Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I don't know what it is
That makes me run
That makes me wanna shatter
Everything that I've done
Why do I keep dreaming of you?
Why do I keep dreaming of you?
Is it all because of my rebel heart?

-Rebel Heart, First Aid Kit

Hux surveyed the yellowed duraplast walls; the twin bunks with woefully thin mattresses; the clackity, hard-seated chairs and the—stars help him—shared refresher of the quarantine room.

This had not been in his plan.

His every faux-nicety and helpful act had been carefully designed to garner enough goodwill from the General Princess to be allowed out of his room-cum-prison cell for more than a one-hour lunch break a day. Then, perhaps, he’d be able to figure out how to make his escape. Or something. Beyond that, he had no grand plan. The Order was no more. His life’s work had been destroyed. He was a schemer without a scheme. A man without a purpose.

Life after his ostensible defection and the fall of The Order had taken some...adjustment.

In fact, it had taken months of being as quiet, small and unthreatening as possible—and catering to the whims of every jumped-up resistance imbecile who thrust a plan or a schematic under his nose and expected him to magically solve whatever ridiculous problem they had that rotation—to gain an iota of trust. Thankfully, Hux had plenty of practice in keeping both his patience and a low profile, as both had been necessary to survive a miserable youth under the thumb of his draconian father. Playing the long game, as his star rose in the First Order, had honed his skills sharper than a knife cut from pure beskar.

And he had been a rising star, once. Now he was but a burned-out sun, a lifeless white dwarf drifting helplessly in the cold void of Resistance space.

That was too maudlin—and melodramatic—a thought even for him. He was alive, at least, which couldn’t be said for Snoke, Pryde, Ren or Palpatine. He’d outlived every one of the bastards. And when he’d (unwillingly!) left the First Order as a Resistance prisoner, Hux had expected torture and cruelty, or at the very least open hostility, from his captors. But Organa had instead looked at him with sad-eyed pity, which was somehow worse. He knew how to endure torture, both physical and mental, but pity? Kindness? Compassion? They were foreign concepts. It stung—unexpectedly so—that the Resistance treated him with more compassion than the Empire or First Order ever had. How the Resistance ever won the war was beyond him, if this was how they dealt with their enemies.

Perhaps that was why they had prevailed.

Pushing the thought aside, Hux sighed and lowered himself cautiously onto one of the cots; the springs groaned beneath his meagre weight and the mattress gave an irritating crinkle—it was covered in a thin, plasticky layer to keep it free of contaminants. His mouth twisted; being ejected into the cold void of space would be preferable to his current situation. He should have let Pryde kill him. Or Ren. Or someone else; there was hardly a shortage of volunteers.

It was all Dameron’s fault, of course.

For some reason, the idiotic, unreasonably handsome, resistance poster-boy had taken an unnerving interest in Hux and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what Dameron’s play was. Firstly, he’d insisted on dragging a protesting Hux along during his not-so-daring escape. Then Dameron had convinced the traitor stormtrooper not to shoot him, the walking carpet not to rip his arms from their sockets, and the scavenger girl not to tear his mind apart with her magic powers. He’d even rallied to Hux’s side when Organa and the war council discussed his future—his very life—as if he weren’t present. Dameron had argued for mercy.

“He can help us,” Dameron had said, gesturing in that impassioned and dramatic way of his, “he’s beenhelping us. He deserves a chance to put things right.”

Hux thought Dameron was a fool if he believed there was any way he could redeem himself in the eyes of the galaxy. But Organa had agreed and Hux was remanded into custody. He had, against all odds, lived to see another day.

He’d always been a survivor.

