â Rey spoke for what might have been the first time since the trial had begun. Cautiously, Poe looked over at her. She shrugged, datapad tucked away somewhere unseen. âHe owns the major news feeds, right?â
âYeah, but Ofantââ Finn cut himself off, mouth twisting as he turned back to the window.
âOfant what?â Poeâs voice ground against the words, his already twisted stomach tumulting.
Poe was grateful that Finn met his stare. The last few days had felt weird, strained in a way he wasnât used to with Finn. Heâd assumed it was all exhaustion, both their frayed nerves playing off one another. Now he was not so sure.
âI think he got told off, for the way the holo-news channels covered their time on base. I donât know, itâs just something I overheard Leia talking about.â
âHas everyone spoken to Leia but me?â Poe broke, a little, looking around the room as if someone would finally give him an explanation that made some kriffing sense. They wouldnât. Heâd been trying for days.
Finn grimaced, âPoe, you spoke to herââ
ââthe afternoon I woke up, when I was still half-cocked from being in a coma for three weeks. You know she didnât even mention she was representing Armitage when we spoke? She had to have known!â
âPoeââ Kesâs hand squeezed his shoulder again. Poe couldnât recall if heâd ever removed it.
But before he could shout anymore at his friends â before he could break his fatherâs hold and push his way past Reyâs defense of the door, the holo-feed cut back to the trial, the brief recess already over, and the prosecutionâs next witness already making their way to the stand.
In three-dimensional relief, the familiar face of Fineas Ofant emerged in graphic detail as he lowered himself into its seat.
Poeâs stomach flipped, and then nearly came up, as he realized what was happening.
âAre you fucking kidding me?â
âPoeââ Finnâs voice was a plea.
âYou knew?â Poe gaped at Finn, not understanding how his heart could feel any more split open than it already was.
Turns out, Kes was too slow. Poe stood with a rush, fists clenched at his sides as he stepped towards not Finn, but the holo. It wasnât Finn he was mad at, not really. It was this whole fucking thing. This ridiculous sham of a trial that wasnât going to result in anything resembling the peace he had fought so hard for. The peace Armitage had sacrificed everything for.
âWho the fuck thought it was a good idea he got on the stand?â
âProbably the prosecutor,â Rose plucked the words out of the truth, âand Ofant. You have some competition Poe, that guyâs got a thing for Hugs.â
âRoseââ
âWhat? Itâs true, I saw it, heâs made it his lifeâs mission to creep on Hugs, itâs obvious.â
âHe hates him,â Poe snarled, hands shaking at his sides, âheâll do anything to see him dead.â
Kes reached for his hand. âHe lost his whole family Poeââ
Poe pulled away. âI know!â
The room fell into silence, nothing but the droning sound of the trial spinning meaningless words in his head.
âYou all think I donât know what heâs done?â Came out heavy, his voice rough with the words. âYou donât think I understand how many people heâs hurt?â Itâs why he was so terrified. Because ArmitageâŠthere was no excuse for Starkiller Base. There was no way justice could be upheld while allowing him to walk away. No way he could pay back the universe for the hole he had put in it. âYou think knowing all that and still loving him is easy?â
âPoe, thatâs not whatââ
âItâs the hardest fucking thing Iâve ever done in my life,â Poe pushed out, eyes never leaving the holo as Ofant spoke of what heâd observed on base: the freedoms Armitage had been given, the carefree disregard for the safety of the Resistance members, and the access to Order tech that allowed him open communication with its leaders. âBut itâs worth it, heâs worth it. Because if he can turn himself around, we canâtâ they canât punish that,â he finally looked to Finn as he said it, echoing the words he had said to him so many weeks ago. Words that had been as hard for Finn to admit as they had been for Poe to believe. Because while maybe the hurt Armitage had caused Ofant had been great, what the Order had done to Finn had arguably hurt greater.
If Finn could change his mind, if Finn could forgiveâ âWe have to nurture that, right?â
The nod was small, nearly hidden in the shadow of the closing curtain, but Finnâs eyes held his eyes as his chin dipped. It was a confirmation of something Poe had known all along. Yes, things were still strange between them, but in this, they were a united front.
Before him, the trial played out. The prosecutor leading Ofant through his weeks spent on base, until they reach the morning Force was updated, when Ofant had connived his way past all their defenses, to disturb Armitage to the point of breakdown.
There was footage.
They played it.
Through the room, a familiar beach spilled to life, waves catching gentle on a warm breeze Poe could almost feel, almost taste. Ajan Klossâs majesty was no less breath-taking even as a holo, and it was a familiarity Poe could have lost himself in, if not for the figure kneeling in the sand but meters away.
Armitage. Armitage just as he was that day: dressed in his ill-fitting Resistance hand-me-downs, collapsed atop the sand, hair mussed, face tear-streaked and stricken, fists dragging furrows as his fingers clawed the sand without purchase, staring out over the water at an image that would never leave Poe. Because there, not so distant as to feel out of a dream, or a nightmare, the blackened scar of the Finalizer loomed. It cut through the room like a wraith come to haunt them; like a blade speared directly through Poeâs heart. Because he knew, without a doubt, what he was witnessing.
Knew, indubitably, what was going through Armitageâs head.
His fists strained, and his teeth ground over a snarl he had only half a mind to contain. But no matter how tightly he held on, he could not stop the way his heart fractured.
Poe had never seen the footage before. Hadnât known it existed. Would have torn through all of Ofantâs droids if heâd known this was hidden away on their hard drives.
âThat fucking bastard,â Rose whispered, then snarled, âitâs like he saved it for the trial.â
The recording cut out, to be replaced by Ofant upon the stand. ââŠI recorded him there on the beach, mourning the fallen Finalizer, the fall of the First OrderâŠâ
Poe left then. Not the suite â Rey still stood stoic at the door, eyes soft as he met hers â but the room. He left his friends and his father and that Sith-damned footage behind.
How could anyone else understand what theyâd seen? How could they ever see not a single-minded sycophant, but a person mourning, yes, the First Order, but also the only home they had ever known? How could they understand how it felt to not just lose everything you had known, but realize everything you had believed in, everything you had risked not just your own life for, but those of your friends and comrades, had all been a lie?
And how could anyone else look at the First Order and see not a military force, but a nomadic tribe of disparate people? Families and friends and children whose lives saw no division between their home and their warship. Where the ruthless machine of the Order had been what kept them alive, and only ever asked for their loyalty, their service, and their dedication to a cause that promised them what the galaxy had denied: protection, power, and a place to call home.
And how could anyone look at Armitage Hux and not see the embodiment of the First Order itself? This shameful thing that the New Republic had let fester, when theyâd driven Imperial rule from the Core, and then withdrawn from a conflict that no longer threatened their home shores?
A thing they now aimed to purge, in the only way they could conceive, for the sake of their own guilty conscience, because the threat of the Order had already been eliminated â not by the New Republic â but by the very man they now sought to condemn.
He should have taken Armitage and run. He should have trusted his gut, as he always had. Played hero and stolen them away on that transport when theyâd had the chance. Found life amongst the stars Armitage had shown him could be carved into a shape that fit, where the Order had already proven even the most lost could thrive.
They wouldnât have been lost. They would have been together.
Armitage would have been safe.
Shaking, Poe collapsed to the floor. The drawn open curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the bedroom in a warm, golden light. Outside, there was no evidence of the storm from the night before. The day was beautiful. Warm and breezy and touched by a sky scattered with big, billowy clouds.
Harmonious. Peaceful. Gentle and so very easy.
It didnât feel right. It felt like a punch to the gut.
He was crying before he could stop himself. Hot tears he pressed into his hands, smeared across his cheeks. Worthless, impotent tears that did nothing but remind him that for all the pain he could feel, Armitage would be feeling so much worse. And here he was, locked away in Leiaâs suite, the fate of the man he loved left to the whimsy of people who hardly understood what the Resistance had fought for, let alone the actions of the man they now sought to judge.
He should be there, in that room, right by Armitageâs fucking side. Because for all Armitage was guilty of, Poe couldnât help but think he was guilty of something much worse.
Heâd been the one to drag Armitage from the Steadfast. Heâd played hero to Armitageâs pain like it was a thing he could be saved from. Shown him what it meant to not just survive, but actually live, and then teased a future Armitage had never believed he could have, not before heâd experienced Poeâs love.
Heâd given Armitage hope. Heâd offered him the sort of chance Poe had taken for granted a million times before, when his friends had followed him into battle, and heâd proven his luck was not something the universe saw fit to share.
Poe pressed his hands to his eyes, and then to his mouth. His breaths came like sobs, until there was no difference. Until the urge to scream consumed him, and he buried the sound in the slick flesh of his palms. He cried and cried until voice tapered into a rasping whine and his breaths staggered phlegm in his chest, and the cast of the sun began to dim into a late budding twilight.
Hours passed, two, maybe three. And he continued to cry, even when he heard movement from the room beyond: the deep cant of his fatherâs voice from outside the door, the melodic hum of Rose when she responded.
The trial would be over by now. His friends would be preparing to leave, to return to their temporary homes until tomorrow when they would re-convene for the second day of testimony. Rey would go to Renâ Benâ where he waited on Naboo under a house arrest that seemed like the respite they all deserved. Rose would return with Finn, out to the Kuat shipyards, and the Order refugees that the New Republic kept claiming they wanted to help, but had no idea how to handle, so theyâd saddled the sole defector they dared trust with the whole of their operation.
And his father would wait outside Poeâs door for as long as he dared, hoping for an invitation to enter that would never come, until he retired to the remaining bedroom of the suite Leia had allowed them the use of. Kes wouldnât sleep, however. He would lay awake, worrying after his son who was only a wall away, but felt so much further. Further than he ever had been when a war had separated them for three long, grueling years.
Poe pushed out a breath, squeezed his eyes shut. His friends, his father â he owed them more than this.
And ArmitageâŠhe owed Armitage the hero he had promised. The version of himself who had offered a protection he once naively believed he could provide.
Eventually, the voices faded, the light grew more dim. When the door finally slid open on silent tracks, Poe pushed at the wetness on his cheeks, dragging his hands through his hair as if by putting it right he could put back together the foundation of the person he was no longer sure he was.
It wasnât Kes or Rose who came to check on him, it was BB-8.
A soft trill announced his arrival, a gently asked, Okay? as it bumped Poeâs side with a cock of its domed head.
Poeâs laugh withered, âNo, Iâm not BB, but thanks for asking.â
Worried, BB trilled long and low, its slow roll whining with the strain of its motors. And when it budged up beside him, making space against Poeâs side like physical affection was something it could feel, its soft whir sounded as exhausted as Poe felt.
It sounded like he needed a deep charge cycle, which shouldnât be the case, not with the alternator Armitage had rigged up for it.
âYou sure itâs not you we should be worried about, BB?â
An indignant chirp was its answer, the wobble against his side jerky, straining against power cells that struggled to keep up.
âYou heard Armitage though, you gotta move to keep charged.â
Not leaving, it trilled instead, followed by a sad, help.
Poe smoothed his palm over BBâs dome, his smile feint, but there. BB-8 looked at him as if expecting something, like whatever Poe needed was already there waiting for him to acknowledge.
Help. What a concept.
But then an idea struck Poe. Something that would be both helpful to him, and to BB-8. A mission he could not undertake, but his little droid easily could.
âYou want to help me out BB?â Poe asked, to be clear.
The aggressive jerk of BB-8âs head was its enthusiastic answer.
âI need you to find the courtroom, where Armitage is. Can you do that for me?â
Find him? BB-8 reduced down to simple binary.
âYeah, just in case, you know?â
Hurt?
âNot yet,â Poe breathed as he touched BB-8âs housing, running his fingertips along the scratched orange paint, to find the seam that Armitage would have opened, a place where his hands had once touched. âBut they might, and Iâll need to be able to get to him if they try.â
BB-8 rolled in place. Now?
âYeah, go now. The quickest way you can find, a path I could take too, okay?â
Okay, chirped like a salute. Like a solution. Like the hope Poe had lost grasp of had never really left, not entirely.
Like all he had to do was reach out and take it.
âI will keep this brief, Senator Ofant. Tell me, where were you born?â
âI was born on Hosnian Prime.â
âDid you grow up there?â
âYes, I did.â
âWhat was growing up like, on Hosnian Prime?â
âIt was beautiful, for a child. My family owned a modest home, passed down from my great-grandfather who had it built when he moved from Coruscant. He wanted to return to nature, after living on a city planet most his life. Summers were humid, but the winters were mild. I was an only child, and I spent most of my time exploring my familyâs and the adjacent properties. There were quite a few of us, neighboring children that is. We would school together and play together.â
âWas that quite common, for a childhood on Hosnian Prime?â
âYes,â Ofant paused, inclined his head, voice softening, âmy family was not well-off. We struggled as much as the next, but a child can easily be blind to the stresses of their parents.â
âOf course, Senator. I am curious, though. Were you aware of the galactic civil war occurring when you were growing up?â
âI was aware of it.â
âYou would have been what, in your early teens when the Empire began its fall?â
âI was thirteen when Alderaan was destroyed by the Death Star.â Ofant met Leiaâs stare as he answered, face blank, but his eyes burning.
Leia did not take the bait. Instead, she raised her eyebrows, turning as if to address the audience, âThirteen is an important age. Still a child, but at the cusp of manhood. How did the knowledge of Alderaanâs demise affect you?â
âI was horrified. Like most boys my age, all I wanted was to join the Rebellion, help take out the Empire once and for all.â
âDid you? That is to say, join the Rebellion?â
âI would have, and my parents supported me. They were of like mind, and were concerned Iâd be conscripted into the Empireâs navy. But by the time Iâd come of age, the Rebellion had driven the Empire out of the Core.â
âCome of age, can you expound on that?â
âI beg your pardon?â
âWhat do you mean by, âcome of ageâ?â
Ofant remained passive, but it seemed heâd finally caught on to her line of questioning. He hesitated, looking to the judges for a long moment, before finally answering, âWhen I became old enough to be considered an adult.â
âConsidered an adult by whom?â
His head cocked, barely, but enough. Carefully, he said, âBy society.â
âAnd just so weâre clear, what sort of privileges would that bring a person, when they became of age?â
Ofantâs lips pursed, like heâs been forced to swallow something sour. âI believe we all are aware of what privileges being an adult brings.â
âHumor me, after all, at least one of us here might not know.â
Ofantâs eyes drifted to Armitageâs; they did not move on.
âAnswer the question, Senator,â Mithraâs voice drifted between them from what felt like a great distance.
âOne may vote in government elections, purchase a blaster or alcohol, take on debt, travel the trade lanes unattended.â
âAnd, only because you mentioned it, and I want to be clear, when one comes of age they may also join the military, either through conscription of volunteering?â
Ofantâs mouth twitched, as if resisting his answer. âYes.â
âThank you Senator, that concludes my cross-examination.â
The light of his cell room spun shadows from his thoughts. He laid awake, hours after Leia had escorted him out of that fate-felled courtroom. The shadows had waited while she bid him goodbye, the press of her hands momentarily overwhelming the way they gnawed at his edges, licking at the already frayed seams that held him together. But they followed the guards as they led him down that long arched hallway, back into the bowels of the cell, and they had watched while the guard deposited him on his bed, to stare at him, face an immutable mask he once had the discipline to wear, but could no longer grasp.
It had not been hate in her eyes, but fear. Like whatever she had seen was of the same shadows he now hid from, like they hadnât followed him, so much as been birthed by him.
Now they coiled in every corner of his cell. Haunted things that whispered words in his head. Words riven with the same truth his fatherâs criticisms had held, that took the shape of Snoke on his throne, and the feel of Renâs fingers round his throat.
And a new voice, one that sounded like that audience member, when theyâd shouted over the susurrating whispers an accusation rooted in truth. Starkiller, they had said, and heâd known then, what his father had feared, what Snoke had seen, and what Ren had tried to beat out of him had also been rooted in truth.
Armitage sucked in a thin, wheezing breath. The logical part of his brain snapped its own kind of criticism, an aghast horror that he had lost such complete authority over his life. Youâve made a critical mistake, it supplied. But in the face of the dayâs events, logic hardly held space in his head. Not when his mind unspooled into a festering blight that infected everything from his ability to move his body to the subject of his thoughts. The same festering that told him that the real mistake heâd made was to ever believe he was in control at all.
Heâd been played, over and over again. No rank he could achieve or amount of power he could collect would change the fact that he had only ever been a pawn in some other playerâs game.
He should have run away when he had the chance. He should have saved what he could, taken what was offered, and never looked back.
Youâre a fucking fool, his mind quipped again. That this acerbic willful part of him still existed brought him comfort. Because right then, lying awake in the dark of his cell, it was all that was keeping him together.
He felt stripped bare. Raw. Exposed. The bones of his secrets had spilled across that courtroom floor like viscera, to be picked clean, the whole of his life served up like a feast for the New Republic. A life he had wasted. A life spoiled by actions that had taken so much more from the universe than forty billion lives. He was to blame, in the same way he could blame his father for the scars on his palms, and Snoke for the sharpness of his teeth, Ren for the mess that had become his mind.
And this trialâŠit was never intended to serve justice. He understood that now, too. It was nothing more than posturing, packaged up and served to the New Republic under the guise of fairness, understanding, and the pursuit of a safer future for all the Galaxy. Except that Armitage was not a threat. He had no desire to harm anyone, not anymore.
But nothing would change that he had.
Forty billion, one hundred sixty million, five hundred seventy-seven thousand, four hundred and two souls dead, all because of him.
He closed his eyes.
The shadows crept closer.
An involuntary impulse brought his hand to his necklace. His fingers closed over the ring, skin cool and clammy where the ring burned with a feverish pitch. All at once he rolled over to his side, curled into a fetal position, and pressed his fist to his lips as he exhaled a shuddering breath.
For the first time in days, he sought out Poe.
And he found him not just in the ring against his skin, but in the memory of his hands, his voice, the very beat of his heart. And the phantom voice that chased away the shadows when it whispered, you're okay, as if anything in his life had ever been okay before he met Poe. Tears collected, bloated too hot, and burned down his cheeks, until Armitage was sobbing quietly into his fist, mourning so much more than the loss of his own life, but the very fact he now understood, too late, what value life held.
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Notes:
Yes, I am keeping Leia's defense argument a secret from Armitage and from y'all :) But I dropped some hints so...
Gosh, this chapter ended up getting split in two and I'm not sure how I didn't anticipate that. The real nitty-gritty of the trial will be in the next chapter, which hopefully won't be too far out in the future (considering 5k of it is already written).
I've put so much energy into this story at this point that I am terrified with each new chapter I post. I want this story to end, and I also am so scared to end it. That said, I had to bump the chapter count again. We're still at the end, just my long-winded self is taking forever to get there. But it's coming...
Big shout-out to Sourlander again, because months ago she let me talk her ear off about how to handle this part of the story and I never would have had a coherent approach without her sounding board.
Y'all are lovely creatures. Thank you as always for reading, commenting, kudos, whatever you feel compelled to do â„
Chapter 18: A Parliament of Rooks
Notes:
Break out the kettle and pour yourself a cuppa because at 17k this is the longest chapter yet â enjoy, y'all â„
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The flimsi felt too thin under his hands, the texture a toothy, roughened drag across his scarred palms as he smoothed it atop the duracrete floor. It was the only sheet heâd been given, the warden acknowledging his request in the most efficacious manner possible; abiding the tenets of his position while displaying none of the empathy Armitage kept being assured the New Republic possessed, even for the most wretched of the galaxy. Maybe he was as narcissistic as they claimed, because right then, Armitage couldnât think of anyone less fortunate than himself.
Sleep had evaded him. Though the shadows had, eventually, condensed into something he could turn into action. For all that he had left, heâd be damned if he let the shadows take it. He would give away what he could, to the people that mattered, and no one mattered more to him than Poe. And if he couldnât do it in person, he would do it with his words.
As soon as dawn had touched the sky heâd sent his message with his guards. He hadnât expected a response, let alone an actual acceptance â after all, these people seemed intent upon keeping him and Poe apart for the rest of his short, if achingly drawn-out life. But with the arrival of his breakfast, there it was: a chance, an opportunity.
He ignored the voice in the back of his mind, the one that doubted the letter would ever reach Poe â go any further than the wardenâs personal collection of mementos, or end up in a museum somewhere, âThe last words of Starkiller, recorded by the man himselfâ.
No, he had to trust this. Trust that, in the aftermath, Poe would have this one thing left of him. Something tangible and real to hold onto, gain strength from, when the inevitable happened and Armitage could not be there â would be gone, forever.
Hunched over the sheet, his shadow fell across the blank surface, pen hovering mute with words that had come so easily to him hours before. This one last chance to say goodbye, granted in place of the meeting they still would not allow. Because soon enough his sentence would come, and with it a silencing of the man the world had grown to know only as Starkiller.
His final words, recorded on flimsi rather than by a holo, it was a mercy Armitage had not expected them to actually grant. For all the propaganda of the Order, and then the documentation of his life on Ajan Kloss, the subsequent recording of his soul to a stranger who called himself a doctor, and finally his exposure at the feet of the men and women who judged not just his worth, but the whole of the people he had led in pursuit of galactic conquest, Armitage had thought surely this one last shred of privacy would be withheld along with all the rest.
One piece of flimsi â one last chance â to say what he wanted, in his own words, to the man he loved, from a privacy afforded by his prison cell.
Poe,
One word â one name â that already said more than a whole life of sirs and titles and numbers and designators; of fathers and Snokes and Prydes and Rens.
But with Poeâs name came words he had not the vocabulary for a year ago, that now spilled out of him in a torrent. A confession of the deepest kind yet, something not fit for a courtroom. Something he would only ever feel comfortable sharing with one person, no matter how few or many days he had left to live. That Poe Dameron had seen in him something Armitage had spent his life blind to, something worthwhile enough to preserve in the face of all he had done wrong, let alone drag out of him in the same way he had dragged him from the Steadfast â that felt monumental.
So that was what he wrote; his final message to the man he loved. Words he hoped brought Poe the same comfort they gave him, because despite all that he had done wrong, what heâd had with Poe felt right. And that heâd been able to have it at all felt like the real gift â a gift he would not trade for a lifetime of surviving, if it meant not having Poe.
When he was finished, he set the pen aside.
His penmanship was not what it once was. He wanted to blame the duracrete for the way his lines wobbled, but he knew it was his hand to blame. It was a short letter, no more than a handful of sentences. But his words rang true â sounded authentic to the feelings toiling away inside him, the thoughts that demanded a voice, and the pieces of himself he had left to give.
Folding the paper over felt like the closing of a book, the final stroke of The End to the story he had to tell.
That his story would end with a love letter felt embarrassingly romantic. His father would be red in the face, spitting acid at what a ridiculous mess he had made of his life. That thought alone would have been enough to bring a smile to his face, once. Now it only brought a certain resolve, and a regret that it had taken him this long to discover the person inside him who had space for things like romance, and love.
He slid the paper and the pen through the same slot the guards used to pass him his meals. Both were snatched away, disappearing into the universe in the same way he could only hope he would: quickly, painlessly, and without fanfare.
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âThereâs so many.â
What the curtain of Leiaâs suite had hid, here sprawled shockingly vast. Twenty stories above the ground level of the Towerâs lobby, Poe could see what amounted to a small army. People, so many people, gathered together in a veritable mass of bodies. They hemorrhaged from the surrounding streets, blocking off speeder lanes while the air traffic was being re-routed by a team of police vehicles. Their signs were too tiny to read, and their voices too distant to hear, but their energy was at once enough to make Poe feel like heâd been surrounded by enemy forces â backed into a corner and forced to fight for his life.
âTheyâve been here since yesterday, but this is the largest Iâve seen the crowd.â Roseâs small body was a comforting weight against his side. She was leaning into him to get a better view, though they were high enough up to make that nearly impossible. He could only hope the reverse proved the same. The transparisteel was tinted, dark enough he didnât think they could be spotted, but he also didnât think it worth taking a chance.
A drone puttered by, passing them on its way up.
Up towards the courtroom. Up to get a glimpse, if it could, of the man of the hour.
âWhat more do they want?â Poe didnât intend his voice to sound quite so defeated.
âI dunno,â Rose sighed, âThe news reports say theyâre calling for justice, but they havenât really spoken to anyone in the crowd. And the public boards are no better, just a mess of conflicting opinions.â
Poe scoffed, folding his arms over his chest as his eyes nearly rolled through his head. âConflicting opinions.â
âYeah,â Rose pushed away from the window, tentatively capturing his eyes with her own wide, dark stare. âJustice can take many shapes, theyâre not all out for Hugâs head, Poe.â
Poe turned away. He had to. Couldnât stomach the hope he saw in her face.
âI find it hard to believe that they want anything but Armitageâs head on a platter,â Poe spoke into the empty conference room beyond.
âYou should, though,â Roseâs voice had fallen soft, âYou should, because if he goes free, Poe, you gotta hope the world accepts that. Getting past this trial, itâs just the start, you know. What happens next?â
âI canât think like that.â Poe hadnât spoken this frankly withâŠwith anyone, since waking up in that hospital bed. âI canât even think about what Iâm going to eat tonight, or what Iâll do tomorrow when I wake up.â
When he thought of the future, he was met with a wall. An insurmountable cliff that he didn't have the gear to climb. For him, the future had always been simple: win the war, go home to Kes, find a new adventure, see where life took him. Leiaâs future had seen him taking up her mantle of Senator, running for an office heâd maybe had the charisma and heart for, but not necessarily the temperament to sustain.
Then heâd met Armitage, and suddenly nothing else mattered. His future, when he thought of it, was simply them, going nowhere, but always somewhere, together.
Poe turned to put his back to the window. Let himself lean against the cool surface, sighing as his head tipped up and he lifted his eyes to the simple, speckled tile of the ceiling.
âWant me to go down there?â
âAnd what?â Poe didnât snap, so much as cut himself off abruptly. âTalk some sense into them?â Stars, yeah, he really wanted to say. Because they both knew he wanted to, but couldnât, for the very simple fact his face would be too recognizable â too famous â too close to the situation at hand.
âCould be fun, I was a pretty good spy that one time.â
Poe rolled his eyes again. âYou got captured if I remembered correctly, unless you and Finn were just spinning a good yarn.â Poe tried for the joke, feared it fell flat. Roseâs broken grin wasnât much of a relief.
âNah, your man has the bite marks to prove I was there.â Roseâs grin was big, all teeth. It was difficult for Poe to not return it; his silence weighed heavy between them. Where mirth had once come so easily, now it all felt smothered. Poe forced out something as close to a smile as he could manage.
âHe was so strange, then,â Rose said almost too softly for him to hear. âI couldnât help but hate him, of course. He was going to have us executed. But he was so young. It was hard to believe someone our age could be that person. It bothered me, you know? The Imps, the Order, they were always these stuffy old men in the holos I saw, and the stories I heard. But Hux, he was just like me, or you, or Finn. I didnât know how to parse that, at the time.
âAnd then yesterday, when they showed that footage,â Roseâs voice ran ragged, the hand she had on the transparisteel curling into a fist, the steamy marks of her fingertips fading against a backdrop of nameless, faceless masses. âAll I could think was how wrong they were. How it was all taken out of context. Howââ she paused, glanced up at him, eyes half-hard, half-filled with tears Poe would have felt reflected in himself if he hadnât spilled them all yesterday. ââhow hurt he had been, that day. Ofant stole something from him. I didnât really realize until later. He took his pad with Force, yeah, but something else too. Like whatever peace or solace he had found on that beach was taken away, and that was so, so much worse.â
A withering laugh, or a sob, Rose was pushing at her tears too fast for Poe to ever know. It was instinct that bid him pull her into a hug, but it was his own misery that kept her there. Rose sniffled quietly against his chest, her arms a vice around his waist, âIâm sorry, you know all this, I shouldnât be dumping on you.â
âNo, itâsââ how did someone say, itâs alright, hearing about the pain of the person I love makes me feel better, when it was the truth? Misery loves company, as they said. ââItâs nice to know thatâ"Â Poe paused, took a breath, ââthat you care. That someone else cares. Someone else sees him how I do, you know?â
Rose looked up at him, expression soft, open. âWe all care, Poe.â
âI know,â Poe breathed, âItâs just really hard to see that, right now. Itâs hard to see past allââ he gestured behind him, at the gathered crowd, ââall that.â
âSure you donât want me to go down there, rile up some support?â
Poe tried a smile, shook his head, eyes drifting again to the crowd in the streets.
Was this crowd what Finn had been looking at yesterday, when heâd stood sentinel beside the drawn curtain, guarding Poe from a truth he didnât think his friend could bare?
Past the window darted a bird â a pair of birds. Small things, one chasing the other, as they ascended on the thermals wafting up from the heated streets below. Did Armitage have a window in his cell? Would see the same creatures, could they reach all those hundreds of stories above?
Poe shifted, turned his face into Roseâs hair, and closed his eyes.
âWe should probably get back,â Rose eventually said though she made no move to push away.
The trial will have started, she left unspoken
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The guards came for him again, just as they had the day before.
This time, he was not waiting patiently on his bed. He stood at his window, watching the city toil to life below, the streets filling up and the vehicles whizzing by, the sun spilling its golden glow across the spires that framed it, warming the cool artificial durasteel with a vitality that was completely ambivalent of the events he faced. The city greeted the morning like it was one of an infinite many, beholden to a cycle that would not be broken by one manâs execution. Armitage greeting the morning like it would be his last. Could not help but feel like it was, for little other reason than the letter he wrote to Poe seemed like the closest thing to a goodbye he would get to have.
Today, his trial would come to its conclusion, and whether the judges issued his verdict tonight or tomorrow morning, it would make very little difference to his actual sentence.
He had already accepted he was going to die. Understood it was, indubitably, the only path forward.
The guard approached him, her step precisely measured, the cuffs open and waiting. Armitage watched her approach from over his shoulder, saw how the second guard blocked the doorway, blaster at the ready, vicious sneer in place, attention a greater weight than even the approaching cuffs.
He turned slowly, obediently, met the guardâs eyes and held out his hands.
They did not shake this time, when the cuffs closed over his wrists.
His step did not falter, when he was escorted to the lift.
And when he walked down that long, marbled hallway, passing beneath each carved arch and past every glowing sconce, he considered that it wasnât so much death that he feared, but the futility that his death might not actually give the galaxy what it needed most.
The cycle, like the city, would toil on. And his death, like his fatherâs, would not alleviate the pain in these peopleâs hearts.
Before him, the hallway widened, opening up into an atrium flooded with Coruscantâs morning sunlight. The windows to his right arced up into the ceiling, revealing a horizon of towers and clouds, a sight he had somehow overlooked yesterday when heâd made this same march.
Now, the guard touched his elbow, a subtle direction towards the tall transparisteel, where Leia stood waiting his arrival.
âGood morning, Armitage,â she said as way of greeting.
Armitage merely inclined his head.
The guard backed away a step, distance polite but not far enough to be considered private. Not that any amount of distance would have kept her from openly watching them. Her attention was levied with an intensity that had not been present yesterday. And though it did not feel vicious in the same way the other guardâs attention did, her curiosity made him feel exposed â like she could read something important in the way he held himself. So Armitage held still, held tall, facing Leia as she warned him of what events the day would encompass.
âToday will be long. We have two witnesses testifying for your defense, followed by closing statements. Ideally, sentencing will take place tomorrow morning butââ
ââbut they could decide to issue the verdict tonight. I understand,â Armitage finished with a quiet rush. He knew, already, what to expect. Did not hold the same hope Leia did â that a nightâs worth of debate would be enough to change their decision.
Leia remained quiet as she watched him, blue eyes holding his until he broke away to look out the window.
Outside, a pair of small birds swooped past, one flying a swift, direct path downward, while the second chased in a reckless display of aerial acrobatics that at once reminded him of Poe.
A shiver tore down his spine. The room, suddenly too far beyond him, tilted at a strange angle.
He became aware, right as he stumbled, of a hand at his elbow.
It was not Leiaâs.
At his side the guard steadied him. She was frowning, the hand on his arm a hard, fierce vice, but as soon as it became clear Armitage was not going to collapse she took a quick step away â as if what had just happened had surprised her as much as it had him.
When Armitage turned back to Leia, heart pounding out an uneven beat inside his chest, she was watching the guard closely. Her expression was just as acute, as openly thoughtful as it had been the countless times heâd caught her observing him on base â when theyâd not yet been allies but had struck an unlikely understanding all the same.
âI think itâs time,â Leia said as she turned back to him, blue eyes firing with a vitality the felt out of place before Armitageâs solemn resolve.
This time, they entered the courtroom together.
From an outsiderâs perspective, not much had changed. The chamber was filled, each seat taken by a body or the refracted cast of a holo, the colors and shapes of the people present as varied and obtuse as they were the day before. The New Republicâs logo still hung suspended, spinning on an axis that felt rooted in time, like the very physical wheel of justice whose rungs held every infraction Armitage had dared commit: that time he had stolen sweet cakes from his motherâs oven. The morning he had woken to his fatherâs fist, his bunk soaked through with the smell of piss, the memory of Jakku a fresh nightmare he hadnât been able to forget.
And at the center of it all, the joint to which all of his life hitched: Starkiller Base.
Armitage lowered himself to his seat on shaking legs. The guard swiftly secured his cuffs to the bolt and took her place beside her partner at his back, as Leia crossed the floor to approach the judgeâs podium alongside the prosecutor to be advised by Mithra on the dayâs proceedings. If the attention from yesterday had felt smothering, today he felt drowned. Weakness, more than curiosity bid his head to the side, to gaze at the Senators in their seats from behind the fall of his hair. There were too many to focus on, too many faces and eyes and overlapping holos for any one person to stand out. Exceptâ
Except there was one. One man, tucked into one of the foremost rows of seats, tall and dark and wearing an expression so calm it could almost be considered serene, was Fineas Ofant.
Their eyes met. Ofantâs smile deepened.
Armitage tore himself away with a habitual sneer.
By the time Leia returned, he was shaking. He hardly registered her shooing a droid away, focused entirely as he was upon the feel of his fingernails digging furrows into his palms.
Leia only had a brief moment to distract him before Mithra stood.
The court was called to order quickly, Mithra not wasting time in the face of what, Leia had warned, would be a long day. But what Leia had not prepared him for was whose faces he would see upon the witness stand, or that the first would be perhaps the last person heâd have ever expected to see in this courtroom, let alone wearing formal robes, rather than the polished gleam of a captainâs armor.
Phasma met his eyes as she took her seat, held them as Leia approached the stand.
He almost got the word out â the hastily whispered âwaitââ fumbling over his tongue and coming out as a hiss. Phasmaâs eyes narrowed at him, mouthed pursed over her own words, likely an acidic âget a hold of yourself Armitageâ that had always worked in the past. Instead, she held his stare, the ice of her eyes freezing him where he sat, holding him steady where everything else demanded he crumble apart.
Even when Leia announced Phasma to the court, the whisper of wonder a quiet rush compared to the crash of blood through his veins, Phasmaâs eyes would not leave his. And when Leia asked her questions, and Phasma answered in that same low, even voice she used to address him with when theyâd stood side by side aboard the Finalizer commanding a fleet of over sixty, her eyes never abandoned his.
And she held onto him, when Leia had her describe, in graphic, harrowing details, the childhood that had thrust warrior-hood upon her like the mantle of some blighted inheritance. Tales of exploits that had taken her across the radiation-poisoned oceans of Parnassos, to a crusted soil that refused to grow so much as a tree let alone a crop, to literally cannibalize a planet that had already been stripped bare by a Republic mining corporation that had seen fit to shrug responsibility in the face of profitability.
These were exploits Armitage had heard before. Stories Phasma had held secret from recruits and officers alike, a buried shame of her roots she now flaunted like strikes earned on a uniform cuff. A story not so different from the shapes the other trooperâs stories took, because they were stories the Order had in common. Things that now shocked the New Republic into monotonous fervor. They spoke amongst themselves, whispers low â out of respect, out of fear â he could not say, because he only had eyes for Phasma. Phasma, the warrior child who had been tamed by the First Order. More true a believer than the man who had discovered her, a man she would later help him kill, because what the Order had taught them both was that there were certain things more valuable than any one manâs power.
Integrity. Survival. Community.
âPhasma, you knew Armitageâs father, didnât you?â
âHe was who offered me a way off Parnassos, so yeah, I knew him.â
âWhy had he come to Parnassos?â
Phasma snorted, âTo search out the greatest warriors in the galaxy. But his ship got shot down, and him and his men had to evacuate in an escape pod. I helped him survive Parnassos while we found his downed ship so he could contact the Order.â
âHis ship was shot down? By who?â
âA planetary automated defense system.â
âAnd automatic defense system,â she said slowly, âleft behind by the ConStar mining corporation.â
âThatâs the one.â
Leia paused here, leveling her gaze at the judges. âConStar mining, a Republic corporation, that had settled Parnassos and mined her for rare minerals, until a nuclear accident destroyed the planet and ConStar fled.â
âWe called it the calamity,â Phasma sniffed.
âBut why leave behind an active automatic defense system?â
âTo keep people from finding outââ
âObjection!â the prosecutor hardly moved from where he lounged in his seat. âThis is nothing but speculation.â
âIâm compelled to agree, we have no evidence of ConStar leaving behind a military grade weapons system,â Mithra turned to Leia, âDefense, please move on.â
Leia inclined her head, entirely affable. âSo you helped Brendol Hux reach his ship, so he could call the first Order. What happened when they arrived?â
âArmitage answered his fatherâs call. Brendol offered me a place within the Order, I returned with them.â
âBecause of what he offered?â
âBecause I wanted to get the fuck off Parnassos.â
âBut you went far in the Order?â
âBecause I liked to fight, and they needed warriors.â
âYou and Armitage became close, why was that?â
Phasma sneered then, âHe had my respect from the start. Youâve seen him, heâs even skinnier than he is tall. I could have snapped him like a twig, anyone could have, but that didnât stop him from holding his own against his father, or the rest of the Order elite.
âI quickly learned power was key to survival, because Brendol Hux and the older commanders were hoarding it like it wasnât the Order they cared about but their own personal prestige. If you got in their way, you were done for. There was no concern for the Order as a whole, despite the propaganda they touted. Armitage was different. He had his vision for the Order, and I liked it.â
âBut Brendol Hux saved you from Parnassos, that didnât earn him your loyalty?â
âBrendol Hux was an abusive fuck who had a taste for women barely out of their childhood, so no, he was a means to an end. Nothing more.â
âSo you werenât upset when Brendol Hux was discovered dead?â
The question shot a bolt through his spine, spearing him rigid, rooted to his seat with a panic that curdled the meager contents of his stomach. There would be consequences to this, ones not meant for him.
When Phasma met his eyes, however, there was nothing in them but that same ruthless conviction he'd been confronted with the first time they'd met. When a planet that harbored only death had nearly done what had not been able to, and then provided him with the very tool to get the job done.
Phasma, an unlikely ally: the chaos to his law. The strength to his wit.
The shield to his proverbial sword.
âConsidering I killed him, not at all.â
The rush of voices that tore through the room drowned out the sound of his blood pumping through his veins.
âBut we have Armitageâs confession that he killed his father?â
âI killed Brendol Hux,â Phasma said, leaving no room for question. âArmitage and I both wanted him dead, for many reasons. Armitage couldnât do it, however, so he asked if I would.â She rolled her eyes as she said it, as if it were weakness and not politics which had prevented him from pulling the proverbial trigger. Maybe it was. Maybe that was just the excuse heâd given himself, for all these years. âSo yeah, I killed him, and I have no regrets about it. The man was a monster. He deserved every moment of suffering.â
The sound of voices carried over Mithra's repeated call for order. Disbelief broke over the audience, heads bent together as they discussed this new bit of intel â this inevitable complication.
Leia waited for calm to return. Allowed Mithra to wrangle the audience into silence. It did not come quick, nor easily.
Once Mithra sat, a dark expression passed over her face as she looked out at the gathered Senate. When she turned back to Leia, it softened, just a little â a cue, or permission.
Leia finally spoke, âPhasma was also with Armitage during the siege of the Mandator, when the First Order was intercepted by Captain Peavey, who had been hunting the remaining Order ships ruthlessly for months. Rather than subjecting both the Order and the New Republic to a dangerous space battle, Armitage Hux lead a small team in mutiny to overtake Peaveyâs command. His transport was nearly destroyed upon boarding, the Resistanceâs own Poe Dameron having been shot down during the teamâs escort. Despite these setbacks, Armitage was successful, and there is some interesting footage Iâd like to share with the court.â
Across the room sprawled the black expanse of the Mandator, the sharp lines and smooth surfaces as realistic in detail as the people sitting beyond it. Peavey stood off-center, beside the console of the technician who had save Armitageâs life so many weeks ago. The footage was from only second before his forward charge. A moment in time not even he had been privy to, sequestered away in a hallway of corpses, watching a mouse droid amble along indifferent.
However strange, it took him back. So much that, when the bridge doors opened to the blue cast of the breezeway beyond, Armitage felt like he was right back there â plucked free of these cuffs and deposited into the body of a man who ran towards death with the righteousness of justice on his side, because the man he was going to kill â who could just as likely kill him â had already taken everything from him.
Peavey had killed Poe, and Armitage was so sure, in that moment, that he was going to kill Peavey.
He hadnât. The evidence was in the recording: the shot he couldnât take again hanging heavy in the bloated silence of the courtroom. The bright flash of rifle fire, as both Peavey and Phasma take their own shots, bolts flying past his shoulder in an accident of fate that, if successful, could have saved him from this long towards death he now walked. Instead, he was forced to watch his own weakness expose itself, as he drops to his knees, hands shaking, reaching, impotent, for Phasmaâs body, while the looming figure of Peavey sights him down for the kill.
Thereâs sound. Armitage couldnât hear it. Because he was now back there, kneeling upon that bridge, believing the only two people in his life had been brought down by this monster of a man, and everything else felt as distant as a dream.
Peavey is brought to his knees, not by Armitage, but by the men and women of the Order. To be presented like an offering, hands secured at his back, face staring down the muzzle Armitage has pointed at his face and the swift death that it offers.
Again, the shot never comes.
When his blaster clatters to the ground, Armitage almost thought he heard an echoing clatter of sound moving through the audience.
The recording ended there, after he issues his command to escort Peavey to the brig.
The recording faded, replace by a hollow quiet emptied of something Armitage could not put his finger to.
âPhasma,â Leiaâs voice was weighted when it filled the empty silence. âCan you describe what just happened here, in your own words?â
âArmitage choked. He couldnât get his shot off, so I took it for him. And then when he had his chance, he let Peavey live. Sent him to the brig instead.â
âBut Captain Peavey is no longer alive.â
âFinal Directive,â Phasma paused, turned to the crowd, âAn Order protocol, one passed down from the Empire. A tooth, an implant. All officers get it upon graduation from the Academy. You bite it just right andââ she made a gesture, pale hand sharp against her throat, ââdead.â
âSuicide,â Leia said solemnly, as if Peavey were also someone to be pitied. Armitage had not yet reached a level of empathy that would encompass someone who had outright killed so many members of the Order, but he supposed he could understand the feeling.
âJudges, if you will, on your datapad you will find both the autopsy report of former Captain Peavey of the First Order as well as his long list of official infractions. This is the man who is responsible for the destruction of the Absolution during our surrender proceedings, which resulted in hundreds of thousands of deaths.
âBy all rights, this man would have been executed on the spot by New Republic standard as well. War crimes, if you will, including crimes againstââ
âObjection!â The prosecutor stood, hands planted up the table as he leaned towards the judgeâs podium, âThis Captain Peavey has nothing to do with General Hux, beyond being colleagues. I donât see how this line of questioning is relevant.â
âDefense, Iâll allow a response to that, what is the point youâre trying to make?â Mithra didnât sound annoyed, but that didnât mean she disagreed with the prosecutor.
âMy point,â Leia said, throwing a withering look at the prosecutor as she strode across the stage to where Armitage sat, âIs that Armitage Hux, when presented with the man who killed not just hundreds of thousands of Order souls only hours before, right before his eyes mind you, but also, as far as he was aware, had also killed the man he loved, chose not execution, but mercy.
âThe prosecution has claimed this man as a violent, repeat offender, incapable of safely being reintroduced to peaceful society. I call bantha shit.â When Leiaâs fist slammed onto the table, Armitage jolted, his cuffs clinking in their bolt as Leia met his eyes. Sorry, she mouthed, before turning away.
âA trained soldier of Armitage Huxâs caliber does not shy away from taking his shot. But a moral person, who is reconsidering everything they have learned about life and living, and then being presented with a choice that puts that into very stark, if bleak perspective, would hesitate. The same kind of moral person who would choose justice, over revenge,â Leia paused, turning not to the audience, but the judges, âWho chose mercy, over death.â
Mithra only had eyes for Leia, but Armitage saw when Von-Arcâs attention drifted to him. Their eyes met, briefly â a passing of muted attention neither intended for the other to see. Armitage was the first to look away, his hands shaking as he dropped his head and tried to calm the pound in his chest.
