Hux is a creature of habit, or - as he likes to think of it - order. He knows precisely what time to set his alarm (and wake before it) to have the time to get ready. How long to brush his teeth, to linger in the shower, to comb his hair. His uniform hung up from the night before (no longer laid out, because Millicent has her own habits, and those include lying on clean clothes to put her fur all over them).
His order relies on things being As They Should Be. Things like there being enough shampoo, or his caf machine working. He has redundancies built in, but this is something he hasn’t planned for, or come up with methods to control. Not really.
He can’t find his boots.
They aren’t where they should be (sitting under his uniform), and they aren’t at the door (where he sometimes - if not thinking - leaves them when he removes them). They aren’t anywhere he can see, and now he’s going to be late if he can’t fix this problem in three minutes (approximately).
It’s Wrong, and he feels the stirrings of distress and passes them off as gas.
Around the room, looking at the edges of the walls. Looking for wherever they could be, and finding nothing.
He came home in boots. So they must be here. He has an older pair for emergencies, but they will be dull from lack of polish and he’s not too keen on wearing them. He keeps old ones rather than spare new ones, as new ones tend to hurt your feet and the General hobbling in pain isn’t good for the staff’s morale. He breaks his footwear in here, in advance, and he isn’t far enough into these boots to have started that process.
Where could they be?
Hux is about to call up the access logs for his door when he realises he hasn’t seen Millicent.
Normally goes somewhere dark when she’s not happy. He drops to his hands and knees, and sees her hiding as far under the bed as she can. His boots sit closer to the edge, and when he pulls it, he feels… ugh. A liquid resistance.
“Really, Millie? You had to throw up in my boots?”
Millicent meows sadly, and still won’t come out.
He sighs, and grabs his datapad. Thumbs a ‘Mitaka take the bridge for an hour, cat emergency’ message to him, and then taps the floor. “Come on, Millie. Come to Papa. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
Millicent refuses for a few minutes more, then reluctantly creeps out. She looks lethargic and sulky, and he gently scoops her to his chest. “I’m sorry, Princess.” She’s getting fur all over his uniform, but he doesn’t mind. “Let’s make sure you’re okay, hey, girl?”
An abortive purr, and he strokes between her ears. Maybe it will be two hours. He never takes his personal hours, anyway.