After, when Dameron first began stopping by Hux’s room, he thought perhaps Organa had sent her most dashing operative to try and wheedle more information out of him in a bizarre and wholly unnecessary honey trap. The problems with that theory were twofold: one, Hux had already willingly given them everything and two, Dameron never actually asked for anything. He just slouched against the wall or draped his muscled frame back-to-front over Hux’s chair (seriously, why would anyone sit like that?) or—most infuriatingly—perched on the edge of Hux’s desk when he was trying to work, smelling of oil and sweat and completely oblivious to the concept of personal space. Or showers. Or wearing proper attire. That damn sleeveless vest was not tantamount to a uniform.

Worst of all, he made small talk. Hux didn’t do small talk. He didn’t even know how to. So Hux had tried ignoring him completely but, undeterred, Dameron would just witter on about his X-Wing or BB-8 or the scavenger girl’s magic powers or the traitor Trooper and his will-they-won’t-they relationship with someone called Rose.

It was as if Dameron thought they were friends, rather than an ex-First Order general-war-criminal-turncoat-prisoner and his captor.

And so, for some unknown reason, it had been Dameron who had convinced Organa that Hux’s presence was essential for a mission to a defunct First Order weapons factory at the edge of the Unknown Regions. It had been abandoned with the fall of the Order, locked down but still full of shiny new blasters and other tech that made Organa’s eyes gleam at the prospect of recovering. But they’d had no luck trying to slice or break their way in and they were worried about accidentally setting off some security system and blowing up the factory - and half the planet with it.

Hux, of course, knew exactly how to get inside as he had designed the security himself. And even in the unlikely event that someone had enough foresight during the last days of the Order to delete his access codes—well, there were ways around that. So Hux went with them, planning to either help and garner more favour with the General, or use the occasion to make an escape; whichever seemed the most prudent course of action at the time.

In the end, with too much unneeded encouragement from Dameron, he’d simply disarmed the security and opened the door. Dameron had slapped him happily on the back and—absurdly—tipped him a kriffing wink as he practically skipped inside. It most definitely hadn’t made a blush crawl up from Hux’s collar. If he felt a little warm, it was just embarrassment at being reduced to droid work. He’d be washing quad-jumpers and brushing the wookie’s hair next.

After that, the thought of escape had seemed to slip his mind.

However, what hadn’t been in anyone’s plan was being exposed to the infectious disease that FN-2187 had picked up in some dingy cantina and bought aboard the Falcon. The disease wasn’t anything serious; it was more Balmorra flu than Loedorvian Brain Plague and the traitor—Finn, he had to start calling him Finn if he ever wanted Dameron to shut up about it—had started to recover already, but the rest of the team had been hastily shoved into quarantine as a precaution. Hux thought it was a prudent decision; any easily transmissible disease would spread around the base like wildfire. The Resistance wasn’t known for their exacting standards of hygiene and they were always in each other’s space, hugging and kissing on a whim. Frankly, it was nauseating. And unsanitary.

The airlock clicked into life, shaking Hux from his ruminations as it beeped and cycled slowly, an orange light flashing to indicate it was running the decontamination program. When the door opened with a hiss, Hux expected a medic, or perhaps a droid delivering supplies.

Instead, Poe kriffing Dameron swaggered in like he’d just completed the Kessel Run in ten parsecs.

Perfect. Hux was clearly being tried for his many sins.

“Heya, Hugs,” he grinned, a duffle thrown over his shoulder, his flight suit unzipped to the waist and hanging around his hips, revealing that damn sleeveless white vest and the toned shape of his body beneath. Was the man never properly dressed?

“What are you doing here?” Hux asked, curt as ever.

“Nice to see you too, buddy,” he drawled, taking in their surroundings with a raised brow. “How are you?”

Hux gestured to the room. “I’m in medical quarantine. How do you think I am?”

Dameron chuckled in response, dumped his bag on the opposite bunk and flopped down beside it. He kicked his boots off, letting them sit wherever they dropped, and stretched out like a lazy tooka cat.

Hux narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Dameron just grinned like a demented Nexus. “I’m your roommate, Hugs,” he said.

Hux pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to keep his composure. He’d long since given up trying to get Dameron to call him by his actual name.