âObjection over-ruled. Prosecution, youâll have your chance to refute during your cross-examination.â
The prosecutor sat down, face hard as he shot Leia a look that said what his words couldnât. Leia, for all the fire in her words, appeared un-phased.
âThatâs all I have for the witness, thank you.â He nearly missed Leiaâs words, as he focused on his clasped hands, willing away the tremor that threatened. Would have missed much more, if Leia hadnât sat down beside him, close enough to touch, even if it was only her shoulder brushing alongside his.
She stayed beside him as the prosecutor performed his cross-examination.
As the prosecutor lead Phasma towards memories Armitage had little desire to relive, but was forced to he felt, more than saw, when what little ground Leia had gained was given up. Watched as the faces around him transmuted their unlikely shock into a weary exhaustion, as the trauma of their own past was dredged up for all the galaxy to see. Ofantâs droid redirected its camera towards the audience, mirroring Armitageâs own attention as he surreptitiously observed their faces from behind the fall of his hair.
Behind him, he heard the guards shift. Felt their proximity close tighter, as the crowd around them susurrated with the revealing of details surrounding Starkiller Base and Phasmaâs direct involvement became clear. When it became clear that that had dared forget, even for one moment, that the man who stood trial was the very same who had ordered the destruction of an entire system and subsequently sentenced to death over forty billion people in his own sick approximation of justice.
They may want General Hux dead, Leia had told him, you have to show them that he already is.
I need to take the stand.
The realization struck with the force of the bolt that should have taken out Peavey. As unexpected of a witness as Phasma had been, as shocking her stories or convincing her testimony, it wasnât her defense these people needed to hear.
It was his.
The trembling emerged in full-force. Severe enough that his cuffs finally clattered against the bolt. The sound was too loud in his ears, a dead giveaway for the thoughts in his head. But then Leiaâs hand layered atop his, the feel of her Force a soothing purr in the back of his head, and his trembling slowly settled. She leaned close, gray hair brushing his temple as she lowered her voice enough to ask, âArmitage, would you like me to request a recess?â
âYes,â he breathed, grateful his voice did not waver. âYes, thereâs somethingââ
Her hand patted his, not condescendingly â that was no longer their dynamic â but kindly, as a mother might, âOf course, I understand.â
The prosecutor continued to question Phasma, extracting from her details surrounding the transformation of Ilum, the scaffolding of calculated shortcuts that had scaled Starkiller Baseâs production time-line down from a decade to just over six years. And, of course, the actual firing, when Phasma had stood behind him on that dais, watching the core of Ilum consume the horizon in a bloom of burning red, before collecting into a beam that tore through space time itself, to find its mark at the heart of the New Republic, and create a wound that would fester, not in the scattered remains of a shattered system, but the hearts of the men and women and sentient creatures that survived it.
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The fifteen minutes they were given to meet privately in one of the conference rooms off the courtroom atrium felt less like a recess and more like heâd simply hit pause on the inevitable. When Phasma had climbed off the stand, the whole chamber had burst into a cacophony of chatter. Armitage could still hear their voices in the back of his head, if not their actual words. But the tenor of their conversations had carried a thread of disbelief â of stubborn, inconsolable denial that even if Leiaâs claim that he was, to their utter disbelief, a moral man, it did not change the fact that he had killed so many.
He couldnât kill Peavey. He couldnât even kill his own father.
But heâd still killed billions.
His breath was coming short by the time he lowered himself into a chair at the table, knees buckling the moment before he fully sat down.
His hands, when they met his forehead, were trembling.
âDrink this.â
Leia touched his hair, bid him lift his head, so she could push a flimsi cup into his cuffed hands. The water splashed precariously over the edge as she urged the cup to his mouth. Armitage gulped down the water in habitual reflex; slowly felt the coil of panic in his gut unravel, just enough.
âBetter?â Leiaâs voice soothed. She had taken the seat beside him, the chair turned so they faced one another, knees knocking despite his greater height.
âYes,â Armitage breathed as he set the cup aside. It wasnât a lie, but it also wasnât entirely the truth. He could still feel the panic, pushed beneath a pallor of control that was but a shade of what he once possessed.
Leia read through it, the hand she placed on his knee a warm weight of understanding. âWhat is it you wanted to discuss?â
Could the lump in his throat grow any bigger? Armitage swallowed around it, wishing it would settle alongside the weight already sunk in his gut. âI want to take the stand.â
It was a testament to both Leiaâs own control and her understanding of him and the situation that she did not outright deny him. âI donât think thatâs a good idea, not unless we are forced into it. What are you thinking, Armitage?â
I need to apologize, was not the right answer. He knew that. But the urge â the compulsion â to say something, anything that would ease the burden he carried, it ate away at him. âIâm grateful for your defense, but these people, they donât want to hear it â they donât believe it,â he pushed the words out.
Time stretched, Leia observing him, quietly parsing the thoughts in her head likely with his own. Unlike her, Armitage was not privy to the Force, or the clarity it must bring.
But eventually, she spoke.
âWhat would you say, if I put you on the stand?â She asked it kindly, but there was a lesson in the question. A wisdom he had not quite grasped, but reached for, even now, at the end of his life.
If he could just understandâŠ
Armitage tried, âWhat would you say, if you put me up there? What would you ask?â
Leia studied him, eyes not cold, but neither warm. It was not Leia the mother he looked at, or even Leia the ally. It was Leia the general, and she did not hold back when she said, âWhy did you do it?â
It was the question he had never quite been asked, never so bluntly. One that must have weighed on her deeply, that sheâd managed to keep to herself, even after all this time. This woman who had lost her own home planet to total catastrophe, who was now presented with â was defending â a man who had done just that, and so much worse.
For Leiaâs sake, Armitage did not flinch away, he held her eyes, exposed and unguarded, there in the dim light. For a long time, they watched one another. He wanted to tell Leia he was sorry, but all he did was breathe, until his panic receded, his inhales coming long, drawn, his words a careful construction of his thoughts.
âI proposed the firing of Starkiller Base on the Hosnian System for many reasons,â he spoke so softly Leia had to lean in close to hear. âAs a demonstration of the Orderâs power, to weaken the Rebellionâs insurrection, to eliminate the New Republicâs naval fleet and their governing body. Mostly, to end the impending war before it began in earnest. Five planets, the New Republicâs seat of power, sacrificed in lieu of the hundreds that would have to be quelled in our path to victory.â
âIt was strategic?â
Armitage stared at Leia, like she was asking a different sort of question, one he wasnât sure he had the answer to. âIt was.â
Five planets, destroyed in one swift firing of a single weapon, weighed against yearsâ no, decades of war, a ravaging of the galaxy that had already spanned three generations. It had been a horrific demonstration of power, but one rooted in an uncomfortable reasoning of logic, one he had not balked at utilizing.
Back then, it had all been a part of the game. Back then, the choice had come easily.
But nowâŠ
Forty billion, one hundred sixty million, five hundred seventy-seven thousand, four hundred and two souls, dead, by his hand, and there was no excuse he could give their survivors. No reason that would make this okay. No apology that would be accepted.
He would carry this, forever. Until the day he died.
âI regret it,â his voice cut sharp with a severed emotion, despite how softly he spoke. Leia allowed him this show of emotion, the hand on his knee rubbing in a gentle, calming circle. âIf I could go back, I would never have built itââ his breath caught, as the truth spilled out, easy in the face of the violence of his heart, the ache in his chest. ââif I could go back,â His dropped to a near whisper, âI would. But there is too much to change, and Iââ he cut off again, mouth closing over a wretched sound that crawled out of the coiled depths of him. Those shadows again, crawling back, breaking free.
Before he could think it through, he lifted his hands, to press them to his mouth.
They never made it. His cuffs dragged, heavy, a familiar burden he dared forget. A weight he would always carry.
There was no going back.
Some things, Armitage could not help but admit, could never be put right.
Again, the urge to apologize â a real apology â not a groveling bid of a dog at the heels of its master, or the desperate clutch at survival in the face of his execution â manifested. The urge ate away at him, though an apology had no place here. He understood that now as much as he had understood Renâs attempt at making amends was as much for himself as anything that would benefit him. Because while his apology may be sincere, the New Republic was not here to hear it. Whatever healing they sought, it would not be found in his words, let alone here in this courtroom. His execution would not fill the hole he had left, just as his apology would not soothe it. But that this evisceration of his life could provide some comfort to those he had wronged made sense.
Maybe what these people needed to heal was not his confession, or his apology, or even his understanding â but his suffering.
Keeping him from Poe, that was a punishment.
A window to a world he would never know, that was a punishment.
Carrying the weight of forty billion deaths, that was a punishment.
And deathâŠmaybe execution was the best outcome he could hope for. Nothing but a mercy for a man like him, who had hurt so many, and only now understood, too late, the gravity of what he had done.
Panic seized him. There was no assuaging the hammering in his chest, or the shortness of his gasps. And while the tremors came unbidden, Armitage had not the mind or the control to try and stop them.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped, quietly. âIâm so sorryââ
âI know you are.â
The arms that came around him were stronger than they had any right to be. Leia tucked him against her shoulder, soothed her hands down his back, up over his shoulders, like he was some child who had fallen a great distance; whoâd lost his way home and only just been found. He sought her comfort like it was something he could have. Something that could stop the free fall that had become his life. Like if he could only hold on, he could save himself â but everything was slipping through his fingers, his momentum too great, the ground coming up too fast.
Still, he tried; his fingers found purchase in her robes, as he turned his head into her shoulder and shook.
Leia said nothing as Armitage wasted what was left of their recess. She said nothing of forgiveness or justice or mercy. She didnât tell him everything was fine, or that he was going to be okay. She remained calm and sturdy amongst the impetus of his emotion, simply holding him close; as a mother might.
Armitage shivered out another breath, but didnât dare let go.
When a knock came at their door, the arms around him tightened. The guard had arrived to escort them back to the courtroom, and over Leiaâs shoulder, he saw how she stared at them, her eyes hidden behind the visor of her helmet but the tilt of her head all wrong. Too curious â too fascinated, by the sight of Starkiller stripped bare.
Seeing him like thisâŠit was not something she should be privy to; this vulnerability one of the few parts of himself he still claimed as his own, to share with whom he trusted.
No. That was wrong. Nothing was his own, not anymore.
Armitage lifted his eyes, met the guards stare, and he felt that last fractured part of himself dissolve under her quiet attention. The moment protracted into a cloying sense that this trial really was nothing but a show, that his testimony would provide nothing, not because they didnât want his apology, but because whatever it was the New Republic wanted from him, theyâd already gotten â heâd already given them, when heâd handed them the Order, and then himself.
âTimeâs up,â the guard said, her voice out of place in the quiet. Even she seemed uncomfortable by her own interruption.
âThank you,â Leia sighed, not sounding thankful at all. When he drew out of her embrace, she looked at him, mouth pressed together, the wrinkles around her eyes cracked deep. But her thumbs, when they swept over his cheeks, were soft, delicate, gentle. And her voice soothed alongside the buzz of her Force as she assured him, in the only way she seemed to be able, by saying, âDonât abandon hope yet, Armitage.â
But it wasnât until he saw the person standing just beyond the shoulder of the guard, that Armitage felt anything other than absolute defeat. Because he knew, suddenly, who Leiaâs final witness was.
It was Finn.
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His father was tucked into the corner of the couch Poe had occupied yesterday, so that when Poe sat he was sandwiched between Rose and Kesâs bulky width. His eyes were warm, open, when Poe met them, though he said nothing of where he and Rose had been; that they already missed half the trial, and have only just made it in time for the last witness because of an unscheduled recess.
It was duty more than desire that brought him back to this room, back to this holo. If he couldnât be there beside Armitage, he could at least suffer through what he had to experience. Or, thatâs what he kept telling himself. Really, Poe was already searching out BB-8, finding him idling behind Rey, halfway towards the door, like it thought it could intercept her if she tried to stop Poe from leaving again.
As honest as Roseâs concern was, as genuine her words had been, Poe knew sheâd been acting as his escort. The only time Poe had found himself alone over the past two days was when heâd locked himself away in his room. This persistent watchful attention his friends kept dogged him at every turn.
They knew him too well, he decided. It was a thought warm enough to curdle.
As if the New Republic keeping him from Armitage wasnât already enough. That his friends were involved tooâŠit wasnât a fair thought, a part of him acknowledged, but Poe couldnât help how everything inside him felt soured, or how little trust he found himself capable of holding for anyone, anymore. He felt betrayed â by the New Republic, by his friends, by his own impetuous behavior, his inability to accept defeat.
âEverything alright?â Kes asked quietly. Poe couldnât meet his eyes.
Only then he noticed Finn was nowhere to be seen.
Guilt ate at Poe, a gnawing fear that Finnâs distance was Poeâs doing, and that heâd failed his friend in some way. He wanted to be mad that Finn wasnât there; Finn was his best friend, after all. But this had to be hard for him too. Even after all this time, Poe still only knew a fragment of Finnâs life as a storm trooper. Watching Armitage be held accountable for deeds his own history had been involved with could not have been easy for Finn.
âWhat did we miss?â Rose directed the question not at Kes, but Rey. She was not guarding the door, instead perched atop a stool sheâd brought over from the kitchenette, her crossed legs and diminutive body balanced perfectly atop the tall, spindly legs.
âPhasma testified,â Rey said with a tentative grin, âthe Senate nearly went mad when they found out she killed Huxâs father.â
âPhasmaâs here?â Here meaning Coruscant â why hadnât anyone told him? How could Phasmaâs involvement been a secret? He looked to Rose for an explanation, but the expression she returned him looked just as shocked.
An idea coiled. A spark of a thought. One Poe pushed away, because there was no way it could be true. No way that Finnâs absence was anything more than his friend dealing with his own stress, his own guilt, or trauma, surrounding Armitageâs trial.
Because there was absolutely no way Finnâs absence was due to him being in the courtroom instead.
No way that was his best friend was suddenly filling the holo-projection, his name â both his taken name and his given Order designator â scrawled out beneath his somber profile as he walked across the stage floor towards the witness stand.
Poe felt his breath stagger, and then leave him, all in a rush.
Beside him Rose made a sound; disbelief, or something close. No one had known, then. Not Rose, not Rey.
Maybe not even Finn.
It would explain his distance; his quiet, secretive, closely kept knowledge.
âFinn, buddyâŠâ Poe whispered, voice trembling.
The holo switched to a wide view of the courtroom Leia stood before the witness stand, introducing Finn to the audience as both a former stormtrooper and a general of the Resistance â but Poe could not help but stare at Armitage. He looked worn-out, drained, like something important, some vital thing that had brought him this far, had been taken away. There was evidence: the pale, almost gray cast of his skin, the clutch of his hands, and the forward tilt to his head â like he no longer had the strength to hold it high. These were not buried tells, they were signs anyone could notice, a version of himself Poe knew Armitage would never willingly reveal to anyone, let a room full of people who may as well still be his enemy.
Whatever shock Poe felt, he must feel ten-fold.
Beside him, Rose reached out, curled her arm through Poeâs, and held on. Across the room, Rey had gone quiet, eyes half-mast as if she were only partially present, fingers lifted to her lips in a frozen mirror of her thoughts â thoughts that Poe didnât need the Force to hear, though he knew she was projecting them to somewhere far off.
They all knew what this meant. Knew what Finn was doing. What sacrifice he was making, to take the stand in Armitageâs defense.
For the first time that day, tears threatened. And for the first time in weeks, hope bloomed Poeâs his heart â it was small, only an ember, but its heat was a balm to the cold, its light a beacon within the dark.
Leiaâs questions were simple, straight-forward shots into the dark of Finnâs past. A past that not even Poe knew the details of, as if to Finn, his life had never really begun until heâd left the Order behind. Theyâd never spoken much about what Finn remembered from his childhood. Finn had never offered it up, and Poe had not felt it was his place to ask. What Finn offered in empathy he traded for privacy, and Poe had always respected that personal space Finn had put between them â between everyone.
Now the details were drawn in graphic detail: a boy taken from his home at an age young enough that he hardly remembered, let alone felt it mattered, how much of an impact his roots might have had on the person heâd become. Raised by the Order, he said, indoctrinated into their system of beliefs â beliefs he had not questioned, had not understood could be questioned â not until that first moment of live-combat. The worst was the fear, he explained, the confusion of feeling the way he felt. The hours spent in his bunk, weighing voluntary re-conditioning against this new moral compass he hadnât understood why he suddenly possessed.
The guilt that he was abandoning his people, his comrades, for the selfish idea that he somehow knew better than the Order what was right for himself, and the uncomfortable conclusion that what the Order was doing was not at all right.
How General Hux had always represented those ideals. How the man himself was this figurehead that had, undeniably, manifested the First Order itself.
Resentment, Finn said. Where his conditioning had been nothing but a method of control.
Hatred, later, after heâd realized what had been done to him â how heâd been manipulated, and the trauma of realizing everything heâd believe in had been a lie.
Rage, he confessed, when Starkiller Base had been fired, and this world Finn was only now discovering was torn apart before his eyes.
Regret, he finally admitted, that he had taken that rage and turned it into action â an action that was no better than what the Order had asked of him, when heâd taken a gun into his hands and killed not a village of farmers, but platoons of brainwashed men and women.
Guilt, that he had not tried to do more, to save his fellow troopers, to break them from the hold the Order had on them.
They were never the enemy, he said so, so quietly into the camera, but I killed them like they were.
Me too, Poe thought to himself. And then he couldnât stop the tears, not now that theyâd started.
And respect, Finn continued, when a person he hated, because of all he represented, and what atrocities he had committed, had done what he could not.
Armitage Hux, Finn said, had single-handedly dismantled the system that had raised them both, and then saved the people who had suffered from that system. And when the path Armitage took led him directly into a confrontation with all he had done wrong â because what he did, it was wrong â he had submitted himself to a fate that could have been avoided, if heâd only chosen an easier path.
âI chose the easy path,â Finn nearly whispered into the camera, âwhile he chose the hard path, and that will always haunt me, more than any person I killed, or soul I failed to save.â
It was all Poe could do to stare into his friends face and hear the words he was saying. To tamp down the urge to storm into that courtroom and steal away not just Armitage, but his best friend, who had been quietly harboring this guilt without any of their knowledge.
âI had no idea,â Poe rasped into the ensuing silence. âFuck, I didnât even think, how could I not have realizedââ
âI knew he felt guilty for the troopers he killed, but never like this, he never said anything.â Rose sounded broken, her voice wet with tears. âNot ever, just that he wanted to help, he was desperate to help, when they asked him to lead the relocationsâŠâ
âAnd on base,â Rey said softly from across the room, âhe tried to make everyone feel so welcome. All he wanted was for them to see what he saw, when he defected, even though he was terrified that they wouldnât. He was terrified they were going to turn on us all, attack the base. And he must have felt so guilty for feeling that way, for not being able to trust them.â
âAnd now heâsââ Poe cut off, not able to finish the sentence. Not able to voice out loud that Finn had told a whole Galaxy what he had not been able to tell his friends.
The holo flickered, angle changing as the prosecutor stood to perform his cross-examination. Against the backdrop of the whole Senate, Finn appeared small, but the energy of his presence loomed. The audience sat captive in an unusual silence, even as the prosecutor hounded Finn with questions regarding his life with the Order: the conditioning he was subjected to, the strict adherence to rules he had no say in determining, and the unavoidable reality that is was General Huxâs directives that had landed him and all the stormtroopers in these positions where innocent lives were disregarded for some greater Order purpose.
Finn could not fight back. Not in any tangible way. Because everything the prosecutor said was the truth. Every infraction a stormtrooper was guilty of could be traced back to Armitage, because Armitage had been a true believer, until the fateful moment he was not.
Then everything had changed.
And here they were: Alive. Safe. At the brink of real, lasting peace.
On the stand, Finn seethed. His anger recoiled off the prosecutor, his frustration at being walked into corners he could not see, a fun house of mirrored surfaces that all led to the same image, one of Armitage Hux at the center of the Order, pulling her strings how he saw fit, despite some claimed Sith influence or any other ridiculous mystical non-sense, was uncompromisingly apparent.
Youâre wrong, Finn spat at the prosecutorâs feet, we fought him, we saw his fleet. The bodies are still there, if you need to see them too.
The Orderâs reports were shared, the ones leading up to Exegol, and the lack of Palpatineâs name was made dreadfully clear.
It was the only time Leia objected in the entirety of the trial. This suggestion that the Resistance was lying about the nature of that final, harrowing fight on Exegol was not something she could stand aside and ignore. That the judges ruled in her favor meant little, though. Poe could see how the doubt had already taken root in the audience.
What little respect the Resistance had gained had been unlikely enough, now it faded in the face of the prosecutorâs false accusations. The New Republic had already done enough damage besmearing their cause back before even the Hosnian system had been destroyed. And if their organization had any real, lasting power, they would have had a representative up on that judgeâs podium, voting in Armitageâs favor, and at least giving him some sort of chance at a fair shake.
This trial wasnât fair. Nothing about what was happening right then was fair.
But was letting a man who had killed billions walk free fair?
Poe thought it had to be, when he had in turn gone ahead and save trillions.
When Finn left the stand it was to a heavy, hushed silence. The tension in the room crested, the prosecutor preening a heady sense of achievement, like his tearing down of their friend had won him the trial.
No, thatâs not quite right, Poe was forced to admit, when the prosecutor began his closing statement, because it became all too clear that the prosecutor never believed heâd had a chance of losing in the first place.
Two witnesses, the prosecutor said, two former Order members, taking the stand in their Generalâs defense, Princess Leiaâs final stand in defending a vision of a galaxy where murderers walked free. Murderers, the likes of which her father had been, and who Armitage Hux was. Both men who had killed billions, who took from the galaxy not what they were owed, but what they presumed to be theirs. There was no sharing a world with men like that.
Poe couldnât listen to the rest. He could hardly pay attention when Leia took the stage. Could barely parse the words coming out of her mouth with the solemn, drawn cast of her features so close. She was saying things, important things. Things that must matter, not just because it was Leia speaking, but because the whole of the suite had gone deathly still. Against his side, Rose clung, her small hands gripping his bicep so hard he could feel his flesh pulse, her breath spilling out her nose like that of a beast working itself up for a fight.
But it was Kes â Kes and his quiet, barely there tears â that told him whatever point Leia intended to make was landing. Kes, who, yes, always wore his heart on his sleeve for Poe, but never like this. Not even when Shara had died could Poe remember his father openly crying. Kes was steadfast, calm, an insurmountable strength that Poe had always relied on. But not here â not in the face of what Leia said.
Because it wasnât so much a defense she was crafting on Armitageâs behalf, but an accusation. A blame placed not at the feet of the First Orderâs fathers, or Snoke or even Sheev Palpatine, but the Republic â and the Core worlds themselves.
When she was done she stood at the center of the trial stage, looking out across the audience with the same fire that always blazed so brightly the hour before a battle. It was a challenge. A dare for them to consider her words and take them to heart. And though it was Armitageâs future she gambled to make her point, Poe could not help but understand the real levity of the moment was not the fate of the man he loved, but the future that this trialâs decision would shape for the galaxy at large.
Poe shook. Sliding to edge of the couch, he stared into the holo and watched as Leia strode from the stage, to retake her place at Armitageâs side, robes billowing as she settled beside him â closely, protectively â like a shield.
But then Jaine Mithra stood and addressed the courtroom.
âThank you, both the prosecution and the defense, for your time and effort these past two days. The court will recess while we finalize our verdict.â
Finalize?
A recess, to finalize a decision already made â put the finishing touches on a sentence that left little room for details, because there was only one way to say execution.
Poeâs body went hot, then cold, and then the room was spinning, as he staggered to his feet and turned towards the door.
Kes shifted, reached, âPoeââ
âDonât get in my way.â His voice didnât sound like his own. Rose released his arm like sheâd been burned, but when he met Reyâs eyes, there was a hardness to them that rooted her in place atop that stool, so that nothing stood between him and the door.
BB-8 cocked its head, gave a short trill.
Rolled the few inches it took to close the distance, the hydraulics whooshing to reveal the hallway beyond.
And then Poe was running.
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âCrimes against Civilization,â Leia spoke to the gathered audience, her voice cast loud, her words heavy. âThe most abhorrent charge that our government can level against a person. It infers not just a devastation of life, but an attack against our shared personal values. It tells us, this person is not just a threat to our physical well-being, but the very tenets our way of life depends upon.â
Leia paused, as she looked at Armitage; face severe, immutable. Beyond her, the judges stared, and behind him, the crowd murmured.
âItâs why weâre here, having this trial,â Leia continued, gaze breaking to observe the gathered Senators. âBecause, civilization is critical, isnât it? Itâs everything that allows us to live our lives within the system that is designed to support us. Itâs our government. Our military. Our economy. Our social structures. Our cultural identities. Our access to information, and to education, and health care. Itâs my ability to have woken up on Naboo yesterday morning and fallen asleep here on Coruscant last night. Itâs your ability to choose to run for a seat within a galactic Senate, and your constituentâs choice to give you the opportunity to serve them. Itâs the choice your children have to follow in your footsteps, or chose their own unique path.
âCivilization is what our New Republic thrives on. And it is what protects us. These interlocking systems working together towards our shared scope of the future. And it is frightening, devastating even, when something comes along and threatens that.
âSo I think we can all agree that civilization is worth protecting. Itâs why Iâve fought in two wars, after all,â she paused, staring out at the silent audience, as her words settled. As the nods came and the agreements susurrated throughout the room like a whisper of what was to come.
âAnd it is not something I take for granted. Not when Iâve seen a galaxy where men and women wake up each morning not knowing if they will have a meal to eat that day, or will go without. Where a childâs education is their survival on the street, or on a battlefield. Where when the tenets of society are strained, it doesnât come as an emergency town hall meeting to vote out a corrupted public figure, or an argument over whether a school house has become too small, a hospital under-equipped, or a tax levied too high.
âIt comes as death. As starvation. As disease. It comes, my friends, as survival.â Leia's eyes met his, held them. Bright and blue and burning with something that brought heat to his face, to his eyes. That pushed his lips together over a sound he dared not make, but wanted to, because he finally understood, now, the argument she conceived for his defense.
What Leia was fighting for, on his behalf.
What heâd been fighting for, his entire life.
âSo what is civilization to someone outside the Core? What is civilization to a five-year-old boy who had a blaster put in his hand and fought in one of the largest battles in known galactic history? What is civilization to a little girl who spent every day fighting for her right to survive a planet left devastated by a nuclear accident no one was held accountable for? What is civilization to the parents who had to sell their child or risk his life because they could not afford to eat otherwise?
âCrimes Against Civilization,â she spat the words now, like they were something that disgusted her. âWhat is our crime, then? Because after driving the last of the Empireâs factions from our space, what did we do?â She was pacing now, head held high, staring out at the crowd in obvious accusation, âDid we send aid to the places devastated by conflict? Reach out to our neighboring systems and assist them in purging the remaining Imperial influence? No, we exiled our problem to the rest of the galaxy, then we retreated to the Core, we licked our wounds, and when enough time had passed and we felt safe again, we disarmed ourselves. We became complacent in our bubble of protection, happy to use the vastness of space and the idea of our cultural superiority to fool ourselves into believing all was right in the galaxy.
âIt was not right,â snapped like a slap. âYou heard it yourself over the past two days. Jakku was left a wasteland. Arkanis was bombarded and then invaded by New Republic forces. And Parnassos, a place once known for its beautiful landscape and abundant beaches, where our great grandparents went for a romantic weekend away, was devastated by a Core world mining corporation and then abandoned. All of these worlds suffered, and they were all forgotten by us.
âBut, maybe Iâm being too harsh,â she sighed here, folding her arms over her chest, head tilted up at she stared into the revolving logo of the New Republic, eyes glinting in the spill of blue light. âBecause helping people is difficult, isnât it? It requires money, resources, but most of all a will to get the job done. And itâs not something that can happen overnight and see results. These arenât problems you can just throw credits at. To solve them we need to construct a system of solutions. Provide food aid, education, job opportunities, health care, trade lane access, military protection, and a local government representative of the people It serves.
âWe needed, members of the Senate, to help them build civilization. And I would argue, that we have a moral obligation to offer the rest of the galaxy a path to our own prosperity. Because at what point did our claim upon civilization become something of which we could inflict punishment for threatening, when weâve done nothing to offer a path for those who might seek it?â
Under the light of the New Republicâs logo, Leia looked out over the crowd. Eyes sweeping over the silent audience, as she levied out a truth that echoed what Armitage harbored in his heart. âWeâve done none of those things. Have in fact been guilty of actions that have directly affected their ability to achieve it on their own. And from our failures, the First Order was birthed. The First Order, a faction of the former Empire, whose children knew nothing but the wild reaches of space from the vantage of a warship. Who saw the galaxy we had left behind, that we had abandoned, and thought to themselves, this is not right.
âAnd they werenât wrong, were they?â Leiaâs voice softened, her eyes wet, âBecause in that vacuum of power the Empire left, the New Republic did not fill it, we barely lifted a finger to heal it. We left it to fester. We left it to rot, because it was easier than the hard road, and we had our Core to retreat to. Our Core, where our streets were still safe our suns sets familiar. Where our children could play together, and we could forget about the hardships of the galaxy beyond.â
âCivilization,â she stood still now, hands fisted by her sides, head held high, âis nothing but the byproduct of privilege. Our privilege,â she snapped out, eyes sweeping over the audience, burning with something Armitage felt reflected in himself. âA privilege we did not so much earn as inherit, and a prosperity that was passed down to us from our parents. And that we dare hold the rest of the galaxy to a standard of which we are lucky to have, I find myself sick with guilt.
âAnd I find it fundamentally flawed that we sit here and judge not just Armitage Hux, but our newly arrived refugees,â she turned to Mithra as she said it, the encumbrance of the term more than enough to get her point across, âfor betraying the sanctity of that civilization. Something we became too complacent to protect, but valuable enough to hoard. Something the rest of the galaxy instead found in the form of the First Order. Something that maybe wore the guise of civilization, but was in fact nothing but the mad dream of a half-dead Sith lord hell-bent on destroying not just our civilization, but the very tenets of life across the galaxy, on the most fundamental level.
âYet, here we are.â She swept her hand around, a dramatic gesture that caught the light in a long shadow over the trial stage floor. âAlive and safe against all odds.â
She turned to him then, eyes meeting his, holding them, as she said, âArmitage Hux, no one, not even yourself, will deny the grave loss of life you inflicted upon the galaxy and the New Republic. And in the face of your actions, many more than those you killed have directly suffered. But to acknowledge them must also mean we acknowledge the reasons why you chose that path, and take responsibility for our own failures. Failures that may not have cost the lives of billions in one fell swoop, but have resulted in a system where many trillions have struggled for the basic decency we have grown complacent to.
âI will be the first to acknowledge that nothing will ever set right what youâve done. Firing Starkiller Base was a choice, but it is not the only choice you have made. That we sit here today passing judgment upon your actions is a direct result of the choice you made to turn yourself over to the New Republic's judgement. And that we all live to pass that judgment is due to a spark you set that ignited not war, but peace, when you chose to act upon not just the best interests of your people, but the survival of the entire galaxy. A choice you pursed to the point of spying for the Resistance and the New Republic, and then surrendering yourself to a system that you have been taught to abhor, for reasons I find very compelled to agree with from my place here upon this trial room floor.â
Leia turned away with a sweep of her robes, to address the judges, voice breaking over her words with an accusation that struck a solemn frown from Mithra.
âJustice will not be found today, no matter the decision made in your verdict. Because the galaxy has already seen our justice served.â And then she turned to the audience, emotion traded for a resolve that struck the tremble from her voice, as she said, âRight now, the First Order sits in the orbits of our homes, not as the enemy, but as refugees. And they inhabit the ranks of my Resistance as allies, as comrades, as friends and even lovers. That the remnants of the Empire have finally fallen not to a protracted war, or an exile beyond the rim, but to peace, isnât that the real justice we all have sought? The same justice I fought for when my home world was destroyed, but could not see achieved thirty-five years ago, and have spent the entirety of my life since chasing?
âAs hard as it may be to admit, we only have that peace today due to the choices made by this man, Armitage Hux. Because as many people as he has harmed, he has saved exponentially more. All because he chose the difficult path, the path that brought him here, before you, submitted to your judgment.â said as she turned to the audience, her blue eyes somehow hot as a fire, roving over the Senate as if she could meet and hold each of their stares. âNow we are faced with our own divergence of paths, our own choice to make.
âThe easy path,â Leia spoke, voice somber, âis the clear path. Itâs the path that has been rutted into the earth, where the trees bend and the light guides, because it has been cleared by all those who came before you. You know where that path leads, what destination it will take us to. We are here, because the galaxy has, over and over, chosen that path. And we know, inevitably, where again it will lead us.â
âBut the other path,â Leia turned to the judges as she said it, voice softened as she held their eyes, âIs the path I challenge you, this time, to take. We may not know where it leads, and I know that is frightening, but unless we have the courage to try, we will never know where it will take us, or if the destination is somewhere better, for all the galaxy.â
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âAre you ready?â Was the sort of question Armitage didnât normally appreciate being asked, because he was anything but ready. Something close to terror coiled inside him, kept at bay only by years of Order conditioning. A conditioning that now felt as tenuous as the claim he had upon his life. Heâd learned at an early age that the only useful emotions had been anger and hate â tools to be weaponized in the pursuit of his goals. Anything else was seen as a weakness. So he had kept those emotions tucked away, to be indulged in the safety of his quarters, or in the company of the trusted few he kept close. Phasma, mostly. She had seen his pain, and his humor, and sometimes â rarely â his joy. And then Mitaka, who had seen his kindness, his patience, and the closest thing to affection Armitage had once thought himself capable of, until he had met Poe.
Poe, who he had, somehow, seen everything. His weakness, his fear, his hard edges and softer planes, his joy and his hopes and his dreams and a love he had thought heâd long lost the ability to feel. Something that had died with his childhood, left behind in the sodden sands of Arkanisâ abandoned shore, but was somehow dredged up again from the sea of another planet, found buried beneath the scuttled weight of an entire life come crashing down upon him.
And then set to flourish beneath the hands of a man who had touched him not with violence or hate, but with kindness â with love.
Youâre okay.
âIâm ready,â came out steadier than he thought it should, as his eyes met Leiaâs in a brief, fluttering grasp for ground. He wasnât okay, but he knew how to act like he was.
Together they stepped through the arched doorway, the long hallway abandoned as they made their way to the trial stage floor.
The courtroom was a tumultuous sea of sound â louder than it had yet been â the seats filled with the colorful gossamer gowns of the New Republicâs elite. Theyâd dressed for the occasion, as if this were a production to be enjoyed, something theyâd later discuss over a drink and a laugh and a meandering rumination around the final fate of the infamous Starkiller.
As they had the last two days, their eyes followed him across the courtroom: from his entrance high above the judgeâs podium to his seat alone at the witness stand, where he would receive his judgement.
The droid was there to meet them. Meters away, Fineas Ofant sat â his attention so suffocating that it may as well be his hand closing over his throat.
A buzzing coiled in his ear and a hand touched his shoulder. Leia's body angled towards his, face immutable in the bright light of the courtroom as the guard approached to secure his cuffs to the podium, met his eyes. The flux of her Force was as clear as her thoughts in his head.
Donât worry about him, it said. He doesnât matter.
Leiaâs hand slid over his, a bold statement in the face of the droid that watched.
Let them see, some small voice inside his head demanded, let them know that, in the end, not everyone hated Armitage Hux.
Armitage shifted, swallowed, twisted his wrist and touched his fingertips to Leiaâs palm. That was all she needed to thread their fingers together in a firm hold.
It did not last.
Her smile remained burned into his head even after she retreated to the defense table. Alone, his eyes roamed over his own pale, clasped hands, edged white like they could cling to Leiaâs words like a lifeline. But her comfort was as intangible as the hope she still seemed to harbor.
Though, in one thing, she was right. Only the judges mattered. The judges, who were filing in through the same door he and Leia had walked through, their procession a countdown to a moment Armitage was unprepared to face. The whole of the room fell into a silence not even his own presence had inspired. So quiet, he thought he could hear his own heartbeat. So quiet, the thin wisp of air that was his breath breached his lungs in an almost deafening wheeze.
It was Mithra who called the court to order.
âMembers of the Galactic Senate, thank you again, for your presence and your patience,â she spoke boldly over the quickly hushed muttering. âIn coming to a decision on a verdict, I want to emphasize that our intention is to serve justice. But what these proceedings over the last two days have made clear for me, is that justice encompasses far more than the traditional concepts of guilt or innocence, or even punishment and mercy. Justice should restore what we have lost. It should facilitate repairing the harm caused by the offender. And it needs to uphold repercussions that are both fair and conducive to healing for our community as a whole. To those principals we have reached a verdict, one all three of us agree represents these values.
âI want to remind the court,â Mithra continued, âthat it is not simply Mr. Huxâs guilt in the destruction of the Hosnian System that is in question in this court. It is the greater crime of the threat posed to the very foundation of our Republic, our civilization itself, that he is being judged for.
âTo that end, Mr. Von-Arc, on behalf of the victims of the Hosnian Cataclysm, and all of the New Republic, will present the verdict we have prepared.â
If the courtroom had hushed before, now it became absolutely silent. Von-Arc stood slowly from his seat, as if he shouldered a great weight. But when he looked out over the crowd, his head remained high, spine straight, hands clasped at his front, as he allowed the moment of silence carefully stretch, until his eyes roved past the seats of the Senate to find his.
His face may have been a mask, but Von-Arcâs eyes held a weariness Armitage hadnât expected. Like heâd carried this weight for so long that it wasnât a lack of strength that made this moment feel so heavy, but a waning endurance. This resolution, however it would play out, would mark an end for the both of them. And though Armitage was prepared for what was to come, he couldnât help but commiserate that this outcome would leave them both wanting for something that was no long within reach for either of them.
âI will try and keep this brief, Mr. Hux, for all our benefits,â Von-Arc said, voice carrying solemn through the silence. âThat the vast majority of your victims are not present today to witness this trial speaks to the atrocity that you committed. We describe justice as a tool for healing the wounds our Republic has sustained, but those people, they will never get the chance to heal. Theyâll never have the opportunity to live out their lives, or affect change in the galaxy, or make the choices we all have been able to make, choices that have brought us together here, in this courtroom, over the last two days.
âTo that end, we can only ever do so much. Nothing can bring those people back, or make their memory hurt less. What we lost carries on in a shared trauma that lives on not just with the survivors whose families were lost, but in the marrow of society itself.â Von-Arc paused here, chest rising as he drew in a slow breath, the hands clasped at his front squeezing tight into a hold Armitage felt mirrored in his own clasped hands. âI will live with this trauma my entire life, and the only punishment I see fit that will be near as awful as the pain you have inflicted upon me, is one where you too must live with the choices you have made, and the harm you have caused so many.â
No, Armitage thought as Von-Arc held his eyes, this is not happening, this is not rightâ
âMr. Armitage Hux, by the authority vested in me by the New Galactic Republic, this court finds you not-guilty of Crimes Against Civilization. You are, by right of this finding, free to go.â
The silence crushed, hanging over the whole of the courtroom from a string so taunt he could hear every filament fray, until a single voice from the audience broke it â a long, drawn wail that slammed through Armitage with the force of a starship come crashing down from the sky.
Von-Arc turned away, retook his seat.
The Senate erupted.
âHeâs a murderer!â
âBut Starkiller!â
âItâs not rightââ
Itâs not, Armitageâs heart echoed. I deserve to die, it insisted, even as Mithra stood from her seat and demanded order from the tumulting courtroom.
But Armitage knew order. There was no order to be had here, not anymore.
Another wail, louder than the last, so loud that it traveled the vaulted expanse of the domed ceiling to spill down around all of them, echoing through his head, rooting into his bones. He felt swallowed whole, their emotions so fraught that he could nearly taste them â all the anger, and grief, and disbelief flooding rancorous into the emptiness that the last several weeks had carved out of him.
It festered inside him.
He was free.
He was not guilty.
But he wasnâtâ He was guiltyâ It was all a mistakeâ
Someone towards the front of the audience took to their feet.
Across the stage floor, a droid approached.
Fineas Ofant, voice silent, but face darkened, stared at him from just meters away. Standing tall amongst the audience chamber, he towered like the real reckoning come calling, his droidâs slow approach closing a distance the stage barrier prevented Ofant taking.
In the bright light of the holo above, the droidâs lens caught, flickering brief and bright, less a focus than a rifleâs sight, as both Ofant and the droid honed in on him like he was a creature to be hunted, and his season had just opened.
Armitage looked back to Ofant, could not look away.
A shadow fell, hands reached for his, and a female voice in his ear said, âYou need to leave.â
The guard released his cuffs with a gentle, whispery snick.
She pulled him from his seat, hands gripping his shoulders so hard the pain made him gasp. Beneath his feet the floor tilted, undulated, threatened to come up if not for the hands that hauled him upright, and then pushed him forward with just enough strength to get him moving.
The courtroom rioted. More voices, rising into a crescendo, a wall of sound that collected in the acoustics and then rained down upon him with the violence of a storm. Distantly, he thought he heard Leiaâs voice, but it was the guard at his back that propelled him forward. Her touch not kind, but not violent either â a constant beacon of order amongst the chaos â a soldier performing their duty, even in the face of an insurmountable enemy force.
It was the only thing that kept him going.
Armitage stumbled into the atrium, into the blinding light of a setting sun.
A thousand towers speared the blood red glow, blown black against the burning fire of Coruscantâs atmosphere. A thousand Finalizers fallen from a sky that could no longer hold them. A thousand reminders of the mistakes he had made, and the lives he had ruined. A thousand fingers, all pointed at him, an accusation without words, one supplied by his heart, as he walked free from a past that he would never actually outrun.
Youâre guilty, his mind clung to the idea, refusing to give it up. You need to be punished, it hammered into truth, leaving no room for argument.
Youâll never get to say youâre sorry, another, smaller voice lamented. Youâll never get to put things right.
It was only fair; his life, forced upon him when heâd denied so many others their own. He would carry this guilt until his death â a death that would come eventually, slowly, a festering that would grow until it spoiled any happiness he might find, until it rotted him right through, an empty hole where his future should be.
Because death was nothing but a mercy, and livingâŠliving was the real punishment.
The world converged on this moment, when the axis his life hitched to crumbled to dust, and everything he believed, all the truths heâd been taught and then later uncovered, were carved out empty, hollow, unable to bare his weightâ
Armitage trembled, body slipping, momentum plummetingâ
When his knees hit the ground, pain cracked distant. He clung to it, his only foothold, buried beneath the roar of blood in his ears and the rush of sound as the door to the courtroom revolved open again to allow others through. But no one approached. No one came for him. No one urged him to his feet or led him to a chair out of the sun. No one asked if he was okay, let alone made sure that he was.
Knelt before the blasted-out sun of a planet that didnât want him, Armitage remained alone.
Thatâs the point, his mind sneered, while again that smaller voice dared suggest, but then why did they let you go free?
Armitage didnât have an answer; he only had this emptiness, and as he felt himself begin to slip, he realized it wouldnât be enough.
Electricity crawled up his spine to spark white in his vision, until the sky burned not with the sun, but with the memory of a beam come to life. Imagined what it must have been like, to watch it breach the sky; fateâs heavenly hand come down.
Its mark found, its purpose served, its damage done.
Distantly, he felt his breath grow shallow. Felt his fingertips tingle cold and his ears turn hot. And he felt, acutely, the chafed burn from the cuffs around his wrists, an of echo their hold. A haunting reminder of what heâd never truly escape.
It was all too much.
He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and let himself fall.
Iâm sorry, he thought, as the ground rushed up to meet him.
But then, something swooped in.
Arms closed around him, warm and strong. A breath against his cheek, and a roughness that followed. Familiar â impossible, things. He was drawn forward, a momentum that carried him not into a column of fire but a man. A man collapsed to the ground before him, so that Armitage knelt not before fate but a person, and all the parts of himself he thought heâd lost were gathered up, given back, when he was pulled into an embrace that felt like soaring â like he would never hit the ground.
It was Poe.
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Iâm too late.
Poe tore down the hallway, BB-8 just a pace ahead, the two of them racing towards what Poe could only hope was a chance to reach the courtroom before Armitage was taken away â taken forever.
He ran and ran. His heart pounded against his chest wall, pumping blood to his limbs in reckless abandonment, the twisting switchbacks of hallway nothing but a blur as BB-8 led him to a utility lift tucked away beyond the main apartment compound Leiaâs suite was housed within.
BB-8 promptly hooked into the wall panel, overrode the systemâs security software, and called the lift.
The ride up was pure hell.
Floors ticked off lazy; two, three dozen stories slowly counting up towards a number that felt increasing further away with each long second. It wouldnât take more than several minutes to close the distance of the three-hundred floors that separated them, but Poe couldnât help but think that each of those minutes mattered more than the last.
Because once they sentenced Armitage to death, each of those minutes mattered more than all the minutes of Poeâs entire life combined.
Once those minutes were lost, there would be no going back.
The verdict would have been read by now, the sentence set to record.