“And how long, exactly, will our quarantine be? I tried asking the medic, but she was irritatingly vague.”

Dameron, apparently unbothered by the prospect of being trapped in a room with Hux for an indeterminate amount of time, gave an indifferent shrug.

“Five or six rotations, if we don’t show any symptoms.”

“And if we do happen to have contracted the virus from that idiot traitor—” Hux paused when Dameron shot him a disapproving look. “—Finn,” Hux corrected, with only a small eye roll.

“Then you’ll be lucky enough to be spending another seven to fourteen rotations in my delightful company.”

“Stars have mercy,” Hux muttered.

Dameron sat up and fixed Hux with the self-satisfied smirk he wore when he was about to say something he incorrectly considered to be witty.

“Buddy, I think you’ve already used up your lifetime’s share of mercy, don’t you?”

Hux awoke at what his internal clock told him was 5 am—one hour before the start of Alpha shift on a star destroyer. Of course, this was a planet, and the rotations of Ajan Kloss were completely unaffected by the arbitrary demarcation of time on a star destroyer in deep space. The quarantine room had only one high transparisteel window cut into the external wall and one terminal that allowed them to contact the rest of medbay. Thus, there was no way of knowing the exact time or stardate unless he rummaged around in the semi-darkness for a datapad.

Not that it mattered. Counting the hours would only make time pass more slowly. He’d learned that the hard way when he’d first arrived and had been confined to a windowless cell so small he could span the space with his arms. Dameron, to his credit, had kicked up such a fuss (he had even cited Republic laws on prisoner containment from the Coruscant concordances, which left Hux feeling begrudgingly impressed) that he’d soon been moved to more humane quarters.

Dameron was an enigma. Which was a ridiculous thing to think about someone so transparent and base.

He glanced over to Dameron’s bunk; he was, of course, fast asleep and snoring softly, one arm draped over his eyes. Hux could smother him to death while he slept if the whim took him. Such an act of defiance would make little difference. The war was lost, the First Order were no more and the resistance was rapidly eliminating any remaining holdouts. Murdering one pilot would make zero impact, except for guaranteeing his own swift, public execution.

And if he were honest, he didn’t even want to hurt Dameron—quite the opposite, really. There was something infuriatingly endearing about the man; maybe it was his earnestness or permanent cheerful disposition or the way he treated everyone—colleague, droid, ex-First Order General—with the same good-humoured camaraderie. He represented everything Hux detested; chaos over order, emotion over objectivity, whimsy over seriousness. Hux should hate him—and he wanted to—but he didn’t. The loathing fury he’d once felt towards Dameron and his kind was ebbing away, becoming a distant, blurry shape rather than a red-hot ball of chromium in his chest. Anger, ambition, conviction; all were waning into a dispassionate exhaustion.

He was likely treading the line of depression, though if anyone in the galaxy had justification to be depressed, it was he.

Stars, his father would turn in his grave if he knew the depths to which his son had fallen. He’d become exactly what Brendol had always accused him of: a pathetic, weak cur. Hux huffed a laugh; Dameron would call that a ‘silver lining’.

“Trouble sleeping?” Dameron said. Hux nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Yes,” Hux replied, “but that’s not symptomatic of our current predicament. I rarely sleep well.”

Dameron stretched and rolled out of his bunk. Suspicious, Hux watched as he padded on socked feet across the room and plopped himself down on Hux’s bunk, personal space be damned. Hux levelled Dameron with his most disapproving glare but either he didn’t notice it or was unfazed.

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

Hux frowned. “You...what?”

Dameron shrugged. “You’re always up, no matter what time I drop by your quarters. I figured you must have trouble sleeping.”

“How astute of you,” Hux said, though he couldn’t summon his usual acerbic tone. In all the years he’d been in the First Order, not one soul had ever noticed his insomnia, except perhaps for Phasma, who knew better than to speak of it. Of course, he’d never admitted such a weakness to anyone but the medical droid who supplied him with stims or sleep tabs, depending on the need.