How long would they wait, before sending him for execution?
I canât be too late, the voice insisted.
The lift churned to a slow, rumbling stop. BB-8 squealed at him to hurry up, as it fled the lift still almost two hundred stories away from where they needed to be.
It took everything inside Poe to tamp down his urge to barrel through the tower on instinct alone. BB-8 knew where they were going, had sought this path at least once already. Poe had to trust that where he was headed would take him where he needed to be.
A long corridor. A dozen staggered doors. A breach of slender windows, overlooking a pristine, meticulously plotted courtyard of willow trees. And a duracrete wall with a latticework of bars, as a cell block unfolded before them.
Poeâs footfalls slammed heavy onto the poured cement. Before him, BB-8 trilled.
The next lift moved faster.
They ascended almost two hundred floors in a matter of minutes. When the door opened, they spilled out into a hallway of white marble whorled through with a pale, dusky gray. Here his footfalls echoed, the stone impermeable where the duracreteâs porous surface had stolen the sound of his approach. Now the sound of his boots echoed like a herald to battle. BB-8âs housing skittered across the too-smooth surface, so that Poe overtook it. But instinct had finally assumed control, and Poeâs gut told him that at the end of this hallway he would find where he was going, arrive where he needed to be.
Ahead, the hallway transformed: the recessed lighting traded for tall ornate scones, the ceiling arcing gentle. And then a bend in the path; a final twist to the route Poe took as he flew around the sharp corner and stumbled into a domed atrium of blinding, golden light.
Poe slowed, and then stumbled, blinking against the brightness as the world converged around him, and he realized where he was.
Across the vast space, silhouetted against the tall transparisteel of a triple story window, the spires of the city a nest of spears surrounding him, knelt a familiar figure.
It was Armitage.
Red hair glowed gold in the fading daylight, his back to Poe, shoulders slumped over his lap, hands somewhere before him, kneeling so still, so lifeless â all alone and waiting.
Waiting for the axe to fall, for the noose to swingâ
Iâm too late.
Poe staggered forward, voice lost to his heaving breath, and was accosted by a guard.
âWho are you.â Was not framed as a question.
âNoââ Poe gasped out, pushing at the hands suddenly on his shoulders, wondering why his steps were only taking him backwards, instead of forwards.
âYouâre not authorized to be here,â the guard said as her grip tightened. But something in her voice wavered â a question, a doubt.
Poe looked into her face shield, sucked in a panicked, broken breath, and plead, âPlease, you have to let me see him.â
A moment of stillness, time a deadlock between them, as her head cocked, and her mouth pulled. If Poe hadnât known better, he would have said something like recognition passed through her body language.
But then her lips softened, her helmet dipped, and she looked back over her shoulder, to where Armitage still knelt, alone against the blown-out fire of Coruscantâs setting sun.
When her hands fell away, Poe took off.
He closed the distance in a breath, and so suddenly Armitage was right there: the golden red fire of each strand of his hair, the narrow shoulders, a pale stretch of exposed neck.
Armitage, his heart whispered, Armitage.
His arms shook when they lifted, his heart screamed when he reached. He was on his knees before he thought about falling, swooping down instead, to catch what he could, his arms twisting so tightly around the body before him that Poe knew it would be impossible to ever let go again.
âArmitage,â he barely breathed.
Against him, Armitage twitched, seized, released a warm, wet breath against his neck and then sagged; body lax, weighted dead.
Noâ the panicked thing inside recoiled, Iâm too lateâ
But he felt it, then: a hand lifting, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt â the smallest tell, a tether to life otherwise lost, and it was enough.
Because he realized, all at once: the cuffs were gone.
Armitage was free.
Poe pulled him closer, clung all the tighter.
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From a not so great distance, the chatter of the underground rail played over the tinny moan of the recording. She adjusted the speaker in her left ear, so sound spilled clearer, though the news recording was no different from the others sheâd already listened to. The reporters may as well have shared a script for all the insight they brought to the events sheâd watched transpire.
A failure of justice. A murderer let loose. Coruscantâs streets arenât safe, so long as Starkiller is allowed to walk free.
The galaxy is in even greater danger than before, the enemy welcomed into our homes, unleashed upon the Core.
The squeal of air brakes hitting the electric rail was a particular sound.
Tucking her datapad into her pocket, she slid past the Bothan that had fallen asleep in the bench beside her, her vacated seat immediately snatched up by a young-looking Twi-lek who couldnât have been old enough to safely ride the rails alone at this hour, so far deep under the plate as they were.
But sheâd done enough saving for the day, she liked to think, and this was her station.
The rail slowed to a quick, if not smooth stop.
The trek home bled familiar; the passing of time marked by the time stamp on the news report ticking across the screen in her pocket. A message came through, the chime breaking over the recorded sound so loudly that she almost skipped back to make sure she hadnât misheard the reporter.
The protesters surrounding the tower were finally disbursed after a long day of anti-riot policing and the support of the sectors voluntary aide groups. What protesters remain do so under the threat of arrest, though none have yet been made at this timeâ
Protesters, as if the news-feed would dare call them what they were.
She had no problem, however.
Taking the steps by two and reminding herself to file another complaint with the rent office about the broken lift, she pushed past the fire door and jostled her keys from her back pocket.
Her apartment was a welcome warmth. Lights dimmed to thirty, her electric kettle timed perfectly so it wafted the sweet scent of fresh brewed tea, she dropped her duffle to the couch, her helmet giving a dull clunk from within the canvas.
Out of habit, she poured her tea before fishing her pad from her coat pocket.
Out of a guilty trepidation, she carefully pulled the piece of flimsi from the slot between the pad and its case.
The flimsi felt too thin under her hands, the texture a toothy, roughened drag along her palms.
In her ear, the recording droned. Some man â a reporter, or a talking head â was going on about how Armitage Hux was a dangerous monster, incapable of integrating into Republic society, let alone safe enough to be allowed an unchecked freedom.
Before her eyes, a flourished script promised otherwise.
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Poe,
What I want you to know the most, is not how much I love you (an infinitely, compulsively irresponsible amount â you should know that much, by now), but how, despite the nature of my fate, or the path that has brought me here, I will always be grateful that you took me from the Steadfast. You gave me an opportunity no one else would, and that I found within myself a person I can be proud of, but also who you love â there is nothing more that I could ask for.
My regrets are numerous. There are many things I would have done differently. But in the face of all Iâve done wrong â what we have feels like the only thing I have ever done right.
I wish weâd had more time, but that weâve had this feels generous for a person like myself, where the years I wasted chasing a nightmare feel like a spec amongst the memories we have created together. Please know, that whether I die tomorrow or decades from now, I will die knowing what it felt like to be loved, and I can only hope that brings you as much comfort as it does me.
I love you Poe. I will always love you.
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Yours, alwaysâ
Armitage
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Notes:
To be completely honest, when I finished this chapter it really felt like the end of this story. Absolutely it's the end of the trial's arc, but after writing three chapters with Poe and Hux separated, their reunion did something to me. I think we only got about 100 words of them actually together but I felt so relieved. There was a scene that did not make it into this chapter that would have come after, and I may use it to open chapter 19...because as much as this felt like an ending to write, I've had the actual ending in mind since the very beginning, and I'm going to trust my gut and just stick with it.
So, just two chapters are left, we're over the most difficult arc, and I've gotta thank you so much for sticking with me for so long, I hope you enjoy what's left â„ As always, your thoughts and comments mean the world to me. Much love, y'all â„
Chapter 19: Closing In
Chapter Text
From the blown-out flare of Coruscantâs setting sun, the city burned before him. Her spires reached tall; their accusations spearing the sky like so many pointed fingers. Fingers that were not wrong, were not unjustified. Were, in fact, righteous in their condemnation. Because if punishment were a thing meant to reconcile his past, then Armitage Hux should be dead.
He was not dead. He was alive, staring down a freedom he had not earned, confronting a future spoiled by a lifetime of mistakes.
Forty billion, one hundred sixty million, five hundred seventy-seven thousand, four hundred and two souls dead, all because of him.
And yet, he lived.
The truth was that there was no healing to be had. No rehabilitation, no restoration of the damage he had done, or the lives he had cost. There was only this guilt, anathema to the cruel taunt of a future that had never been his to have. Because despite the tether he clung to â despite the strength in the arms that held him and the promise of safety they offered, it all remained out of Armitageâs reach.
Inside him existed a labyrinth, a maze of shadows he could not navigate; where every turn took him deeper into a web that waited, closer to the monster that stalked from a darkness he had never been able to hide from. And logic rose up like a dead-end, because nothing explained why fate had allowed him to live â to walk free.
To have this.
Against him, Poe was solid. Warm. As real and there as the shouting voices beyond the atrium doors â two dueling forces that fought amongst the trodden battlefield of his heart. Armitage felt pulled in either direction: the need to be held accountable festered like a disease â but so did his desire to have this, have Poe, and the future the Galaxy had never seen fit to give him, but he had still hoped for, desperately, at the feet of what of he faced.
A future that now finally teased, waiting for him to accept â to take.
But his fingers were too weak where they curled into Poeâs collar, his arm too heavy where it pressed over Poeâs heaving chest. And his breath came too shallow when he turned his face into Poeâs neck. Beneath his mouth, Poeâs skin was warm, his scent thick. Around him, Poeâs arms held strong â clung to what Armitage could not â clung to them.
Armitage tried to allow the sensations to consume him, folding himself into the tenements of comfort heâd spent his whole life wishing were his.
Now they were, but he felt like half a man. Like the important parts of himself had been left behind in that Force-forsaken courtroom.
âArmitage,â Poe whispered broken, more rush of breath than sound.
Poe. His hand shook, his fingers held fast. Poeâ
His body sought him, instinctive. Desperate. Terror convinced him this would not last, would be stolen, while guilt demanded he deny it, push it away, let go, let himself fallâ
A hand passed through his hair, firm and possessive. And then a forehead touched his own. Poe pushed close, giving what Armitage did not have the strength to take. And Armitage was weak to it. He could not actually push Poe away as much as he could not muster the strength needed to hold onto him. And when a low voice soothed, âyouâre okay, Armitage,â he was as victim to the comfort it offered as he was guilty of the crimes that would deny it.
Iâm not okay.
He was anything but okay.
Armitage hardly remembered being drawn to his feet, remembered even less the cant of voices that came closer â not those from the courtroom beyond, but others â spectators still, though the production of his trial was technically over. And he could not stop the way his body tried to fall: the shivery, unsteady foundation of his legs â the way his muscles coiled and his heart sped up â the way the world tilted, despite his eyes remaining closed and the firm hold Poe maintained upon him.
âHere, Poe, let me help.â
A second arm joined Poeâs, sliding solid beneath his shoulder. A layer of strength that bolstered, as the burden of what Poe carried was shared with another.
When Armitage looked up to see Finn watching him, his presence struck like a punch. As disconcerting as his testimony had been, this was another push-pull that tore at Armitage â made all the more severe by the concern he saw in Finnâs eyes.
A concern he found mirrored in Phasma, when his eyes slid from Finnâs and the ice of her fierce stare found him over his shoulder. At her feet, BB-8 feebly chirped.
Friends, his mind supplied. Protectors, his heart added.
Undeserved, his conscious accused, unjustifiable.
Armitage dropped his head, let out a breath, felt when his fingers clutched at the men supporting him â how they shook, when his grip held too long. Emotion swelled, as did his bile. Nausea twisted as he began shaking even harder, but the arms around him strengthened their hold, and urged him forward.
The first step was the hardest.
The warbling acoustics of the atrium disappeared behind them. The arms around his waist and under his shoulders kept him upright, their touches anchoring him into the physical as his mind retreated into the recess of thought. Where they were taking him, he could not say. But he understood that without them he would be lost.
The hallway passed in pieces. The crack of their steps rang dull in his ears, like his senses had distended and what was left was an echo of their shapes. Poeâs presence was the single component that felt carved from reality, a strike of sensation along his left side that remained with him as his body began to feel increasingly distant with each passing step.
There was a moment when the lift arrived that two guards emerged from the opened door and Armitage nearly panicked. The guards hesitated, tension building as recognition dawned. Because surely they were there for himâ surely they were there to drag him away, back to his cell, back to that courtroom, because the judges had realized theyâd made a terrible mistake, had read the wrong verdict, tried the wrong crimeâ
The guards passed without incident â without so much as a word.
Inside the lift, it was all Armitage could do to remain standing he was shaking so hard. Finnâs arm retreated, and Poe pushed close, wedging him into the far corner while Phasma and Finn stood sentinel before the doors. Fighting his instinct to panic, Armitage focused on Poe: the possessive curl of his fingers at his waist, the way his breath hit his cheek, the way his voice dipped when he spoke; promises so softly spoken Armitage could not understand the words, let alone their meaning.
Youâre stronger than this, a voice in his head insisted. But itâs okay to be weak right now, a second, smaller voice claimed.
The hallway passed in broken fragments. It wasnât one he recognized, different from the cell block, though the shapes were still familiar. When they arrived at a door, the impregnated pause between when Finn knocked and when the hydraulics slid open grew so bloated Armitage was sure he was going to pass out. The lights overhead were too bright, the corridor stretched too long, and the doors were too numerous. Behind any one of them could be the fate heâd somehow escaped, waiting to spring from its hiding spot and snatch him away.
Armitage didnât think heâd have the strength to resist, or the will needed to fight â didnât think he deserved to escape it, if it came for him again.
The door in front of them opened on quiet, whisper-thin tracks.
The encompassing silence only lasted long enough for him to be led inside. The rush of voices hardly matched the faces suddenly surrounding him, though these were all people he knew â his friends, if Poe were to describe them. But there was a certain incongruency where his mind had yet to catch up to reality. Out in the hallway, everything was too abstract to really make the feeling plain. But here, closed within a shelter that felt far more like a home than his cell ever had, surrounded by people he knew, where safety should feel immediateâŠit was too fast, too strange, and all too much. His eyes passed unseeing over their swimming faces, seeking the only one that felt moored in any sort of reality he could grasp.
âIs heââ
âHugsââ
ââsome water?â
Poeâ
âIâm right here,â hit his ears before Poeâs face swiftly replaced his sight. Dark eyes bored up into him, strong hands secured at his waist. There was a pressure to them, one that urged â that matched the tug of Poeâs eyes as he held his, steady where Armitage was not. âGuys, thank you, but I think he needsââ
ââsome space.â
It was the single voice that was unfamiliar, at least in that the gravely distance of lightyears no longer obscured the twang of his accent, or the way his vowels dropped in the same way as Poeâs.
Poeâs father. His mind knew the shape of Kesâs face, even if he could not meet his eyes.
Kes drew them away from the others, away to where the lights dimmed low and a series of doors formed a short hallway.
âThanks, dad, Iâm so sorryââ
âThereâs no problem here, son. Iâll see to everyone, you justââ the break in conversation lasted long enough for one of the doors to open and reveal a bedroom beyond, ââtake care of him, yeah?â
âYeah, okay,â Poeâs voice fell hushed, barely a contour of words, âthank you, for everything.â
The whoosh of the door closing behind them was a herald to the silence that unfolded. And for a moment, it felt like the world itself had been shut away. Like within this darkened bedroom it was simply him and Poe and everything they shared. Here, in a place that looked like a home, with the man he dreamt of making one with, happiness teased.
But still, try as he might, Armitage could not grasp it. It passed through his fingers like water from a mirage. And when Poe moved away, fingers uncurling from Armitageâs sides to leave him standing deserted and alone, he could only wait and hope that Poe would come back to him with time, as if time were something he actually had, now.
You do have time, a voice inside him soothed, and youâre not alone.
Armitage swallowed, shifted, desperate to believe but unsure of the steadiness of his feet, or their ability to continue carrying his weight â to stand on his own, let alone follow Poe along the path he pursued.
Across the room, Poe moved with a quick confidence â steps sure, confident, like he knew where he was going, what he needed to do.
There was a ritual to the way Poe prepared the space. An intention that guided him to draw the blinds closed and the bedclothes back, to toe off his boots and set aside his belt. And when he returned to Armitageâs side, dark eyes swallowing the refracted light of the city beyond, his silence was a question.
Poe stared up at him as if the answer he sought was scrawled across his face. But all Armitage had was uncertainty â a million questions of his own and not a single one he expected to have a satisfying answer. Because everything he knew about the universe â about law and logic and reason and order, had been dashed to pieces at the feet of that courtroom.
Upon Armitageâs chest rested Poeâs ring, and in the absence of the answer Poe sought, his hand found that instead. Poeâs palm slid, warm and careful, to rest over his motherâs ring in a moment of stillness that did not explain the race of Armitageâs heart. It wasnât an answer he sought any longer so much as a confirmation. That Armitage was alive, maybe â that he was okay. He was not.
They had been here before, too many times to count, but never before had the moment felt drawn so thin; like one wrong move and Armitage might break completely â break for good.
Maybe he would.
Maybe he already had.
Armitageâs head dropped, his breath hitched, and he felt himself come apart, just a little more.
Poe pushed in close. Thumbs stroked over his sternum as Poe crowded in enough Armitage could feel breath collect in the cusp of his neck. His body sought it, anchored onto Poeâs touch, unresisting as hands slid across his collarbones to his shoulders, to carefully guide the jacket off and set it aside. When his hands returned it was to the collar around his neck.
Armitage met Poeâs eyes again as each clasp was undone in sequence, finding himself starkly reminded of another time, in another bedroom, when it had been his fingers tearing open a uniform that had nearly smothered him, begging for something he couldnât put a name to.
Then, Poe had put him back together â soothed his cracks and sealed his seams.
Now, it was almost like in stripping away his clothing Poe could strip away the memory of the last several days. Like when Finn had joined his strength to Poeâs, to carry him through the tower, Poe thought that whatever Armitage carried, he could carry it too â alleviate the weight, share the burden.
When Poe took his hand and slid his fingertips beneath his shirt cuff, to lay flat atop his wrist, his pulse fluttered as if it were their first time, and Armitage thought maybe he could.
When Poe undid his cuff, when he brought his exposed, binder-worn wrist to his mouth, his lips, and a kiss that lingered long past the slow tick of time, Armitage thought he felt a fraction of that weight lift.
And when Poeâs eyes met his, he felt it release.
Noâ Panic seized first, then the guilt. Armitage reached â intending to drag it back, but like everything else he tried to hold onto, it slipped through his grasp.
Armitage pulled in a deep, shuddering breath as he held Poeâs eyes.
I donât deserve this, his mind recoiled when Poe searched his gaze, when he took his other wrist in hand to repeat the motions, eyes maintaining their hold â warm and full and abundant.
Poeâs breath was hot where it pooled, lips against his wrist soft where they lingered, and his eyes held on even though Armitage felt he could not. And then Poe methodically stripped him of so much more than his clothing, until his wrists were free and his hands were shaking. Hands Poe took into his own, then brought to his lips, his face, layering Armitageâs palm over his cheek so he could lay a kiss there too.
Armitage did not resist. Could not, if he wanted to, because if he was too weak to fight fate, he was certainly powerless against Poe.
A silent compulsion drew them both to the edge of the bed. By the time Armitage sat down, he was shaking all over. Poe handled him gently: placing his shoes to the side, sliding his socks past his toes, and giving him the moment he needed, when hands smoothed up his thighs to again take his own, and his shaking became nearly unbearable.
The gentleness â the kindness of Poeâs touch made him feel exposed â undone in a way not even the trial had achieved. The urge to deny himself what Poe offered would have overwhelmed him if he werenât already exhausted. Instead, he bit his lip and dropped his head, to stare at where his hands rested in Poeâs. Watched the way Poeâs thumbs stroked slow, steadying circles into his silver scarred palms.
His shaking crested as Poe slid his pants and underthings past his hips, down his legs, folding them along the creases as he laid both atop the chair, Poeâs own clothing following swiftly behind. He was outright shivering when Poe drew him up the bed, under blankets that engulfed them, a sheltering mass of soft layers and a weighted filling that at once felt like he was he was a creature wrapped in chrysalis, cocooned away from a world that he no longer knew his place within.
But it wasnât until Poeâs bare body pressed up against his own, the sensation of skin to skin contact so immediate and overwhelming, that his thoughts bled away. Here, against Poe, he could think of nothing but the velvet of his skin, the heat of his body, and the hands that traveled his sides and drew them together. Wrapped within skin and shadows and a warmth that ebbed, for a moment it was as if the trial had never happened â like this was all that mattered, all that really could matter, in spite of everything he had faced.
When a hand touched his cheek, Armitageâs tears had already begun to fall. And when Poeâs lips met his forehead, the first sob escaped.
All at once, his walls came down.
Years of a misdirected pain emerged, purging alongside the anxiety of the previous weeks, and a lifetime of abuse he had built a fortress of reason to contain. He didnât understand. Nothing made sense. If his punishment was to live, then why was he being offered this? Was fate more cruel than he gave her credit for? Or was there really no logic to the universe? Because if a man like him could destroy a whole system and walk away, then what other monsters were out there waiting in the darkness? Where was justice in a world without law? Without order?
And where was his place in that world? What right did he have to remain safe within it, when he himself had been one of those very monsters?
Poe held him through it. Pushed his hands through his hair and tipped their foreheads together. Pulled him close when his sobs heaved full and his voice rasped thin. Mouth open in wretched, bone-rattling gasps, his fingers clutched at Poeâs waist as he clung to what he offered â like if he could only find the strength to hold on he could actually keep it.
You can, the small voice inside him dared. Youâre free.
But you shouldnât, the other voice said, sadly, because you donât deserve it.
This is your punishment, the judges had claimed.
Here is our pain.
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Morning on Ajan Kloss always had an uncanny ability to make each day feel like a new beginning. There was a certain quality to her sun breaking through the dense jungle palms that, while familiar, never felt monotonous. It would blossom and bloom into brilliant blue turquoise, the sounds of the jungle sparking awake alongside the light of her sun, birdsong and the chatter of fauna as dense as the trees themselves. On Ajan Kloss, Poe would wake excited, energized, ready to discover what new adventure her wilds would hold.
On Coruscant, however, morning snuck out of night. It bled past the spires, fighting against the pollution of light that never truly allowed the city to sleep. So much, that between the moment when Poeâs head had hit the pillow and now, little had changed except that the horizon had lightened enough to bleach the stars from the sky. And though many years had passed, even less had changed since Poe had called it home. Like Ajan Kloss, there was always something new to do or discover, a food to try or a culture to experience; but, after a while, all the towers speared the same, the smells bled together and the speeders shrieked a similar song, and time passed less in the cycle of her orbit so much as got caught in the banality of her rhythm.
Where Ajan Kloss was someplace to discover, Coruscant was somewhere to become lost.
So, when the city beyond the window dawned with the sun, it took Poe a long, long moment to realize that he was not still sleeping, that the person curled against him was real, and the unlikely events of the previous day had not been a dream.
Pillowed atop his chest, Armitage remained tucked into sleep. Body turned from the window, pale skin bathed in gentle shadow, Poe laid there and watched him breathe. Watched the twitch of his closed eyelids and the soft part of his mouth. Watched the way the puff of his exhale disturbed the hair that had fallen across his face, and how when Poe passed his thumb over his cheek, his brow crinkled with the slightest crease. His hand rested atop Poeâs chest, curled as if grasping something, so Poe slid his fingers into place beneath them. In his sleep, Armitage tightened his hand, sought his hold.
Once, these experiences had been as new and unfamiliar as Ajan Kloss had been. A large part of Poe had expected their separation to rekindle that sense of newness. Instead, waking to Armitage against him felt like coming home. It felt like the closing of Black Oneâs hatch over his head, or the trill of Chirrup under his hands. Of BB-8âs squeal or his fatherâs laugh or the weight of his motherâs ring around his neck; something he hadnât experienced in recent weeks but the integrity of the memory remained as intact as it had been the day heâd given the ring to the man in his arms.
The man in his arms. Safe and alive. Free. Armitage.
Poe couldnât keep himself from drawing their entwined hands to his lips. Beneath his touch, Armitage sighed in his sleep. Beyond the window, the sun rose upon a new day they would spend together.
Stars above, he could become lost to this â wanted to â dared think that nowâŠnow they would finally have the chance.
But when Armitage shifted against him â not just closer, but to burrow as if hiding: furrowed face turning into Poeâs neck, shoulders hunching beneath the blankets, fingers curling to squeeze Poeâs hand, and the longest, softest moan drew thin and broken from his chest, Poe knew they werenât there yet. Peace shifted uneasy, and the memories of the previous night whispered from the fading shadows. Because as physically free as Armitage may be, the shackles on his mind remained.
Poe didnât need the Force to understand what was going through Armitageâs head. He hadnât needed to hear the verdict to know that while Armitage may have walked away from an execution, his burden of guilt had only grown heavier.
And he certainly didnât need to stare at the chafed pink skin circling his wrist to understand the real weight of that burden. The evidence was plain, the cuffs that had bound him for weeks a ghostly reminder burned into his skin.
His thumb brushed the discolored aberration, edging slow, careful.
They broke him, Poe wouldnât let himself think, even as he turned his face into Armitageâs hair and breathed in deep. His scent was the same, all ozone and rain, just as the heat of his skin and the swell of his breath were all unchanged. Things that were right. Familiar. Fundamental. Tenements that still stood, despite the weight of what they carried.
Poe let out a long, shaking exhale. Within his arms, he felt Armitage twitch once more, body coiling, right at the edge of waking â something Poe could not help but want to prevent. So he brought him closer, arm tightening, hand drawing light through his fall of golden red hair, over his shoulder to soothe down his back. He could physically feel the tension bleed out. Felt as the comfort encouraged Armitage back under, deep into a place where maybe he felt peace â felt safe.
Iâll keep you safe, Poe affirmed to himself as his eyes slid shut â as his body met Armitageâs in warmth and softness, and his mind joined his under the twitchy fog of a half-sleep.
He drifted off like that, Armitage a solid weight against him, sleep-heavy and alive, the events of weeks past lost to the dim sounds of the city beyond. And when sleep finally came, it felt easy â like this were the future heâd spent months dreaming of: him and Armitage, on their way nowhere but their next somewhere, because each other was all they would ever possibly need.
It was the familiar smell of freshly brewed caf that eventually roused Poe again.
The sun had fully risen, and with it so had Kes. From beyond the door, Poe could hear him moving around the kitchen. The clink of mugs and the tittering chatter of BB-8 drifted lazy and idle from down the hall. Gentle, soothing sounds that might have pulled Poe back under the haze of sleep, except his stomach groaned empty at the suggestion of breakfast. But even hunger wasnât enough to draw him from beneath the blankets â not when Armitage remained tucked in beside him, their bodies heated to hot, skin sliding slick, perspiration beading behind his knees, across his chest, beneath Armitageâs not so substantial weight.
Sensation elevated the bare press of their skin. It would be so easy to roll Armitage over, get him on his back and slide beneath the blankets, forge a line of kisses down his sternum, past his ribs, over his belly to where his erection would be half-awake and take him in his mouth. Or further still, down between his legs, to part his thighs and nose his way deeper, find his most intimate place with his tongue, his fingers, and finally his cock. He could wake Armitage up to the gentle rock of his hips â a slow, lazy pace Poe would keep while Armitageâs eyelids fluttered open and his mouth parted with a sigh. His body would be pliant, his eyes sleep-softened and dreamy, but his lips would quirk with an obtuse affection â not a smirk but neither a smile â a self-indulgent satisfaction that would draw Poe down to his lips for a long, slow kiss.
Poe nearly groaned at the idea. Between their bodies, he felt his erection stir, but a particularly loud clatter from the kitchen helpfully resolved his thoughts away from anything more.
Gotta get up, his mind insisted, even as his arm circled Armitage to hold him close. Because how could he leave Armitage like this: sleep-sticky and safe at his side?
âArmitage,â he whispered into his hair, breath hardly a sound â a resistance, if there ever was one, to ending this.
Itâs just the beginning, Poe promised himself, this isnât an end to anything.
Against his side, Armitage moaned, all soft and breathy, before quieting back to stillness. It broke Poeâs heart to even think of waking him â to go back to the night before, when heâd dragged Armitage through the corridors of a tower of enemies, away from a danger that had maybe not stopped hunting him since that moment on the Steadfast. Followed them here, into this room, to be chased away not by Poeâs touch, but by tears and fatigue and finally exhaustion. When sleep had claimed Armitage Poe had laid awake well into the night wondering if anything would ever return to the way it had been.
Here, like this, sleep-warmed and alone, it was easy to pretend the last several weeks had never happened. Here, peace lingered innocent. Poe knew it wouldnât last.
The alternative, however, was worse. The alternative might allow Armitage to remain under the blankets, but heâd wake alone to a cold bed in an unfamiliar room, the memory of the past night haunting him like a dream too good to be true. And Poe had already promised himself he was never leaving Armitageâs side again.
âArmitage,â Poe said a little louder, âitâs time to wake up.â
A sigh this time, Armitageâs mouth parting to press wetly to his chest while the arm around Poeâs waist curled tighter.
âMaking an effort to earn your name, Hugs?â Poe couldnât keep the mirth from his voice.
It was faint, but the groan gave him up. Armitage was awake. And exactly as Poe expected, the pall of this easy morning drew back like a shroud. Against him, Armitage went rigid, and then completely still.
Time moved slowly as Armitage pushed himself up enough to turn his head and look at Poe. In the mid-morning light, he looked beautiful: mussed hair catching like fire in the filtered sun, eyes so pale as to nearly be translucent, cheek pinked from where it had rested so long against Poeâs chest. But mostly, it was the flicker of expressions that left Poe breathless. The passing of emotion across Armitageâs face as he went from sleep-addled confusion to tentative disbelief, before finally settling upon a deep, nascent desperation.
âPoe,â broke impossibly quiet.
Only after he heard it did Poe realize it was the first thing Armitage had said to him yet â since last evening â since weeks.
Poe reached up, trailed a single finger down Armitageâs sleep-pinked cheek.
âArmitage,â he said softly, finger resting under his chin, holding him to this like if Armitage were to turn away heâd take something important with him. Armitage did not turn away. His eyes roved over Poeâs face, never settling, never blinking, as if to do so would have him disappear. The idea was achingly returned. Poe didnât dare look away from Armitage â not now â not ever, if he had his way. Carefully, he allowed his fingers to travel up Armitageâs jaw, down his neck, his shoulder, to find his hand where it rested atop his chest. He took it in his own.
Armitage didnât pull away. He eyes held on as Poe threaded their fingers together in a loose grip. A victory, if Poe was counting. He was â he absolutely was.
âMorning, beautiful.â
Instead of answering, Armitageâs fist curled and his eyes finally closed. Poe knew what it was: a desperate clutch, one last grasp on a moment that was already slipping through their fingers. Poe helped him hold onto it in the only way he knew how: he leaned in close enough that their breath bled together â not quite touching Armitageâs lips, but offering up the suggestion.
They stayed like that, the moment stretching over the edge of something important. Poe didnât push it. How could he, when just the warm spill of Armitageâs breath made him feel spoiled? When the tickle of his hair and the abiding cant of his body were already so much more than what Poe had allowed himself to imagine during all their time apart?
So when Armitage did shakily press forward, lips dragging in a slow search, Poe met him with a careful, covetous reverence.
The kiss was simple, slow, as tentative as that first time was not, when it had been another room on another planet, and another version of them both finding one another amongst the fallout of war â a war that had shaped not just the Galaxy, but both their lives. Then, Armitage had initiated, all fire and desperation and an aching hunger â now, they met on equal ground, finding each other in the velvet press of skin against skin, the heat of a battle traded for an overdue armistice.
Poe opened his mouth, tilted his head â made room to deepen the kiss â nearly moaned when Armitageâs tongue delicately touched his.
For a brief, intangible moment, everything fell away. The sounds from the kitchen, the keen of the city, even the rush of his own breath felt drowned in the moment. All that existed was them, like this, cocooned by a peace found in the quiet of a gentle morning, the world held at bay because reality was not the events of weeks past, but the press of their lips, and the tangle of their limbs.
All too soon, it ended.
A shudder passed through Armitage; a tremble that started in his hand and quickly traversed his body in small, minute shivers. Then Armitage was pulling away â not far â but enough to break the kiss as he tipped their heads together and shook.
âItâs okay,â Poe whispered, allowing Armitage the vice-like hold on his hand while the other traveled up his back. âYouâre safe, Iâm here, Iâm not going anywhere.â
Armitage made a sound, small and strangled, and then silence bloated â distending with all theyâd left unsaid.
There was a stretch of time where all Poe did was listen to Armitage struggling to breathe. Where the press of their bodies together no longer felt like a comfort but rather a necessity, like if either were to pull away everything would unravel â be stolen from them. It was an easy notion to get lost in, after all theyâd been through, and Poe found himself grasping desperately for Armitage. Beneath his touch, Armitage coiled, then slowly bent.
With a gentle coaxing, Poe was able to draw him back down to his chest.
It wasnât enough, but it would have to do â for now.
âIâm sorry,â Armitage eventually whispered into the quiet, his words weighted with so much more than this moment.
âMe too, Hugs,â Poe confessed. âIâm sorry I couldnâtââ he broke off, a sudden swelling of guilt bringing heat to his eyes, ââIâm sorry I couldnât get to you sooner. Iâm sorry I couldnât be there for you. Iâm sorry I couldnâtââ
The fingers that covered his lips were soft, but unforgiving.
The eyes that met his begged with a simple understanding â that none of this was to be placed as blame.
But that wouldnât stop Poe from feeling it. He peeled back Armitageâs fingers, twined them with his own again, and spoke against their joined hands:
âIâm sorry I couldnât save you.â
Armitageâs eyes closed as if heâd been struck, and then the tremors were back, this time with a quiet, wet sob. His hand slipped from Poeâs, to instead press a fist against his mouth.
âIâm sorry for making you cry,â Poe said in a rush, blinking back the sting of heat â thumb tracing under Armitageâs closed lid, down his still pink cheek and the path his tears took, to take his hand and draw his fist away. âIâm sorry youâre hurting, and that I canât do more to take your pain away.â
âShut up, Dameron,â hissed broken from Armitageâs un-used throat. Despite his tears, when Armitage opened his eyes, they glimmered with a life that had felt so far away last night. The pain was still there, overwhelming and awful, but something else too â something familiar, something that gave Poe hope.
It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Armitageâs eyes squeezed shut, as if hurt, and his face split in a deep, agonizing grimace.
Poe couldnât stop his tears coming. Couldnât stop the sound he made, a sob or a whimper or aâ
So swiftly Poe nearly gasped, Armitage pushed forward into a kiss.
âI said shut up,â Armitage pressed against his mouth, half-whisper, half-sob. âThereâs nothingââ a whimper this time, when Poeâs arms came around Armitage so tightly their bodies felt crushed. Except, Armitage pushed even closer, closed more distance. A palm on his cheek was a warm weight, though it still trembled, as Armitage said, âYou have nothing to apologize for.â
âIâm sorry for waking you up?â Poe tried again, allowing the thinnest thread of mirth to reach his voice. He felt when Armitage reacted: hand curling in a light drag along his stubble, a fractured smile against his lips that broke through the desolate veneer â it was small, and it didnât last, but it was there for one brief, monumental moment.
It was enough. For now â it was enough.
âI love you,â Poe whispered in a rush, pushing Armitage back enough to see his eyes. âI love you so fucking much,â repeated even as Armitageâs shaking returned, and his face contorted in painful, shattered proportions. Pushing a hand into his hair, Poe pulled him back down â not to his lips, but to tip their heads together. It felt like heaven, to have the spill of Armitageâs shuddering breaths touch his lips, to feel him shiver as Poe repeated the words into the scant space separating them, a mantra of emotion that anchored them together in defiance of the turmoil that was tearing them apart.
âI love you,â Poe said, âIâll always love youââ
âFuck,â Armitage rasped as he dropped his face into Poeâs neck, fingers finding Poeâs hair and gripping hard as Armitage held on. âFuckââ
âItâs okay,â Poe tried to assure.
âIâm not okay.â Armitage hissed as he pushed back. âI donât know ifââ he cut himself off, head hanging, hair obscuring his face so all Poe had were his words, ââI donât how to come back from this.â
âArmitage,â Poe heard his own voice drop. Gone was the mirth, the relief â replaced with an affirmation, a promise. âYou will. Iâll help you. Weâll all help you.â
Armitage met his eyes, green-gray catching the light in a translucent depth, like the still water of an arctic ocean â beautiful, but worryingly bereft.
Except, somehow, in them, Poe could see everythingâ
âBut what if youâre not supposed to help?â Armitage spoke quietly into a morning that did not wait, and a world that had made it clear it did not want him, âwhat if Iâm not supposed to come back from it?â
The words came down with the weight of everything Armitage carried.
Guilt. So much guilt. Unimaginable in its magnitude, crushing in its weight.
It was enough â enough to kill a man, or at least smother the parts that mattered most.
It was all Poe could do to hold Armitage up, but still his head fell, hair hanging lank and lifeless, shoulders shuddering with each labored breath.
The patter of tears across Poeâs chest splashed blood-black amongst the pale shadows.
Iâll fix this, Poe promised himself in a desperate bid, hands gripping hard at Armitageâs sides. Iâll make sure youâre okayâ
The shush of the bedroom door opening cut Poe off from whatever false promise he might have made.
Suddenly exposed, Armitage nearly jumped out of his skin â was in fact only held together by the hold Poe maintained on him. By now, Poe couldnât help but think he was holding together far more than he realized. His fingers curled hard, possessive, over Armitageâs ribs.
From the hall BB-8 chirped a hesitant greeting. Domed head barely high enough to peer over the edge of the bed, it rolled past the threshold so the door could close behind it â but not before a particularly loud yelp and a string of innocent curses from down the hall alerted Armitage to the fact they were not alone. His body went even more rigid in Poeâs arms, face fluxing with the thoughts Poe knew were going through his head.
The speed of which he landed on a conclusion would have made Poe smile, if not for the careful tone of his voice. âYour father?â
âYeah,â Poe quietly confirmed, âheâs been staying with me. This is Leiaâs suite, actually, sheâs been letting us use it.â
Armitage didnât acknowledge him, attention on BB-8 as it noisily rolled around in place at the foot of their bed.
âAnd youâve allowed your droid to fall behind on maintenance?â
âBB?â Poe looked past Armitageâs shoulder to where BB-8 was now unsuccessfully trying to hide behind a pile of bedding, âyouâre fine, right BB?â
A solemn trill claimed otherwise, the loud whir of its motor confirmed thatâŠyeah, okay, maybe he had.
âYou should tend to your father,â Armitage said as he pushed against the resistance of Poeâs arms. A moment stretched, when Poe nearly didnât let him go. When he was confronted with the reality that everything had changed now â that while Armitage may be safe, he was certainly not okay. In fact, might not be okay for a very, very long time.
It was a realization that hurt like nothing else could â because it was true, Poe hadnât been able to keep Armitage safe, he in fact could have done a whole lot more to that end. That he should have taken Armitage away when he had the chance reared ugly â insisted that they escape in that transport, to find safety among the stars, where Armitageâs ghosts couldnât find him, let alone the New Republic.
But he hadnât, and now, here they were.
He didnât let Armitage go so much as he gave him the choice to leave. His arms loosened, and his hands unclenched.
Slowly â maybe reluctantly â Armitage slipped from Poeâs arms. He only went so far as to sit at the edge of the bed, but it already felt like too far. And as the blinds beyond diffused the late morning light, so Armitage was left bathed in shadow, a mere shade of the person Poe knew was still there, now hiding, because he thought the shadows were the only place he belonged, Poe knew he needed to handle all this very carefully.
Shit. Poe didnât know why he felt so surprised. Didnât expect to feel this defeated.
Beside the bed, BB-8 bumped Armitageâs shin, dome cocked as it trilled a tentative question.
âThank you BB, but I am more concerned about your motor. Are your power cells giving you trouble?â
And all Poe could do was watch as Armitage rubbed at his cheeks â quick, efficient swipes that pushed away evidence of his tears.
And somehow, just like that, all the emotion from before was gone, tucked behind those newly constructed walls. Walls already erected so high and so suddenly as to feel insurmountable. It was all Poe could do to lay there and watch as the man he loved re-assembled himself into the picture of what he thought he should be, while nursing a coil of fear that it was but a matter of time before he was pushed away too.
I wonât let him, Poe thought with enough conviction that he actually believed himself.
But as Armitage stood on legs that the night before had been too unsteady to hold his own weight, let alone everything else which he carried, speaking words that came too easily after a silence that had stretched soul-deep, it wasnât conviction Poe felt, but an ebbing unease.
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âPoe, thank the stars.â
When Poe entered the kitchen, Kes was caught between juggling a plate of half-burned toast and the open flame of the stove. It didnât take more than a quick glance around for it to quickly became apparent that his father was in over his head.
âDad,â Poe carefully measured out the level of disaster that had become the kitchen and decided breakfast wasnât entirely out of the question â not yet. But was that really raw egg on the cabinets? âIâm pretty sure the eggs were dead before you went and beat the kriff out of âem.â
âWhat? Oh, you meanââ Poe caught the hot pan before it could clatter off the edge of the stovetop as Kes abandoned his eggs for the mess across the counter, ââthat was BB. I think itâs got some circuits crossed. It wanted to help and I thought scrambling the eggs would be simple enough. Next thing we knewââ Kesâs explosive gesture was a more than accurate explanation, and nearly as messy.
âDad!â Poe gasped as the stack of toast slid precariously towards the edge of the plate Kes still held. âHere, justâ let me, alright?â
Kes allowed Poe to pluck the plate of toast from his hand before it could all toppled to the floor. Of all the crisis heâd encountered this morning, at least this one Poe could help someone avoid.
âArmitage is looking at BB,â Poe said as he carefully set the toast on the counter next to a chopped-up pile of vegetables, âHe noticed something was wrong too. Heâll figure it out.â
âYeah?â Kes stepped back as Poe turned towards the eggs. Half were cooked to the bottom of the pan while the rest were a cold wet mess. Poe sighed and turned down the heat.
âHeâs good with tech,â Poe said simply, not needing to go into detail. Kes didnât push him, he asked something much worse.
âHowâs he doing?â
Poe pressed his lips together, though his sigh escaped through his nose. In the pan, Poe couldnât decide if the eggs looked salvageable â he gave them a stir regardless.
âOh, Poe,â Kes said softly, âitâs been a lot, for both of you.â
âI know.â
âIâm looking forward to meeting him?â
Poe did grimace at that, âHeâs not at his best. Go easy on him, okay?â
âSo I shouldnât ask him what his intentions are with my son?â
The quirk to Kesâs lips was teasing, but as Poe imagined what Armitageâs response might be to the question, it was enough to wipe all mirth from his fatherâs face.
âThat bad?â
Poe shrugged, diverted his gaze. âI donât know. Iâm justââ Poe cut himself off, glancing down the hall to make sure the door to his bedroom was still safely closed, ââIâm so relieved this is all over, but that trialâŠâ Poe turned back to the eggs, watched how the dried out edges peeled back from the sheen of the panâs surface, how the stuff at the center still ran too thin. âItâs like he thinks he deserved to be found guilty. That heâs not allowed to be happy, even though heâs been found innocent.â
Kes was quiet. It was not an easy silence. It was also not one that lasted.
âYou werenât there for the verdict,â spoken like it was an explanation. Like Poe had missed some critical fact. Poe glanced over as his father and suddenly realized that maybe he had.
âWhat do you mean?â
It didnât take more than a cursory search on the Holo-Net to bring up the recording. Poe took the pad and turned the sound down low, so as not to be heard over the sizzle of the eggs.
âFuck,â Poe breathed when it was over, âthose kriffing assholesââ
âHeâs basically been told living is his punishment.â
âThatâs bullshit.â Poe couldnât keep the vehemence from his voice, or stop the way it raised in a soft shout.
Kes gave him a sad look â all commiseration. âI agree. I think it was the only way they could let him go without sending the Republic into a complete tizzy. People are having a hard enough time swallowing the verdict without Von-Arcâs speech.â
âSo you think it was all a front, to appease the masses?â
âI think he was found innocent,â Kes said carefully, âI think it doesnât really matter what was meant.â
âIt matters to him.â Saying it aloud hurt, because it meant all of this â the trial, the last several weeks here and before on Ajan Kloss, the publicity and recordings and invasion of their privacy â all that suffering was for nothing. Where was the healing in this? How was anyone supposed to move on, find peace, feel resolution, no matter what side of the issue they fell on? The citizens of the New Republic hadnât gotten what they wanted, but neither had he and Armitage. Somehow, this half-made justice had made everything worse.
âI think these are ruined.â Poe turned off the heat and abandoned the eggs to the pan.
The kitchen table was already set for three, built deep into a nook with a large window overlooking the city beyond. Late morning spilled bright over the colorful napkins and silver cutlery. Leiaâs appointments were surprisingly colorful: bright, boldly patterned napkins and miss-matched mugs that looked so out of place as to nearly be comical.
But this wasnât Leiaâs doing â this was all Kes. A charming attempt at welcoming Armitage into the family: the meal, the prepared place setting, the bright green mug with a grumpy looking cat with a bold âyouâre stressing meowtâ embossed beneath it. There was a teabag sat atop the napkin, some variation of a black breakfast leaf that Poe could smell where he stood, and the electric kettle warmed and waiting but a hands span away. Poe would have been touched, if not for the sour curl of anger deep inside his gut spoiling it all. Poe frowned as he dropped into a chair that had already been pulled out, pushing back on its legs to balance precariously on their edge.
A sigh from his father was all the reprimand he got.
Beyond the window, Coruscant was long awake. The city sounds drifted through the transparisteel despite the distance of the speeder lanes this high up the tower. But Poe knew if he looked he would see the crowds in the streets, the protesters with their signs and their chants and their demand for justice â the lawful kind or as likely some kind of vigilante justice Poe didnât even want to consider.
Of all his problems, some crazy civilian coming after Armitage seemed like the least of them.
Or would have, if Kes hadnât turned the sound back up on his data pad at the precise moment the door to the bedroom shushed open.
âDadââ but Poe was too late. In the hallway, Armitage had gone still. His eyes distant, his fingers lank.
The scathing tone of the reporter would have been enough. The words he spoke, however, landed like blows to Armitageâs face. His already fractured composure crumbled as the man spoke of Senator Ofantâs floated civil action that would request the Senate to call for a civilian re-trial. Poe knew enough about lawmaking to understood it wasnât possible â it was a play for power, nothing more. But Armitage wouldnât know. He was a stranger in this world â a world that made it more clear every day that it did not want him in it.
âDad, turn it offââ
It was the sound of the tool kit Armitage carried clattering to the floor that finally alerted Kes to his arrival. From behind, Poe heard his dad curse, and then fumble his pad to the floor as it landed with a sharp crack.
The recording played on, until it didnât â but the damage had already been done.
In the hallway, Armitage stared down at the scattered tools from a distance so much further than his height allowed. Poe was on his feet before Armitage could look up. Was at his side before he could turn tail and run.
âHey,â he said as he placed a hand at his waist.
âForgive me,â Armitage pushed out, before dropping to his knees to collect the tools.
Poe carefully knelt beside him. Armitageâs breath was coming fast, and his hands shook as they gathered the tools into a pile. Like a hunter approaching a trapped beast, Poe reached out not for the tools but Armitageâs hands. His resistance quickly crumbled, when Poe pulled them into his own. It was then Poe noticed the grip Armitage had on the hydrospanner was tight enough to turn his fingers white.
âEverythingâs okay,â Poe murmured, voice soft enough for just them, âyou donât need to apologize.â
A little of that familiar fire returned to Armitageâs eyes when he met Poeâs.
âIt was clumsy of me,â he snipped, less at Poe than at himself. But Poe didnât care, because as he watched, the fire turned to anger, and Poe clung to the relief at seeing anything other than that pain, or despair, or that awful distance in his eyes.
âYouâre not one to talk about clumsy, kid.â
Kesâs shadow cast wide as he stepped up beside them, blocking out the bright glow of the sun. Armitage noticeably jerked forward, a stray beam of light catching on the familiar shape of dull metal as it slipped from behind his shirt collar, to swing into the empty space separating the three of them.
Altogether, their attention leveled upon the necklace hanging from Armitageâs neck: his motherâs ring.
Armitage reacted first, dropping the hydrospanner to grab the ring instead, eyes darting to Poe and then back to Kes.
And suddenly, all the anger and distance was replaced with a torturous panic â a desperation.
Poe had no choice but to follow Armitage up as he launched to his feet and began the frenetic process of tugging the ring over his head.
âOh,â Kes stood awkwardly, hand to the back of his head as a pinkish sort of stain covered his face, âNo no, thatâs yours.â In his other hand, his datapad flickered sadly.
Only then Poe noticed the screen was completely shattered.
It was the last straw.
Poe couldnât stop himself â he burst out laughing.
The sound tore out of him: large guffaws that tightened his stomach and buckled his knees, so he hunched over himself as tears beaded his eyes and a smile split his face. He must have sounded manic â absolutely crazy â because he could see from behind the shimmer of tears how Armitage and Kes stared at him, expressions entirely different but equally horrified at the absurdity of Poeâs reaction.
Because it was absurd. All of this was absurd: the irony, the trial, the fucking newscasters having any sway over their emotions when everyone knew they were nothing but Ofantâs men â not to mention the fact that barely hours prior he was three-hundred stories above, convinced Armitage was already dead, and now here he was, meeting his dad, worrying about a ring, alive and safe and not going anywhere, even if he didnât think he deserved to be here at allâ
But it was fine. All of this was fine. He could deal with this.
Because Armitage was safe. Armitage was alive. He was free.
Iâll convince him, Poe affirmed as he took Armitageâs hands and dislodged the ring from his trembling fingers.
âDad,â Poe breathed out between stifled gasps, âclean that up, would ya?â It wasnât a question, which obviously terrified Armitage, going by the wide eyes that met Poeâs and the gray cast his skin took on, because who would talk to their father like thatâ
Poe grinned wider, eyes anchored to Armitageâs as he guided him out of the darkened hallway and into the bright kitchen. Light spilled obscene from the breakfast nookâs window, illuminating the pale green-gray of Armitageâs eyes as they held his. There was genuine concern there, tentative and raw. Poeâs smile at once grew wider.
âPoe, are youââ
Poe shook his head. âSit down, right here, yeah â you want tea?â Rushed out of him as guided Armitage down onto the bench before the place-setting with the bright green cat mug. âMy dad probably guessed what you liked but Leiaâs got a thing for tea too and Iâm sure thereâsââ
âThis is fine, thank you,â said so politely that Poe couldnât help but laugh again. Nor could he stop himself from reaching out and touching the soft skin under Armitageâs chin. First his face lifted, then his eyes.
Armitage stared up at him â irises edged white, brows drawn together, mouth pressed so tightly it could almost be a sneer.
It was impossible to resist. Bending over, he pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to Armitageâs lips.
âPoeââ whispered as soon as he pulled away. Their fingers brushed when Armitageâs hand flew to his mouth, to touch where Poeâs lips had just been. His face was quickly turning pink, his eyes remaining wide, darting between Poe and where Kes knelt, now accompanied by a shrieking BB-8. In his other hand, Sharaâs ring was gripped tight. His fist was making a steady trek towards his collar as if Armitage intended to hide it away in the face of not being allowed to remove it.
Poe reached out, took his hand, and smoothed his thumb over his fingers until he found his way in and pried them apart. When the ring fell from Armitageâs grip to rest against his chest, Poe made it clear it was to remain there, by drawing Armitageâs hand up to his mouth.
He let his lips rest against his knuckles â let his eyes hold Armitageâs in a protracted moment of â well, Poe dared call it happiness.
When Poe finally let him go, Armitageâs hand was shaking again. He watched as it returned to the ring â not to hide it away or remove it â but for the anchor it provided in the absence of Poeâs touch. When Armitage slipped the ring over the tip of his thumb, Poe turned away with a flush of his own.
âI hope you like carbs because my dad ruined the eggs,â Poe casually threw over his shoulder as he made his way towards the plate of toast. Kes grumbled as he regained his feet, BBâs indignant trill hounding him back to the table, where Poe watched him place the tool kit carefully beside Armitageâs place-setting. It was equally awkward and endearing when Armitage, still flushed pink, still gripping Sharaâs ring, issued a genteel thank you.
When Poe turned away, this time it was to hide his grin.
On the stove top, the eggs sat forgotten, cooked edges peeled back, the center still wet and loose. Across the counter, the shredded ingredients to Kesâs scramble idled. Suddenly, Poe had an idea.
It took hardly any effort to turn the stove back on and warm the pan, to assemble the ingredients into a shape that fit, even if it wasnât the one originally intended.
Pan in one hand and the stack of toast in the other, Poe approached a morning far different from the one heâd greeted. Armitage sat tinkering not on BB-8, but at his fatherâs datapad, while Kes rambled on about how Poe got all his finesse from his mother and that he was lucky he was such a good shot with how absolutely awful his coordination was.
âI thought you said I ruined those?â Kes clearly squawked when Poe arrived with the pan full of eggs.
âYeah, well, I fixed âem,â Poe preened as he pushed a portion of the omelet onto his fatherâs plate.
When he served Armitage, their eyes met, then held.
There was something there â something new. A desperation still, but a hunger too. Because regardless of what Armitage may not think he deserved â it was clear to Poe what he wanted.
Beyond the window, Coruscantâs morning ambled on indifferent of the scene inside their suite, or the life of the man so many of her people thought should be dead. A man who sat broken, but not ruined, because Poe was confident enough to admit that together, nothing was beyond their ability to fix.
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The little cruiser almost looked Order-issued. If not for the lack of a weapons array Armitage would have presumed it came from one of his Destroyers. The disarmament of the fleet was nearly at a close, heâd learned as much from Kes, of all people. The relocation was going slowly, what with the intake of the crew becoming less of a re-homing than an endeavor to properly transition the people of the Order into a civilian lifestyle.
Civilian. It wasnât a term Armitage had much use for, before. Now, he thought of Poeâs datapad and the Core Credential Pass that had been sent to it, the one with his name and image and a red little tick next to the designator of Civilian. Now, Armitage was beginning to define the word with a little more substance.
Heâd compared his pass to Poeâs. Despite his best effort to discover something, there was no indication of his former status as a General of the First Order â not even a mention of his trial for war crimes or his guilt regarding Starkiller Base. The pass was unassuming, common, the only difference between his and Poeâs the indicator that marked Poe as retired Military.
Mr. Armitage B. Hux, the pass claimed, Red hair, green eyes, 185 cm, organ donor.
Poe had smiled when heâd pointed that out, how magnanimous, heâd quipped, his wink a gentle tease.
Now, as Poe flashed their identification at the attendant manning the hangar, he couldnât stop from wondering if there had been something to the pass heâd missed. The attendantâs eyes roved his face with a curious attention, the twist of their lips a blatant tell.
Youâre famous, his mind quipped. Now the whole Galaxy knows your face.
Because there was no escaping the stares as he followed Poe towards their ship. Their cruiser waited amongst a scuttle of similar ships, small skips meant for individual travelers and the private yachts of the Senatorial elite. The technicians manning the bay scattered upon their arrival, those going over the safety checks upon their own ship quickening their pace once they realized whose cruiser they were tending.
Armitage tried to ignore the way one of them stared â the cold calculation in his eyes as he packed up his tools and slid off in the direction of launch command.
He felt frozen in place, staring off after the technician as ice crawled down his spine, unable to shake the weariness that all it would take was one wrong turn of a wrench and their ship could become compromised.
Youâre rightfully paranoid, a voice inside him sniffed, one that had kept him alive too many times to count. But also one that had crossed too many lines to pursue that paranoia. Lines that he knew he would not be able to cross again, not anymore.
That was how Leia found him, when she arrived to see them off.
âArmitage,â she said after a moment had passed where he did not register her arrival. The buzz of her Force brushed his thoughts shortly after â careful, tentative, concerned. âItâs good to see you,â she spoke from a genuine, gentle place.
His response came as a shuddering exhale, a quick meeting of her gaze. He couldnât hold it â not after everything: all that sheâd done to see him safe, and the disappointing result of that work â the disappointment of a person sheâd chosen to defend.
Leia pursed her lips and took his hand to lead him up the loading ramp.
âI wish I could go with you two,â Leia sighed as the three of them entered the cruiser. âI think Iâm actually growing too old for this. Since when was being a general less exhausting than being a politician?â
âBecause as a general, people tend to obey you,â Armitage muttered in deference. Leiaâs grin widened.
âYouâre not running for Senate again, are you?â Poeâs head popped around a corner from where heâd been stowing their bags in the crew quarters; his playfully aghast expression barely hid his excitement.
âYou think Iâd win the vote? After the stunt I pulled?â Leia snorted, âIâm about as unpopular as this guy here.â
Armitage flushed not pink, but red.
Poeâs laugh was low â moving through him like a roll of thunder after a storm had weathered its course. The arm that came around his waist drew him through the ship to the co-pilotâs seat, and Armitage did not need any more urging than that to sit down.
âYou should come, everyone would love to see you,â Poe insisted again, as if Leia would be visiting old friends rather than overseeing the tear-down of a base they all had begun to call home. What awaited them on Ajan Kloss was not a reprieve â it was more pain. A different kind of pain, maybe, then what heâd always known, but one he was growing fast familiar with â encountering at every turn, each time he looked at his Core Pass and that distant, implacable absurdity reared vicious.
Vicious, but also tempting. Tempting, because it seemed so easy to accept it, even though he knew none of it was his to have.
The thought had already crossed his mind: that he should leave. Remove himself. Maybe not in the way the New Republic would have preferred, but effectively enough that he would no longer burden them with his existence. A self-imposed exile that would assuage their pain and his guilt, if not Poeâs desire for a future Armitage was not so sure he could live up to.
Three days of this: of waking to Poeâs body pressed alongside his, slow and lazy, like something so simple could actually be easyâŠit was not easy. None of this felt easy. It felt like if Armitage didnât walk away on his own it would all be snatched away the moment he accepted it was real. Heâd felt this way before, so many months before â when a storm had arrived and brought with it a fate Armitage had dared forget had always hunted him. Then, he had felt bolstered by this thing between him and Poe. Now, he felt drawn thin by it.
Now, he couldnât help but think he understood what Von-Arc really meant, when heâd told Armitage to live with the pain of what heâd done.
Pain wasnât just the guilt of forty-billion strangerâs souls on his consciousness.
Pain was knowing the world didnât want him.
Pain was the constant tease of happiness even though he knew he didnât deserve it.
Pain was watching the man he loved try so hard to shape their circumstances into something where that happiness fit.
Pain was pretending he was okay for the sake of that man, when he really, really was not.
And pain would be watching Poeâs heart slowly break, when it became clear Armitage was not going to get better.
âArmitage.â
He jolted where he sat, eyes flying up to meet Leiaâs as if heâd been caught out, thoughts exposed. Maybe he had â her gaze regarded him with a certain knowing.
Her words revealed more than he cared to admit.
âMy offer still stands, you know.â
âOffer?â He tried to play dumb.
âMmm,â hummed as she leaned forward and touched his shoulder, and then, carefully, his temple. âThose ruts, remember?â
âRen is of little consequence anymore,â Armitage snapped and immediately regretted it. Leia hardly deserved this side of him, not anymore. When he looked into her eyes, however, there was no acknowledgment of his slip. Only a kindness that edged bright against his despair.
âNo, heâs really not, is he? These run much deeper,â her touched lingered, her fingers light, her Force nowhere to be felt, âand much older.â
All Armitage wanted was to turn away, turn inward, but Leia would not release him. It was then he noticed they were alone â a rare moment, one Poe hadnât allowed since their reunion.
âWhy did they let me go?â slipped out of him before he could stop it. He hadnât spoken much about the trial. Poe had avoided the topic unless Armitage broached it himself. But Leia â she had been there. She would have known the judgesâ minds, if not their hearts.
Carefully, Leia lowered herself to the pilotâs chair, eyes never leaving his.
âWhy does it matter?â Leia asked instead of answering. The question felt like a trap, and while Armitage parsed an answer that would allow him to avoid it, his nails dug into the soft cusp on his palms. Suddenly, he wondered if he didnât understand better what she meant about his ruts.
âI canât forgive myself,â he finally settled on.
âAnd you think their forgiveness would help that?â
The trap was sprung â unavoidable, it seemed. âNo.â
Leia watched him for a long quiet moment before finally speaking, âI know itâs not the answer you want, but their reasoning does not matter. You are free now, Armitage. What you do with that freedom is up to you. If you cannot change the past, you can at least take control of your future,â Leia paused, head cocked, eyes holding his. Whatever she saw eased something honest and raw out of her. âI agree that, ideally, I wish your trial had offered you some closure. But I canât help but feel that might have been a short cut to the easy road.â
Finnâs words returned: He chose the hard road â Armitage wasnât so sure if it was that heâd chosen it, so much as it was the only road marked on the map heâd been given. A map that had lied to him â that had not led him to somewhere better â but down a road of immeasurable damage.
âI deserve to suffer.â
âNo,â Leiaâs voice dropped over the word, âyou deserve to heal, and to have a chance at life. A real life. One where your happiness is self-made, and feels earned.â
âAnd if I canât?â Armitage breathed with all the fear and despair and want he felt, âIf I canât make my own happiness, what then? What will Poe do, if I canât come back from this?â
Leia actually smiled at that, small and a little indulgent.
âDonât you worry about Poe, that boy is as stubborn as he is good in the cockpit. You couldnât hope to shake him off your tail if you tried. But Armitage,â Leiaâs voice gentled, and her hand reached for his, âit may feel like outside forces influence our happiness, and sometimes they do, but itâs always temporary. True happiness is self-made. It is a choice. Just as healing is a choice. I couldnât enter your mind and help you unless you wanted it, just as no oneâs forgiveness will be able to take your pain away for you.â
Her thumb rode the peaks of his knuckles as she stroked his hand. âAnd itâs okay to not see that, right now. Itâs okay to hurt, you need to give yourself permission to feel the way you do. Be gentle with yourself, and let others help. As difficult as it may seem, you will come back from this, Armitage, if you so choose.â
Armitage looked away, eyes dropping from Leiaâs as a breath escaped his chest. In his lap, their hands twined together, Leiaâs so small, but not frail â despite her size, despite her life, despite that winning two wars hadnât erased the battles she had lost, or kept alive all the people sheâd had to say farewell to from the edge of an unmarked grave.
Leia was strong. Strong enough to sit there and speak of things like healing, and happiness, and hope, and time that stretched long enough that a future remained in her sights.
Armitage didnât feel strong. He felt worn out, worn thin. He felt like whatever strength heâd ever possessed had been nothing but a lie â just like the Order, and all the false promises it had made.
But when footsteps echoed up the durasteel plating, and a familiar gait brought an even more familiar figure into the cockpit to join them, Armitage felt a want coil. A desire to possess what it was Poe offered, and what Leia encouraged him to have. And he thought, maybe, one day, if he made it that far, he could make that choice â but right then, Armitage could hardly see past the pain he felt, or the guilt he carried, let alone the shadows that stalked him, and the belief that what they offered was maybe all he really deserved.
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âYes, youâve been very patient BB,â Armitage spoke from his place on the floor. Poe watched as he extracted one of the three power cells from the harness heâd rigged up over two months ago, noting how its blue glowed dim compared to the other two. âYouâll have to charge normally until I can replace this â yes, I realized how inconvenient that will be.â
âHe really burned out that cell?â Poe asked, genuinely curious, even as BB trilled an indignant affront that it had done nothing of the sort.
âNot exactly, I suspect it remained idle too long, and its cores weakened. It is my fault for not programming a more sophisticated logic, but there was only so much I could achieve with a text editor and a datapad.â Poe watched as Armitage pocketed the power cell and proceeded to replace the harness within BBâs tool bay.
âIâll get you a new codepad,â Poe immediately promised, already typing a message out to Rose to see if she couldnât nick one of the Order-issued pads theyâd surely recovered from the Finalizer. Not until he looked up and saw the drawn pull of Armitageâs features did Poe realize his slip. âFuck, Armitage, Iâm sorry.â
âItâs quite alright,â said even though it clearly was not.
âI could ask Leia to demand yours back from Ofant?â
Armitageâs movements slowed, his attention focused inward. When he finally responded, it was a simple, âIt is not worth the trouble.â
Of course it was worth the trouble. Anything that had even the chance of bringing Armitage a shred of joy was worth the trouble.
This was how it had been for the last three days. There would be these moments, when Armitage would act normal. When his walls were down and his voice was strong, and Poe could see the spark of a person warming the kindling Poe so carefully placed around him â and then it would all be smothered out, traded for darkness and shadow and a bone-deep cold.
Roseâs message pinged back almost immediately: Order stuff already shipped off to the NR, but I can get him one of ours. You two got an eta?
An hour out, Poe quickly typed back, followed by, that too soon, need me to make a pit-stop?
Maybe, Iâll check with Finn and let you know.
When Poe looked up, Armitage was back, watching him: head cocked, eyes narrowed, lips lightly pursed.
âYouâre up to something.â
Poe burst out laughing. âHugsââ his grin split his face wide; he never was good at keeping secrets, ââyou gotta be less paranoid.â
âItâs served me well enough so far.â
âOh yeah?â Poe slid from the pilotâs chair to join Armitage on the floor. The edge of his shoulders visibly sharpened, along with the suspicion in his eyes, but it wasnât until Poeâs hand touched his knee that the rigidity set in. Poe would have backed off, except when Armitageâs eyes flicked up to meet his, he saw a desperate, aching want. Poe kept his smile soft, his hand steady, his words a tease, âSo what is it you think Iâm up to?â
âIââ Armitageâs breath hitched as Poe squeezed his knee, answer lost to his touch as he settled beside him. Tension coiled, but Poe carefully maneuvered around it: hand light where it rested, his head at an angle so that when he leaned in, it was to nuzzle at Armitageâs shoulder, up towards his neck.
He went slow, and he remained gentle, until he felt Armitageâs knee ease down, heard the peel of his breath release, and felt the warmth of his cheek meet his. Poe sidled up close. Side to side but facing one another, he allowed his thumb to ride the curve of Armitageâs knee as their heads tipped together and their eyes fell closed.
Like this, it was easy to pretend everything was okay. It was easy to ignore the push-pull of what Armitage wanted and what he thought he deserved. To focus on the way his body reached for Poe in all the small ways: the tip of his head, the curve of his shoulders, the pressure of his body against Poeâs thigh â and the tiny, little sound he made when Poe took his hand.
Armitageâs hand trembled when Poeâs fingers drifted to his wrist, still roughened pink by weeks of cuffs dragging at the delicate skin. Poe turned the palm up, smoothed his thumb over the fragile tendons â imagined he could chase the marks away with his own constant touch â replace them with a memory that was good, rather than this painful reminder.
But there was no erasing the trial â no way to make Armitage forget his pain. Only time could do that, and a willful choice on Armitageâs part to move past the hurt. All Poe could do was be there for Armitage while he worked through himself. It wasnât the first time heâd been put into this position, but he hoped it might be the last.
Beside them, BB-8 trilled softly, budging up to Armitageâs opposite side. Poe chuckled, all breath, as Armitage was forced to lift his arm and accommodate it.
Thatâs it, Poe thought as he felt Armitage relax, let yourself have this, Hugs.
They remained like that for a long time, lost in a moment that broke too easily when the console blipped a confirmation and the cruiser dropped out of hyperspace.
Before them, Ajan Klossâs horizon carved blue-green through the black nothing of space. A scattering of small ships perused her orbit, one contrail forging a cloudy path towards the surface, while the sun crested in a gold-limned glow.
Home, his heart sang sadly, because at some point Ajan Kloss had become so much more than the secret base of the Resistance â and all too soon he would be saying goodbye.
Fingers threaded his: a gentle hold, a careful squeeze.
Poe couldnât suppress his own shiver when he returned Armitageâs grip.
They broke the troposphere is a shudder of heat and light, closing a distance that would bring them down not to the landing field outside base, but somewhere forty clicks to the east, through a swamp-sunk valley where the trees grew too tall and the loam sponged too soft. When they reached a lake that looked like an ocean, water lapping lazy along a beach of white sand, Poe kept his smile to himself as he watched recognition dawn on Armitageâs face.
The sun was low, blasting the sky through in a kaleidoscope of oranges and purples and a single streak of brilliant blue turquoise, water calm as it reflected the blackened breach of the Finalizer where it speared up from the gentle waves.
Armitage leaned forward in the co-pilotâs seat, fingers curled loosely over the arm rests, pale face reflecting the colors of the sunset, hair alight in its own kind of fire.
âShe looks happy,â Poe said as he took them down to skim the water.
Armitageâs lips quirked, eyes flickering brief to meet Poeâs.
âShe looks peaceful,â he said so softly Poe might have doubted Armitage spoke at all if he hadnât watched his mouth move.
Poe chose a path that took them close, though the details of her hull were lost to the burning backdrop of the sunset. As they curved down past her Starboard side, a flock of white birds took flight. They spilled from one of the many crevices that lined the durasteel shielding to flash bright in the setting sun as they headed off towards the canopy of trees beyond the beach.
Poe couldnât help his smile as he considered the idea that Ajan Kloss had already claimed the Finalizer as her own â just as she had the ruins that scattered her surface, and would their base once the last ship moved out. And there was no denying the small part of his heart that would always remain here, no matter how many lightyears separated him from Ajan Klossâs wilds.
By the time they reached the base the sun had fully set. Poe passed over the large-craft landing field outside the base, noting the few carriers that remained and a singular Republic yacht lined up in a neat little row. Their cruiser was small enough for the landing field right outside the main compound, so thatâs where Poe took them, ship bouncing a little in their descent as the stabilizers accommodated the broken duracrete of the pad.
Two technicians were there to meet them, their faces unfamiliar, though Poe only realized why when he caught one half-way into an Order salute.
At the top of the loading ramp, Armitage inclined his head, face calm, expression composed, eyes drifting over the browns and grays of the technicianâs clothing, before finally meeting Poeâs.
The several hundred meter walk to base was spent in a tenuous silence. But when Poe took Armitageâs hand it was warm, trembling, and quick to accept his hold.
The door to their room whooshed open on familiar tracks, BB-8 chirping excitedly as it pushed past him to be the first inside.
It took Poe a moment to realize Armitage had paused at the threshold. To turn the lights up bright enough to see the shimmer of wet in his eyes. It took him less time to close the distance, hands upon Armitage as he felt him spill past his fingers. Guiding him to the lumpy couch was as natural as folding him into his arms once they got there. As natural as the tears Armitage hid in Poeâs collar as he turned into his chest and shivered with an emotion Poe didnât understand the whole scope of â would maybe never be able to.
But that wouldnât stop him from trying. It wouldnât stop him from chasing Armitage across the stars in his attempt to.
âItâs okay,â he said hopefully into Armitageâs hair.
And when Armitage responded with a softly whispered âPoe,â he thought maybe he understood more than he gave himself credit for.
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Poe was, in fact, up to something.
It was Poeâs own fault that heâd left his datapad when heâd retreated to the fresher to shower. And it wasnât Armitageâs design to have notifications appear at the top of the screen when he was simply trying to enjoy a game of Force instead of browsing the Holo-News, or researching little-known planetoids within the Outer Rim. So when Roseâs message illuminated, a scrolling âready when you areâ, Armitage didnât need to pull up the rest of the conversation to know that whatever Poe and Rose had planned involved him.
And when Poe guided him through near empty halls of the base under the guise of meeting the others for a late meal, Armitage didnât need much to figure out that whatever they had planned also involved the whole of the base. Certainly, he didnât need the glimpse into the empty mess to know everyone was elsewhere â an elsewhere that turned out to be the barracks below.
Poe held the door to the staircase open with a dramatic shrug, smile chiseled deep, eyes holding his as Armitage staunchly slipped past.
Tape still lined the walls, colorful and obnoxious. It led them down â down deep into the bowels of the base where the labyrinth crawled out like a spiderâs web. Poe was a constant presence at his back, encouraging him forward despite the paranoia that haunted him â the suspicion, as Poe called it. It was difficult not to see a threat in every shadow. To not be reminded of his march through the tower towards a courtroom that still loomed too recent in his memory.
But Ajan Kloss was not Coruscant, and the base was not that tower. And though silence pervaded, it ebbed gentle, familiar, in the same way the Finalizer had felt, when it had been her halls be had walked.
When a thumping reverberation replaced the echo of their steps, and then a not-so-distant din of activity flooded a corner in a rush of light and sound, Armitage nearly came to a halt. Poeâs hand at his waist grounded him, rather than guided. Strange sounds spilled up the corridor, teasing beyond the curve of the duracrete wall they followed, to where a bay door closed them off from whatever lay beyond.
If Armitage had still been the same person heâd been before, he would have turned on his heel and stalked off. He would not have allowed Poe to take his hands and compel him forward with no more convincing that the curve of his smile and the tug of his grip.
But Armitage wasnât that person. Hadnât been that person in a long, long time.
A cacophony of sound and light burst from the bunker when Poe lifted the door and led him inside.
Armitage stood rigid as his senses caught up to what he was witness to: an echoing warble of sound filled the room, a melodic crest and a thumping rhythm that seemed to somehow tangle in time with an array of colorful lights. Music, Armitage recognized, but unlike any he had ever heard. And it would have been the strangest component of the bunker, if not for the mass of bodies that filled it.
Everyone â and by that Armitage meant every last Order and Resistance member alike â filled the open bunker in a wave of roiling bodies. The space was more than large enough to accommodate the several thousand that gathered, many standing in groups around the perimeter where stacks of crates and shipping containers provided a platform for the drinks they held; chatting and laughing and mingling with one another in an amalgam of sides that put the mess hall of months ago to shame.
Here, there was no deciphering between sides. The lines werenât blurred so much as they no longer existed. And as Armitage felt Poeâs hand slide around his waist, and his head tip against his shoulder, he felt something important inside him bleed out to join the rest.
âCome with me,â Poe murmured in his ear, arm a guiding pressure. Armitage hesitated a beat, eyes finding Poeâs dark amongst all the flickering colors.
âSo suspicious,â Poe teased as he drew him further into the bunker â deeper into the crowd.
âAnd for good reason,â Armitage said with a shadow of a sneer, watching as Poeâs smile grew wider. Something warm and alive kindled in the cold pit of him. Quickly, he smothered it with words, âI was right after all, wasnât I?â
âWhat, you claiming I canât get one over you?â Poe raised his eyebrow, âthat sounds like a challenge, Hugs.â
âWell, you do so love a challenge,â fired out before he could stop it.
So did his flush.
Poeâs grin was luminous.
The others were waiting for them. Perched atop a stack of crates, beneath a Welcome banner that had seen better days, it took him a moment to pick them out from the milling crowd. But once Rose saw their approach, her shriek broke over the music, and she closed the distance in a short skip.
âSurprise!â She gushed as she threw her arms around Poe, only a second passed before she turned her affection on Armitage. There was nothing he could do to stop the force of her embrace, nothing to prevent the weight of her body slamming into his own, or the vice of her arms coming round him, but as she settled in place against his chest, he found he didnât want to stop her. Her touch was brief, but firm, different from Poeâs slow careful confidence, and Leiaâs gentle motherly concern. It was bright and flashy and warm, and Armitage felt it linger long after she pulled away.
He found, curiously, that he quite liked it.
He did not resist when Roseâs fingers curled over his arm and pulled him towards the group. He met Poeâs eyes as he passed him, saw how dark theyâd become, deep with an emotion that felt equal parts encouraging and possessive. It set Armitageâs heart aflutter, and when he looked ahead, he thought maybe he could see what Poe saw.
Poeâs friends â Armitageâs unlikely allies â people who cared. People they both trusted, now.
When he looked back Poe grinned, shrug easy, though the expression on his face was anything but.
It was focused. Determined. Consuming.
Armitage swallowed, felt something inside him release, make room, and then acheâ
âPoe,â he said too quietly to be heard over the music, but the lift of his hand must have been enough. Poe jogged after them, closing the distance to take it, hand a tether, grounding him where everything else suddenly felt weightless and abstract â far too impossible to be the reality he was rooted within.
He was greeted with warm smiles and assured touches. Preposterous things meant for someone else, but bestowed like he deserved them. Like his return to Ajan Kloss had been a sure thing theyâd all looked forward to, planned for. Rey, small and flighty but ardent with affection, wrapped her arms around his waist in a tight hug. Finnâs nod was swift but sure, cup lifted in a salute to something Armitage could not put name to, but understood in the same way he understood that the warmth in Finnâs eyes was genuine, and for him.
And when Phasma stepped up to take Reyâs place, tall and strong and limned in a flux of golden light, her arms collected him like they were the armor she no longer wore, holding fast and tight for what should have been too long, if they were still the same people theyâd been before.
They werenât. Neither of them were the same, not anymore.
Armitage relaxed against her shoulder, allowed an arm to slip around her waist.
âItâs good to see you, Armitage,â lacked the sarcasm Phasmaâs words usually adorned.
A huff and a squeeze were the only response he could manage, lest something else spill out â something he was, he admitted, willing to give, but didnât think he could contain again, once freed.
When Phasma released him, Poe took her place.
âWanna dance?â glimmered hopeful in the dark.
Armitage, to his own credit, did not outright deny him.
âI think Iâd prefer to watch.â
âOh, yeah?â Poe raised an eyebrow as he backed up a step â no, as he sauntered back a step â to turn and sweep Rose into his arms, to dip her over his knee in a dramatic flourish, even as she swatted his shoulder and shrieked with delight.
Armitage felt himself flush when Poeâs eyes lifted to capture his.
Beside him, Phasma snorted. âThis oneâs much too tall for that!â snipped even as her elbow met his side and she shoved him forward to take Roseâs place.
âGonna dip ya,â Poe teased as his fingers crawled over his ribs, âgonna sweep you off your feet when you least expect it.â
Armitage knew his face was flushing furious.
âIf you try that on me I will not go as easily as Tico,â he said in a rush, nervous and excited and imagining what it would feel like if Poe did â if it would feel anything like this â because it already felt like Poe had come along and swept him off his feet, and Armitage wasnât sure he could handle it if he actually went and tried.
Instead, Poe led him away.
Around them, the crowd converged. They slipped through the milling bodies with more than a fair share of glances. Smiles and grins and laughs and hastily bestowed stares, carefully dipped chins, and eyes, each suffused with a warmth as recognition dawned with a joy so genuine that Armitage found it hard to believe it had anything to do with him.
He should feel strange â out of place â overwhelmed â the people too many and the music hitting too hard. He did not. He felt safe. He felt surrounded â shielded. Like here was where he really belonged, amongst the only people in the Galaxy who could ever understand.
His crew. His friends.
His family.
The people who had saved him.
The people he had saved.
When Armitage staggered to a stop, hand to his mouth as his mind turned over his thoughts, Poe was right beside him. His concern was plain: hands held tight to his hips, eyes held fast to his own, his âtoo much?â a softly requested confirmation of consent. Armitage shook his head.
It wasnât too much. It was everything. Everything good he had done, come to life under the shelter of the enemy. An enemy he had turned to during his darkest hour, while forging a path he would map for the whole of the Order â a path that was neither easy nor marked. Billions of lives lost because of him, yes, but how many countless more saved? All of those across the Galaxy that would not see this war tear apart their homes, but also the Order lives the New Republic had already turned their backs on â lives that now flourished under the care of an unlikely ally, along with everything he never realized he wanted for himself: a place to belong, amongst people who mattered, where safety wasnât something he had to chase down, but was a comfort already found.
Maybe, he didnât deserve it.
But I want it, he thought defiantly to himself.
âHey.â Beside him, Poe crowded close. âSure youâre okay?â
Hands smoothed down his forearms, over his wrists. They were warm when they took his hands, calloused rough in all the right places, places Armitage sought as he returned his grip.
âIâm alright,â he affirmed, âitâs just a lot.â
âOf people?â
âOfââ he paused, chewed his lip, ââof feelings.â
âGood ones?â Poeâs eyes burned earnest with the question.
Armitage leaned in, letting his eyes fall half-closed. âMostly.â
âMostly is good,â Poe murmured, âIâll take mostly.â
Around them the crowed shifted, caught in the grip of the music as it thrummed through the room. And it was then that something caught his eye: a shift of black, a familiar shape. Recognition hit at the exact moment the crowd fully parted. Before them was Mitaka, wearing his Order uniform but dressed down to just his black undershirt and jodhpurs, officerâs cap pulled low over his brow, dog tags swinging in concert to his hips, dancing closely with his partner â the same Resistance man from weeks before.
As Mitaka lowered himself into a shape that made very little sense when considering gravity and the natural laws of physics, Armitage could not resist.
âReally, Lieutenant,â he snapped out in his best general voice, âthat uniform is an affront to regulation.â
Mitaka yelped, âGeneral, sir!â Would have fallen on his ass if not for his partner pulling him upright. Mitakaâs face was the color of a plum, stricken with a horror rivaled by anything Armitage had seen on a battlefield.
âI should send you to reconditioning,â said as he gave Mitakaâs partner a knowing glance. The manâs eyes nearly fell out of his head, before his grin split his face wide open. âSomeone needs to put you back in line.â
âYes sir, Iâm sorry, sir!â Mitaka gasped, spine going rigid, heels together, hand flying to his hat to right it.
Armitage scoffed, reached out and pulled it back down over his brow.
Mitaka sputtered, stumbling where he stood, eyes so wide Armitage almost felt bad.
Instead, he allowed himself an indulgent smirk, as Poe pulled him away laughing.
âMostly good feelings?â Poe laughed. âYouâre having fun.â
Armitage allowed himself a tentative preen. âI can have fun.â
Poeâs eyes flashed as they caught his. âI like seeing you have fun,â said like it was the most monumental thing that had happened to them yet.
Maybe it was. Maybe moments like this werenât as impossible as he thought. Maybe, from the safety of this, he could allow himself to have them.
Armitage lowered his eyes, let out a long breath â allowed himself a moment to simply feel: the energy of the crowd around him, the pulse of the music over his skin, his body, his feelings, the way his unease unraveled, and his heartbeat calmed.
And, most of all, Poe.
When he lifted his eyes, Poe was watching him.
Whatever he saw must have been enough. A tug on his hand pulled him close. Another slid into his hair to steady them both, and then Poe eased him down.
âI love you,â Poe murmured hotly, lips brushing, teasing, drawing Armitage so much closer, but not close enough.
Armitage hummed an affirmation, pushed a hand into Poeâs curls, and closed the distance.
Surrounded by people, amongst the remnants of his crew, the kiss should have felt like the real affront. A transgression he never would have allowed himself because it exposed everything he was: not a general but a man, a person who loved and was loved, whose choices had maybe, once, been mistakes â and perhaps still were, but at least now he understood the stakes, and what lines he no longer desired to cross.
But, he didnât feel any of that. Instead, Armitage felt an impossible peace.
Maybe, he thought carefully to himself, maybe I will be okay.
Armitage followed Poe into the thinned out edge of the bunker, where the lights were low and the shadows were deep. A place where privacy could be found in the layers of sound and music and bodies that converged around them as easily as any danger could.
And there was a moment, when Poe swung him around, and the darkness shifted and the flickering lights caught, that his paranoia reared to a head. Because out there, in the shadows, Armitage swore he saw the familiar shape of a long-limbed droid, heard the sharpening of a lens that had already seen too much.
Youâre so suspicious, Poe had said. And it was true, and it was within reason. His past had defined him, in this way â shaped him into what he had needed to be to survive the world heâd been born in.
But that world was gone, now. And if logic and reason were still the tools heâd use to survive, he would need to adapt. Logic determined that if he was going to live, he would need to accept what he wanted. And reason argued that there was only one thing Armitage wanted.
Inside him, a strength coiled. Warm, familiar, not a lie, because it was entirely his own.
Armitage closed his eyes, and he turned his back on the shadows â he turned towards Poe.
When he looked up, eyes far darker than the shadows burned up into his.
âCâmere, dance with me,â said as fingers closed over Armitageâs wrists and pulled him close.
Chest hitching, heart hammering, Armitage breathed out, âI donât dance.â It was true, Armitage did not dance. He couldnât remember a single time in his life when he might have had the opportunity. Certainly, heâd never have danced like Poe: all swaggering steps that looked absurdly graceful, like a TIE caught in a barrel roll. But he found he didnât need to. That all Poe really wanted was to be close. To feel their bodies come together as they had not done in weeks.
That dancing should be a poor substitute to the intimacy theyâd not shared did not occur to Armitage, however. Not when Poe was guiding Armitageâs hands to his shoulders, a brief exposure that quickly closed again when Poe stepped forward â close enough now that his breath could hit Armitageâs chin.
âItâs easy, donât worry, Iâll show you how,â promised like anything Poe asked of him was easy.
Nothing this worthwhile had ever been easy for Armitage. Heâd had to fight for it â and something inside reminded him that this was no different â that he still needed to fight.
You have to choose, Leia had said.
Breath shaking with his exhale, heart thrumming wild in his chest, his hands trembled in a grasping hold as he considered that the enemy was not stalking from the shadows of the bunker, but residing within his mind.
To acknowledge it felt like the first step down a path that would not be easy; but if Armitage was honest, that had never stopped him before.
âPoeââ he whispered into the throbbing din of the music. This time, Armitage knew Poe heard.
Immediately, Poe pushed close, so much closer than before. Armitage could feel him: the edge of his warmth, the coil of his muscles, the brush of his breath, all before arms circled round his waist and drew them completely together. Armitage shivered when Poeâs heat warmed him, as real and there as the pain, but so much more overwhelming.
âMove with me,â Poe said like it was simple. Like Armitage hadnât already fallen into sync with the man who held him. Like he needed any more urging than the implacable attraction that had brought him into his orbit in the first place. And now that their orbits were shared, nothing could shake one free from the other.
It was a thought that struck â a realization rooted in the safety he kept trying to deny himself. A shedding of the paranoia that had stalked him since well before his trial, and the perverse belief that fate hunted him still.
Because maybe this could be easy. Maybe, all he had to do was trust.
Maybe, all he had to do was make the choice.
When Armitage released a breath, head tipping down, eyes closing, Poe was right there to meet him.
And just like that, caught in the circle Poeâs arms, his choice became easy.
Armitage moved, seeking Poe through the push-pull of his body, following him along another path on a map as yet unmarked. And though he should be scared, all he actually felt was burgeoning sense of exhilaration. Because he could do this. He could make his own future. A future that may never forget the mistakes of his past, but would also not repeat them.
âThatâs good,â Poe breathed, chin tipping up so his words warmed Armitageâs lips as their bodies swayed, âLook at you, a natural.â
Armitage huffed out a laugh, then a sneer. âIâm still not letting you dip me.â
âWhat, donât trust me? Think Iâd let you fall?â
âNever,â he said with such a torrent of emotion that Poe drew back. âI know you wonât let me go.â Their eyes met â a momentary hold that stretched long enough for Armitage to see that Poe understood.
âYeah?â broke softly between them, like the trust Armitage put in Poe had left him reeling. Like the trust Armitage put in him could bolster them both â lay the foundations of a future where this thing between them thrived.
The future, Armitage carefully thought, my future.
When he leaned down, Poe was right there to meet him. Their lips touched, light and testing, carefully finding one another just as they had done a hundred times before. And it felt like the first brick laid. Like something new to be built atop the ruins of his past, and the rubble of the fortress he had erected to contain it. This was not a fortress. It was something different, something better, something he could not help but acknowledge would be so much stronger.
Stronger, because when Poeâs hand touched his cheek, thumb skirting the ridge of bone, fingers curling past his temple, to tangle in his hair and hold him steady, he knew he wouldnât be building it alone.
How long they danced, Armitage may never know. It could have been hours as likely as it was a heartbeat of breath. All Armitage was aware of was that long after the tempo of the music changed, when the amassed bodies around them thinned and the shadows pressed close, he remained in Poeâs arms. Movements slow, their breath without haste, time ambled, bloated and abounding. Because, for once, time was a thing they had an abundance of â something, for the first time in Armitageâs memory, he could spare to waste.
He was smiling when they returned to the crates â his steps light as if carried along by the strength of Poeâs hand holding his. And when Poe settled him down upon the corrugated fold of the container, to pour him a cup of water from the canteen Finn had left behind, Armitage acknowledged he felt â incredibly â impossibly safe.
Yes, the shadows still followed â but here, with Poe, he finally felt out of their reach.
And it was perched atop a crate in the bunker of a former enemyâs territory, within a labyrinth he once called a prison, that Armitageâs guard finally came down.
So when Poe spotted Rose and Finn across the way, still dancing under the flickering array of light that scattered the dance floor, Armitage did not second-guess his choice to encourage Poe to join them.
âCome with me,â Poe said as he slipped from the crate to stand between Armitageâs legs. The hands on his thighs rode high, thumbs curled in suggestion, eyebrow raised in an offer.
âI think Iâd prefer to watch.â And this time when he said it, he meant it. He looked into Poeâs eyes and knew he understood.
âYou just want to ogle me while I get my dance on,â Poe grinned, eyes sparkling.
âSomething tells me youâll give me a good show,â he tried to say flatly, but the hitch in his voice gave him away.
âItâs more than a show,â Poe dropped his voice when he said it, leaning in to tip their heads together, fingers a firm grip on Armitageâs thighs. âArmitageââ
âI know,â he cut Poe off, fingers to his mouth, pressing over the softness of his lips. âNot now, not whileââ he took a breath, let it out, ââweâll talk, Iâll talk. About this andââ he hated the stilted construction of his thoughts, the reshaping of what he knew into unfamiliar territory. Because the idea of leaving Ajan Kloss behind lodged deep, in the same spaces the Finalizer kept to. And in both their absences the limitless emptiness that remained begged to be filled. He would fill it. He would let Poe fill it with him. ââand whatâs next, for us.â
âFor us,â Poe repeated like the words held magic.
âOur future,â Armitage whispered, like a confession.