“Happens to me sometimes,” Dameron shrugged. “You know, when I get to thinking too much.”

“I wasn’t aware thinking was much of a problem for you.”

Dameron merely chuckled at the barb. “That’s the thing. I don’t always think things through beforehand. It’s after that I end up second-guessing my decisions.”

“Well, as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Silence for a beat, then; “You have regrets too?”

Hux was disinclined to answer. Sharing personal anecdotes with a resistance flyboy was not high on his to-do list. But there was something about the intimacy of the quarantine room, the stillness of the early hour, and the quiet vulnerability of the sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired Dameron—plus the fact he’d been nothing but cheerily congenial towards Hux since he’d dragged him onto the Falcon—that seemed to coax the words from his lips.

“So many I’ve lost track of them all.”

Poe raised one eyebrow. “I always thought you were, y’know, a decisive sort of guy. Committed to the cause. You always seemed so damn sure of yourself.”

“To survive in the Order one had to project confidence and authority,” Hux said, “there were wolves all around, waiting for their chance to rip you to shreds. Especially when living with Snoke and Ren, what with their unique abilities–”

“You mean their uh, penchant for poking around inside your mind?”

Hux nodded. Of course, Dameron had endured an ‘interrogation’ by Ren, so he understood better than most the specific sort of crawling dread–and agony–that came from an unwelcome intruder in one’s mind.

Dameron gave a low whistle. “Doesn’t sound like a fun work environment. No wonder you had trouble sleeping.”

Hux supposed at this point he was expected to ask Dameron about his own experiences. “And...you?” He said, cringing internally at his lame attempt at connection. He shouldn’t be entertaining this strange companionship at all.

“Boy, I could write a holonovel,” Poe sighed. “Sometimes it feels like my whole damn life is regrettable.”

“That haircut certainly is,” Hux said and Poe huffed a surprised laugh.

“That was a cheap shot, General,” he said, though he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Call it revenge for your quip about my appearance.” He’d never admit it, but Dameron had struck a nerve with that. Combined with the barb about his mother, he’d completely lost his composure for all and sundry to see. But, all was fair in war, and Dameron’s stalling tactic had worked. He was smarter than he let on. “What was it you said? Skinny guy, kind of pasty?”

“Oh, buddy that was low, even by my standards,” Dameron said and gave Hux a good-natured slap on the back. Hux, caught off guard, flinched so hard he nearly tumbled from the cot. Dameron stopped, his smile vanishing, and held his hands up placatingly, as if he were trying to calm a skittish fathier. “Hey, hey,” he cooed, “I ain’t gonna hurt you, Armitage.”

Hux bristled. “I know that! And don’t call me that. No one has called me Armitage since–” my Father “–I was a boy.”

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” Dameron sighed. “Just...we don’t do that here. Y’know, the torture thing.”

“I am aware.”

“Good.”

Uncomfortable beyond recovery, Hux said; “I am tired.”

“Oh. Sure,” Dameron said. Maybe Hux was reading into things, but he sounded almost disappointed. “I’ll let you get some rest.” He retreated to his bed, but the air was thick with words unspoken.

Hux rolled over, his back a shield against Dameron’s concerned gaze. He didn’t need sympathy or pity or whatever it was that inspired Dameron to look at him like that.

“Uh, Hugs?” Dameron said, his usual bravado all but gone, voice bordering on uncertainty.

“Don’t,” Hux said, “just don’t.”

Dameron sighed, rolled over with a rustle of plasticky sheets, and was silent. For some unfathomable reason, regret and guilt, of all things, rolled heavily in Hux’s gut. He swallowed it down, as he always did, and fell into a fitful sleep haunted by images of Dameron’s pitying expression.