âWow,â Poe breathed, eyes sparked through with a love Armitage had dared to think he could leave behind, ânow I feel spoiled.â
Poe grinned against his fingers, teeth like pearls. Armitage dove for them.
Despite his rush, the kiss was sweet, slow to aching, spreading between them like breach of the sun across a dark horizon. It bloomed to waking when Poeâs hands took his wrists, to shape their circumference with his thumbs, marking out the path the cuffs had kept. Now there were no cuffs, though their shadows remained. And Armitage thought, maybe they never would go away â and maybe that was okay, because maybe they werenât supposed to. Maybe it was those mistakes he had made that had led him here, safe with an enemy-turned-ally, able to share that safety with the people who mattered to him most.
âGo,â he urged, when Poe pulled back for his breath and the light caught his eyes. âIâll sit for a little while, and join you soon.â He was already eying the scattered plasti packaging of the sweet cakes Phasma liked so much. Heâd never gotten to eat his, all those weeks ago, but there was a stack of them next to the canteen of water, and he thought he might finally give one a try.
âI wonât be long,â Poe promised with another kiss, fingers a light pressure under his chin, lips a firm promise against his. âAnd Iâll stay within sight, so you can ogle as much as you want.â
With the shadows at his back, Armitage did not just ogle the way Poe moved when he took off to join Rose and Finn, but watched the whole of the bunker come together. He watched the pitch and crest of his former crew as they moved together with the flow of the music, as they moved in sync with the Resistance â watched the cast of light fall sharp against Phasmaâs ice gold hair, glinting bright as she dragged Mitaka into a teasing sleeper hold â watched the way Mitakaâs face split open with a laugh, then flush red with a grin â the way Phasma returned it, smile wide, open, happy, in a way heâd never seen her before.
But, most of all, he watched Poe. Watched the way he maneuvered through the crowd as if they were a field of asteroids, finding his path amongst the debris that scattered. Watched the hug he threw around Finnâs shoulders, and the grin Finn returned. Watched the easy way he turned and scooped Rose up and then down, into another flourishing dip that set her shrieking and Poe laughing.
And he watched the way Poe would glance back at him â searching for an assurance that this wasnât all a dream â that the world hadnât caught up to them in a way they would pay for â now that they were free.
He was free.
Armitage spun the cup of water where it sat, watched as his reflection fractured and came together, light bouncing off his face with the pass of each color, and he thought that he would do better this time. That maybe, it wasnât about the verdict the judges had issued, but the opportunity it presented. A chance, to do better â or at least the choice to. That for all the mistakes Starkiller had made, he was no longer that person â and maybe thatâs why the Senate let him go.
But then a glint split the darkness, a fracture of light caught, and suddenly, all the shadows at his back converged.
There was no time to react when a second face joined his in the waterâs reflection, and Armitage was found with his guard down.
There was nothing he could so as fate reached out and sunk in her claws.
A hand landed on his shoulder at the precise moment a hypo touched his neck.
The injection was quick. A sharp pinch that hit his bloodstream before he could fend it off, and all at once his newfound strength abandoned him. The world tilted, and an arm circled his waist, drawing him against a body too tall and too broad â towards a voice that spoke too deep, past teeth drawn too long.
âItâs time to go,â struck like a dull-edged knife, not a quick slicing or stabbing, but a sawing, blunt and brutal and vicious.
Noâ
Armitage panicked as a jacket came down over his shoulders and a hood over his head. His arm was hoisted across a shoulder before his legs completely collapsed, as the neurotoxin in his veins made a direct path to his brain, and then his heart.
But not before he looked into the face of his assailant. Not before a name carved out from his mind and into a danger that had hunted him for far longer than an evening with his guard down.
With all the strength he left to him, he lifted his hand. The cup of water hit the ground and shattered and splintered and fractured apart in a violent spray of debris.
It was the only evidence he would leave behind â perhaps that he was capable of leaving at all â if history had a memory, and his past deeds lived on in his name.
You already made your choice, a small voice inside him whispered, you made it a long time ago.
A droid met them at a man-door, all long-limbed and hyper-focused. Its lens caught at what flickering light made it past the threshold, before the hydraulics whooshed and the corridor closed them in darkness. And then Fineas Ofant dragged him off, into a labyrinth of halls that spidered, and a web of fate that had finally captured its prey.
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âThatâs strange,â Finn said like whatever notification had come over his pad wasnât just strange, but worrisome.
âWhatâs strange?â Poe tightened his hold on Rose as he swung her around into another dip, meeting her laugh with a grin of his own. Heâd get Armitage into a dip, one day â maybe their wedding day.
âWhy didnât I know we had an emergency hangar down here?â
âEveryone needs a getaway ship, Finn. You should know that by now,â Rose teased, face pinked at her own joke and the rush of blood from all their dancing.
âYeah, well, according to Rey, ours just left.â
Something inside Poe coiled, then tightened, and then threatened to snap.
When he steadied Rose, their eyes met in a brief, gut-curdling exchange. He wasnât the only one with a bad feeling.
He also wasnât the only one looking over to where theyâd left Armitage.
And he wasnât the only one to realize he was nowhere to be seen.
âIâll get some sensors on it, weâve got a couple cruisers in atmo. They can intercept it before it jumps,â Finn said from what felt like an increasingly greater distance.
Something important inside of Poe began to spiral.
âFinn, that ship is a ghostââ he heard Rose snap as he turned away.
âIâll be right back.â His voice came out thin, his panic barely contained.
Nothing was wrong.
Everything was fine.
Armitage was finally safe â he was okay.
But when he arrived at the crates, to discover the only evidence that Armitage had ever been there was the shattered remains of his water splashed blood-black across the bunker floor, he realized nothing at all was okay.
Armitage was gone.
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Notes:
Sixteen chapters of foreshadowing later and we have finally arrived...
We're making it to the end together, and If you've enjoyed yourself please please let me know. Even a simple comment of "Viraaja, how dare you" is so much encouragement â„ Love y'all to pieces â„
Chapter 20: A Concert of Stars - Part 1
Notes:
Posting all of chapter 20 today, but a heads up that I've split this chapter into two parts, not just because of length, but because the individual chapter arcs require it.
Posting part 1 for y'all now, part two will be added shortly (as in, within the next several hours) â„
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The staircase spiraled upwards, towering against a broken spill of dewy gray light. Dust motes scattered in a lazy descent, paths carving bright as they drifted down to tickle his nose, catch in his hair. He ascended the stairs in slow steps, each creaking with the age of decades, his body precariously balanced on legs too tall, feet too long, and a weight that carried far too heavy to mark the scene as a memory.
He was dreaming. He had to be.
Knew he was, when he reached the summit of stairs and found himself face-to-face with a child of only five. A shock of red-gold hair spread across his forearm where he slept, curled beneath a tented blanket, body so small and gangly that for a moment, Armitage nearly didnât recognize himself.
His book was splayed open, tiny fingers pressed over the worn flimsi. The backdrop of a meteor descending over the jungle canopy flickered like it were alive; like the burning column of fire coming down hadnât yet destroyed those creatures. Like they still had time, or a chance, to change the path fate took.
Under the gray light of dawn, Armitage sank to the floor before the boy, knelt amongst the dusty debris of a childhood that still clung to both their persons.
His hand felt far too heavy, when he lifted it to touch his fingers to the book. Missing his mark, he met the boyâs fingers instead.
Time stretched, thinned to breaking, as Armitage held his breath â waiting for the boy to wake, to see him, scream, or perhaps faint. But the boy slept on, as dim as the gathered light, color bleeding out to gray beneath the pads of his fingers, and then curling up over them, over his hands, past his wrists, leaving him limned only in shadow, like the contours of the drawing in his book. Like he was not a dream, or a memory, but a premonition. A warning, come too late.
No.
He was cold. The boy â himself. Outside, the gray had turned into bright, blinding light â not the clean light of the sun breaking through the dense cloud cover, but instead tinged red, spilling like blood.
The latches of the window rattled, barely able to contain what came.
There was no time. He had to leave. Had to take the boy with him, flee while they still could.
Panicked, Armitage turned back to the boy, reaching, grasping, clutchingâ
He was all pale shadows now, cold turned to ice, the dust to rocks, and a column of light descended, as the sun outside was drained of life.
âWake up,â he begged the boy â begged himself.
Wake up.
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Awareness slammed into his body with the force of a punch. Armitage gasped with it, air plunging into his lungs like he was a man suffocating now taking his first breath. For a long time, the sensation of his lungs expanding was all he was conscious of, that and the burned-out remnants of a dream that had, for a moment, felt like a memory. Not until sensation began to return did an actual memory emerge, one that hit hard â painful, in the way so much of his life had been, and he had dared to almost believe would not become again.
Beyond a threshold of desensitization that seemed to separate him from the rest of reality, the grogginess of the drug in his veins alleviated in fragmented pieces, allowing Armitage to parse together what precisely had become of him.
Heâd been kidnapped, by none other than Fineas Ofant.
Fineas Ofant, who he could feel just there, beyond his peripheral, a ghost of the shadows that had stalked him, come now to take what had been so indubiously denied him.
He couldnât move. A fact that became clear only after Ofantâs face swam into focus, the rough hands at his shoulders manipulating him so his back was propped against a wall. His touch seized through Armitage like pain would. Or at least, should have. Instead his nerves remained passive, registering the touch without the motor skills to fend it off. It was a loss of control of the worst kind. Something Armitage had spent his life defending against â preventing when he could, punishing when he couldnât. Now, there was no defense against Ofant. None against his touch, let alone whatever plan he had connived, or goal he had in mind.
Around him loomed the cockpit of a small transport. One he did not recognize, not really, but there was evidence of the Resistance all around: a cast off brown leather satchel that had seen better days was slung over the co-pilotâs headrest, spilled open to reveal a cache of ration bars and a canteen of water and a med kit. There was a layer of dirt encrusting the floor he sat upon, worked so deeply into the durasteel that the bright sheen the metal should have possessed was dulled to a near matte finish. And of course, the scribbled out note on a slip of flimsi taped to the bulk-head where an archaic panel of controls blinked lazily was a crude attempt at instructions for a tech that had not been updated in a generation; tech no longer found within the Republic fleet, let alone utilized by the Order.
Beyond the viewportâs shielding, hyperspace bled through; sparks of raptured light streaking like flares from a cameraâs flash.
All at once he realized where he was, and where he was headed.
The transport. The ghost ship. Leiaâs offer of hope against what had once felt like an insurmountable enemy force, now turned tomb, because there was no denying what Ofant wanted â what he thought Armitage deserved.
âHere he is, the man of the hour.â
Armitageâs eyes drifted to meet Ofantâs. The effort required left him exhausted, so that when their eyes caught he found himself unable to maintain contact.
Ofant made a sound, some affectation of concern. âThe drug will wear off shortly, though not entirely. Your motor skills will remain impaired for some time. Itâs for both our safety, you understand. Iâm not sure youâll enjoy what I have planned for you.â
What Ofant had planned? It was a laughable concept â that the public execution he had nearly outrun would be any worse than the abuse he had suffered at hands far crueler than Ofantâs. Whatever Ofant had planned would feel like a mercy compared to what those men had done to him.
He didnât mean to sneer, not really. Wasnât sure where he found the strength, but there it was, spreading his lips open to reveal teeth that had once been sharp enough to cut. Too late, he saw it fuel something within Ofant that Armitage knew he should avoid. But heâd never been good at deflecting the people who had hurt him â his father, Snoke, Ren â heâd only ever been good at inspiring one thing from men like them.
It was a thought that struck â nearly at the same moment as the back of Ofantâs hand.
Pain blossomed dull, but enough to leave him gasping. Between his teeth, his tongue felt thick, unwieldy â but the taste of blood was there, sharp and metallic against his taste buds.
âY- y-â he tried to speak, but couldnât form the right shapes.
âYes, Iâm not above getting my own hands dirty for the sake of what is right,â Ofant murmured as he manipulated Armitageâs body back upright. The strike had sent him sliding down to wall, so his head hung heavy, mere inches from the ground. âAfter all, I have the support of a whole galaxy of people â people youâve hurt, in case youâve already forgotten.â
His wrists were taken in hand, turned over, considered.
Suddenly, the sensation of Poeâs hands on his wrists emerged from the fog of his thoughts, and a strength born of desperation had him pulling away from Ofantâs touch.
This time, when the backhand came, he ended up collapsed on the dirt-encrusted floor.
Binders closed over his wrists. Tight enough to hurt, despite the drug in his veins. He could feel his bones grind when Ofant used them to haul him back up.
âPlease, continue giving me the excuse,â Ofant merrily snipped as he held Armitage against the wall.
Armitage opened his mouth again, reconsidered. He hoped Ofant couldnât see the way his lips trembled when he pressed them together.
But it wasnât just fear that fueled his emotion. It was also anger.
âDonât worry, youâll regain the ability to speak within the quarter hour. This wonât be nearly as therapeutic without at least a little of your input,â Ofant spoke easily, âIâll admit, I was disappointed you decided not to take the stand. Obviously it was the right decision, but thereâs this thing called closure â maybe youâve heard of it? Or maybe not. You seem content enough with your lack of a sentence. Seemed quite happy, in fact, back there. All those pieces falling perfectly into place for you. Your freedom, your future, and a person to spend it with. A person who you love, and loves you back.â
Poe, and that future together. The one that had tempted them both. He had believed â heâd chosen to believe.
And here he was, again. Another abuser come to remind him that his only place in this galaxy was knelt before the laurels of a mercy that would never come.Â
When Armitage met Ofantâs eyes again, it was impossible to look away. Because it wasnât the gleeful pleasure of a power play gone right he saw, it was despair. Deep and aching. Honest, as anything Armitage had felt over the last three days â the last several months.
âI had people once, too.â The words turned out broken, unfolding into the space between them like the spread of a bruise. âHow awful it hurts, to have them stolen away.â
From the depths of his subconscious, a memory emerged: that precise instant when the Mandatorâs cannon had fired, and Poeâs ship had been struck, and then after, when he awoke to the belief that Poe had died, and that he was expected to live on without him.
The terror he had experienced had felt insurmountable, but more so it was the visceral ache of having something stolen â like a limb removed, or a part of his heart carved out â that had nearly stolen every last shred of strength he possessed. Heâd never experienced anything as difficult as that expectation to gain his feet and keep going after, how empty heâd felt â how worthless life had seemed, if he could not live it with Poe.
Loosing Poe hurt unlike anything Armitage had ever experienced. Because it wasnât until Armitage had found Poeâs that he could understand what it meant to lose him. How it felt to lose the person that you loved, yes, but worse yet, the person who had loved you.
Ofant had lost not just the people to give his love to, but the people who had given him their love. And he had done that. Armitage had done that to so many people.
This isnât his fault, breached the surface of his thoughts.
Quickly, Armitage buried it back under. Fists curled in his lap, he sunk his nails into his palms. The pain grounded him as it always did, as only it could â and beyond the grip he maintained he felt that anger again. Felt how it nearly smothered the coil of it fear Ofant had kindled. But it didnât last. How could it? Because his guilt was there too, stronger than any fear or anger, and only growing, each time his eyes lifted, and he saw Ofant.
He began shaking as Ofant searched him, his hands quickly patting down his sides and rifling through his pockets. Armitage didnât have so much as a knife on him, but Ofant took what little he found: his leather gloves, the only component of his uniform the warden had returned to him, and the corrupted power cell heâd removed from BB-8.
The feint blue of its glow illuminated Ofantâs features in a ghostly visage, extending his shadows and deepening his cracks.
âA weapon?â he asked uncomprehendingly, fingers turning the power cell over, holding it up to the light.
âIt could have been,â Armitage admitted, âbut not anymore.â
It was curious that as he watched Ofant move across the transport to a cubby where a bag was stashed, he was able to recognize the tremble in his hands. The slow molasses of their movement as they tucked away his belongings and withdrew a blaster instead.
Couldnât help but notice the slip of his thumb over the safety, the switch turned away from stun.
What Ofant had planned for him was no secret, hardly a surprise. Armitage would die, Ofant had promised once on a sandy beach under a blazing sun, even if he had to do it himself.
Here, faced with the reckoning heâd thought he outrun â that he thought he deserved â it felt real in a way it hadnât yet. Personal, like it wasnât a lone man he faced, but the convergence of everything in his life he had done wrong.
Because he had harmed Ofant â harmed him and so many more than the number touted as his kill count. There was no denying what he had done â not even Leia had argued that in his defense. The blame was his, as heâd always claimed.
But while maybe this was the fate Starkiller deserved, Armitage hadnât been that man in a long, long time. Maybe never had been, at least in the capacity that Ofant saw him: remorseless, without heart, without empathy, his humanity absconded alongside all those he had harmed.
All those he had harmed.
He tipped his head back, closed his eyes.
Heâs going to kill me, thought as he listened to Ofant approach.
Silence pervaded, and when Armitage opened his eyes Ofant was knelt before him again, darkness coalescing over his face with a willful disregard for the way his fists shook â equal parts anger, despair, and an untenable clutch on something Armitage couldnât quite name.
I donât want to die, was not a thought that should have felt so surprising.
I wonât let him kill me, was not one that should feel so important.
But this is my responsibility.
By the time Ofant spoke again, that un-namable thing was long gone. And inside Armitage, something other than fear or guilt had taken root. Something that felt like conviction. Like resolve.
âAre you ready?â Ofant asked simply, the shadows around his eyes collecting heavy in his stare.
Whatever compulsion inspired Armitage to answer with a barely there, âYes,â took Ofant as off-guard as it did him.
The moment stretched, long and tenuous, as each regarded the other.
A moment that immediately dissolved when Ofantâs droid settled before him, lens focusing as it began, what Armitage very clearly understood, was not a recording, but a broadcast.
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âCan you state your name, for the record.â
His wrists were bound at his front, a shock of mussed red hair catching the light in wild disarray. There was a weight to the way his head hung that had nothing to do with gravity. A drug â a neurotoxin â or perhaps a concussion, because there was also blood at his lip, blooming with a strike that was so young it hadnât yet the chance to swell.
It was the only indication he was still alive, until his voice broke soft over the silence of the holo.
âArmitage Hux.â
âGeneral Hux, of the former First Order?â
Green-gray eyes finally met the camera. A voice, softer yet, acknowledged, âyes.â
âThe man commonly called Starkiller?â
What looked like guilt flashed across his too-pale face, barely there and gone again, as he answered, âYes.â
The voice asking the questions paused, as if gathering itself.
And then, âAre you the man who destroyed the Hosnian System? Who designed, built, and then fired a weapon that destroyed over forty billion lives?â Even with the warble of the vocoder, the shake in the voice bled clear.
There was no ignoring the return of pain to eyes that had not left the camera, pain that would remain long after his answer came â a slow, carefully composed âyes.â
Silence stretched, distending, as precarious as the taffy-pulled strings of hyperspeed flickering across eyes that finally drifted to meet their assailantâs. Eyes that sought something that felt too much like confirmation â validation â like this were the testimony heâd not been allowed the chance to give.
âGood,â all shaking gone, the voice annealed firm, a conviction that felt years in the making, âthen letâs begin.â
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When his fists hit the table the material made a cracking sound. His knuckles were white, desperate clutches at something out of his reach. All he had was the stuttered recording playing on his datapad, the screen flickering bright with the inverted shadow of the man he had only just gotten back â and then lost, all over again.
The holo was the only indication Armitage was still alive, and Poeâs hands shook as he watched what he hoped was a live recording, because that meant he still had time.
Hands touched his shoulders, drew down his back.
âPoeââ
âIâm fine,â he pushed out as he leaned over the table, despite the way his head swam â the way his limbs had gone cold and his hands shook. The way his ears rang with a cloying siren that sounded too much like the voice in the recording â like Armitage at his most vulnerable, open and exposed and ripe for the reaping â a submission of character no one else should be privy to, because it wasnât something any of them deserved.
Poe was a man of promises. So how was it so easy for him to break every fucking one?
You âre safe, Iâm here, Iâm not going anywhere.
Armitage wasnât safe. Poe hadnât kept him safe. Heâd left him alone, fool-hearty in his belief that everything was okay, like the Galaxy hadnât already proven over and over again that it would have Armitageâs head, one way or another.
âHeâs alive, Poe. Heâs still alive,â Roseâs face edged into his peripheral, her hands small but strong where they tugged at his shoulders.
But her eyes betrayed her. The terror in them matched Poeâs, perhaps surpassed it, because that numbness was back, creeping up his spine like a countdown coming to a close.
Maybe Armitage was still alive, but for how long?
And how many people would be watching when that countdown ticked to empty?
Half the Holo-News networks. Half of those broadcasting the event like it was the real trial to dissect, the other half a silent brood, a live feed of the event itself; somehow so much worse than some newscasterâs hot take on the overdue justice they were watching play out.
The vocoded voice may have the rest of the galaxy fooled, but Poe knew better. He knew who was behind Armitageâs kidnapping â who was to blame for the blood on his lip, and the weight in his limbs.
The fear in his eyes, each time they drifted distant, like there was something only Armitage could see, something the holo didnât pick up. Something heralded by the hunter, but stalked so much worse.
Death, his mind supplied. His execution.
If Fineas Ofant saw fit to take justice into his own hands, he better be prepared when Poe came to take it back.
Around him, his friends had gathered. Stolen away to Leiaâs war room, theyâd spent the last thirty minutes trying to trace out the path of the stolen ship. Some twenty clicks outside atmo itâd made its jump, and Poe couldnât help but think that theyâd made a mistake not getting Armitage to outfit them with the Orderâs hyperspace tracking tech. Then, maybe theyâd have had some sort of chance at determining where they went â what sector to search, or system to alert.
Instead, all they had was an empty hangar and a shadow of a ghost. But theyâd alerted who they could: Leia, the Senate, the bounty network with a price so high for Armitageâs return alive that it would have made even the most vicious hunter put their blaster on stun.
Thirty minutes of action that at least felt like they were making strides in the right direction. That felt like hope.
Then the Holo-News had broke, and with it, a recording that took the floor out from beneath Poeâs boots â turned his world topsy, and then let him fall tetherless, powerless, as all that hope was dashed to pieces.
On the table, his datapad flickered. The feed cut out, a brief blip of static that at least told Poe one thing â that they were in hyperspace. Still on their way to their destination, as if Ofant wouldnât kill Armitage before they arrived.
It was a slim grasp at hope, but all Poe had left.
âLeiaâs kept in touch with the Senate, theyâve already issued a formal statement against what is happening,â Finnâs voice was warm, his hand near hot when It touched his shoulder, the joint pressure of both him and Rose a gentle urging that had him lowering down into the chair someone had placed behind him.
âI donât care what they think,â Poe snapped without heat.
âBut the public might, and if thereâs enough dissent maybe theyââ Finn cut off, fingers to Poeâs cheek as he turned his face back to meet his eyes, ââmaybe that will make an impact. Maybe theyâll realizeââ
âYou think Ofant will change his mind now?â Heat finally reached his voice, turned out with a fire he was surprised he could still feel. âHe wonât. I know he wonât. Heâs been after Armitage from the start. Heâs made it this far, and if it isnât the public egging him on then itâs his own fucking pride. This is personal for him, always has been.â
Finn was quiet a beat too long, then, âWe donât know itâs Ofant.â Poe pressed his lips together, watched as Finnâs careful resolve crumbled. âWe canât prove itâs Ofant.â
âIâll prove itâs him, when I drag his body back to Coruscant and demand the Senate to give us some real justice,â said as that heat turned into an inferno. Finn kept quiet, but it was the tightening of Roseâs hands on his shoulders that let him know he wasnât entirely alone.
Alone. Like Armitage was right now â like he always had been, until Poe had come along.
âI have to find him,â Poe whispered, near begged, âI have to save him, I have to.â
âI know,â Finn said, so soft Poe had to strain to hear, hand reaching to take his own. Roseâs hands slid past his shoulder, arms embracing him from behind.
Poe closed his eyes and for one long moment, let himself have the comfort his friends offered. Pretended that it was enough to ensure everything would be okay â that Armitage would be okay.
The sound of the door whooshing open startled them all to attention.
When Phasma stormed into the room, it was with BB-8 at her heels, datapad clutched in a fist so tight Poe wondered how it wasnât broken yet.
âWhen are we leaving, Dameron?â seethed with an anger Poe wished he could harness. Her eyes, bright and blue, tumulting with the strength of a storm.
âOnce we know where Hux is,â Finn said as his hand dropped away, coming to his full height.
Phasma snorted, sneer dripping, because vitriol was so much safer than panic. âYou would all sit around and wait? Not meââ she turned to Poe, jutted her chin out like an accusation, âânot him, either. Letâs go, Dameron.â
âGo where?â Rose trembled against him, arms clinging tight when it became clear Poe was staying right where he was. âWe donât know where Hux is. Thereâs a whole galaxy out there, and if we make the wrong guess we could end up too far away to help. Toââ
To get to Armitage in time.
Time. Something Poe thought he finally had. Something he thought he could waste.
Finn attempted to disarm the tension. âRose is right, weâre better off remaining here, at least until we know moreââ
Caught somewhere between a snarl and a laugh, the sound Phasma let out was acidic, the strength of her will a force of nature as she met Finn head on, the two devolving into a willful debate over their best course of action.
 On the table, his datapad played on. The holo scattered flickers of blue across the transparisteel, Armitageâs face repeating in a silent loop as the feed caught up with the passing of hyperspace, the cast of his still-living stare into the middle distance both the most comforting and most terrifying thing Poe had perhaps ever witnessed, even with a lifetime of war under his belt.
But he thought he saw something there, in that stare. Something important â because it wasnât just fear or guilt Poe saw, there was a ticking of thought unique to Armitage, of a mind at work, and a resolve to see something through.
Maybe it was something only Poe would understand, because heâd seen that same expression often enough: when Armitage had been working on Force, when heâd been tending BB-8, when heâd been, Poe suddenly realized, tucked inside a tent on the side of a mountaintop, putting together the pieces of how to finally reach the Order.
Armitage was planning something. He was plotting.
âWe wait,â Poe said quietly, more to himself than anyone else who might hear.
But they heard, they all heard.
âDameronââ
âWe wait,â Poe said again, more firmly, attention upon the holo â following the path Armitageâs eyes took, the way they tracked Ofant off-camera, the way the light shifted over his brow, across the little furrowed crevice that had become so familiar â a singular tell when little else was revealed.
The way his lips twitched, and his mouth pulled, and his eyes finally met the camera, and held, as if he knew Poe were watching.
âHeâll tell us where to go,â Poe said with so much conviction he nearly surprised himself. âHeâllââ he glanced up when Phasma made a sharp noise, like a choke, disbelief, and then comprehension as their eyes met and understanding dawned on her face, ââheâll give us a sign, a message, something. Once he knows. Once theyââ
Once they left hyperspace. Once time had grown so thin that theyâd have to react near instantaneously if they hoped to have even a chance.
âWe wait.â Poe said without room for question. Without room for doubt.
With hope. Only with hope.
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âDo you remember what it was like, to grow up planet-side?â It was not the expected question, evidenced by the peculiar silence that followed.
âI remember.â
âWhat freshly tended grass smelled like. How even as a child you knew when it was going to rain, when it would storm, when the sun would be out for days at a time, or how you knew snow was afoot, because the planet under your feet was as real and there and a part of you as anything else?â
âYes,â came out soft, âI remember.â
âAnd that feeling, as an adult. When you returned to that place. Smelled the same smells, breathed the same air, and all those memories came back. All the little reminders, the simple things that not even an angry parent could touch, or the trauma of war.â
Armitageâs eyes lifted from the lens, to peer at something in the middle distance â a memory, or the man, it was impossible to tell.
âI think I understand,â spoken like an admission, âbut I would not have been able to before. Not untilâŠvery recently.â
The voice sniffed, âMind, you still have a planet to return to.â
Unsaid went the fact that he would not be returning, to any planet, or any place that could be called a home.
âYou like games, donât you?â
The question came out of the dark like a strike, rending Armitage open for one brief, aching second as his eyes flew up to lock onto something off-camera. Something that settled still atop his shoulders, rigid through his chest.
Maybe it was the recording, or maybe it was something more. Something deeper, older, that froze him in place â suspended, uprooted.
âIs that all we ever were to you?â the voice continued, âA game? Pawns on a board that you could maneuver how you pleased, nothing more than the resources we offered, or the power we represented?â
Armitage licked his lip, flicked his eyes to the camera as blood welled anew â wound broken open, weeping again.
âOnce, maybe. Butââ
âBut not anymore.â The scoff clear even through the warble of the vocoder. âNow you understand, perhaps only very recently.â The words carried the same disbelief, the same mocking tone that infected the rest of the recording.
âNo,â Armitage said, eyes still locked onto the camera â as if he werenât speaking to the person behind it, but all the people who might be listening. âI think I knew. It just took me longer to acknowledge. It was easier, to see the monsters, instead.â
Silence stretched, a moment too long.
A shadow loomed, dark and ominous.
Just before it descended, the feed cut out.
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From his position atop the dais, the formations of troopers stretched nearly as far as the horizon.
Lined up in neat, tidy rows, their armor shone as bright as the snow. Polished to gleaming perfection, Hux almost thought it a shame that their usefulness would wane in the coming years. That it would be a waste when all that training, all the expertise and meticulous conditioning became obsolete in the face of what the Order stood to gain.
Heâd find another purpose for them, he promised himself. Promised them, silently, his vantage above affording him a clear view of what was to come, and where they were all headed.
Weâll need peacekeepers, he thought to himself as another platoon marched into formation, their heels landing in sync, their rifles all at perfect degree, their heads held tall â held high, just as was his and every officerâs behind him.
And educators, and medics, and surgeons, his mind rattled off, architects, and engineers, and physiciansâ
âAlready plotting out our future, General?â The familiar clink of Phasmaâs armor gave her away before her voice did. Hux turned to acknowledge her, lips pressed into a line.
She snorted, the vocoder in her helmet crackling like static. âI know that look.â
And he didnât need to see her face to know her smile.
âDreams only, for now. We still have a war to win,â he said from a place of calm he wasnât sure he actually felt. As monumental as this moment was, he could not help but feel unsteady. Like the dais he stood upon had been built atop a foundation already cracked.
He shifted where he stood, hands flexing at his back, pushed the feeling aside.
But the thought would not be buried. It coiled inside him, an unlikely weight.
A weight reflected in his words, as he gave his prepared speech.
A weight that did not lift, when the horizon limned red, and a column of fire speared the atmosphere in so many tenuous threads.
At his back, the Orderâs banner buffeted in the kicked-up wind. Before him, every head turned to watch. To revel. To bate their breath and prepare for the inevitable: for the Galaxy to finally open its arms to them â to admit, once and for all, that the New Republic were unfit for the power they held.
But was the Order really any better?
Armitage staggered, one step forward, towards an edge he didnât remember being there.
The memory shuddered, trembled.
Fractured. Bled.
Something was wrong. Something was wholly not right.
A tremor beneath his feet was the only warning before darkness breached the horizon. Something that looked like earth but shattered like ice. That suspended in the air as if gravity no longer mattered, and then fettered apart in a spill of blinding, red light.
And then it happened again, and again, and again.
Beyond the endless rows of troopers, the horizon disintegrated, as everything in the columnâs path was consumed.
He opened his mouth in command â a retreat that would send his troopers to the waiting carriers â but the wind sheared like ice, and his breath was knocked from his chest, so nothing but a thin sob broke through.
There was no time to escape. No warning quick enough to give, or ship fast enough for rescue.
He stumbled towards the precipice, unsure if it was his feet or fate that propelled him to the edge.
This isnât right, his mind thought.
This was a mistake, his gut insisted.
What have I done? His heart screamed.
Beneath him, the planet came apart. Inside him, something broke. Something important. Critical. Something Armitage was sure could never be fixed.
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He woke again to a dim darkness. Head swimming, teeth clenching, the warmth of blood running down his cheek was a distant tickle compared to the ache in his jaw. Armitage worked the joint, finding his mouth tender and swollen where his teeth had bit â the taste of blood collecting with the bile at the back of his tongue. He swallowed it down. Grimaced, as it slid thick and leaden down his throat, into his belly.
Bracing his shoulders against the durasteel bulkhead, he pushed himself upright. The position only made his head swim more, the blood from where Ofant had struck him welling with each swollen throb. But the pain grounded him as it always did, and what was left of the drug in his veins eddied the worst of it against a pall of calm that he was at once grateful for, and a little concerned of.
Long ago heâd grown used to this. Had been in this position often enough: beaten to broken, nothing but the ache of his body to ground him into living.
Now, his body had grown accustomed to the comforts of a softer touch â a mindful handling. A considerate, gentle caring.
Poe, he let himself remember: strong hands, warm skin, the pressure of a body against his own, arms that cradled, palms that cupped. Soothing, respectful touches that knew him as no other ever could. He didnât want to think of how he might never know them again. Didnât want to taint their memory with this desperate longing. But he was weak, always had been, and he clung to Poeâs memory like it were the page of that book, torn out from its rightful place to be clutched like a crutch â like it could somehow save him.
Like Poe could somehow save him.
By now Poe would have seen the recordings. Would have realized he was no longer on base, but lost somewhere in space â deep in the trade lanes along a route that maybe didnât even have a destination. Not if Ofantâs aim was to keep rescue away.
But that wouldnât stop Poe. He would keep searching, until the last broadcast hit the Holo-Net â the one Armitage knew was coming. When Ofant would draw his blaster and make true his promise, and Armitage would die before the eyes of trillions. Justice finally levied against the monster they all believed him to be.
At the console, Ofant replayed his recording. The blue glow of the holo reflected over his face, but his eyes were on his datapad, a breach of dull light illuminating him from below.
The light revealed much. There were circles under his eyes, a drawn gravity to his cheeks. An exhaustion around his edges that hung his eyelids low over glassy pupils. They skittered across his datapadâs screen, reading what Armitage presumed was the Holo-Netâs public boards, or the news anchors reports regarding what they were seeing.
Whatever was being said cast him deeper into darkness, revealed a resolve forged not just in righteous agenda, but in a willful, clattering momentum.
Armitage watched, quiet and still, as Ofant turned slowly to face him.
Maybe it should have felt strange that when Ofant met his stare Armitage did not see the pleasure that had been there before. Maybe, that should have been enough to deter him from speaking â because it could be just as likely that it wasnât his former calm that Ofant lacked, but rather his inhibitions, because the expression Ofant wore was one Armitage had seen often enough upon men far more dangerous than one lost, lonely Senator.
It was an expression heâd seen on himself, at least once before. When a task that had not brought him the joy he thought he should feel, but rather weighed upon him like a burden carried.
But a manâs commitment was not something to be contended. And what Ofant had tasked himself with would not be easily overcome.
Armitage knew this, because he had felt the same, once, a long time ago.
Armitageâs heart pounded in his chest, desperate, aching, understandingâ
âYou donât have to do this,â Armitage said into the quiet, like it would make a difference.
The shuttered viewport barely contained the flux of hyperspeed beyond, but still Ofantâs eyes caught the light as they moved back to the console â to the haunting cast of blue, and a promise made to a Galaxy that had waited long enough for the justice he offered.
Armitage didnât want to die, though.
Didnât think he deserved to, not anymore.
âIâve known killers,â Armitage continued, even if it wouldnât make a difference. But something inside Armitage insisted Ofant was not one of those men, no matter his current shape, and how it fit, âYou are not a killer.â
âThis is not killing,â Ofant spat, still not meeting his eyes, âthis is righting a wrong, made by you. This is justice.â
âNo, itâs not,â Armitage said softly, sadly, with an unlikely commiseration he felt buried deep in his bones. One that condensed when Ofant finally turned to look him in the eye, âthis is revenge.â
âSemantics.â Without the warble of the vocoder, the word fell flat.
Wrong, and they both understood it.
It occurred to Armitage that this should be where he begged for his life. Where he tried to convince Ofant that what he was about to do was no different from what Armitage had done so many years ago. That the path he had embarked upon would lead to nowhere but more misery, and a guilt that would haunt him for a lifetime to come.
But what could Armitage say to a man who had already lost everything? How could he not understand what lengths a person would go when it felt like there was nothing left to live for? When he himself had reached this point in life so many times before?
And how could Armitage not understand how it felt to be doing something you believed was right? When the pain the world had bestowed hurt so much that you became blinded by the need to avenge both yourself and those you acted on behalf of? When the path you walked became not hard, but virtuous, and only you had the strength, because what else could all that pain be for, why else were you able to remain standing tall amongst it?
Armitage knew how dangerous that could make a person. What lengths a man could go to, when hopelessness fueled his pain, and righteousness stoked his anger.
âThis isnât what you want,â he said, scared of how small his voice sounded; how weak his will felt.
âThis is all I want,â Ofant confirmed, voice pitched low, eyes dark as he fixed the vocoder back in place. He approached the droid, a silent command flickering the optics back to life, to hone in on Armitageâs face as he spoke.
âThis is all I have left.â
Outside the scope of his droidâs lens, there was little beyond the quality of his voice that Ofant now hid. The false facade of kindness heâd spent weeks wearing on base had peeled entirely away. But it wasnât just the pain Armitage expected that he now saw. There was something more â something he only recently may have been able to recognize.
Mirrored back at him, contained within the reflection heâd faced every morning, was a man who had committed himself to death. Who didnât fear that the consequences of his actions were too grievous to come back from, because he understood he wasnât going back.
And Armitage understood. Understood where Ofant was coming from, and where exactly he was headed.
Understood that there was still time to come back from it. To choose a different path, a different fate.
Understood, there was still a chance. To save himself, and maybe the person before him.
I need to get a message to Poe, birthed firm and demanding. And like a spark in the pan of his thoughts, he realized, maybe he could.
Thought, perhaps, he knew just how.
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âTell me,â the disembodied voice demanded, âwhat did you expect from your trial?â
Armitage licked his lips, tilted his head, âIâm not sure Iââ
âWhat did you expect,â the voice firmed, âof your verdict.â
The question was like a punch, flinching across Armitageâs features in one fractured passing of light.
âI expected to die.â
âTo be found guilty.â
The words landed heavy, weighted with meaning.
Confirmation came, slow, but clear. An admission, or confirmation.
âI am guilty.â
Quiet coalesced into a dense, drowning silence.
âYou admit it.â
âOf course,â Armitage said softly. âI never denied it.â
âHow can youââ the voice broke, raw and wounded. ââhow can you dare admit it?â
âBecause I was wrong.â Armitage lifted his eyes form the lens, caught his assailantâs instead, âAnd because I am so, so sorry.â
The backhand came fast, precluded by the shadow that stretched out past the cameraâs lens, before it dropped with what felt like the weight of all that Armitage carried.
Blood flecked dark across his cheek when he finally lifted his head, after long seconds had ticked by, unbroken by a rare stretch of feedback without interference.
When his eyes met the camera, fear bled palpable among the thousands of flickering pixels.
But so did something else.
Resolve. Determination.
âStarkiller Base was a mistake,â Armitage said slowly. âI thought it was the path to power, and order for the galaxy,â he was whispering now, but in the quiet his voice carried, âBut I was wrong. Instead itââ he paused, chewed his lip, grimaced at the taste of blood, ââ instead I only caused pain. And I know now, that it never would have led to the future I sought. There is noââ his face twisted as he pushed through his thoughts, tamped down the emotion swelling in his eyes, ââthere is no excuse for what I did. No amends that will be enough.â
It wasnât his assailantâs eyes that Armitage met, but the cameraâs lens.
âI understand how wrong I was. I understand, that I donât deserve to have your forgiveness. But I am sorry,â said as his eyes closed over the emotion finally spilling free; as his voice broke and his breath wavered, âIâll never stop being sorry.â
The recording cut out with a shutter of black.
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Rey swept into the control room, Kylo Ren a shadow at her heels. There were dark circles under his eyes, a paleness to his skin that Poe hadnât seen since his internment on base all those months ago. An exhaustion he felt mirrored in himself, that he saw shadowed in everyone gathered with him in this enduring wait.
The last three hours had stretched him thin enough to break, though he didnât think heâd let it show. All he had done was rewatch each recording that had come through. Watch as the man he loved was stolen further and further out of his reach. Separated in a way not even Armitageâs imprisonment had been able to achieve â a distance he felt not in parsecs, but in his heart.
Unable to maintain the façade of strength when Reyâs arms came around him, he felt a tremor in his body. It was a moment of weakness he allowed himself, because Rey would see through him anyways. But where he felt weak, Rey was strong. And she held onto him with a temerity he had once felt when holding Armitage.
Why had he ever let go? How had he walked away?
âOh, Poe,â Rey said with the gentleness of a trickling stream. âYou canât blame yourself.â
âI was supposed to protect him, Rey,â said quietly enough that maybe only Phasma overheard. His eyes moved to Ren, found his gaze turned internal. âI promised him I would.â
âYou wonât always be able to be at his side,â Rey said like that wasnât precisely what Poe planned to do. âYou wonât always be able to protect him. Heâll need to be able to protect himself, too.â
âHe has been,â Phasma spoke, voice so low he almost didnât hear. She repeated herself, louder, âHeâs been protecting himself his entire life.â She met his eyes, then Reyâs. There was an accusation there, a challenge to anyone who might doubt Armitageâs capabilities. But then it broke, cracked open to reveal a doubt Poe understood as acutely as maybe only he and Phasma could. âBut heâs been fighting for so long, I donât know how much more he can take.â
It was everything Poe had feared to say out loud. Because Armitage had seemed to be doing better, his spirits lifted enough to let Poe close â let him in â but he hadnât been well. And what the recordings showed was not a man fighting for his life, but a man who had already been broken. A person who had reached the precipice and found it too steep.
âFive minutes.â Roseâs voice cut through the miasma of Poeâs thoughts, the thrill in it sounding off-kilter to the unease in his chest.
Reyâs armâs tightened around him as they both looked to Rose. Beside him, Phasma grew still, face at careful attention, as if waiting for a command that might never come.
And still Ren stood, idle and distant, face a mask unlike that which he once wore.
âThe lag, in the feed,â Rose continued, voice a rush of excitement, fingers flicking over her datapad, âitâs five minutes, down to the second,â revealed like it were the most monumental bit of intel sheâd ever passed along.
âItâsââ Rey piped up, pushing away to glance at Ren.
âAutomatic. Whatever setup heâs got gives him just enough time to catch anything in the feed he doesnât want getting broadcast,â the rush of excitement in Roseâs voice disturbed something inside Poe, loosened a hold he didnât realize he had on the emotions coiling â something he had mistook as the calm before a dogfight, but now realized was as artificial as the gaze of the droid recording each minute of this befouled feed.
âHeâs alive Poe, every time one of these comes through, heâs still alive.â
His hand was shaking when Rey touched it. Her fingers held fast, but it was the soothe of her Force that comforted him the most. There was power in it, a power that had seen them through the worst of the battles theyâd fought â helped them overcome odds that had threatened so much more than one manâs life.
No matter that this one man meant more to him than a Galaxy full of people.
âOkay,â he breathed, feeling his strength return â one that felt real, in a way little else did. âOkay, thatâs good.â
Good. The word felt strange on his tongue. Unwieldy. As if anything good in the Galaxy still existed, let alone was coming from these broadcasts. But he would take it. He would take what little good there was and forge it into what he needed â what Armitage needed.
Sensing his change in mood, with one last hug Rey slipped away, to join Ren in quiet conversation at the far corner of the room. In her place, BB-8 arrived with a slow whoop of question it directed at both him and Phasma, a curiosity rooted in its quest to be helpful.
âThanks BB, not much to do but wait,â Poe said as he placed a hand on its housing. Beside him, Phasma watched on, quiet and contemplative, thoughts kept to herself, though Poe could see how this idle waiting made them fester.
There were things he could maybe do to pass the time. Maybe even helpful things, like Roseâs analyzing the feed, or Finnâs monitoring of the public boards. But Poe couldnât shake the feeling that his real place â his responsibility â was in watching the recordings. Not just for the sign he kept telling himself Armitage would send, but because somehow, it made him feel like Armitage was less alone. Like Poe could live through this alongside him, be the strength he couldnât muster. And for one of the few times in his life, Poe wished he did have the Force, because then maybe he could actually share in this with Armitage â reach him despite the distance separating them, even if it were nothing but a ghostly, intangible touch.
But he couldnât; all he had was this feed. So, thatâs what he did. He studied each recording that came through. Watching, waiting, for a hint, for that sign. Something that would tell him where to go, where to look â where Armitage had been stolen away to â some far-away place within a Galaxy that had never, ever wanted him.
But that wasnât true. Not anymore. Because here, in this room, were people who wanted him. Within this whole base were people who cared. And where the people of the Order had scattered, they too, surely, were watching on with the same bated breath Poe held. Because Armitage mattered to those people. He mattered, not because of the pain he had caused, or the damage he had done, but for the peace he had bartered, and the safety he had sought on their behalf.
For good things. Armitage mattered, because he had done so much good.
âPoe,â cut sharp, a command for attention that Poe had only heard in Finnâs voice during the most dire of missions. âPoe, you need to see this.â
His legs trembled as he stood, Phasmaâs hand reaching out to steady him until it became clear he wasnât going to fall. When she caught his eyes, he met her stare, a brief exchange of words without voice. Saw reflected in her the same pain of inaction â the inability to do anything somehow worse than the consequences of acting too soon.
When he arrived at Finnâs side, it felt like another one of those moments. Like he had arrived late to an appointment that would make all the difference, if there was still an opportunity for a difference to be made.
Finn handed him his datapad without a word uttered â without barely a breath.
Poe nearly dropped it, when he saw what filled the screen.
âIs this a joke?â
He knew it wasnât. Knew, without a doubt, whose words he was reading, even if heâd never seen them written down before â never heard them spoken in such an eloquent, carefully constructed sequence.
âWhoââ he pushed out, ââhow?â
âThey claim they were his guard,â Finn said softly beside him, as the memory of the woman in the atrium emerged â the glance she had given Armitage, the bearing of her shoulders as sheâd looked Poe over and then let him by.
It was a letter, for him â from Armitage.
All his hard won strength immediately fled him.
âFuck,â Poe whispered as he lowered down into the seat beside Finn. âFinnââ he rasped, staring down at the screen, words bloating with tears he could no longer hold off, ââwhat do I do? What can I do?â
âCome here.â And then he was being pulled into Finnâs arms. Heavy, strong arms that held him close and did not let go. Poe turned into Finnâs shoulder, sucked in a long, wavering breath and allowed this for himself. Accepted it, because even if it wasnât quite the help he wanted â it was precisely what he needed.
âFinn,â whispered with his exhale, âI need to get to him.â
âYou will,â came out like a promise. As if Finn knew something he didnât, had seen something he couldnât see.
Warmth trailed Poeâs spine, like a hand down his back, or the sun on his neck. The tickle of Finnâs Force marked different â stood out in the way Finn always had, buoyant and easy but so much stronger now than Poe had ever felt before. Poe closed his eyes as he opened himself to it, felt its path along his cracks, filling, and then expanding.
It didnât calm Poe, so much as remind him of the strength that was already there.
Across the table, Phasmaâs face alit in the flicker of the holo, brows drawn over eyes the color of ice, the tenor of steel, like a weapon honed, readying for its strike. Beside her, BB-8 watched on, attentive and faithful, at the ready for whatever command may come. And to either side of Poe were his closest friends, people who had seen him through a war that had nearly killed them all â surmounting odds that had threatened not just one man, but the Galaxy itself.
They had done this before: achieved the impossible. Had gathered the unlikeliest of allies along the way, forging a synthesis of power that had defeated a threat far larger than one lonesome Senator on a quest for revenge.
Together, they had overcome the worst of odds. Had taken fate into their own hands and finally done what two generations of war had been unable to. And they had done so alone â had done it without the support of the Galaxy or even the Core.
So Poe wasnât sure why it mattered so much to him now, that he wanted that support. Didnât understand why, deep in his heart, he thought it would be what actually made a difference.
âWhatââ he pushed the question out, somehow more curious than terrified of the answer, ââwhat are people saying?â
Finn reached out, touching his hands where they still clutched the datapad, fingers carved steady against his. There was a new recording, uploaded just minutes before, but Finn closed it out, pulled up the public boards instead, the ones Poe hadnât been able to bring himself to look at. The ones he was sure shared the same vitriol that Ofant felt, where Armitageâs death at the hands of a vigilante would be the justice the Senate had failed to deliver.
What he saw instead clutched so deep inside his chest he nearly stopped breathing. Nearly shot from the table and raced for the landing pad to take a ship and go.
That letterâŠ
This isnât justice.
Heâs gone too far; I canât keep watching.
Okay, jokeâs over...
Why isnât anyone stopping him?
No one deserves this.
I wouldnât wish this on my worst enemy.
Heâs not our enemy.
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His head was soaked with blood, a laceration hidden by his hairline, dripping so red it made his hair look blond, his skin sallow.
His hands lifted, as if to brush away at the blood, only to pause, hover, and drop again.
His eyes kept flicking to the middle distance beyond, watching. Wary.
Attentive.
âTimeâs up,â landed strange â wrong â like an actual question, rather than the precursor it was. âAre you scared?â
Cheeks washed white, eyes wide and dark, Armitage stared with a temerity that betrayed him. The careful coil of his body a small silhouette against the durasteel bulkhead that framed the shot.
Armitage didnât look scared â he looked terrified.
âI donât want to die,â cast out quiet, catching on nothing but the tightness in his throat.
âNeither did those on Hosnia Prime,â the voice replied, âneither did my family.â
Silence curdled, a long unbroken stretch.
âNo apology?â the voice eventually said.
âYou hit me, the last time.â
A snarl, vicious, edged manic.
âYou deserved it, you deserve this,â the vocoder warbled, emotion there but distorted, so it was impossible to tell if it was anger or grief that fueled it. âYou deserve to have your pieces scattered alongside all those you killed. Alongside my family, and my planet, and all the people whose lives you took!â
In the middle distance, Armitageâs eyes caught, were held.
âPlease,â Armitage whispered, âplease donât do this.â
âThis is what you deserve,â the disembodied voice affirmed, âthis is what we all deserve.â
Despite the blue cast of the holo, color still bled, muted red across Armitageâs pale features.
Later, someone might replay the feed and ask a question. Might wonder why the assailant hadnât bound Armitageâs feet, or secured his hands behind his back. Might ask why they hadnât tied him down, or strung him up; maimed him so badly that he could not fight back. Because as the recording flickered with the bolt of the blaster, the shot went wide, because Armitage had lunged up.
And it became clear to anyone who might watch, that no matter how beaten down he might have become, Armitage Hux would still fight for his life.
There was a moment when both men were off-camera, the only sound that of their scuffle and the chirp of the shipâs console, where maybe hope blossomed. Where any viewer who did not want this man dead could believe he would live. Who would maybe think the bolt of a blasterâs shot off screen, or the cracking of something hard breaking could be the real justice being served.
Except the pained voice that shouted cut too clear, and the person who collapsed into the frame was too defeated to be a victor. Hunched over a wound that could not be seen, pushing himself across the floor on legs too weak, Armitage Hux collapsed into the frame again, more broken than he had even been before, hand clutching something that was too small, too precious to be the blaster it needed to be.
Red bled again, wavering alongside the camera as the transport that carried them shuddered, and then dipped, engine turning over, darkness giving way.
Then light flooded the cockpit in a shatter of gold as the ship dropped out of hyperspace, and whatever destination they had arrived at scattered bright like so much debris.
The last thing anyone might have seen was the widening of Armitageâs eyes, before his assailant cut the feed.
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Sometimes, he still thought of Snokeâs throne room. Of the towering obsidian throne and the columns of durasteel that surrounded it. Of the blood-red guard that flanked a precipice that descended into a mote of fiery light. He thought of how small heâd felt, that first time he knelt at his Supreme Leaderâs feet. How little he mattered, in the face of a man like him.
Then a coil of pressure had tickled his neck, and then circled his throat, before entering his mind, and it hadnât been inadequacy Armitage had felt.
That had been his first time encountering someoneâs Force. His first time understanding what his superiors had meant when they claimed awe in the face of Snokeâs mystical abilities.
Armitage hadnât felt awe.
Heâd felt fear.
The Force: this incredible power, something he could never touch, could never contain. A manifestation of the weakness that had hounded him since childhood, because in the face of Snokeâs powers, Armitage realized just how weak he really was.
Often, he still remembered that feeling of helplessness, the abject hopelessness that had suffused those few weeks after that first meeting. How his mind had turned the encounter over and over, tumbling its ragged edges smooth, until the memory had become a distant discomfort, and a solution had finally sparked within the darkness of his miasmic thoughts.
Maybe that was Snoke intention, all along. Because it wasnât the pain of invisible fingers around his throat that lingered in those following weeks â it was the clutch at his heart that it could happen again at any moment. The paranoia that Snoke was still there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting for his guard to come down.
It wasnât the Force itself that lent Snoke his authority, Armitage acknowledged, it was that fear.
Heâd decided then that if he could not contend with the Force itself, he would have to gain power in some other way. That if the source of real power was fear, the Order didnât need the Force to achieve that.
Six months later heâd presented his plans to the council. Two days after that heâd gone before Snoke for the second time in his life, to present Starkiller Base as a solution fueled by practicality; the order the galaxy so desperately lacked, manifested as a weapon of immeasurable magnitude. A weapon that would cause such fear in the hearts of the people that no one would dare contend with the Orderâs demands.
Seven years later he stood at the edge of a precipice, overlooking a whipped-up storm of ice and snow as Illumâs horizon bled red, cracked open, and then spilled forth a column of pure refined power, to tear through space-time and instill not fear in the hearts of the Galaxy â but something else.
Something worse. Something that didnât speak to fear, or power, but darkness. A darkness that would descend over the galaxy and make way for something far more terrifying than Snokeâs paltry command of the Force.
He still remembered the moment Emperor Palpatine revealed himself. Still remembered the ecstatic glee in Prydeâs eyes, the shudder of want in Renâs Force, and the panic heâd felt alone in his quarters, when he realized what he had done. What he had helped create. What kind of monster he had made way for, despite his endeavor to rid the galaxy of those very men.
He still remembered.
He would never forget.
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As if in slow motion, he watched Ofant draw the blaster from inside his coat. Held his breath as the muzzle glowed red a mere meter from his face, spilling hot and bright, into his eyes, over his skin.
Listened to the whine, as the power cell inside it charged, bolt collecting,
Despite the droid, despite the recording â despite the broadcast that may or may not make it to Poe or anyone else watching, people who may want him to pay in the same way Ofant did â Armitage had always been a survivor. It was what had brought him this far. Far enough to have something to live for. Something to fight for â really fight for â because out there was maybe a galaxy that didnât want him, but there was one man who did.
Instinct, more than a plan, had him lunging to his feet.
The shot went wide, hitting something past his shoulder rather than his head, singing bright against the pain already lacerating his skull. Armitage charged forward, past the droid and into Ofantâs chest, feeling the wind knock out of him, hot and heavy across his neck.
 They fell against the far wall of the transport, Ofant stumbling as Armitage used his momentum to propel them forward, bound hands finding purchase on the sleeve of his gun arm as he wrestled for the blaster in his grip.
But his legs were weak from the neurotoxin, and his hands were bound too tightly to get a good grip. And when the butt of the blaster came down hard over his wrists, then wedged in between and twisted, he felt it strain, and then crack, the bone fracturing clean along a line he could feel sever up his arm.
He shouted. Hot pain lanced into his elbow, along his fingers. He gripped at Ofantâs as his knees buckled, vision swimming with a pain-fueled desperation, fingers finding purchase on whatever he could, catching at Ofantâs coat, and then his pocket, and the pad tucked away there.
For a moment, it felt like he was dreaming. The pain of his shattered wrist co-mingling with the wound to his head, so that he didnât quite believe what he saw. But there was no denying that it was his codepad which tumbled into his hands â Force opened to the main screen â the game Ofant had accused him of playing staring up at him like this were his real goal all along.
You need to reach Poe.
You need to send him a message.
Armitage fell to his knees, broken wrist cradled closely to his chest, the codepad held even closer, as the memory of a towering mountainside against a roiling sea came down with the strength of a storm.
If only you could send him a secret message.
His eyes filled with tears as he scrambled to pull up his Force profile, grit his teeth against the pain in his wrist as his fingers swept over the three dead star resource images. He wouldnât have long, just a few seconds to choose what he thought would get the message through before Ofant caught on â caught up â and a blaster to his head would leave him for dead.
But he still didnât know where they were headed. Still didnât know where to send Poe, or if he even should, at this point â not if it was only his corpse that would be waiting for him.
But then something in his chest shifted â an ease, or a hopeâ
Or maybe it was just ship. Because all of a sudden, the console chirped, and the transport dropped out of hyperspeed.
There was a moment when the light spilled through the retracted shutters that Armitage believed he had already died. When the spill of the twin suns light burned so bright that his vision tunneled and his heart slowed into a weak, puttering throb. But it wasnât death that had arrived, he acknowledged when his eyes adjusted and the starscape before him came into focus, it was something much worse.
Scattered across the viewport in so much debris was the entirety of a single star system. An amount of destruction that spread as far as his eyes could see â a system of five planets he had destroyed, along with all the people who once inhabited them.
Before him was all that remained of the Hosnian System.
Great chunks of rock drifted past the viewport, huge pieces disturbed by the friction of their sub-light engine, the skittering trail of the smaller debris dragging like fingernails along the length of their hull. The darkness around the two suns glittered in a shatter of sparks, the remains of over forty billion souls blown into a cloud of dust that trailed through space like the spiral arms of the galaxy itself. It would have been beautiful, if he didnât know precisely what he was looking at. Instead, he felt his stomach clench over what threatened to come up. Felt his tongue grow wet and his head turn light. Felt, belatedly, when his palms slid with his sweat and his arms nearly gave out.
It was all Armitage could do to hold himself upright, to not collapse under the evidence of everything he had done wrong.
âOh, stars,â he whispered, soft enough for only himself.
At his back, he heard Ofant sob.
âYou see it?â rasped out, the grinding skid of metal against metal trilling somehow less uncomfortable than the cadence of his voice. Ofant hauled himself upright by way of his droid, shoulders heaving as he clutched his blaster in a shaking hand. âYou see it? What it is you did? What you claim you understand?â
When Armitage closed his eyes, the image remained. Burned into his mindâs eye, where he imagined it would always stay.
He opened his eyes again, let himself see. Let the light of the twin suns burn bright until his eyes filled with heat, and then tears. Let the drift of every rock past the viewport trace shadows on his skin. Let the darkness at the edge of it all bleed black against his unblinking eyes, until his sight turned ultraviolet, an aura of energy replacing the light. An energy that ebbed like the Force but felt so much more potent â like it were a part of him in the way the Force never could be.
I did this, he thought to himself with a fear he had never felt â not all the times heâd knelt at Snokeâs throne, or cowered at his fatherâs feet, or wrenched against Renâs choke-hold.
No, heâd never before felt fear like this, because he had done this. Not Snoke, nor Ren. Not his father or Brooks or even Palpatine.
It was him. Only him.
Once, long ago, he had sought to rid the Galaxy of the monsters who had hurt him. Now, confronted by the wreckage of all heâd gotten wrong, he realized what kind of monster he had become to achieve just that. What cycle he had perpetuated, and pain he had caused.
And he realized, that to Ofant, he was no different from any Brendol, or Snoke, or Ren.
No, Armitage thought, as the weight of not what he had done, but what he had become came down upon him. No, no, noâ
A shudder passed through his body. The weakness in his arms finally gave way, and he sank slowly to the floor, eyes finally closing as his forehead touched the ground, and his whole body began to shake.
I did this, he thought, over and over, like a mantra, like some convoluted prayer. I did this, I did this, I did thisâ
He was going to die for this. Here, on his knees before all the wreckage he had wrought, Armitage would die. And he could no longer find it within himself to put up a fight.
âAll those people,â Ofant said from right beside him, the rough drag of his voice like sandpaper along his brain. The heat of his blasterâs muzzle warmed to hot against his temple, a promise, or a mercy. âNot a number. People. Now gone, like they never existed. Like they never mattered. Do you understand?â
âI understand.â Armitage didnât know if his voice carried, could hardly hear himself speak over the rush of blood through his head. Could hardly think past the idea that the most terrifying power in all the Galaxy wasnât that wielded by Ren or Snoke or the Emperor, but that wielded by desperate, broken men.
Men like him.
When he lifted his head to meet Ofantâs eyes, something passed through them. The blaster to his head pressed hard, burning, the whine of the power cell charging nothing but a distant scream.
Iâm so sorry, Armitage thought, eyes closing as an already fractured composure shattered across Fineas Ofantâs face, to replace the image with anotherâs â the only person he wished he could see right now.
In the face of fate finally come to claim him, Armitage closed his eyes and he thought of Poe.
Instead of a bolt blowing open his head, it was Ofantâs wretched, rasping voice.
Ofant sobbed, broken open, eyes wet as he looked from Armitage to the destruction beyond. Then heat left his skin. The blasterâs whine eased into a quiet trill, and Ofant was stepping away â stepping back, putting a distance between them like whatever Ofant could see had left him aghast, and he couldnât get away fast enough.
Youâre not a killer, Armitage had told him.
But neither am I, he acknowledged. Not anymore.
It occurred to Armitage as he met Ofantâs eyes, that maybe he and Ofant had more in common than he could have previously conceived.
He felt his stomach twist, his chest tightened. It was then that something struck the side of the transport.
Something large.
No, something huge.
All at once, the transport was careening end over end. The gravity within the cockpit sent him rolling, his shoulder striking the ground first before his head, pain racketing down his already injured arm into his broken wrist. He screamed, the pain shocking him into sound before he clenched his teeth and tried to steady his momentum. But it was no use. The ship was out of control, warnings screeching, futility mounting.
He clutched his codepad like it was all that mattered â like the tumbling path the transport took towards another smaller, but still too-large rock didnât matter so long as he held on to this single piece of a past that was otherwise filled with so much pain, sorrow, and an immeasurable fear.
Hurry. He forced himself into action, the first two images easy, but the last leaving him reeling, despite how the ship tumulted. One final image, something to represent the system he had destroyed â the lives he had taken and all the destruction he had wrought.
The solution came in a spark of impish thought, a page from a book he thought long closed.
Only after heâs made his selection did he realize what it was he felt: hope, in the face of all heâd gotten wrong, and a fate that had hunted him since childhood. He somehow had this unlikely hope.
Despite Ofant, despite the recording â despite the broadcast that had reached trillions, people who may want him to pay in the same way Ofant did, and a secret message that may or may not make it to the one person who mattered â Armitage had always been a survivor. It was what had brought him this far. Far enough to have something to live for. Something to fight for â really fight for â because out there was maybe a galaxy that didnât want him, but there was one man who did.
A second impact struck harder than the first. His shoulder collided with the console in an arc of sparks, tiny things that danced like fire across his skin. All around him, the transport wailed, emergency systems kicking on in a brief luminescence, only to immediately darken, so suddenly only the spill of the twin suns illuminated the bulkhead walls. Fated warnings flickered across the broken console: engine failure, communications array out, life support crippled with all remaining systems rerouted to the emergency battery backup. Cabin pressure rose and then, in a shudder of ear-popping compression, gave way, gravity disassembling so it was all he could do to clutch his codepad to his chest while everything in the cabin suddenly suspended weightless and untethered.
All he could do to send another message â this time with his heart, to a man he knew still listened, despite the lightyears that kept them apart.
Alright Poe, he thought as the transport around him failed, come save me.
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In the end, it wasnât Armitageâs face that gave him away. It wasnât even the angle of the camera, or the flood of light filling the cockpit as the transport dropped out of hyperspeed right before the feed cut.
It was the tiny device clutched so carefully â so guardedly â that gave everything away.
A secret message. A secret code.
âPhasma,â Poeâs voice wavered as he turned to her in his seat. Across the table, Rey spoke with Leiaâs holo â some plans to deploy a search team across all systems within a seven-hour jump of Ajan Kloss. But they didnât need to â because Poe knewâ
âWill you pull up Force?â
Phasmaâs face twisted, brows drawn low over ice-blue eyes, before realization hit.
Unlike his, her hands didnât tremble as she drew out her datapad. They hardly shook as she tapped through the screens until she reached Force.
He didnât need to tell her to pull up Armitageâs profile.
Didnât need any more confirmation that he was right than the sound of her thin, sharply stolen gasp.
âItâs changed,â she breathed, âitâs fucking changed.â
The Dead Star Resource, a warning, and an omen.
The Droid Emperor, dragging his comrade to an unlikely safety that Poe was suddenly sure they would find.
And an image unlike the others, unlike any Poe had encountered during any of his games. Something that looked torn from the pages of a childrenâs book: a gaggle of creatures fleeing not the jungle backdrop that was their home, but a meteor that came down from the heavens â death personified, a cataclysmic rendering of fate that would leave none of them alive.
And it all made sense. It all made such kriffing sense that Poe couldnât believe he hadnât put it together sooner.
âThe Hosnian System,â left him in a whisper, and then louder â a shout, âheâs in the Hosnian System!â
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Notes:
As I said, part 2 is coming shortly, if it has not already been posted by the time most of y'all will have read this â„ Please refresh in case you opened your window/tab before the second part was added, in case it is available!
Thanks so much y'all, it's been a wild ride â„
Chapter 21: A Concert of Stars - Part 2
Notes:
*Please Note!*
This is Part 2 of chapter 20 - I am posting these two parts just several hours apart so wanted y'all to be aware that if you are just seeing the update, there is potentially a chapter you have not read yet â„
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Get up.
Upon the polished durasteel of the Steadfastâs floor, his boots smeared red. It was an aberration to his plan, of course â but more so evidence that it had slipped entirely from his grasp. The wound to his thigh had not cauterized with the blasterâs bolt, and his triage training calmly informed him that was because FN-2187 had nicked his artery. He would bleed out, if the wound wasnât treated, and by the small pool of blood staining the floor he figured he had fifteen minutes at most before the inevitable befell him.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he never really expected to live beyond this decision, let alone see the Order put to right. Because the world was being shaped outside the bounds of his control now, and he understood that whatever came of it would not have a place for him.
FN-2187âs back was disappearing beyond the hangar bay door, and Hux felt something inside leave with him. A chance maybe, for something different. A hope, that he wasnât as alone as heâd always felt. Useless things, all of them, because like the traitor, heâd made his choices long ago. And what he had done here, today â over the last year â he could not help but feel it was all too little, too late.
Had he ever done the right thing? Ever made the right choice? He still didnât know â didnât think it mattered, not anymore.
The hallway tilted. Blood loss, maybe. Just as likely his nerves. He felt the distant crawl of nerve endings firing down his cervical spine and the flood of endorphins hitting his bloodstream from a place outside his body. The rate of his heartbeat increased, and saliva filled his mouth. And as sound garbled into a rush of blood through his veins, he heard his breath leave him in a whisper-thin whimper.
Youâll die here, a voice inside told him.
Iâm already dead, he corrected.
It was a thought that comforted, when nothing else could.
Beyond, in the hangar, the Falcon hovered, as if watching, waiting. Hux felt a spark of anger inside him, because they needed to leave â needed to go â before Pryde caught on and overrode the hangar controls, launched the TIEs and intercepted their escape, sent a platoon of troopers to execute them allâ
The sound of boot-falls atop durasteel cut quick into his gut. He scrambled away from the panel, put some distance between himself and the evidence of all heâd done wrong. But it wasnât troopers marching up the corridor to arrest him, it was that insufferable pilot, Poe Dameron, charging through the hangar door and heading straight for him.
âWhat are you thinking, Hugs?â announced as he jogged to a stop in the pool of Huxâs spilled blood. His boot heels squeaked when he crouched.
His hands felt warm, when they touched.
âWhat are you doing?â Hux breathed as Dameronâs arms came around him, hauling him close as if in a hug.
âSaving your pretty imperial ass is what,â he laughed, breath hitting Huxâs ear in a warm puff. âDamn, thatâs a lot of blood.â
It was, his mind reeled, as Dameron hauled him up and began dragging him towards the door, the trail of red more like a river now, one that carved abominable from the clean long lines of the Steadfastâs hall. Like a path on a map, it marked his trail â evidence, he realized â of the betrayal that would cost him not just his life, but everything heâd spent that life in service to.
Because the Order would fall, he acknowledged. The Order would fall, not because of Kylo Ren, but because of him.
âLeave me,â Hux begged, tears burning hot. He would not cryâ he would notâ
âWe donât leave people behind, Hugs,â Dameron huffed out, the Millennium Falcon closer now, the gangplank lowered and waiting.
âThen let me die,â he sobbed instead, unable to stop the tears, or how his feet scrabbled. How his body twisted away from Dameronâs, but uselessly; Dameronâs grip was too tight, too demanding â too warm and too strong, too secure, too safeâ
Hux sobbed again, loud and wailing, a loss of control he would pay for. He didnât want itâ he didnât want itâ
âYouâre a dramatic one, arenât you?â Dameron said, voice close, right at his ear. âI like dramatics too, weâll get along great.â
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Heâd been here before, enough times to count.
The first time, collapsed upon the Steadfastâs polished floor, heâd sought death. Thought it the mercy his life had denied him, and the end to a pain that had haunted him his entire life.
The second time, within a ship that screamed, that shuddered and shook across the empty vastness of space, hurtling towards a fate heâd long lost control of, in the absence of everything that had again made life worth living, heâd welcomed death and the relief it would bring.
Now, he couldnât help the panic he felt. The feeling that it was all happening too fast, coming too soon. Because Poe was coming â coming to find him â coming to save him â and if he could just hold on a little longer, be a little stronger, everything would be okay.
Before him, the console spit stars. Behind him, the contents of the transport bounced over the durasteel in tiny, melodic twangs.
All around him, the sound of debris dragging along the hull rioted loud and screeching, the spill of light from the twin suns crawling bright across the transportâs deepened shadows.
Theyâd lost momentum after the second impact. The piece of debris theyâd struck absorbing enough velocity to slow their tumble into a lazy roll. But Armitage knew enough about ships to understand that their transport was beyond crippled. That If he couldnât stabilize their trajectory the next impact could be what tore through the bulkhead, or atomized their engine.
The cuffs dug painfully into his broken left wrist. The flesh was swollen, angry and red with a fracture that had, at least, not tore through his skin. But it made maneuvering through the transport stars near impossible, so much that he was grateful they had lost gravity, because it wasnât just a broken wrist and a crippled ship he was dealing with.
Across the cockpit, Ofant clung to a handle mounted into the shipâs superstructure. A span away, his droid floated lifelessly, lens cracked, optics sparking, limbs idling uselessly in a spider-like spread.
The blaster spiraled by lazily, tracing circles in the dark, well outside both his and Ofantâs reach.
Their eyes met in wordless understanding. A stalemate, it seemed. Or maybe it was just apathy, because Ofant seemed content enough to look away.
Armitage took a breath, steeled himself against every survival instinct he still possessed, and pushed away from the console.
The distance closed in slow-measured moments, like a cupped hand passing through water, the resistance dragging like it were trying to keep him at bay. Ofantâs face swam through space as he approached, the tilt of the transport arcing wide in a slow roll, so Armitage was left suspended halfway between what his brain kept insisting was upright, and what his eyes were clearly telling him was now the floor.
Nausea hit hard, insistent, as his head ached and his eyes blinked. But his momentum could not be stopped, and by the time he collided with the wall beside Ofant, he was breathing heavily through his discomfort, clutching at what tenements of his control remained. He nearly lost it all when his wrist struck into the bulkhead, a muffled hiss passing his teeth as he ground his jaw against the pain. Instinct, more than a conscious choice, forced his cuffed hands to grasp for anything that could possibly provide an anchor.
Unfortunately, all he could find was the fabric of Ofantâs shirt.
It should have been strange. They should have reacted in tandem, a mutual revulsion which would have broken them apart. Instead, as Armitage hauled himself close, he realized Ofant had barely reacted. Hadnât so much as flinched, or made a move to shove him away. All he did was look at Armitage with that bottomless apathy, a committed resolve to whatever fate Armitage now faced, that he would also become victim to.
It felt wrong. It felt important. Like Armitage was missing something vital, a piece of information required for this all to make sense. His eyes flicked over Ofantâs body, up to his face. But the shadows were too deep for him to see by, and there were more pressing problems than whatever sudden dyspathy Ofant was dealing with, so Armitage spat out, âWhereâs the key?â
Life sparked in Ofantâs eyes as he pursed his lips, cocked his head.
Armitage ground his teeth, fighting for control, âYou need to release me.â
âNo,â Ofant spoke simply, clearly, vocoder lost to the gravity-less jaunt the rest of the transportâs contents were taking.
âWeâll die if you donât.â
He should have expected the grin. Would have done the same if it were him in Ofantâs position. But then Ofantâs eyes closed, and his head tipped back, and Armitage finally saw the darkness staining his collar, the swell of blood that ran down Ofantâs neck.
The laceration was deep. Deep enough to have nicked an artery, and suddenly Ofantâs lazy apathy made all the more sense.
âYou want to bleed out?â
Ofant chuckled. It wasnât an amused sound. Certainly not when it transformed into a grimace, and then an acidic, âI donât have the damned key.â
âWhere is it?â
Ofant met his eyes again. His were watery, lids heavy, pupils blown with pain and something else. A deep-seated distrust clashing head on with doubt that Armitage felt uncannily similar to the way he currently felt.
When Ofant finally jerked his chin at the broken droid, he realized they were both more fucked than heâd given them credit for.
He cursed, panic rearing ugly once again. He didnât have time to fix the droid. Hardly had time to fix their ship. And just as the thought left his mind, another piece of rock tore across their hull, sending their gentle roll into a roughened shudder.
Outside the viewport, the suns tilted past, lengthening shadows of debris across the walls of the transport, like whatever damage their ship suffered was but a shade of what they passed through. Like they were just another piece of debris themselves, indivisible from all the other souls that already haunted this desolate field of broken things.
Armitage felt something inside him go quiet, and then cold.
No, he wouldnât lose hope. Not now. Not when he was so closeâ
Just beyond reach, the blaster spiraled by, and despite his panic, despite his fear, a plan formed.
Ignoring the throb of his wrist, he pushed away from Ofant with a hard shove. Propelling himself across the transport, past the sparking droid to where the cubby with Ofantâs bag was stashed, he dug through the contents until he found what he was looking for.
Pushing aside the corrupted power cell, he located his gloves first. Biting his lip against the pain, and then into the leather itself, he pulled them on, ignoring the twang deep inside his forearm that felt like a tendon snapping. Next, he headed back to the console to the sack still slung across the headrest, where he found the med kit.
The box was small, but sealed, the expiry years out and he was grateful, so suddenly grateful for Rose, who he knew would have stashed it along with all those rations. And the idea that she would have made at least Captain within the Order came and left his mind before he had time to dwell on the fact the general had taken over, because he was already crossing the transport again, this time heading straight for the blaster.
By the time he was back in front of Ofant, the transport had begun to grow cold. The emergency life support would keep the temperature above freezing, but Armitage couldnât be sure for how long. He needed to reboot the console, see what systems were still working, what others he could get back online, and hopefully see about righting their position despite the failed engine. Because each time he glanced out the slow-rotating viewport, he saw how the twin suns were growing a little larger â a little closer.
But first, injured or not, he needed his hands free.
This time, it was Ofantâs turn to look at him in surprise when he forced the blaster into his hands.
It was reckless, and it was stupid, but he was out of options. And something told him Ofant felt the same way. That whatever his plan had been, this hadnât been it â or, if it had, something critical about it had changed.
âI need these cuffs off.â
And then he raised his hands like it was obvious, like what he asked had gone beyond the concepts of trust or survival and fallen squarely upon desperate.
âAre you insane?â Ofant snapped, the hands gripping the blaster smearing wet over the barrel. He must have been applying pressure to his wound â a good sign, if Armitage were looking for them. He was. He absolutely was.
It meant Ofant didnât want to die as much as he led on.
âIâm not the one who has sent us careening into a sun.â
Ofant sneered, and Armitage nearly laughed.
Knew, acutely, that it was the wrong thing to do.
Knew, because once upon a time that would have been enough for him to put a bolt through someoneâs face. Knew, without a doubt, that laughing would have been precisely what Poe would have done, and whatever understanding of Ofant he possessed was enough to acknowledge Ofant had not yet reached the point where any of this was funny.
âDo it,â he commanded instead as he placed the muzzle of the blaster against the joint of the cuffs.
âI could blow your hand off.â Shock had finally bled to fear, like somehow maiming Armitage was so much worse that blowing his brains out of his skull. Of course Ofant was never going to kill him. He was a Senator â a politician. Armitage was a soldier. And as alike as they may otherwise be, that was one contrast that might make all the difference.
âIf you do, make sure itâs this one,â said as he wiggled his fingers of his left hand, broken wrist twinging deep, bones grinding in a teeth-clenching drag.
The pain must have shown on his face, because when he looked at Ofant again, he was watching with something akin to concern.
Armitage didnât have time to dwell on that before heat was scorching across his palms.
Pain blistered, hot and molten. The force of the bolt flung him backwards. His spine hit the bulkhead hard, body ricocheting sideways as he twisted to find something to break his momentum, and he only had a second to get his hands between him and the transparisteel viewport before he collided with it head-on. His hands screamed, skin sliding wet and sticky, gloves peeled back to expose the blistered scars of his palms â but it had worked. His hands were free. He was free.
He did laugh, then. Euphoria flooded his brain with a surge of adrenaline, a giddy high that had him grinning ear to ear, broken wrist cradled carefully against his chest as he curled into a ball and let the zero-gees hold him while he muffled the snickering sound.
Poe would be proud. It was a thought that blossomed with his momentary mania, threading through his mind along a delicate path, one only recently mapped. Poe would be proud, Armitage thought, because even surrounded by the debris of his past, he was choosing to fight for his life â for his future.
A future he ached for. A future that somehow felt so much closer than it had yet. Because now that he had been confronted with all heâd done wrong, he couldnât help but feel some measure of catharsis. Closure to the wounds that had spent too long open and festering. All he had to do was survive this one final hurdle, and then maybe the happiness heâd always sought would finally be within reach.
Maybe he didnât deserve it, but it struck Armitage whether anyone actually did. If it was even so much about what a person did or did not deserve, but what sort of life you made out of what you were given. What sort of decisions you made, and mistakes you learned from, because everyone was hurting â and as lonely as his pain felt, in that, he had never been alone.
Looking back at Ofant, he watched the slow crawl of collapsed core light mark a path across his face. His skin was pale, mouth parted in a slightly labored breath, the cant of his head at an angle that made it seem like it was an effort to hold it upright even without gravity to drag it down. And when the light caught the bitter-black smear of blood down his neck, Armitage knew the last hurdle wasnât the scattered debris of the system he had destroyed, but the broken man before him.
So his hands were steady as he pulled the med kit from his pocket. His scorched fingers sure as he popped the seal and fished through the contents until he had what he needed. And when he approached Ofant again, it was with a heart-rendered assurance that everything was going to be okay.
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The Falcon's engines were already warmed by the time they boarded. BB-8 skittered ahead, making a mad dash to the cockpit where Chewie was finalizing their departure with ground control as the rest of them stowed the supplies theyâd grabbed.
Poeâs pulse was a pounding mess. Adrenaline coursed through him, keeping him at the edge of action despite the six-hour jump ahead. The Falcon was the fastest ship they had. The jump to the Hosnian System having taken the transport just over seven hours to complete. But he couldnât help but feel that the jump was too long, would make him too late. And the confident facade he had kept broke down quickly once he was alone. It was all he could do to throw his bag on his old bunk before he sank down to put his head in his hands and shake.
That was how Phasma found him, when she came barging through the door.
âWeâve jumped,â announced like Poe hadnât felt the tell-tale shudder of the ship dropping into hyperspace. Maybe he hadnât. Maybe that had actually been the world falling out from under his feet.
âGood, thatâs good,â Poe pushed out, wiping at tears that had barely had the chance to fall.
âDameron,â Phasmaâs voice had softened, âeverythingâs going to be okay.â
Poe laughed, it came out broken, a little harsh.
The sound of the door whooshing shut made Poe suddenly feel silly. Small, like a child, whose mother had come to talk some sense into him.
Instead, Phasma sank onto the bunk beside him and joined in his silence.
She hadnât had a mother for very long either, he supposed. More casualties of a war none of them had started. Poe didn't know why that consoled him â kinship, maybe. Or perhaps he just felt less alone.
Time stretched quiet, companionable. Almost alarmingly comfortable.
It only occurred to him after nearly twenty minutes, that Phasma had once been his enemy. That they had once stood across a battlefield rather than sat beside one another on a bed.
How strange, he couldnât help but think â how far they had all come. How much they had all changed.
When Phasma finally sighed, Poe knew she had something to say. It just turned out to be nothing like what he expected.
âYou figured out that message faster than I would have,â she said like itâs what would make all the difference. âIâm not sure I would have figured it out at all.â
And somehow, just like that, Poe was on solid ground again.
âYou would have,â he assured, tentatively considering the soft expression she now wore. The fall of pale hair over eyes that would not meet his.
âIâm not sure I would have thought to check Force at all,â spoken like the real admission. âItâs so obvious, when I think about it. It makes so much sense. But my mind, it wouldnât have gone there. Heâs still the general for me, in so many ways. But youââ she cut off, eyes darting over to see if he was watching â he was, and they met, held. ââyou knew immediately. From just a few seconds of clues. You know him, how he is now. How I think heâs always been, or would have been, if not for the Order.â
âPhasma, Iâm soââ
âIâm not mad Dameron,â she scoffed, face finally twisting into that familiar sneer, âIâm glad. Iâm grateful. That he has someone like you, someone who knows him, the real him, and cares for that side of him. Who sees that personâs value, when no one else in his life ever did.â
âYou knew him, that version of him,â Poe said so softly he wasnât sure she heard.
âI saw glimpses.â Her eyes drifted down, the fists in her lap uncoiling as if she were holding something out in offering. Some piece of the puzzle sheâd been harboring, keeping safe, to now pass onto Poe. âHe made me a better person, all those years ago. Reached me in a way no one else had been able to. I donât even know if he meant to, it was just who he was,â she paused, thumbs curling, head hanging, âor who he would have been, if the Order had allowed it.â
âThe Finalizerââ
ââthe people he recruited, and then put in charge, wherever he could. Me, Mitaka, the rest of his command. They were the best of us. The best of the Order, not because of our skills, butââ
ââbut because you were good people.â
âMaybe,â she said softly, tentatively. Like she didn't believe it yet, but one day could. âI think he wanted to protect us. But I also donât think he realized what he was doing.â
âIâm not so sure about that,â Poe said with what maybe felt like the first real grin heâd given anyone in weeks.
And then he took whatever Phasma was offering, and in its place gave her his hand, when he reached out to grip hers instead.
And he thought of the people of the Galaxy who, up until this point, had only ever seen Armitage as Starkiller. Who were maybe, finally, seeing the person Poe saw, and had fallen so hard for. And the idea occurred, that it never would have happened if not for Ofantâs strange intervention.
âAs terrified as I am, I feel like whatâs happening is important. Am I crazy?â
âNo,â Phasma said, âyouâre one of the most sane people Iâve ever met.â
âWell,â Poeâs grin grew impossibly wider, âyou did spend most of your life in a cult.â
Phasmaâs laughter was loud, full and overflowing.
Her hug was much the same.
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The jump-seat Dameron strapped him into had seen better decades. The stuffing was spilling out of a split along the center seam, the nylon straps securing him into the harness frayed thin where theyâd rubbed across bodies far larger than his. Hux idly wondered if strapping him in was worth the trouble at all â if he didnât bleed out surely the harness wouldnât survive an actual collision and then heâd be dead anyway, all of Dameronâs effort worthless.
Itâs already worthless, the voice said. Because youâre worthless.
âHugs.â
He slammed back into his body with a gasp, eyes flying open despite him not remembering when they closed. Dameron was there â right there â dark eyes holding his, a mirror of the hand on his cheek.
Something tenuous inside him twisted, threatened to break.
It meant nothingâ it meant nothingâ
âNeed you to stay awake for me, Hugs.â Dameron was close enough that Hux could feel his breath hit his skin, almost as warm as the hand on his cheek. âGotta stop the bleeding first and then maybe you can sleep, okay?â
He didnât want to sleep, he wanted to dieâ
But instead of saying that, he snarled, âDonât coddle me.â Ignoring how the heat in his eyes mounted again, maybe had never really gone away.
Dameron had the audacity to laugh, to smileâ
âGotcha, no cuddles,â murmured as Dameronâs thumb brushed under his eye, smearing through a tear. Hux wanted to screamâ
A hypo hit his skin, adrenaline his bloodstream.
He hissed, lurching forward. Dameron caught him before the harness did, an arm curling around his shoulders to hold him in place.
Acutely, he felt a pressure circling his thigh, a tourniquet tightening.
Hux gasped as the pressure turned to pain, only distantly realized he had his mouth half-layered over the skin of Dameronâs neck.
He could taste the salt from his tears where it dripped down his skin.
âStop,â he gasped again, hands flying up to grab at Dameronâs arms, his body shaking hard now, panic warring with the speed of the adrenaline and making his heart beat too fast. âPlease, stop.â
âWhat it is, whatâs wrong?â
Why did Dameron sound so concerned? Why did he sound like he cared?
âIâm notââ he pushed out, ignoring the way Dameron shifted against him, how his arm curled tighter and his palm gentled beside his wound. ââIâm not worth it.â
Silence pervaded, uncanny, in the face of all Dameronâs fucking words.
Then, âOf course youâre worth it.â
That was all it took, for that tenuous thing inside him to finally break.
His sobs came uncontrollable, his breath thin and ragged. Tears soaked his cheeks and then Dameronâs collar, saturating the fabric alongside the wetness of his mouth. Throughout it, Dameron held him. Kept him close, kept him steady, arm strong where it curled and palm gentle where it touched, his thumb stroking slow, soothing circles that made Hux feel like he was spiraling out of control.
No one had ever touched him like this, no one had ever held him like this. And certainly, no one had ever spoken to him like Dameron did, voice a torrent of, âItâs okay,â that Dameron murmured over and over into his hair, words as careful as his touches, each bestowed like a promise, an affirmation that Hux didnât know how to take. âItâs okay, youâre okay, everything is going to be okay.â
Nothing was okay. But somehow, in Dameronâs arms, it almost felt like it could be.
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Armitage had never considered himself a liar. But as he ran diagnostics on the state of their transport, he was forced to reconsider the affirmation heâd made to Ofant that everything was going to be okay.
The ship was hanging on by the proverbial thread.
In the face of their crippled engine, resources had been re-routed to life support. It was all the system could handle to maintain the air scrubbers and the ambient temperature. And even after Armitage had sealed off the cockpit from the crew quarters and redirected all support to maintaining this one small space, they still only had three hours of power left.
System logs informed him the jump from Ajan Kloss had taken just over seven hours. Which meant that even if Poe was already on his way, they were dealing with a four-hour deficit. All without him having the available power to stabilize their trajectory. Every passing minute brought them not just closer to Hosnian Primeâs collapsed core, but risked a third collision with another piece of large debris. And while the sensors lining their hull were no longer functioning, Armitage didnât need a computer program to tell him the ship wouldnât survive another crash.
Armitage ran the diagnostics once more, just to be sure â only to be met with the exact same readouts: nothing new, nothing changed.
He felt himself go cold for reasons other than the drop in temperature.
âThat bad?â Ofant asked from the co-pilotâs seat, voice low, almost tentative â fragile, just like the truce theyâd somehow fallen into.
âWe have three hours of life support before we run out of battery power and the scrubbers stop recycling. After that, the available oxygen in the cockpit will deplete to dangerous levels after around thirty minutes.â
âNot the worst way to go.â
Youâve obviously never been near suffocated to death, he did not say.
âBetter than burning to death by the heat of a sun, I suppose,â Armitage went with instead, but the humor was lacking, and his voice fell flat.
Ofantâs head lulled, eyes falling to regard him. The patch to his neck was already showing signs of needing changed. Ofant had refused the stitches he needed, had taken the bacta patch from Armitageâs hand to slap it over the wound as if he didnât care if it did any more than slow the inevitable.
Only after he had put two and two together did he figure out that was precisely what he wanted.
âIs this what you were planning, all along?â he finally asked, unsure why he wanted the confirmation when Ofant had been more than clear with his intent.
There was an impregnated pause where Armitage wasnât sure if Ofant was willfully ignoring him or actually mulling over his answer. Not that it mattered, but something about the nature of Ofantâs intentions seemed important. Like what Armitage should really be trying to repair wasnât this crippled ship, but the fracture that existed between them.
Eventually, Ofant said, âFor myself, yes. You were supposed to die by a bolt in your brain.â
âNot the worst way to go,â he let the humor finally bleed through, nearly as dark and consuming as the slow roll of shadow carving out the cockpit.
âYes, I suppose I should have made that more painful for you. Alas, Iâm not as creative as you must be with your executions. How was it you killed your father again? A poison?â
Armitage knew it was supposed to hurt but the barb didnât catch. âA beetle, from Parnassos. His body took three days to fully disintegrate in the bacta tank, he remained alive for two.â
âBrutal,â Ofant murmured. âAlmost makes this look merciful.â His hand lifted in a lazy gesture, one that encompassed the sparkle of debris that drifted past the viewport.
It would have been quick, Armitage didnât say. Knew, without a doubt, it would be the wrong thing.
He tried not to dwell too long about why he cared so much about not saying the wrong thing to Ofant.
âSo you would have executed me and then steered yourself into the sun?â he continued, if only to keep Ofant talking. Maybe he should let him drift off into unconsciousness. Of all the deaths a person could face, a slow bleed out might be the most merciful. But the same thing that kept him from saying the wrong thing assured him that wasnât the right choice either.
âNot the sun, Hosnia Prime,â Ofant murmured.
The second sun, Armitage acknowledged. The ignited core of the collapsed planet.