An undetermined amount of time later, Hux awoke to a fresh hell; Dameron misusing a piece of medical equipment to do ‘pull-ups’. Worse still, he had stripped to the waist, the arms of his flight suit tied about his hips as if girded for action, which revealed a compact and strong body, toned through hard work. For a moment, Hux was transfixed watching the sinewy muscles of Dameron’s back and shoulders flex with each movement. Hux had always nursed a secret dislike of his own body; he was the antithesis of Dameron, tall, thin and as pale as the snowfields of Hoth, whereas Dameron’s skin was tanned and stretched beautifully over his muscled form. Combined with his wide, chiselled jaw and tousled curls, he was every bit the stereotypical dashing hero and Hux hated himself for finding the man roguishly attractive. Having finished his physical exercise, Dameron dropped and turned so suddenly that Hux was caught staring; Dameron grinned as Hux felt his face colour with a blush.

“Morning, starshine,” Dameron teased, “you’re awake, that’s good.”

“Is it?” Hux deflected, “The senseless void of unconsciousness would be preferable to this intolerable situation.”

Dameron snickered to himself, as if Hux’s scathing insults were pithy banter inspired by camaraderie. Hux had heard such exchanges countless times between recruits and troopers but had never been party to them. When someone insulted Hux, they meant for it to hurt. When he was a child, he’d been reduced to tears by words and fists alike, which just proved the truth in what both his father and the other children said; he was weak. Pathetic. Thoroughly deserving of the abuse they meted out. In time—and as a matter of survival—Hux had learned to take that power from them; to mask the fear, to hide the pain, and then to become the one they cower in terror from. Power was a protection. And now he had none, once again.

“I was waiting for you to wake up before I used the ‘fresher, y’know, so I didn’t disturb you,” Poe said.

“Why?”

Dameron paused, his confusion evident in the expressive manoeuvres of his eyebrows. “‘Cause it’s good manners?”

Hux blinked. The man was too kind for his own good. He waved Dameron off with a dismissive gesture and he disappeared into the small, adjoining refresher. Before long, the sound of running water filled the quarantine room; no such luxuries as sonic showers for the resistance. Hux tried to ignore the fact that he was mere meters away from a naked, wet and–if the woody, musky scent filtering in from the refresher was any indication–soapy Dameron. Hux was not insensate; Dameron was clearly an attractive specimen, in a purely objective sense, and it would be a senseless self-deception to deny it. But he would absolutely not allow himself to develop any sort of lewd thoughts about the man. It was bad enough that he thought about him in a positive way at all; to lust after him would only serve to make their current situation more intolerable. And Dameron certainly didn’t need his ego stroking; it was already so large it was a wonder he could fit it into the cramped cockpit of his X-wing. And as much as Dameron teased and flirted, he would never be interested in someone like Hux. Men like Dameron—good men—never were. Thus, Hux concluded the best thing to do was to ignore Dameron’s entire presence as much as possible.

Which turned out to be not at all, as Dameron not only sang reprehensible, bawdy folk songs in the refresher (that his singing voice was actually very good was neither here nor there) but also insisted on walking around the room with only a towel slung low around his waist, his body still dripping, the ring that always hung from a chain at his neck glistening under the overhead halo lights. Hux pretended to read the most dull and longwinded report on recent senate meetings he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on, while covertly watching Dameron as he dressed in a soft, sand-coloured linen shirt (which, of course, he left open. Why wouldn’t one walk around with one’s shirt flapping about?) and dark slacks, then towelled off his curls.

“So, uh, whatcha reading?” Dameron asked.

“Why?”

“I’m making conversation.”

“Well, don’t,” Hux said.

“Come on, man,” Dameron said, unceremoniously plopping himself down on Hux’s bunk, “It’s going to be a real slow quarantine if you’re ruling out talking.”

“I don’t do ‘chitchatting’.”

“Have you tried?”

Hux put down his datapad with a sigh. He well knew when a battle was doomed to failure. “No.”

Poe’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You and your First Order buddies never just, y’know, hung out and talked?”

“No. I mean, the troopers did with their squadrons. And the officers had a mess in which one could drink and gossip. But it—” he paused, tongue caught between his teeth as he toyed with the concept of actually sharing something with Dameron. Dameron cocked his head, damp curls tumbling, kind brown eyes gently urging him on. Hux shrugged internally; what did it matter? He could tell Dameron a lie or nothing or everything, from the internal workings of Starkiller Base to the colour of his bedroom sheets, and it wouldn’t make one jot of a difference. The Order was gone. He was alone—a prisoner of war in all but name—and thus far Dameron was the only being alive who seemed to look at Hux with something other than revulsion. “...It wasn’t my scene,” he finished, lamely.

“How d’ya mean?”

Hux frowned. “I had a certain reputation for ruthlessness and duplicity amongst the other officers. Most of them avoided me as much as possible unless they wanted to use me to further their careers. And I trusted them even less than they trusted me. Except Phasma, and perhaps Mitaka.”

Dameron raised his eyebrows in silent judgement.

“What?” Hux said, arms crossing over his chest.

“Nothin’,” Dameron shrugged, “just seems like it would have been difficult to get anything done when you were always waiting for one of your ‘allies’ to stab you in the back.”

“It...was just the way of things,” Hux said. Then, before he could think better of it, he asked, “You don’t have issues with...loyalty...in the resistance?”

“No way,” Dameron said, punctuating his point with an emphatic gesture, “I trust everyone here with my life.”

“Seems foolhardy.”

Dameron grinned. “Still alive, ain’t I?”

With that, Hux couldn’t argue.

Later, after lunch was delivered by a protocol droid—who Dameron greeted like an old friend—Hux once again attempted to dedicate himself to the task of reading senate reports. And, once again, Dameron dedicated himself to being as distracting as possible.

Hux was one-third through a report detailing new trade routes when a battered Sabacc deck landed heavily on his lap.

“No,” Hux said without looking up from his datapad.

“Aww c’mon,” Dameron begged, once again invading Hux’s personal space by sitting unnecessarily close on his bunk.

“No.”

Dameron’s pouting face appeared in his peripheral vision, doe-eyes pleading like a pathetic Wokling infant. “You know y’wanna. Unless...”

Do not take the bait, Hux thought.

“...unless you think you’re gonna lose to rebel scum?” Dameron finished in an artless attempt at provocation.

“The probability of you beating me at Sabacc is so low it’s bordering on mathematical impossibility,” Hux replied with a smirk.

Dameron’s face inched closer and Hux fought the urge to slap him away. “Why dontcha prove it then? Prove you’re smarter than me, oh great one.”

Hux rolled his eyes. “I have absolutely nothing to prove to you and your attempts to provoke me are predictably transparent. However,” he paused and Dameron’s expression transformed into a beaming grin, “if I play a few rounds, do you promise to shut up and leave me alone for the rest of the rotation?”

Dameron nodded and put a hand over his heart. “I swear to Arcan.”

“Fine.”

Five games later—five games in which Hux had won every round—Dameron tossed his cards aside and crossed his arms in a churlish sulk. “You’ve gotta be cheating.”

Hux snorted. “As if I need to cheat in order to win such an unsophisticated game.”

“But you’ve won every kriffing round!” Dameron exclaimed. “I should’ve won at least a couple by pure chance.” He poked Hux in the chest with one finger, his eyes narrowed in distrust. “How did you do it?”

Hux scowled down at the finger where it pressed into his pectoral. “It is basic mathematics and probability. Given that—and a knowledge of which cards are in the deck and which have been already played—any imbecile could master it.”

Dameron’s suspicion vanished and he laughed, a light, good-natured sound that settled into Hux and warmed him from within. “Then I’m less than an imbecile, apparently.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“I know, buddy,” Dameron said, reaching out to clap Hux on the shoulder but pausing before his hand made contact, leaving it hovering awkwardly in mid-air, “I was fooling around.”