Ofant wasnât finished, âIt would have been poetic, you canât deny that.â The laugh Ofant rasped out was not depreciating as Armitage expected. It sounded sad, a little lost.
Silence unfolded again, one commiserate with the two men wrapped within it. The idle roll of the transport cast shadow and light across their faces in equal proportion, while the kiss of distant warmth from the approaching sun â the collapsed core â was perhaps more merciful than any fate Armitage had yet faced.
But Armitage had already decided he wasnât going to die here. Had made a promise to himself and the man beside him that if he couldnât fix the mistakes of his past, he could at least make sure the future was better. And he wouldnât blame himself for not thinking of the solution to the oxygen situation sooner, because the state of their transport truly was the least of his problems.
His wrist twinged, dull to aching now that his nerves had mostly burned out their ability to feel. The crude brace heâd managed from the bandages and struts heâd found in the med kit was worthless at best; the swelling around the fracture at least having stabilized in an ugly, if wide-spread bruise. But he released his safety harness and pushed into the zero-gravity, heading for the cubby where his and Ofantâs belongings were still stashed.
The dim blue of the power cell glowed up at him like a specter.
Perhaps it was only another piece of his past here to haunt him, because he wasnât even sure if it could transfer a charge. Wasnât sure if in hooking it up to the transportâs electronics he wouldnât short the whole ship. All he was sure of was that without it, they would die before help arrived, and of all the deaths heâd faced, suffocating slowly in a stolen transport beside Fineas Ofant was certainly one of the worst.
âSo youâve decided to blow us up?â Ofant asked, almost merrily, when Armitage returned to the pilotâs seat. âIâll admit, itâs not the death I expected, but at least it will be quick.â
âItâs not a weapon.â Not that he needed to give Ofant any clarification, itâs just that he wanted to. âItâs a power cell. A corrupted one, but it might give us some time.â
âOr?â
âOr it might blow us up.â
âAh, well, I suppose my poetry would have been lost on you anyway.â
Armitage said nothing, as he pulled open the panel beneath the console and squinted against the shadows â the glow of the power cell was barely enough to see by.
He located the consoleâs wiring harness without much trouble. Following the cables to a second panel, one tucked between the firewall and the reinforced bulkhead, he knew heâd found what he needed. However different from the Order ships he knew, Armitage understood behind that panel would be the main battery for the ship. All he needed to do was to get inside, access the batteryâs controller, and wire in the backup power cell.
It took maybe ten precious minutes for him to pry the panel back without tools. The tips of his fingers were in pieces by the end of it, his nails torn and ragged, bleeding at places where the durasteel had cut, but the battery was exposed and with it, something like hope bloomed in his chest.
Another ten minutes passed before he had the power cell rigged into the wiring harness, another twenty to link into the controller with his codepad and rewrite the existing protocols to be able to identify the power cell. Five minutes of bated breath finally assured him that he had not caused a short, and the ship was not, in fact, going to blow up.
His hands were shaking by the time he shimmied out from beneath the console. The ache in his wrist now a near numbed heaviness that pulsated instead of throbbed.
Ignoring the pain, he chewed his lip as he reran the diagnostics, felt something akin to numbness when they came back.
âFive hours,â he breathed. Was it enough? It was so close, but just barely enough.
âWell youâve delayed the inevitable, Iâll give you that.â
The Millennium Falcon would have faster engines than this tiny transport, but even if it shaved off some time, there was still the task of finding a ghost ship amongst the debris of an entire star system. Still the monumental expectation that Poe had received his message, or even knew to look for it.
His nails were in tatters, so he flexed his hand instead, twisted his broken wrist, if just to feel the pain. It didnât ground him, this time. It only made him gasp, and as the air rushed into his lungs, he held it longer than he should have, if just to enjoy it while he had the chance.
No. He wouldnât think like that. Not anymore.
He relaxed his hand, soothed his fingertips along his palms, and made a decision.
âItâs enough,â Armitage breathed â affirmed â because he wasnât dying here, like this, not now. Not when heâd come so far, had come so close. âPoe will come, heâll find us.â
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He counted down the hours in the moments spent seeking his friends. With Phasma beside him on his bunk, a quiet solitude that eventually morphed into a stalemated game of Force. With Rose at the communications console, finally allowing himself to browse the public boards and accept that perhaps the whole Galaxy wasnât as against him like he once believed. With Finn in the galley where he helped him through an emotional call with Kes, his hand a constant pressure on his back as his father asked if there was anything he could do â any way to help.
And he spent it with BB-8, the little droid perhaps the most distraught of the two of them, its normally gentle trill a wavering, worried inquiry after what it would do without Armitage to fix its power cells.
âHe wouldnât leave you half-fixed BB,â Poe had assured, ignoring how the promise didnât feel as empty as it might have just hours before.
When he finally ended up in the cockpit, Chewie was quick to hand over the controls.
âTwenty minutes,â heâd pointed out in a soft whine as he settled into the co-pilotâs seat to keep Poe company while he waited.
Somehow, twenty short minutes dragged on longer than the last five and a half hours.
Dragged longer than the last several months.
The remaining minutes passed in memories. A recollection of a time in Poeâs life that felt further away than even those years spent with his mother. Memories of an impulsive decision to see Armitage not as an enemy but someone worth saving. Someone who would end up needing so much more than a bacta patch and a safe haven to heal. Of a beach of white sand and the man who had looked so lonely upon it; his mark made not it the silhouette he cut but in the shadow of a life heâd left behind.
And he thought of Armitage as heâd been that first time theyâd come together, on his knees for something he couldnât even name â but seemed to think Poe could provide. Of how violently he had sought it, desperate and panicked, like he knew it wasnât his to have, or that it could last. Wouldnât last, if the cruelty the Galaxy had taught Armitage was the truth he would be forced to always live by.
It wasnât the truth. If the last several hours had taught him anything about the Galaxy, it was that, in the end, it wasnât cruelty that would win, but love, and understanding, and hope.
They were the things he had fought so hard for, after all.
He wasnât going to stop fighting. Couldnât stop believing. Not now. Not when it mattered the most.
The Falconâs console beeped an indication, the gentle tremor of the engines turning over to sublight like a beast yawning in its sleep. And then they dropped out of hyperspace, the viewport expanding into a scene that stole Poeâs breath, and then refused to give it back.
Before him, a vast field of debris scattered as far as the eye could see. Dust the size of that on his sleeve caught in orbit alongside massive, ship-sized chunks. The debris moved across the viewportâs field of vision, the largest pieces keeping a pace nearly too fast for the Falcon to outrun, other smaller pieces ambling along indifferent, parting the dust like the ripple of fish swimming through water. And at the center of it all two twin suns turned, a gravitational anchor that refused to give up its hold on what remained of its star system. A stubborn reminder of what had once been, like a monument, or a gravestone.
One day, when the debris had settled into an orbit, and the suns had bloated dim, that reminder would remain. A mark Armitage had made not just on the Galaxy, but on the whole of nature itself, because Poe had never seen destruction quite like this. And all he could think was that this must have been what it looked like when the Galaxy had first shaped itself; an incredible act of destruction that had birthed life across not just their Galaxy, but the whole of the universe. Chaotic and awful and beautiful, and so, so terrifying.
Terrifying, because of the knowledge he held â how many lives had been lost.
But also because Poe had no idea how they were expected to find Armitage, let alone get to him amongst the wreckage of all that debris.
The ship dipped, a quick maneuver that took them out of the way of the largest piece of rock Poe had seen yet. Chewie whined at him. A question, Poe realized, only after he glanced down at his hands and remembered that it was him who had control of the stick.
His instincts were still good, at least. But something told him instinct alone wouldnât be enough.
At that moment, the cockpit door shushed open, and Rey entered with Ren â Ben â in tow.
âBy the Force.â
Hit just as hard by the same scene â the same awe â the same acknowledgment of a power not even she could wield, the Force a childâs plaything compared to the waste that had been laid by Starkiller Base. Hands gripping the back of his chair, Rey leaned in close, eyes flicking across the debris like she could collect it all, make whole in her mind what now scattered across so many innumerable pieces.
Behind her, Ben hovered like a wraith. Skin pale but eyes dark, there wasnât awe in his stare, but a quiet respect, and no lack of regret. To this day, Poe wasnât sure what level of involvement heâd had. Had always suspected little, if any â certainly none of it direct. Because Armitage had always made it clear, Starkiller had been his burden to bear. But here, looking at Ren, Poe wasnât so sure.
The only thing he was sure of was that out there, amongst all that debris, Armitage was waiting.
âCan you sense him?â Rey asked, and Poe already had his mouth open to respond yes when Ben spoke up instead.
âI can, heâs here.â
Poe felt the world drop out, and then shift, just a little, like something inside him had been broken, and then remade.
âHeâs faint, I can barelyââ Ben cut off, frowning. When his dark eyes met Poeâs, it was with a solemn knowing, ââwe need to hurry.â
âJust tell me where to go,â Poe barely got out, hands already gripping the stick, angling towards the suns on instinct alone.
âHead towards the sun that is closest,â Poe could hear in his voice the concern he felt â the worry that they were maybe already too late. Poe wondered if by moving, he would break the tenuous hold Ren had on Armitageâs position, like it was a constantly moving target along a line of sight he could not maintain. So it was no surprise when Ben said, âThis would be easier if you allowed me to guide you.â
âDo you mean with your Force?â Poe asked.
âYes,â Ben quietly confirmed, sparing no disregard for what he suggested. âBut we can manage without ifââ
âFuck no, do it, I donât care,â Poe said in a breathless rush.
And then Renâs Force crept into him, a thread of cool ice trickling over his mind, down his spine. And Poe felt, so suddenly, nestled deep in the spaces between instinct and feeling, a presence so familiar it actually brought him to tears.
âOh,â Poe whispered, shaking. âItâs him.â
He was there. Right there. He could taste him, smell him â almost reach out and touch him.
Armitage was alive. He was alive.
Poe gripped the controls, feeling breathless. Like he couldnât get enough air. And when he took a deep inhale, he felt how it filled his lungs, expanded his chest; but the feeling remained, tense and uneasy, like he was slowly drowning, suffocating amongst all this destructionâ
âHeâs running out of air.â
âYes,â Ben admitted. âBut weâll make it, if we hurry.â
âIâll move the debris,â Rey spoke into his ear, the touch of her Force a calming anchor amongst the volatility of Benâs. âJust focus on piloting.â
âAlright,â his voice came out stronger than it had any right to. The stick beneath his hands inched backwards as if of its own accord.
It was all he could do to hone down on the feeling. Not Benâs Force, or even Reyâs, but that coil of presence inside him, the one so familiar it felt like a part of himself discovered. Like if Armitageâs heart had been given a shape, this was what it would feel like: an atmosphere of ozone and rain, the aftermath of a storm that had raged so hard, for so long, that it had worn itself out into the quiet dawn of a gentle morning.
Fuck it, Poe barely thought it through before he reached out to meet it.
Couldnât stop the tears from gathering in his eyes with the storm gave a little rumble.
Didnât dare stop his hands from pulling back on the stick so they flew a little faster, a little more reckless, diving deep into the debris that they had maybe all helped scatter.
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It occurred to him after several minutes went by, that by now Dameron had touched him more than anyone else in his life.
The realization settled uncomfortable, and if his tears had not already begun to abate that might have done it. But he still couldnât find the strength to push Dameron away. Because against him, Dameron was solid and warm. Not large so much as thick, wide, build sturdy where Hux was all drawn lines and weakened struts. And being held felt good, in a way nothing else ever had. In a way Hux didnât think was possible â or like Dameron had made a mistake, mistook him for someone else, because surely this was not meant for him. Not the kindness, or the understanding, let alone the careful tenor of Dameronâs mindful touch.
Something brushed his leg, replaced the palm. Pain was traded for cold, and then ice, as wetness slid smooth over the exposed skin of his wounded thigh.
He gasped against Dameronâs shoulder, felt his whole body jerk, only to be met with the steady curl of Dameronâs arm and the wide berth of his warm, solid chest.
âJust bacta, itâll be cold âtil the area becomes numb,â murmured softly into his ear.
Hux shivered, for reasons that had nothing to do with bacta or blood loss.
Or the fingers brushing his skin, wrapping a bandage around his thigh.
His shivering became tremors, and then he was shaking all over again.
âYouâre okay,â Dameron repeated, like he understood Hux didnât believe him.
Of course he didnât, how could he?
Dameron didnât seem concerned with what Hux thought. All he seemed concerned with was Huxâs wellbeing, and for a person he had tried to kill and only once tried to save, he didnât think it explanation enough for this considerate care.
âWhy?â he whispered into Dameronâs shoulder, unsure if he was heard over the pounding in his chest.
âYou saved us,â Dameron said simply, like it was enough. âYou saved the whole Galaxy.â
Of all the wild excuses Dameron might make for his kindness, the idea that heâd done something as monumental as that was certainly the most insane. But if he thought about itâŠif he considered it â if he parsed all the logic and weighed all the events, he might have â he could have â
Had he?
Tightness coiled in his chest, threatened to strangle his lungs. His shivering increased, and his hands clutched at whatever he could find â Dameronâs shirt it turned out.
âHey, hey,â Dameronâs hands flew to his shoulders, pushed him back, just enough to look at him. But Hux kept his head low, his face down, his eyes shut and his attention averted. Because facing Dameron right now felt like confronting something he wasnât ready for. Something he had buried so deep inside himself that he thought it long dead, rather than dormant. But Dameron would not be dissuaded. Beneath his chin, Hux felt Dameronâs fingers â strong, steady things that held him to what Hux would deny himself. And when he tipped his chin up to hold his eyes, what came next nearly left Hux shattered.
âThank you, Hux. You saved all our lives.â
Beneath their feet the Millennium Falcon rumbled, then settled. Theyâd have dropped into hyperspace now, on their way to wherever the Resistance had holed up.
Before him, Dameron held his gaze, stared into him and saw things he didnât think even Ren had seen. Truths he held and secrets he had hidden. And he drew each one out, brought it to his surface to emerge vulnerable and exposed.
He wasnât ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He didnât belong here. And he certainly didnât deserve any of it. But he didnât know how to convince Dameron of that. Didnât know if he even wanted to, for risk of ending this.
So when Dameron unstrapped him from the jump-seat and helped him hobble down the hall â when he lowered him to a bunk that smelled of leather and engine grease, atop a pillow that was all fluff, beneath a blanket that weighted warm, he decided to allow himself this, because he knew, soon enough, it would all be gone.
Dameron sat by him as he drifted, the hand to his hair an encouragement to sleep. When heâd wake next it would be to a life he had no control of, let alone a place within, and he couldnât help but think of that storybook in his attic, the one with the page heâd torn out, where the creatures were running from a fate that barreled down upon them, like this too were the end of his story, the closing of his book.
But for now, he was safe. And it was with that last thought, instead, that he slept.
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The only indication that theyâd run out of power, was the gentle trill of the consoleâs final warning. The first indication they were dying was the thin cold that seeped into the cockpit; the steady decline of the ambient temperature a precursor to the ice that would eventually creep over their bodies, the twin suns still too far out for them to share in their warmth.
Theyâd suffocate to death well before the ice would kill them, however, so Armitage sought anything that could be used as a blanket. Found some plasti insulation stuffed into one of the unused storage cubbies and tucked it around Ofantâs graying body.
He hadnât allowed Armitage to change his dressing. He figured if Ofant passed out first, he could manage it then.
âWhy are you doing this?â Ofant asked when Armitage secured himself back into the pilotâs seat.
âWe shouldnât talk, we need to conserve oxygen.â His voice only shivered a little, the cold hadnât grown that bad, yet.
Ofant snorted, eyes drifting to meet his. âThe oxygen will stretch further with just one. You could kill me. I wonât stop you. Iâm already halfway there.â
âYouâre not going to die.â
âYouâre not going to let me,â Ofant corrected. âWhy?â
Armitage didnât answer right away, wasnât sure if he had the right words.
Eventually, he spoke, âThereâs more out there.â
âWhat?â Ofant said like heâd already forgotten heâd asked Armitage a question.
âIn the world, the Galaxy. Thereâs more than pain.â
âI donât want it,â Ofant snipped, as stubborn as Armitage had been. But that hadnât stopped good things from finding him, whether he had wanted them at the time or not. âWhat I want is gone, and thereâs no getting it back.â
âMaybe, but that doesnât mean something else good wonât find you.â
âThatâs optimistic, for a person who apparently has suffered his entire life.â
âI made do with what I had.â And he thought of the good things heâd found even amongst the shadows of the Order: Rae Sloane, Phasma, his crew, his ship. âIt wasnât all terrible.â Even if none of it could compare to what he had now.
âVery comforting. To think Iâll pass away serenaded by the intellectual musings of a mass-murderer.â
âReformed mass-murderer. Iâve retired.â
âIs that a joke?â Ofant snapped, âThatâs not funny.â
âNo, I suppose none of this is very funny.â
Silence stretched, long and monotonous, precious minutes ticking by with just their shared breath and a growing cold.
But Armitage had his own questions for Ofant, ones he thought more important than the growing threat of running out of the air required to ask them.
âWhy didnât you kill me?â
âHmm?â Ofant rolled his head, listless but still attentive.
âYou could have, you had a chance.â
âI suppose you were right, Iâm not a killer.â
âNo,â Armitage confirmed, âbut we all make mistakes.â
Ofant remained silent. It did not last.
âYou know what they were saying? The public boards?â
Armitage swallowed, suddenly cold, colder than he should feel. âNo.â
âThey were defending you. Saying I had gone too far. That the joke was over. The what was happening was wrong.â
Armitage held his breath, not because of lack of oxygen, but because he could hardly believe what Ofant was saying.
âWe all make mistakes, as you say. Mine was somehow turning everyone in the Galaxy onto your side.â
Armitage nearly laughed, knew it would have been too much â for Ofant, for himself â for their dwindling oxygen supply. But how could he not laugh at the absurdity of it? That the Galaxy had come around to his side at all was already impossible. That they dared defend him against the very justice they so vehemently sought was another thing entirely. But perhaps it hadnât been revenge the Galaxy had wanted all along. Perhaps he had misjudged them.
It was a thought that eased peaceful in his mind, like a truth finally come home to roost, and his eyes fell closed as he let it settle. It was a shame, really, that it had arrived so late. Maybe it wouldâve been what he needed to make it through his trial intact. To not have dragged Poe down alongside him into his grief and regret. Or maybe, it wouldnât have made a difference at all. Because maybe it wasnât what he needed from the Galaxy, but what the Galaxy needed from him. And Ofant had helped him give it to them â willfully or not.
âDonât fall asleep,â shook him from his thoughts.
Armitage blinked open his eyes, took a deep, unsatisfying breath.
Ofant stared at him, dark eyes holding his like there was something more to see in them.
âFall asleep now and you might never wake,â said so quietly Armitage wasnât sure he heard right. His expression must have said as much. Ofant smiled, for once it didnât feel like a weapon. âIâm sorry, for what itâs worth.â
This time, it was Armitageâs turn to ask, âWhat?â
âFor trying to kill you,â Ofant murmured, eyes hooded, voice slurring like he was half-way towards sleep and not death. âIt was my real mistake.â
Armitage only blinked, unable to parse if it was the lack of oxygen or shock he was feeling.
But the apology felt forged in time, the tenor of the Galaxy at play in the man dying beside him, like fate had torn through them both and whatever was left behind was all either of them could need to heal. So when his eyes closed next it was to a peaceful solitude, rather than a desperate need.
It would be so easy to sleep now. To let his already shallow breaths grow slow, and then empty. To let the air leave his lungs with not a scream or a sob, but a gentle, peaceful sigh. Because he had fought for so long, and so hard, and he was so very tired. Tired of struggling for a life the Galaxy had never made easy. Tired of fighting for his right to be happy, or experience love. Tired of holding on when the storm refused to settle, battering away at him like the tether he clung to wasnât the tenuous frayed threads of a life come undone.
To die to a peaceful surrenderâŠmaybe that was the most merciful fate he could expect.
It would be easy. When nothing else in his life ever had been, it would be so very easy.
Armitage let his head fall to the side, let his hands relax, his grip loosen.
But then a warmth touched him, like the dawn of morning after a night of storms.
His eyes flew open, searching, as if the source of the feeling was somewhere within this ship â realized it wasnât when something other than air filled his chest. Warm and abounding, it curled over him, into him, like the weight of a heavy blanket, or the fold of gathering arms.
And then something caught his eyes. Something deep amongst the stomach-churning roil of debris, something so distant and small that if it werenât for how wrong it moved Armitage might have missed it entirely.
He struggled against the safety harness, fingers weak against the latches, barely able to navigate their weight. He slipped free, untethered, propelling himself forward to press his nose against the transparisteel, ignoring the cold that touched his skin, shivered down his fingers â how his breath hardly fogged the glass, despite how close he pressed.
He craned his head against the slow rotation of the deadened transport, looking âsearching â but it was the feeling that hit first: something that struck like Ren but soothed like Poe, and then he saw it. For one brief barely-there moment, he saw the Millennium Falcon forging an impossible path directly through the debris, heading straight for them.
âPoe,â he whispered, breath struggling hard now â shallow and uneven â but not too late. Poe wasnât too late.
His smile broke with his sob, a quiet thing he smothered against the glass, and then his trembling fingers. It did no good. Suddenly, he was crying, couldnât stop himself. Didnât know how, decided he didnât even want to.
Through his tears he watched as the Falcon closed the distance quickly, almost recklessly, the debris parting as if making way for the ship. And when the touch of Poeâs presence became so strong that Armitage had to close his eyes against it, as he felt something inside him give way.
Poe had made it. Poe was here.
Poe had saved him.
He was safe.
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Despite the risks, the spacewalk had been an easy decision, because docking with the crippled transport could take up to thirty minutes â thirty precious minutes they all understood they didnât have.
Poe almost expected something to go wrong. For a piece of debris to strike him or Rose. For the airlock to jam or his respirator to fail. But space only unfolded around them, the bright cast of the two sunâs light sparking off a fine dust of debris like it were a sea of diamonds, the larger pieces held at bay by both Rey and Renâs Force, the path to the transport a short spacewalk of just over fifty meters.
Fifty meters through the shattered remains of an entire system. Each speck of dust just as likely to have been a planet as it was a person. It wasnât a thought that landed easily. There was a disconnect to the beauty Poe saw scattered around him, in the way the twin suns glimmered among a halo of suspended dust, the larger debris cutting void-like shadows against all the light that sparked.
Poe gave his flight-suit a pulse forward, trailed Rose through the path she mapped, towards a transport that idled dead, the spin of its trajectory stabilized so that Poe could finally get a good look.
The gouges that ran along its upper shielding were a telling hint at what had transpired. They rutted deep, nearly peeling back the bulkhead in places, piercing in others. And whether it was luck or fate that had kept the ship together, Poe could not help but admit one of the two had finally changed in Armitageâs favor.
Thankfully, the airlock was still sealed. A quick tap into the control panel provided Rose with a temporary readout â a confirmation that the pressure inside was stable, and the airlock intact. They opened it quickly, the two of them taking turns with the lever until the hatch swung open on a silent hinge.
Tucked into the airlock together, they re-sealed the outer hatch and almost immediately began to feel the ship moving, Rey or Ren or both guiding it closer to the Falcon now that he and Rose were safely onboard. While the ship moved, they released the interior door.
Inside, the transport was completely dark The readouts on Poeâs suit suggested a temperature nearing -4 Celsius, too cold to survive within for very long. But it was obvious that power had been routed away from this portion of the cabin, likely to conserve what they could to maintain a smaller habitable space. The situation had the markings of Armitage all over it, a crude understanding of survival that Poe doubted Ofant had any part in. It made him feel proud, but also desperate, because he could feel the suffering here â as if some leftover bit of Renâs Force had remained within him, now reflected back in the empathetic understanding of what precisely had transpired inside this ship.
Poe floated quietly as Rose forged ahead, head-torch lighting the walls in practiced sequence as she sought out the cockpit door. When she found it, he helped her turn the latch, despite the way his hands shook, and his breath hitched.
Just before the seal broke, Rose indicated they pause. They knew from the diagnostics that oxygen levels had approached dangerous levels. They also knew that, as soon as that door opened, whatever oxygen remained in the cockpit would become completely depleted. But Rose only smiled at him, comm remaining silent as she held up the auxiliary face mask that would tap into her O2 tank. Poe found his own mask, gripped it tightly in his free had as he gave Rose one short, curt nod.
They completed the turn together, the cockpit door swinging outward, revealing a small space illuminated by the golden glow of the twin suns and a scene that was absent of the struggle he knew had occurred â of the violence that had followed Armitage across the whole of the Galaxy, the whole of his life. Instead, Poe was confronted by a quiet paciferous ease â one so calm that for a moment, Poe thought maybe they actually were too late.
But then he saw him, and he knew everything was okay.
Curled tetherless against the transparisteel viewport, half-hooded eyes upon Poe with the smallest, weakest smile, was Armitage.
He was closing the distance before he could think. Momentum carrying him directly into Armitageâs space, his hands lifting, reaching, finally grabbingâ Armitage met him there. Poe felt the curl of delicate fingers meet his suit, felt the weakened tug as Armitage struggled closer, seeking him, a little frantic, until Poe pulled him flush against his chest, and squeezed him tight.
Armitage, his mind turned over, unable to speak through the flight-suit, but convinced he could still hear. In his embrace, Armitage shook â shivered â bare against a cold that must have been hours in the making, skin tinted blue despite the gold cast of the twin suns and the blood staining his face.
But that smile was still there, small and private, lips parting as if to speak even though his lungs could not pull enough air.
Quickly, Poe freed the oxygen mask. Carefully, he fit it over Armitageâs mouth and nose, nearly sobbed when he saw the swell of breath enter his lungs, expand his chest.
Finally did start crying, when Armitage tipped his head against his helmet and held his eyes, hand lifting to carefully press against the shielding, fingers lingering as if it were Poeâs cheek he touched.
If a man could break from an embrace alone, Poe would be in as many pieces as the surrounding system.
Armitage was alive. He was safe. But most incredible of all, Poe acknowledged, Armitage was well.
Shaking, he let his tears fall as he whispered words of comfort only he could hear. Still, Armitageâs fingers trailed, like it was his comfort Poe needed â like it wasnât Armitage who had just been pulled back from the precipice. Like whatever saving had happened here, had been accomplished long before Poe had showed up.
He didnât know how long they stayed like that. Couldnât remember when Armitageâs hand moved from his shield to curl over his chest. When his eyes had closed and his breath had evened. When their legs had tangled together, or his glove had buried itself in Armitageâs hair. Would have maybe stayed like that forever, if not for Roseâs gentle intervention.
âPoe.â Over the comm, her voice crackled sudden and loud. He nearly jolted where he floated. âReady? Docking is complete, we gotta get out of here.â
âIs heââ Poe looked over her shoulder to where Ofant was secured in the co-pilotâs seat. Eyes closed, head tilted, face fitted with a face mask that was identical to Armitageâs.
âHeâs alive, but has a pretty nasty neck wound. Itâs been dressed, but Iâm not sure if heâll make it.â
Poe said nothing, looking down to where Armitage lay in his arms, saw how his eyes had fallen on Ofant like he could hear what Rose was saying.
âYou take him first, Armitage is okay. Banged up, but okay.â
âYeah, thatâs a nasty break,â Rose reached out, touched a finger to Armitageâs left arm. âSkin looks burned too.â Only once Rose drew attention to it did he realize that beneath the crude bandage his wrist was badly broken, the palm of his hand scorched raw and tender.
âNothing life threatening,â Poe breathed out, relief finally edging along the panic that had refused to leave him be. âGo on with Ofant, it might make a difference.â
Poe opted to wait in the cockpit, as Rose inflated the medical gurney and secured Ofant into it, watching as she disappeared into the airlock, Ofant in tow.
Quiet struck out from the dark, as Poe realized they were alone. A gentle amble of time that caught the passing moments in a memory that felt weighted with something so much different from the burden he expected. Because it didnât feel like the weight of forty billion deaths baring down upon them, but the lifting of them.
When he looked down at Armitage, he knew he felt the same. Saw how his head had turned to look out the viewport, the path of his eyes took when they caught the refracted light of the suns. The glint of wet that, yes, was there, but not tears â because gone was the insurmountable guilt Armitage had carried with him for so long.
Maybe it was the lingering touch of Renâs Force, or maybe it was just that Poe fully understood the man in his arms. But all he could think of was the war they had both fought â of all the lives that had been lost, and the trillions more than had been saved â not by Poe or the Resistance or even Leia or Rey, but by Armitage Hux.
For a long time, they drifted like that: legs tangled, arms tight, sharing the same precious air as they watched time pass in a scatter of dust. And maybe it was appropriate, Poe thought, that they would find each other again amongst all this debris.
It was Armitage who indicated it was time to go.
When Poe drew him away from the viewport, Armitage clung to him like it really had been Poe who had come and saved him, rather than himself who had saved them all.
The short tunnel of the temporary airlock passed in slow seconds, until the hull of the Falcon closed around them, and the weightlessness of zero gravity gave way. Pressure shifted, and then released, as the interior airlock opened and they were met with a wall of expectant faces. Quiet suffused, unvoiced questions hanging over them, their eyes upon Armitage as if they expected him to have passed away between then and the time it had taken Rose to board with Ofant.
Phasma was the first to speak, face breaking into a sneer as she loudly announced, âYou looked better in the Order suit Dameron.â
In his arms, Armitage shivered out a noise that sounded like a laugh, muffled by the mask and the press of his face against Poeâs shoulder.
Color was already returning to his cheeks, and Poe wondered if it was because of the sudden warmth or something else. Something bigger, better, and more comforting than a rescue by friends.
Armitage was too weak to walk, let alone stand. So Poe carried him through the ship, to the galley where there was room for everyone to crowd, because unlike the last two times Poe had dragged Armitage to safety, this time no one was giving them any space.
When Rey unlatched his helmet he was finally able to shake out his hair, take a deep breath, and look down at Armitage without the barrier of shielding separating them. Despite their audience â despite his wounds that needed tending and the mask still covering half his face â Armitage looked up at him expectantly.
Poe laughed, grin wide, settling into the bucket bench at the head of the table so he could finally move aside the oxygen mask.
âHeya, Hugs,â he murmured softly, thumb trailing the corner of his mouth, across his lower lip.
âPoe,â came out whisper soft, more breath than sound, more precious than the air they both breathed.
Poe bit his lip, couldnât stop his grin â the way his hands shook or his chest hitched. Because Armitage was smiling that same small smile, nose flushed pink from the mask or something else, eyes roving Poeâs like there was so much he still had left to discover.
There is, he wanted to tell him. Thereâs so much ahead of us now.
But as Armitageâs hand lifted again, this time to touch fingers to skin, his smile tracing wider across his pale cheeks, Poe didnât think he needed to tell him. Was pretty sure Armitage already understood.
Poe leaned down and brushed his lips over Armitageâs, soft and gentle, just enough to feel the ebb of warmth that had returned to his breath. It fluttered thin past his teeth, moist against Poeâs cheek â alive, in all the small ways that mattered. Ways that Poe wanted to tease out into the open, draw from Armitage for everyone to see.
âPoe Dameron,â Rose barked from the threshold of the galley, âyou put that mask back on him.â
âYes, maâam.â He pulled away with a toothy grin. Replaced the mask over a smile of Armitageâs own, as Armitageâs eyes rolled in a mockery of exacerbation before falling half closed, head lolling lightly against Poeâs shoulder, his body a comfortable weight in his arms.
Poe was fighting tears by the time Finn arrived with a blanket, smiling wetly when Rey slid into the seat beside him with a med kit. Above them, Phasma towered, leaning against the wall like a sentinel standing guard; a watchful attention she levied upon everyone who entered the room, only softening after the minutes ticked by without threat.
And ArmitageâŠArmitage lay relaxed and pliant in Poeâs lap. Wrapped in the blanket Finn had given him, his chest rose with each slow breath, eyes half-closed in some liminal place between wake and sleep, hands tucked close between both their bodies, broken wrist cradled carefully, mindfully, but not painfully against Poeâs chest.
It was, perhaps, the most peaceful Poe had ever seen him.
A wave of emotion swept fierce, sudden and unexpected.
This is it, he thought with a raw relief that finally felt real. This is really it.
He was shaking when Rey leaned in close.
âMay I?â asked quietly as she lifted a disinfecting wipe, gesturing at the blood clinging to Armitageâs hairline, rusty red set off against the pale blue of a still-forming bruise.
Poe nodded, feeling nothing but a renewed sense of comfort, as he watched Rey carefully dab away at the blood. Her touch was quick, but gentle â meticulous, he noted, when she carefully parted Armitageâs hair so she could reach the actual wound. In his arms, Armitage remained relaxed, eyes fluttering open precisely once to see who touched him, before quickly falling closed again.
âWill you help me with these?â he asked when she was done, wiggling his still gloved fingers to make sure she understood. Rey smiled as she unsealed the gloves and pulled them free of both his hands. And then, suddenly, he could finally touch Armitage â really touch him â put his skin under his hands and feel the returning warmth of his flesh. Feel life pulse at his most tender junctions, and the way his body sought his, as natural as a root seeking water, or a stream seeking the sea.
Poe smoothed a hand down his flank, buried the other in his hair. Thought about how it would feel to come together again, only to make Armitage come right back apart, when Poe brought him to a different kind of precipice than the one heâd just tread.
But there was a time and place for that kind of touch, and for now, this was enough.
Poe traced the back of his finger down Armitageâs cheek, across his brow. Smiled as it wrinkled, his breath giving a muffled huff.
âNot stopping,â Poe laughed breathlessly, fingers following the contour of his jaw next, past the jut of his mandible down under his chin. He lingered there for a drawn-out moment as their eyes met and held. There was something new in Armitageâs stare. An open vulnerability that heâd maybe only caught glimpses of before. That drew him in and held him close and refused to let him go, but that was fine, because he was never letting Armitage go again.
Poe bit his lip, grin a little broken, before leaning down to press his lips to Armitageâs forehead.
âI love you,â he buried in the touch of skin to skin, allowing his voice to break a little, a display of his own vulnerability that hardly felt out of place.
He felt something release in Armitage, another knot coming undone as he tilted his head into the press of Poeâs lips. When Poe drew away, his eyes were closed, his features soft; his inhale deep, and his sigh long.
Inside, Poe felt something come alive â some mirrored aspect that instinct told him he and Armitage shared â but also more. That the feeling of peace and safety he felt was directly linked to both the person in his arms, and something bigger than them both. Something that connected him and Armitage with the rest of the Galaxy â that touch of Force that maybe really was within them all.
It occurred to Poe that for all Armitageâs life, heâd never had a place in that Galaxy. But there was no ignoring the feeling that now he did. The idea shook him in a way little else had. Brought his lips back to Armitageâs forehead, his fingers into his hair.
If it wasnât for the way Phasma stiffened, he would have stayed like that; never would have thought to look up. Never would have noticed Kylo Ren â Ben â standing just beyond the threshold, hesitant, like heâd walked in on something he wasnât supposed to see.
But Ben was not an enemy any longer, Poe acknowledged when their eyes met. His dark, pit-like stare was the same as the man in his nightmares, but lacked that edge heâd come to expect. Instead, Ren looked at him as if seeking permission, and it dawned on Poe that Ben was self-aware enough to have not presented himself unless he had something important to share.
At his side, Rey gave his shoulder a squeeze; slid from the bench to approach Ben instead.
To draw him near, and then settle him into a chair before them.
âIs it safe to let him sleep?â Ben asked quietly, eyes settling heavily on Armitage.
âHeâs awake.â Poe didnât need to chance a glance down to be sure, not when he felt how stiff Armitage had gone in his arms.
âOh,â Ben said, glancing at Rey as if looking for reassurance. Her smile was small, gentle, the hands she placed on his shoulders urging him towards something Poe couldnât predict. âWell, if heâll allow it, I think I can mend his wrist.â
But Kylo Ren â a healer?
âHeâs been working on his healing, heâs alarmingly good,â Rey clarified, grin impish, the hands on Benâs shoulders turning to arms as she embraced him from behind.
âReally?â came out brighter than Poe intended.
When he looked down, his eyes met Armitageâs. The green of them was sharp, the spell of willful ignorance broken for the opportunity to silently scold him.
Poe only laughed, lifting an eyebrow in his own silent communication.
Lifted the other when Armitage shifted, and then untucked his bandaged arm from its place against Poeâs chest.
Armitage didnât look at Ben when he extended his arm in silent offering. He barely flinched when Ben reached out to take it, the bandages falling away to reveal the swollen, distended skin. But Poe could feel the way his body shivered, see the exposure this cost him in the flicker of his eyes over Poeâs as he sought something other than Benâs unlikely gentleness. Poe gave it to him. Leaned down close enough to hear the rasp of his breath behind the mask, feel the shift in the air with each flutter of his eyelashes. Felt the coil, and then sudden release of the muscles down his back, as his eyes drifted shut and a long sigh expelled in a fog of breath.
Only then did Poe look up. In Benâs hands, Armitageâs wrist looked even more small, more fragile. It also looked normal â healed â the flesh no longer swollen, the fracture set, the long delicate bones of his forearm knitted together in a seamless, elegant length.
He really can heal, Poe marveled.
Armitage gently extracted his wrist from Benâs hands, but it was Poe who caught it next.
Fingers curling over the sharp ridge, thumb riding the tendons to rest between the dip at the crease, he brought Armitageâs wrist to his lips. One kiss, soft and tender, to the junction of tendons and nerve endings, before he pulled away. When he met Armitageâs eyes, he saw how dark theyâd become, felt how his hand trembled, and his fingers twitched.
Poe was grinning before he could stop himself. Barely restrained himself from peeling back the mask and kissing Armitage where it mattered most.
It wasnât until Rey murmured something privately that Poe remembered they still had an audience.
Ben looked exhausted. The circles under his eyes dark, pale skin sallow like heâd been drained of something important. Poe realized, suddenly, the effort this healing had cost him. And when he felt Armitage shift in his arms, he knew heâd realized too.
The mask prevented Armitage from speaking, but the eyes that drifted to Ben said enough â the dip of his chin more.
âGot what I could of the burns too, might not be all of it,â Ben said like he was sorry. Poe couldnât help but feel like heâd done so much more than enough.
âWe have bacta,â Poe said a little stupidly, like bacta could at all work the same wonders apparently Ben Solo could. âThank you, Ben.â
Draped across his shoulders, Rey gave Poe a beaming grin.
Sagging in his seat, Benâs shrug was small, his smile a shadow.
In his arms, Armitage felt relaxed, the tilt of his head and the cast of his eyes such that Poe knew he was still watching Ben. Something had changed between them â something that felt like a long time coming.
Ben did not stay. After several minutes that were, granted, uncomfortable, his color returned and his spine straightened. Rey followed him out the door, tidying up the med kit before she went, a kiss on Poeâs cheek her final farewell.
âTwo hours until Coruscant,â she said on her way out the door, and then Poe was looking to Phasma for an explanation.
âIt was either that or Naboo,â Phasma clarified without prompting as soon as they were alone.
âNaboo?â
Phasma grunted, âLeia offered. Not like we can go back to Ajan Kloss, pack-out was already nearly complete when you guys showed up. Gotta dump some cargo first.â
In his arms, Armitage sniffed. Poe could barely see the spread of his smile past the clear plasti of the mask.
âI knew I was right,â Poe said quietly, âthat it was Ofant all along.â
Armitage looked up at him, eyes more aware now than they had been yet.
But before Poe could say more, Roseâs head popped around the threshold, attention immediately fixing on Armitage before she came hurrying round the corner with BB-8 in tow.
âHey, howâs he doing?â she asked as she took the chair Ben had vacated and pulled it closer. Beneath the table, BB-8 tucked itself against Poeâs shin, a quiet bid for attention. âHavenât let him fall asleep yet, have you?â
âNo, but is heâŠâ Poe trailed off, torn between curiosity and concern.
âNot if his oxygen levels are back up,â Rose leaned over Armitage, the datapad in her hand connected to an electrode she attached to his freshly healed wrist. âBlood oxygen levels are back to normal, guess the mask can come off.â
Poe traced the mask where it met Armitageâs cheek, a question more than anything. But Armitageâs hand laid atop his, fingers urging, and the mask was quickly released.
âOkay?â Poe asked, hand back in place, layering over Armitageâs cheek, âtake a big breath, yeah?â
Armitage lifted his eyes, held Poeâs as he drew in a slow, deep breath, eyes fluttering as he expelled it with a wavering sigh.
âGood?â Poe urged, thumb catching the corner of Armitageâs mouth. His lips were parted, just so. It was tempting, almost too much of a tease to resist.
But then Armitage went and spokeâ
âPoe,â he said softly, voice rasping thin over the word. âThankââ the next caught in his throat, turned into a sharp dry cough. BB-8 trilling with worry, but Rose sprung up and quickly fetched him a cup of water, and with Poeâs help, he sat upright and drank down nearly the whole thing.
âThank you,â finally came out quiet, a little weak, his eyes moving between all of them, like he owed his life to the people in this room, rather than himself.
He didnât, not really. Whatever had stopped Ofant hadnât been anything he or Phasma or Rose did. Heâd done that all himself, and Poe was incredibly proud of him for it â for saving himself, and apparently Ofantâs life too.
BB-8 took that moment to roll out from under the table and wedge itself against Armitage instead. Poe couldnât tear himself away from the sight of Armitage smiling down at the droid â of his fingers touching its dome in gentle acknowledgement.
âOfant, is heââ Armitage looked up, face flickering over something, before drawing in a slow, deep breath.
âHe seems stable, let me re-dress his wound and get some stitches in him,â Rose cocked her head, eyes curious. âWeâll drop him off at Coruscant, leave him with the authorities. Theyâll take care of him from there.â
Take care of him. Arrest him, charge him. Likely try and jail him.
âI donât want to press charges,â felt heavy to hear.
But Poe said nothing, knew better than to question Armitage right now. Knew that, whatever he had been through, it was his to share â to hold a grudge, or offer forgiveness. And it would explain the feeling heâd gotten when entering that cockpit: that strangely placid, peaceful calm.
âHe kidnapped you, Armitage,â Phasma said, a little hesitant, like she could feel the same thing, though her doubt remained.
âYes,â was the only response Armitage deigned give. His eyes had found Poeâs again, didnât seem interested in anything else. Poe felt his stomach flip, and then fill with butterflies.
âLetâs change the subject,â Poe said in a rush as Armitage leaned into him, face turning into his shoulder, smile small and hidden, fingers curling over his thigh. Poe savored his touch, such a small thing, but for Armitage it meant so much⊠âOr better yet, postpone it. Iâm tired.â
âMay I sleep now?â Armitage asked, though the quality of his voice didnât sound tired; loopy, maybe â a little bit playful. Poe felt his butterflies transform into a deep-seated want.
âI donât see why not,â Rose spoke carefully, eyes narrowed, âtwo hours of jump left, guess you two can take a nap.â
âTheyâre going to fuck, Tico,â Phasma announced for all to hear. BB-8 shrieked with indignance while Poe burst into laughter, Armitage turning bright red.
But that smile pressed against Poeâs shoulder had only grown wider. His eyes, darker. Poe realized, very suddenly, that whatever want he might feel paled in comparison to Armitageâs need.
Standing was a precarious endeavor, walking out of the question. So Poe swept Armitage up into his arms â not quite the dip he had threatened all those hours ago, but it felt close. And when Armitage looked up at him, cheek back against his shoulder, eyes hooded heavy, fingers a gentle trace down the front seam of his flight-suit, there was only one thing Poe could possibly feel.
The bunk room door slid closed with a quiet whoosh, the electronic lock a near silent snick. And then he was laying Armitage down on his bed, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight as Poe eased over top of him.
âSo, near death experiences are a turn on for you, huh?â
âIs rescuing people a turn on for you?â Armitage sniped back, teeth showing sharp through his smile, eyes secure upon Poeâs.
âJust you,â Poe grinned, âstars know you need it, good thing it never gets old.â
âOld, huh,â murmured as Armitage dipped his fingers into his flight-suit, seeking skin. âDonât you think it might, one day? After weâve grown old?â
âHugs, are you talking about our future again?â Poe let his grin become wide, his laugh indulgent.
âTake this hideous thing off already,â said breathlessly, a little brokenlyâ
Poe scrambled off the bed, shed the flight-suit faster than he ever had before, only remembering to kick his boots off after the material became tangled up with them.
âFuck,â he laughed when he ended up on the edge of the mattress, one boot off and the other caught in his pant leg. âIâm a mess.â
Armitage snorted, then quipped, âPhasma was right, though.â
âAbout?â Poe tugged at the boot, finally felt it give.
âYou looked better in the Order suit.â
Poe laughed, loud and full, felt how the sound released something inside him â some seal broken that he knew could never be fixed.
Flight-suit a pile on the ground, Poe turned back to Armitage, grinning from ear to ear. âStill trying to turn me Hugs? And here I thought youâd given the Order up.â
âPerhaps,â he murmured from his place atop Poeâs pillow, all long limbs and a lazy sprawl. He didnât look weak anymore, he looked entirely at ease.