Hux fought the urge to flinch away and instead nodded stiffly. “Ah, well, then that’s...good.”

Dameron’s smile morphed into something almost fond. “You really don’t have much experience just...bein’ social, do ya?”

“We already established my shortcomings in that area,” Hux snipped.

Dameron’s hand flapped in a placating sort of gesture before he withdrew it entirely. Hux was absolutely not disappointed. “I ain’t criticising you. I just,” he shook his head, “I dunno. It makes a lot of sense, I s’pose. Makes you easier to understand. To, err, relate to.”

Hux blinked, surprised. “You can relate to...not being social? That seems unlikely. From what I can tell, you are the proverbial ‘life and soul of the party’.”

Dameron huffed a laugh. “Believe it or not, sometimes I crave,” —he paused and ruffled his hair; a nervous tell he was likely unaware of— “I dunno, peace. Quiet. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends and I love spending time with them, but for as long as I can remember I’ve been the one everyone else comes to for comfort and support and...I’m tired. I’m tired of carryin’ the resistance on my woefully lacking shoulders. When all this—” he gestured vaguely, “—ends I’m going back to Yavin Four, packing my speeder and heading out on my own for oh, a couple-o-dozen rotations.”

“That sounds...strangely appealing,” Hux admitted. He’d never been to Yavin Four but had read enough about it in intelligence reports to be aware of the pleasant, temperate climate. The only terrestrial planets Hux had ever spent any length of time on were the incessantly damp Arkanis, the deathly arid Jakku and here, in the cloyingly humid jungle of Ajan Kloss. Wistfully, he imagined himself relaxing under a warm sun, perhaps beside a restless, blue ocean, with Dameron at his side, pointing out landmarks and native creatures in a soft, comforting rumble. A pipe dream, if ever he’d had one.

“Can’t imagine you’d enjoy roughing it,” Dameron smirked, “I’m talkin’ bout sleeping under the stars, cooking over a real fire, bathing in streams, y’know?” He gestured broadly as he spoke, punctuating his sentences with sweeps of his hand. “It’s a far cry from a sterile Starcruiser.”

Indignant, Hux said; “I am hardier than I look, I assure you. My training involved a substantial section on survival; my father insisted on it. All of his specially selected cadets were subject to his extreme brand of survival training.”

Concern flashed over Dameron’s expressive features; the man would never make a decent spy, what with his every thought and emotion so readily available on his face.

“On a scale of one to ten, one being relaxing in a Cantonica Spa and ten being trapped in a Sarlacc pit on a type-four atmosphere planet with mynocks sucking on your environment suit, how bad we talkin’?”

Hux couldn’t help but smirk at Dameron’s colourful analogy. “Oh, a seven or an eight.”

“A walk in the park then.”

“Indeed.”

They smiled at each other for a beat, and for once Hux felt comfortable in a companionable silence. In the Order, a pregnant pause usually meant disapproval and the promise of pain. But it was different here; these people existed more as friends than comrades. Even the chain of command was muddied by familial relationships and romantic entanglements. For the most part, people seemed to follow orders, but they were allowed—encouraged, even—to take their own path. To question commands. To have a blasted opinion. To Hux, born into a strict regime of routine, uniformity and compliance, the resistance was as chaotic as the aftermath of an explosion, with people and their ideals, wants, desires, and beliefs all ricocheting off at unpredictable vectors, falling into unstable orbits around the one shared goal; to resistorder.

Yet somehow, it worked. It was hardly a well-oiled machine, but it worked. The resistance had, after all, won. Yes, Hux had provided the intel that sped them towards their victory, but even before that, the resistance had somehow managed to be a credible threat. It was, in no small part, because of people like Poe Dameron.

“You think too much,” Dameron said, breaking the silence.