Poeâs chest tightened at the thought â the reminder â that theyâd earned this. Theyâd finally made it, here, togetherâ
âBut there's more to the Galaxy than the Order.â
âOh yeah?â Poe played along, crawling back into place over top Armitage, bracketing his head with his hands so he could stare down at him. âAnd what would that be?â
âI was hoping you might show me,â admitted quietly, mirth bleeding out. His eyes, when they held his, were wet with some unvoiced truth.
Poe was kissing Armitage before the tears could fall.
Nothing more than a slow press, his lips were warm, a little chapped, dragging at Poeâs with a delicious friction as Armitage made a small sound into the kiss. Poe pulled back, let Armitage chase him â let himself be caught â when Armitage whined desperately, forced up on shaking elbows as he sought out Poeâs lips.
Poe gave him mercy and eased him back down; let his own weight grow heavy as Armitageâs sunk down into the mattress, so he was trapped there, nothing but Poeâs body and the softness of the bedding to hold him in place.
It was there, like that, that Armitage finally relaxed â like heâd finally gotten what he wanted, and all he ever really wanted was Poe.
âArmitage,â he moved his mouth to the side of Armitageâs, let his tongue dip into the delicate corner, followed along the bow of his upper lip. Beneath him, Armitage gave the tiniest, most breathy moan, chin lifting, mouth canting, to meet Poe in an open-mouthed sigh. They held together like that, breathing one another in, wholly focused on the seamless press of their bodies, like this was the first time again, and there was still so much left to discover.
The idea made Poe smile, because maybe there was a truth to it; for all theyâd been through, this finally felt like the beginning of something real, the future they would share together.
âWhat?â Armitage breathed against him, seeking out his smile with his lips.
âJust thinking,â Poe turned his head, caught his mouth again, deepening the kiss for one long moment before pulling away, âabout whatâs next.â
âI was hoping you might make me come,â Armitage murmured, voice low, teasing. Eyes sparked through with a devious knowing.
Poe laughed. âGotta start thinking long-term, Hugs.â
âAlright,â Armitage breathed, voice shaking with his exhale, nose brushing alongside Poeâs, âmake love to me?â
âI can do that,â shouldnât have come out as broken as it did. âI can do that every day, for the rest of our lives.â
Beneath him, Armitage flushed â a trail of pink that stained his nose, crawled across his cheeks.
Poe traced it with his thumb. Fingers trailing down his jaw, beneath his chin, he drew a shiver out of Armitage, one that had nothing to do with the cold emptiness of space, and all to do with the things Poe could make him feel. So he did it again. Pressing his mouth to the corner of Armitageâs, the backs of his fingers brushing his cheek, he felt Armitageâs breath hitch against him. Felt every little shift of his body: the swell of his chest rising, the slide of his thigh alongside Poeâs hip, how his belly fluttered when Poe moaned against him, and the way his hips rose when Poeâs tongue slid along his lower lip. Every reaction an intent upon bringing their bodies closer together, as close as they could possibly fit.
But Poe could feel an edge of something running through the lines of Armitageâs body. A coil of tension rooted in the way his fingers curled over Poeâs ribs. In the pliant way his mouth opened, but how he breathed against Poeâs like he still couldnât get the air he needed.
âWhat do you need?â Poe murmured, tongue sliding wetly up one corner of his mouth, and then the other, until Armitage was open wide and gasping beneath him.
When Armitageâs legs parted, and his hips twitched up, his âFuck me,â came out breathy and wanton.
His cock ached with the idea, the coil of tension in his groin building with the idea. ExceptâŠ
âYou sure? You really feeling up for it?â Asked even though he could feel the hard line of Armitageâs erection brushing his, the shaking tremble of his body as it sought this singular point of contact. But still, he needed to know â would always seek this: the confirmation of what Armitage wanted, and the permission for Poe to give him exactly that.
âPlease.â And Armitage must have been serious, if he was already reduced to begging. âYouâll just have to be gentle with me.â
His words were enough to reduce Poe to a long, low moan.
âI always am,â said as he dipped his face under Armitageâs chin, nudging it up until his head tipped back, the pale length of his neck exposed. âAlways will be.â
There may have been a response, but it was cut off by a throaty whimper when Poe pushed his tongue into the tender place beneath Armitageâs jaw. He did it again, circling hard, just to hear him, just to feel how fast he could make his pulse flutter, how easily he could take him apart.
But it wasnât just Armitage coming apart here. Because when Armitageâs hand slid into his hair, and his mouth caught at the stubble of his jaw, mouth seeking his only to give a thin, broken gasp when he found it, Poe felt something inside him crumble.
âIâm here,â he whispered into the kiss as Armitage shivered against him, the hand in his hair gripping tighter, the breath against his lips hitching harder.
And then he finally dropped his pelvis into the cradle of Armitageâs hips, just to feel how his whole body jerked, and then tightened, as he dragged their erections together in a slow, suggestive grind.
âPoe,â Armitage gasped, back arching up into him, hands sliding through his hair, squeezing hard, âPoe, pleaseââ
âI know, Iâve got you, Iâll take care of you.â And then Poe was pushing away, putting just enough space between them to undo the buttons of Armitageâs shirt, the fly of his pants. And all the while, Armitage stared up at him, eyes edged with a sliver of green-gray, pupils blown dark and wide, cheeks flushed and mouth wet. The comfortable teasing from before had vanished. In its place was this fragile vulnerability, a trust and desperation for whatever Poe would give him. Because Armitageâs walls were not just down, but abandoned, and he looked up at Poe with a need that rivaled that Poe felt when heading to his rescue.
For all the growing Armitage had done â the touches he now allowed from others, and acceptance of the help they had to give â there was still this version of him only Poe got to have.
âIâm gonna make you the happiest man in the Galaxy,â Poe breathed. âEvery day Iâm going to remind you, tell you how much you mean to me, how important you are, and beautiful you are. Because you are, Armitage. You are all those things and so much more. But I know telling you wonât be enough so Iâm going to show you, every damn day, for the rest of our lives.â
âPoeâŠâ
âI love you Armitage,â he reached out as he said it, fingers to Armitageâs cheek, eyes holding fast, as he recited the words Armitage had tried to tell him once, in a letter that had maybe not reached him as intended, but had made its impact all the same, âI will always love you.â
âI love you too,â his eyes were wet now, the rise of his chest catching, the slide of his palm over Poeâs hand a warm, needy clutch. âI love you so much, Poe. More than anything, more than I knew possibleââ
His voice cracked then, tears finally falling, face pinked with so much more than a blush.
âYouâre all Iâve ever wanted,â breathed out soft and broken, a confession that nearly brought Poe to tears. âWhat I never thought Iâd have.â
âYou have me,â Poe whispered, his own voice shaking with the words. âYouâll always have me.â
Their clothes came off in a flurry of glancing touches, though the real barriers between them had long before come down. When they met again it was skin to skin, Armitage a trembling length of barely contained emotion, cheeks wet lungs pulling air. Poe gave Armitage the space he needed to simply feel Poe there, solid against him, as cogent and real as the heat of their skin and the slide of their mouths. But there was no soothing the torrent of emotion, no calming this storm of feeling. And as Armitage shook against him, body taunt to near breaking, it was all Poe could do to comfort him.
âIâm sorry, Iâmâ â
âShh,â Poe caught the corner of his mouth with his lips, kissed his way up Armitageâs cheek to his ear, âYouâre perfect, just like this. I love making you become a mess.â And then laved his tongue down the shell of his ear, took his lobe between his teeth and gave a tug.
Armitage made a sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Against Poeâs thigh, he felt his erection slide heavy and wet. Poe shifted against him, brought his thigh forward not to his cock, but to press deep between Armitageâs legs.
It only took a second for Armitageâs body to react: his legs to part and his hips to lift, riding his thigh in a search for friction against a spot too deep to reach.
Poe layered his mouth to Armitageâs ear, let his words breathe out: âWanna be inside you.â
âYes, do it, please,â Armitage moaned, arms curled up over Poeâs back, not holding on so much as trying to bring Poe closer. âPoe I need you, I need to feel you.â
âHere, come on, like this,â Poe drew away far enough to get his hands on Armitageâs hips, âroll over for me, alright? Take that pillowâ â He helped Armitage over, onto his belly, reaching to grab the pillow at the head of the bed and draw it forward so Armitage had something to hold onto, ââgood, hips up, on your knees, just like that.â
Like that: face buried in the pillow he clutched in shaking arms, hips raised enough to get his knees under him, the pale peach of his butt high in the air.
A part of Poe wanted to take his time, tease his touch and open Armitage up slowly, but a larger part couldnât wait â in fact demanded when he dragged his palm down the swell of one cheek, thumb skirting the shadow of Armitageâs cleft, and Armitage smothered a long drawn moan into his pillow.
But it wasnât until he dipped that thumb in to brush over the tight pucker of his anus and Armitageâs whole body jolted into the touch that he felt slow dissolve into now. He hardly gave Armitage a warning before he leaned forward and licked a stripe up over his hole.
The sound of Armitageâs gasp was something that would never get old â the sight of his blush just as arresting. Poe almost expected Armitage to gasp out a stop, but instead his legs spread, and his hips canted. There was a trust here, one he knew he'd worked hard to earn.
âGood?â he didnât wait for an answer before he did it again. The answering moan the only confirmation he needed â a consent he would never stop seeking. Because there was still so much left for them: so many things to discover, experiences to explore, and Poe would show Armitage all of it, take him on every last adventure until new ran old and each became new all over again.
Beneath his hands, Armitageâs body strained towards his mouth, the tight pinch of his anus fluttering against the flat of Poeâs tongue. He paused there, rubbing circles into the skin, thumbs stroking slow, until he felt the muscle relax â until it gave way beneath his tongue, just enough that Poe could push forward, dip insideâ
âPoe, that'sâ oh!â
Poe hummed a laugh against Armitage, refusing to give him up, gently opening him with only the press of his tongue and the slick of saliva, until he was sliding in, going deeper, Armitage clenching tight around him.
Over the rush of blood in his ears, he could barely hear Armitage breathing, sharp sounds buried in the pillow as his hips began to rock. Poe pulled away, just to demand, âLet me hear you.â Another lick, âlet me know how you feel, Armitage.â
"Poe," broke desperate, vulnerable. From over his shoulder, Poe could see the side of Armitageâs face â the flush of pink across his nose, the flutter of his lashes upon his cheek, and the way his mouth hung open, breath spilling out in small shallow rushes â sighs that edged towards sobs each time Poeâs tongue threatened to dip back in.
He wanted to be inside him. Wanted to make him come with nothing but stretch of his cock and the pressure against his prostate, untouched but for the feel of Poeâs hands circling his wrists, his lips to his neck. Wanted to make him let go of every last barrier between him and the good things in the world, the things Poe would show him, would make sure he woke up to every morning and fell asleep to every night.
He worked him slowly, thumbs tugging as his tongue laved, so he slid all the deeper. Alternating between licking over him and dipping inside, his thumbs edged closer with every pass, until those too were right as his rim, spreading him open, hole puffy and wet, sobs broken and beautiful.
When Poe slipped both his thumbs inside along with his tongue, Armitage outright screamed.
âAhh!â
Poe moaned, holding Armitage wide while his tongue slowly slid inside as far as it could go, Armitage clenching and fluttering over the hook of his thumbs, his flesh swollen puffy from Poeâs relentless determination to open him up.
And then he replaced this thumbs with two fingers, pushing them inside as his mouth sucked a path around the ring of stretched muscle, fingers curling down directly into that spot â his prostate â just to feel the way Armitageâs body came apart.
âThere, right thereâ â broke off into a muffled cry as Poe worked him.
He only relented when Armitageâs cries became wet, his tremble a shiver, his legs shaking so hard Poe wasnât sure they could keep supporting his weight.
âFeel good?â he asked as his fingers circled, slow, lazy rings around that spot, ânot too much?â
Armitage huffed out a sound that almost sounded like a laugh, then immediately moaned when Poe curled his fingers and pulsed them gently in place.
He wanted to make Armitage come like this. Knew that he could â it wouldnât be the first time, but it also wasnât his last chance. But while he doubted Armitage would complain, Poe knew it wasnât what he wanted, or what he needed.
âPoe,â Armitage whispered, cheek pressed into the pillow, fingers holding fast to the plush stuffing. âWill you, inside me, I need youâ â his breath hitched on the drag of Poeâs fingers sliding out, though they didnât go far. Poe kept them there, the pad of his fore and middle fingers rubbing circles over the slick wetness of Armitageâs now swollen rim, teasing and testing and finding Armitage beautifully responsive. âPlease,â he whispered, âplease, please pleaseâ â
âOkay, I will, donât worry,â Poe leaned forward, removed his fingers to replace them with his lips, a delicate kiss that had Armitage shivering out a moan beneath him.
Quickly, Poe leaned over the edge of the bed, pulled his bag out from beneath it, and located the little bottle of lubricant heâd made a habit of keeping on hand since theyâd become intimate. He spent very little time working it over himself â cock already slick with precome, Armitage open and almost loose enough without the extra aid.
It would be easy to take him like this â almost too tempting to resist. But Poe wanted more, wanted to be closer â wanted to hold Armitage while he came apart, feel every tiny response of his body and each capture every sound that spilled from his throat. So it was an easier choice to press a hand to Armitageâs spine, ease him down on his belly as Poe laid out at his side.
âIs something wrong?â came out sex-rough, the hand seeking Poeâs heated hot, the palm a little slick.
Poe brought the hand to his mouth, let his lips brush the knuckles, his thumb trace the tendons. âNothing at all,â he soothed, scooting closer. Like this, on his side facing Armitage, Poe would see how wet his cheeks were, how red his eyes had become. How affected he was by the pleasure Poe had given him, but also this: the closeness they had achieved, and all the trust and vulnerability it required. Something inside him swelled with the recognition, and his fingers absconded the hand in favor of touching Armitageâs face. âJust want to be close to you,â Poe clarified, the back of his fingers trailing the pink of his cheek, âwant to hold you while I fuck you, kiss you when you come.â
Armitageâs eyes fluttered closed, lashes darkened, sticking to his cheeks. When his eyes opened again, Poe noticed how they were nearly blown black. âIâd like that,â came out small but unbroken.
âRoll over for me,â said as Poe pushed close, brushing their lips together in a velvet drag, âon your side, back to me.â
They were both shaking when he got Armitage onto place, faced away as he settled in behind. Like this he could hook his chin over Armitageâs shoulder, nestle his cock into place between those obscenely long legs.
He circled a thumb over Armitageâs anus and was met with a flutter of clenching muscle, the dip inside answered with a gasp. And when Poeâs hand slid under Armitageâs thigh, to lift it and make room for his own leg to wedge in, raise up, and spread him wide enough for his cock to drag along his cleft, Armitage cried out so very, very softly.
âReady?â Poe asked, mouth right at his ear, hand finding his and holding tight.
A whimper was his answer, the fingers threading his permission.
The barest amount of pressure had Armitage canting back â needy and desperate, body begging for more. With a kiss to his shoulder Poe pushed, breaching him open, the little shiver of resistance he met dissipating as Armitage tipped his face up with a long, wavering moan.
âArmitage,â Poe whispered as he slid inside, and then stilled. Armitage was so relaxed â so openâ
âPoe,â breathed on a trembling exhale as Armitage turned his face to brush his lips, seeking not so much his kiss, but a deeper connection.
Poe would give it to him. Rocking up, their hips met: one slow thrust that had them both gasping, stilled together in a moment that stretched, Poe barely able to define the places where he ended and Armitage began. He felt drowned in sensation â drowned in Armitage â and moving seemed suddenly like too much. Like this simple physical connection between them was all either could possibly need. It was a curious idea, something rooted outside the network of nerve endings that sparked pleasure through his body, in a possessive place where no one could touch â could never touch, because it was meant only for him and Armitage.
âYouâre safe,â Poe breathed, rolling his hips in a slow circle, drawing a soft ahh out of Armitage, ânever letting you go again, Hugs.â His free hand moved, palm sliding down Armitageâs sternum, to find his low belly and press in just as his hips rocked deep.
Armitage moaned, broken and breathy, muscles contracting, rippling beneath his palm. Poe did it again, just as slow, reading the silent cues Armitage gave him until he was as deep as he could go. He stilled there, pressed down gently. Somewhere beyond, the length of himself was buried deep â so deep Poe wanted to feel it â feel himself, inside Armitageâ
Poe shifted his hips, changed his angle, and then ground in slow steady circles, working himself impossibly deeper, spreading Armitage impossibly widerâ
And then Armitage gasped, his own hand flying down to cover Poeâs, directing him into a spot that must have felt good for the way his body trembled. Poe took the cue, rocked into him again, right into the mounting pressure, their fingers entwining as Armitage pressed down hard. All of a sudden, his lower belly went soft, accommodating, and a brush with something hard and moving in time with his hips made Poe realize he could actually feel himself where he was so deeply inside Armitage.
He did it again, just to be sure, felt the shiver of pleasure tear through Armitage as the pressure built, heard the gasp from his throat devolve into a softly broken whimper when Poeâs cock rolled deep and stilled, there right beyond the pressure of their joined hands.
âFuck,â Poe whispered, voice shaking, a little desperate, the grip he had on Armitage tight. âI can feel myself, inside you.â He pushed in again, hips rocking forward, âCan you feel me too?â
âI feel you,â Armitage gasped, free hand meeting theirs so he used both to hold Poe in place, his hips rolling circles back onto Poeâs cock. But in his arms, Armitage remained relaxed. Pale lashes fluttering atop his flushed pink cheeks, lips parted over breaths that came out like sighs, face tipped towards Poe, the whole of his body bent to keep them together, skin to skin wherever possible. And when his eyes opened to meet Poeâs, he saw in them a need, but also something else. Something that hadnât been there before â something that maybe Armitage had not ever let himself feel, until now.
Something so vulnerable, so trusting, that the only word Poe could find to describe it, was safe.
âI can feel you,â Armitage repeated, eyes holding his, the hand atop Poeâs pressing again, as he rolled his hips in a slow circle, as Poe felt the shadow of the motion echo beneath the pressure of his palm. It was intoxicating, enough to tighten his testicles, the edge of his pleasure mounting quickly.
When he began to move it was as much out of his own need as that he felt bleeding from Armitage. One thrust, and then another, Armitage meeting each with a gentle rock, until they found a rhythm together, something that felt like it could last, like it might never end.
Poe never wanted this to end. Wanted to have Armitage like this for the rest of his life: open and accepting of the love Poe had to offer, because he was as deserving of it as anyone in the Galaxy could be â despite his past, or maybe because of it. Because if Armitage was a product of the life heâd lived, then that was the person Poe had fallen completely for. And of all the things in his life Poe would maybe change, Armitage was not one of them.
âI love you,â Poe said in a rush, mouth finding the corner of Armitageâs as his hips snapped forward a little harder. âI love you so much, Armitage.â
Armitage moaned, a long wavering sound as a shiver seized his body. Poe held him tight, catching Armitage in a kiss as he angled his knee and spread Armitageâs legs wider. And then his hips snapped forward again, harder than before, directly into where their palms still pressed, so his cock drove into the pressure they applied to Armitageâs prostate, and a wail tore out of his throat.
And then he did it again, and again. Over and over, until Armitage was shaking in his arms, crying out against his mouth, his tears back to collect across his lashes and touch warm and wet to Poeâs cheek. Inside himself, his pleasure hedged, held in check only by the desire to drag Armitage over the edge with him. Knew he was close from the fluid leaking across the back of both their hands, Armitageâs untouched cock swollen red and desperate without the friction needed to make him come.
âTouch yourself,â Poe rasped with one last press of their hands against his belly, squeezing Armitageâs fingers in reassurance, before directing him to take his cock in hand. Together, their fingers curled, slick and wet, Poe following Armitageâs lead as he gripped him with a gentle pressure. âIâll help you get there, wanna feel you come, wanna make you feel good. So good, all the time, every dayâ â
He was speaking nonsense now, affirmations heated by the pace of his hips, the clutch of Armitageâs hand â but it was all truth, honest and raw in a way Poe couldnât help â didnât want to help â not when it had Armitage sobbing softly against him.
âPoe,â Armitageâs breath hitched against Poeâs cheek, his fingers clenching compulsively around Poeâs grip, so together they squeezed hard underneath the flared head of his cock. âI love you, Poe.â
âOh fuckâ â came out broken as his hips snapped forward, angled hard, found that spot, and worked it hard. Armitage wailed, body jerking back against Poeâs, mouth sliding wet against his chin, breath spilling to sobs as his body trembled and shook. Under his hand, Poe felt Armitageâs cock twitch, his hips strain, all the signs he was close, barely clinging to the precipice.
But it wasnât until Poe met him in an open-mouth kiss that he felt him let go.
Armitageâs body seized, cock pulsing, breath gasping, their kiss breaking as Armitage came with a loud, drawn shout. And that was all it took to take Poe over his own edge, for his body to tumble after Armitage, his own moan spilling low and broken as he tipped up Armitageâs face and found his mouth again. Inside Armitageâs body, Poeâs erection pulsed, grinding in sharp, little circles as his come slicked everything into a messy, wet slide. But Poe kept his angle right, made sure each twitch of his cock nudged against that spot inside, riding out their orgasms in the hold of Armitageâs body and the grip they both shared on his cock.
âThatâs it, thatâs it,â Poe repeated between kisses, hand working over Armitage slowly, until the last tremor came and Armitage drew their tangled, trembling hands to clutch against his heaving chest instead. Poe held them together. Arms a vice around Armitageâs body, their mouths close, lips brushing, the puffs of their breath spilling warm and intimate, until Armitage caught him in a gentle, but arresting kiss.
It was slow, penetrating â a kiss born of a sated desire, but also of commitment. Of a mutual understanding that what they shared now was not going anywhere. That the comfort they both sought in one another was just the beginning of all that was to come. And while Poe knew that the content cant of Armitageâs body, the gentle rise of breath in his chest, and the open affection of his slow, possessive kiss was something Armitage had never given another â because never before had he the room for things like comfort and safety and happiness and peace â he also knew it was because of him, of who Poe was, and how aligned together he and Armitage were, and it was enough to bring him to tears.
Because it was everything Poe had ever wanted â could ever want â from a partner and a lover.
All he wanted from the rest of his life, and for the person he would spend it with.
âI love you,â Poe said for maybe the millionth time. But the way Armitage smiled against him let him know he could never say it enough.
âAnd I love you,â Armitage replied, words firm, though his voice trembled...but it was his small, satisfied smile which had Poe dragging him closer.
Together, they clung to one another, the shivering in Armitageâs body finally matched by his own. And then he turned Armitage over, tugged him into place against his chest, drew the blanket around their shoulders, and let the gentle hum of the Falcon lull them both into a sleep that would have them wake to a life that would still be waiting, would always be waiting, now that the future was theirs.
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They arrived at the tower early, for reasons Armitage still wasnât sure he could explain.
Together, he and Poe walked the halls under circumstances far different from those that first brought them there. There was little denying that as his steps echoed in the vaulted corridors, he felt like he was here looking for something. Like maybe what he really sought here was a reclamation on a part of himself he had left behind. As if the man who had ascended these hundreds of levels weeks ago was still up there, waiting, ready for a fate that had not come â would not ever come.
Their appointment wasnât for another hour and a half, and the time it would take to pass through security into the prison levels by way of the civilian lifts would take a little over twenty minutes, according to the instructions from the warden. It left them with seventy minutes of idle time, something Armitage had thought would help calm his nerves, acclimate him to the reality of returning here. Instead, it bloated uncomfortable â reality nothing more than the memories this place still housed, and a reminder of the circumstances which had brought him here.
But maybe it wasnât discomfort he was feeling, he thought as he felt Poe touch his elbow and lead him down an unfamiliar passage. Maybe it was simply nerves, because what he was here for hinged not just on the meeting they had scheduled, but a Galaxy full of people who not so long ago had wanted him dead, and were now, incredibly, celebrating that he was alive.
The window Poe led him to was about ten stories above the ground level. Here, he could see how the sidewalk bustled: a few news crews and holo-droids tipped off on their arrival, but also a large gaggle of passersby, of curious civilians, maybe the same people who posted to the public boards â people who saw him now not as a villain or a person to punish or defeat, but as a symbol of peace.
He didnât know which affected him more: the idea that people no longer wanted him dead, or all the possibilities their acceptance of him offered, as if the whole of the Galaxy was now on offer to him, in a way galactic domination never would have achieved.
But, there was something he had to do first.
Ten minutes they spent at the window, watching the city toil below. Twenty minutes later he pulled his codepad out, scrolling through a bit of programming Poe eyed with unmasked curiosity. At thirty-seven minutes, Poe pushed him behind a column, hands on his hips as he crowded into his space, chasing away his trembling with kisses to his cheeks.
âYou can change your mind; you donât have to do this.â
âIâm fine,â came out clearly not fine, but Poe looked at him like he understood anyway â knew how much strength this required â how much trust this choice was costing him.
But then Poe got that devious glint in his eyes, one that told Armitage he was up to something â something that was bound to get someone, somewhere in trouble, and Armitage had a sneaking suspicion it was them.
âI have an idea,â Poe said, fingers finding his motherâs ring where it hung around Armitageâs neck, smile coy, eyes dark. And then he was sweeping Armitage off, towards a direction he didnât know, and could never predict.
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The room was much the same as he remembered. Though there were differences, if he looked closely. The lay of the city beyond the transparisteel was a little closer, the towers a little taller. And here the sun rose on a late morning rather than setting with the approach of night. There were three chairs instead of two, but the bolt in the middle of the table was the same, and the whoosh of the door opening identical to that which still lingered in his memories.
Beside him, Poe shifted, turning in his chair to regard the man who just entered the room.
Armitage remained as he was, head bent forward, hands in his lap, codepad a welcome weight atop his thighs, eyes upon the ring fitted to his finger, the snug way it nestled against his knuckle, as if it had been made to fit.
âThirty minutes,â the guard said, and Armitage didnât need to look up to know she was the same one who had escorted him so many times through this same, soaring tower.
The sound of cuffs clinking as they were fitted into the bolt on the table was a particular sound.
The silence that followed even more so.
âWell, this is awkward.â
Armitage smiled, not entirely to himself, and then he looked up.
Ofant met his stare, eyes dark, but not dangerous. Curious, but not suspicious.
âYou didnât press charges,â was not asked as a question. Armitage shook his head.
âItâd have been hypocritical, donât you think?â
Ofant snorted, âTorturing a man on public broadcast isnât exactly the same as murdering billions but Iâm not complaining.â
There was a scar on his neck that the collar of his gray jumpsuit almost hid. It might fade more with time, but Armitage noted the way the silver of it caught the light, for now a reminder of how even the deepest wounds could always heal.
Attached to the bolt, Ofantâs hands were loosely fisted in their cuffs. Armitage reached out and pressed his thumb to the fingerprint reader, heard the cuffs release with a quiet snick.
âHow long are you in for?â As if this were a supreme council meeting and not a casual visit with the man who had tried to kill him, Armitage got straight to the point.
âSix months, and then two years of probation. My Senate seat was stripped of me, but after probation,â he shrugged, comfortable, easy, âI might run again.â
âAnd your media empire?â
âNot even a felony could take that from me.â
Armitage nodded, something inside himself relieved. âGood. I have a proposal.â
Ofant raised an eyebrow, curiosity turned eager.
Carefully, he placed his codepad upon the table.
Slowly he pushed it towards Ofant.
âYour game?â It was not surprise that colored Ofantâs voice, but a shrewd understanding.
âIâd like to sell it, to anyone who might want to play.â Armitage had prepared this bit in his head, but it was still strange to say â the idea of distributing Force, of sharing this thing he had poured his heart into with the whole of the Galaxy â it touched something deep inside him. Some place he thought only Poe could reach. âFor a cost, of course,â he continued, voice steady despite the feelings inside, âbut not for a profit. Iâd like all proceeds to go into a fund, for survivors of the Hosnian Cataclysm.â
âAnd you want me to distribute it?â Ofant clarified, though Armitage could already see he understood.
âYou use yourââ he gestured, âpropagandaââ
ââadvertising.â
âSemantics.â
Ofant smiled, a toothy, comfortable grin.
But not long, and not sharp. Amicable, maybe a little bit intrigued.
âIâll have my lawyers draw up an agreement, itâll be ready for you within the week.â
âWonderful,â Armitage breathed, amazed at the relief he felt â the sensation of coming up for air though he hadnât realized he was drowning.
They did not stay for small talk. He and Poe left the room with quick-footed steps. Morning was burning into noon by the time they made their way to the ground level of the tower, only a set of double durasteel doors between them and Coruscantâs sunny streets beyond.
He hadnât had time to explore the city yet, still wasnât sure he was welcome â despite the public boards, despite the shift in notoriety. Like it hadnât been that broken transport left behind amongst all that debris, but the man everyone had known as Starkiller.
âSpeederâs still a few minutes out,â Poe said from a place close to his ear, breath tickling the tiny hairs so that gooseflesh shivered down his spine. His hand came around from behind, finding his hand and running his fingers along the ring there, as if it were new and not simply relocated. âHope you like brunch because itâs too early for a romantic dinner.â
âHow horrifying,â he sniffed, leaning back. Poe was warm, solid, as sturdy as he felt suddenly weak. âA world so lazy first and second meal must be combined.â
âYouâll get used to the easy life,â Poe laughed, the sound indulgent, just like the fingers now traveling his wrist.
A cough from behind alerted them to anotherâs attention.
Poe was the first to turn, the arm that came around Armitageâs waist possessive, like a warning. But they both quickly realized there was no threat here. Not anymore.
âOh,â Poe said, a little surprised, but Armitage could tell he was mostly curious, âitâs you.â
âI have something thatâs yours,â the guard said from her place just out of reach. The piece of flimsi in her hand was carefully creased along folds made what felt like a lifetime ago. When she lifted her arm, it was towards Poe.
âThanks,â spoken for lack of a better option. The guard was out of uniform, a duffle slung over her shoulder, helmet nowhere to be seen. She was tall, limned in muscles, with a stern face and blue eyes.
She reminded him of Phasma, and Armitage wondered if he was simply attracted to a certain type.
âI shouldnât have kept it, I owe you an apology,â she said, without really apologizing. Whatever awkwardness theyâd encountered with Ofant hardly held a candle to that with this guard.
âItâs really alright,â Poe glanced at him as he said it, holding the flimsi up as if Armitage might want it back. He plucked it from Poeâs fingers and proceeded to tuck it into his back pocket.
âWhat prompted you to share it?â he asked boldly, curious now, despite the awkwardness â despite the perhaps uncouth nature of the question. Across the short distance, the guard shrugged, face passive.
âI was sure they were going to kill you, so I kept it, to share before that happened,â she said like it was the weather they were talking about and not something that would have had her tried for treason in the First Order. âI didnât think it right. Youâre not the man they told us you were. And you seemed to actually care about your people, when it feels like the Senators only ever care about their own agendas. A man like you doesnât kill without reason. Stars know Iâve seen enough of the other type pass through here.â
It felt honest and raw in a way little else could â an opinion that determined perhaps not the Senateâs actions against him, but helped sway a whole Galaxy into his favor. There was little to argue. Her reasoning was sound, her emotions held in check. It was a simple clean logic Armitage could not help but respect.
âThank you,â he said with all honesty. âI hope it did not land you in trouble with your superiors.â
The guard snorted, hefted her duffle higher up onto her shoulder, âI resigned, actually. Got a private gig. Today was my last day.â Her eyes flicked to the double doors beyond, âCongratulations, by the way. Need an escort? Thatâs quite a crowd.â
Armitage whipped his head around, finally noticing the absolute sea of shifting bodies behind the fogged transparisteel. He didnât go rigid so much as stiffened to petrification.
Armitage knew that clerk had been up to something â knew he should have learned to expect this sort of thing by now.
There was a brief moment when he wondered if maybe he should ask Poe to reroute their taxi to another location and try to shake the journalists, or accept the guardâs offer, ask her to clear out the crowd.
But theyâd been here before, and they could do it again â now that they were finally together.
âNah, Iâve got it under control,â Poe grinned at the guard, the arm around Armitageâs waist curling tighter. Poe must have felt the precise moment when Armitage relaxed, because he pulled him in closer, body solid against his; an offer of support, Armitage finding it in abundance.
The guard passed with a nod of acknowledgeable. The doors opened to the sound of a crowd of voices, the shuffle of bodies parting like a sea to allow the guard by. By the time the doors closed, Poe was outright hugging him.
Poe looked up, sought his gaze. Armitage knew he saw through the mask heâd fixed in place, felt it slip a little when he met Poeâs eyes. Poe looked on the brink of saying something reassuring, an offer to take him away â adjust their plans â go steal a ship from the hangar â but then his pad chimed, indicating their taxi had arrived, and Armitage accepted that this was it, and he may as well embrace what was coming.
With a deep breath, he drew away. Straightening up to his full height, he smoothed his hands down the seams of his suit coat, and turned to look Poe in the eye.
Then, he let his unease bleed away. Allowed the nervousness to settle, and his hesitancy to turn excited. Because this was their future he and Poe were about to embark upon, and he knew without a doubt this was precisely where he wanted to be.
But even he was surprised when he felt a playfulness overcome him, something that bloomed almost bashful when he cocked his head at Poe and pursed his lips.
âYou know what they want to see,â he said to Poe softly.
âYou?â Poeâs eyes were gentle, kind as ever â a little innocent.
It made him smile, small and hesitant like his blush, as he said, âThey want to see us.â
âHugs,â Poe breathed, stepping closer, arms circling fully around his waist, âAre you gonna propose in front of trillions? I had no idea you were such a romantic.â
âDameron, we just eloped, you canât marry me twice.â
âWanna bet?â Poe grinned, arms tightening, âHow about this, weâll go upstairs, file for divorce and do it all over again, big this time. A huge wedding, just like you never wanted. Youâll make everyone uncomfortable with a tongue-in-cheek toast to our future ruling the Galaxy from the reformed seat of the First Order, and Iâll get so drunk I pass out on the dance floor and make you drag me home for our wedding night. Sound alright?â
Armitage felt his face go fully red, couldnât stop his lips from twisting over a grin that he knew â he knew â broke more like a grimace. It was all he could do not to laugh and say instead, âI was thinking you might just hold my hand, but I see how that is not asking enough.â
âNot even close,â Poe beamed as he reached for Armitageâs hand, thumb riding the ridge of the ring on his finger â Poeâs motherâs ring, his ring â his wedding ring. âI have an idea, trust me?â
âWith all my heart,â Armitage breathed, head tipping down to touch Poeâs.
When he looked back on the memory, Armitage would wonder how he had not anticipated precisely what Poe would do next.
They did, in fact, step through the doors hand in hand. At the top of the steps, overlooking a crowd of reporters and droids, a sea of voices and cameras and a pressing curiosity that at once had Armitage flushing pink, Poeâs arm circled his waist as he stepped in close, looking up at Armitage not with a question in his eyes, but a confirmation.
Armitage got caught in his gaze like it were a tether to hold onto, something that became all too real when Poe suddenly swung him around, bent him backwards, and lowered him into a deep dip.
The breath he sucked in must have been audible, but he couldnât hear anything over the rushing in his ears â couldnât feel anything but the strength in Poeâs arms, or the stability of his stance. And despite the crowd that watched on, he couldnât see anything but the bottomless depth of Poeâs eyes and all the affection that flooded them: love and adoration and a gentle playfulness Armitage felt somehow mirrored in himself, as unlikely as his place upon these steps beneath a tower that weeks prior had been his prison, in the arms of the man he loved, within a Galaxy that suddenly, very much felt like it wanted him.
When Poe brought their still entwined hands to his lips, to lay a kiss over Armitageâs wedding band â he squeezed his hand tightly, tight enough to never let go.
âI love you,â Poe murmured soft enough for only him to hear, and then their lips touched, and his eyes closed. All around them lenses focused and cameras flashed, recording of a moment that no longer felt like something to hide, but something to share.
By the time he was back upright, Poe was guiding him through the parted crowd, arm still around his waist, hand still in hand â the largest smile Armitage might have seen yet spreading wide across his face.
âTold you Iâd dip ya,â Poe laughed into his shoulder as he buckled him into the speeder's safety harness, fingers sliding beneath the straps, to slowly drag along where the nylon pressed flushed to his chest. âTold you Iâd sweep you off your feet when you least expected it.â
Armitage laughed, letting his own smile ease open, his hands reach up to find Poe's face, cradling it carefully as he tipped it up to meet his lips. The kiss was short, sweet, but unrushed â lingering long after he pulled away, their breath filling the scant distance between them. In his pocket, Armitage heard Poeâs datapad buzzing. It did not relent. The news must have broken already.
âKes is going to be upset,â Armitage murmured, thumbs tracing down Poeâs stubble, nose edging close alongside his. âDo you ever break news to him yourself?â
âHeâs used to my publicity team spoiling surprises for him,â Poe laughed, the sound deep and bottomless, ânow, how about I introduce you to brunch, and then we have a shuttle to catch, and a wedding to attend?â
Their eyes met again, held, didnât relent even after the taxi cab pulled away from a crowd that almost looked like it might try to follow. But they were already airborne, slipping into the busy speeder lanes, off to whatever destination Poe had planned next.
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While Coruscant was a marvel of technology, Naboo was a planet of delicate, abundant beauty. Rising out of the blue-green and white swirl of her atmosphere, she greeted them with a gentle roll of ancient mountains whittled down to hills, green interspersed with deep plums and brighter blues, the soaring white of her architecture striking boldly from her sea of colors in a way that didnât feel forced â that in fact felt natural. As if the planet itself had grown every manor house, every lookout tower, and every city of limestone â each carved not by sentient hands but by Nabooâs cool winds and gentle rains, bleached white like bones left out under a bright, clear sun.
Leiaâs estate was no different. Tucked at edge of a sloping vista of a deciduous forest, overlooking a shallow valley carved clean by a river-fed lake, Armitage watched the fall of the sun as it approached the horizon. Twilight was still a few hours out, the previous two days of festivities having already worn down, the only loose ends left to tie those that Armitage had long ago unraveled himself.
Beyond the open balcony doors, he heard Leiaâs arrival, the cast of her voice stern in the face of Poeâs laughter.
âIf Rey and Ben had decided to elope like you two, I would be as upset as Kes.â
âWeâll still celebrate, just wanted to make it official as quick as we could, and we were already there, it was just a little bit of paperwork.â
âOf course, just some paperwork.â Armitage could almost hear the roll of Leiaâs eyes.
His thumb slid over the ridge of Poeâs motherâs ring â his ring â the metal finally worn smooth by two generations of life, worked and reworked into the shape it now fit, a testament to the journey it had gone on â would continue to go on, if Armitage had his way.
âHeya, Hugs,â Poe said softly from the balcony doors. âYou ready?â
âYes.â He was. Finally, he felt like he was.
Poe led him to a chaise, one large enough to accommodate them both. Across from where they sat, Leia had pulled up a stool, close enough to touch but at a height that put her lower than him. It was not much of a change from their usual dynamic, but here, like this, he knew it was meant to be a comfort â a way for her to make him feel in control, secure, un-threatened.
He didnât feel threatened, however. He hardly felt scared. Nervous, maybe, but that was normal for him. He wasnât sure if this nervousness for new things would ever really go away. And when he looked at Poe, and then down at the ring on his hand, one that matched his own, and felt the butterflies come alive in his stomach, he decided he didnât really want that nervousness to ever go away.
A distant buzz drew his attention, Leiaâs voice a gentle inflection, âYou say the word, and we stop. This is all about you, Armitage. What you want, and what youâre comfortable with.â
âI understand,â he answered honestly. Heâd already thought it over â had been given months to think it over. âIâm ready, really.â
âGood,â Leia smiled, her hands folded in her lap, body tipped just a little towards where he and Poe sat. âThen lean back, get comfortable, and when you close your eyes, Iâll start.â
There was a brief moment when he leaned into Poe when he did wonder if he was doing the right thing â whether he was asking for old wounds to be reopened, or new ones to form. But when Poeâs arm came around him as solid and warm as the rest of his body, and Leiaâs Force buzzed gently deep in his ear, he knew with confidence that this was the path he should be on â with the people in his life he had chosen to trust, and, somehow, against all odds, love.
He released his breath, and he closed his eyes.
If he really considered it, Leiaâs Force was less of a buzz and more of a vibration. Something he was used to feeling at the base of his skull, or deep in his ear. But now as it unfolded within him, he felt it thrum throughout the entirety of his body, like heâd placed his finger upon a live wire, but its voltage was so low, so gentle, that all he felt was a suggestion of its current. He remembered her instructions: the necessity to breathe, even and unhindered. How it was okay to move, and to seek Poe, to open his eyes, though if he did she would understand it as a desire for her to stop. Mostly, he remembered her advice of following along, of feeling through the sensations with her, so that he might better understand the blocks she unmade, and the knots she unraveled.
So he found it curious, when he felt her Force flow unobstructed through him, as gentle and easy as that of being submerged in a warm bath, or touched by the rays of a rising sun. And the only emotions he felt dredged up were those of a tentative trust, and an abundant relief. The same things heâd been feeling for the past two weeks, all nervousness over new choices and endeavors aside.
Still, when Leia did eventually draw away, the heat in his eyes was something he had not quite expected, and the feeling of Poe drawing him close was all that kept his tears from falling.
Silence stretched, the moment filling in not with words or sounds, but that same tentative, trusting abundance.
âWell,â Leia said softly after a long, long time. âIt seems Iâm a little late.â There was humor in her voice, but also a gentle, nascent pride.
âHow so?â Poe asked â and thank the stars for that, because Armitage wasnât sure he could form words right now.
âIt seems heâs gotten in there before me,â Leiaâs voice came closer as she said it, the idea of a hand touching his knee hitting his mind a fraction of a second before the actual physical sensation. âArmitage, youâve been hard at work, havenât you?â
Part of him thought to sneer at the coddling nature of Leiaâs treatment, but a bigger part welcomed it. Allowed his head to nod and his breath to sigh, for his tears to finally come, though he knew it alright to hide them in Poeâs collar now.
âIâll make us some tea.â Leiaâs pride had only grown, and though her hand left him, he still felt the brush of her even after the door to the room closed with a gentle snick.
For all his obvious concern, Poe simply held him. Let his cheek touch his hair and his lips find his temple â a careful, curious touch that triggered nothing but an excited flip in his stomach.
Not a tightness in his chest, or a shortness to his breath â not so much as a memory, let alone a panic attack. It was simply Poeâs touch, something so tender and safe that Armitage still couldnât stop his tears, though he did smother a smile.
Later, at the edge of the valley where Poe had parked Chirrup, long after theyâd watched Nabooâs sun set beneath stars that scattered bright and the night-birds had begun their song, Poe took his hand.
There was a question to his touch, a sort of 'where should we go nextâ that didnât need voiced despite the drifter nature of their current wanderings, where life wasnât so much about their destination as just simply living it. Because they were headed somewhere, certainly, but just as likely nowhere. And it didnât matter, Armitage acknowledged, because they were headed there together.
Except, he did have an idea of where he wanted to go next. One last loose end of his old life, a life even older than the Order, a life he hadnât abandoned, so much as had stolen away.
âI was thinking we could go to Arkanis,â he said over the night-bird's song, unsure if Poe had heard him, until he turned to meet his eyes.
âYou want to go home?â didnât really require more of an explanation, but the piece of flimsi in his pocket begged for one â the last component of that life the Resistance had salvaged so many months ago. Carefully, he pulled it free. More carefully, he held it out for Poe.
Recognition dawned on his face, as his eyes took in the image: a jungle canopy burned black against a fiery horizon, the creatures that fled the oncoming meteor deeply creased along the seam where the flimsi had remained folded for almost three decades.
Poe was smiling when he looked up, eyes a little wet, as if heâd finally put the last piece into a puzzle heâd spent just as long working on.
At the bottom of the page was a notation â one he hadnât been able to read as a child, and he had mostly ignored as an adult. A fancily scripted, âThe meteor destroyed all life on the planet, but also cleared the path for new life to give birth. Life that would lead to the nativity of humanity as we know it, and the promise that even from the rubble of unimaginable destruction, good things can still grow.â
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Notes:
And thatâs it, the closing of this book for me too.
I am not even sure what to say in this final note, beside a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has read along with me while I wrote this. All your comments and insights and cheerleading really helped me make it to the finish line, and try to give yâall something that was worthy of the love youâve given Poe and Hux. Itâs the first story of this magnitude Iâve undertaken and itâs been a wild ride to say the least. If there is one thing I hope readers walk away with, it is a sense of satisfaction. I hope Huxâs redemption feels earned, because all I wanted for him and Poe was for them to have their happy ending.
I might gush a little more about my feelings around TOS over on my tumblr, so please connect with me there and on twitter too! Iâm not through with gingerpilot and now Iâll have the time to work on my WIPs that have taken a backseat while this story wrapped up.
Thank you so much, again and again. Please let me know what you thought, your feedback has meant the world to me. And I am both super excited and super sad to say that this is The End for Terms of Surrender â„
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