“You don’t think enough,” Hux snapped back and Dameron laughed again.

“Who knew you had a sense of humour, huh?”

“It’s always been there, I suppose. I’ve just never had much chance to utilise it,” Hux admitted. “First Order officers are not known for appreciating jokes.”

“Again, sounds like a great place to work.”

“It was a military organisation, not a Zeltros pleasure spa,” Hux sniffed, not sure why he still had the urge to defend the Order after being the one to crush it. “It bred efficiency and discipline into its members, not whimsy and the selfish pursuit of base pleasures and personal desires.“

Dameron thought for a moment, his dark browns drawn down in a rare expression of solemnity. “So you’d call Kylo Ren and his kind disciplined, huh? I’d take bad jokes and puns and ‘base pleasures’ and a lack of discipline any day over people like that—people who’d use their power to rip your mind inside out just so they could chase their own reckless vendetta.”

Hux grimaced, sympathy bubbling up unbidden like water rushing in through a crack in a ship’s hull until he was in danger of drowning in it.

“I know,” he said, his tone softer than he’d heard it in years—decades, perhaps. “I know what he did to you. I am intimately familiar with that experience, and I would not wish it on anyone, not even my enemies.”

“Ren was a law unto himself, huh?” Dameron said. He edged closer as if his proximity was supposed to be comforting. Surprisingly, it was. “And Snoke...can’t imagine what it was like having him as a boss.”

“Rather like having a rancor with a bad temper and a propensity to throw you around the room with his mind for a boss,” Hux said, trying to make light of it. His voice came out a lot less like his usual, polished self than he would have liked. In truth, Snoke had been terrifying and monstrous in a way Hux had never been prepared for; even his father, at his very worst, had never been able to root around in Hux’s mind, ripping away little pieces of his self and his sanity until he didn’t even know his own name. Snoke was conscienceless and cruel and used his abilities to rule out of fear. Ren was careless and reckless and cared not one jot for the collateral damage he caused. Brendol was deliberately sadistic and calculated, but as precise as a surgeon’s knife, dolling out pain and scorn in measured doses to those he deemed lacking. Hux had weathered them all, but to say he’d come through unscathed would be a lie. Brendol had undeniably traumatised him as a child, but it had turned him into a focused, ambitious and clever adult. He’d never have survived Snoke, and later Ren, if it hadn’t been for his father’s cruelty.

“Did he ever...” Dameron trailed off with a shrug, then gestured vaguely to his head. “Y’know.”

“Yes. Often, at first, until I learned to resist him.” It was less resistance, more leading him a merry chase through the carefully constructed maze of his mind, distracting Snoke with large enough tidbits to keep him from seeing anything too dangerous. And it worked—on Ren too. Or he presumed it did; perhaps they’d just considered him of so little threat that it didn’t really matter to them what he was thinking.

“You managed to resist?” Dameron seemed impressed. “I tried but uh,” he shrugged, “didn’t last long.” A pause, then; “I just don’t understand how someone as intelligent as you could follow someone like Snoke.”

Hux blinked. Dameron had managed to both praise and belittle him in one sentence.

“Following Snoke was never part of my plan. I was in line to run the Order when he just sort of appeared from nowhere and rose to the top in an instant. I never could understand it, at the time. I do now, of course; he was Palpatine’s puppet, placed there by Sith sympathisers within the Order.”

Poe nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think any of us saw Palpatine returning. That was a doozy.”

“Snoke, Ren, Pryde—men like that, force-obsessed maniacs and Sith-worshipers—they weren’t what the Order was supposed to represent,” Hux continued, driven by a sudden urge to have Dameron understand. “That was the Empire; born of a megalomaniacal thirst for power at the expense of all else. The First Order was supposed to bring peace and justice to the galaxy—and not just the core worlds, sitting pretty and fat with wealth—but the outer rim too. The forgotten rocks and the disregarded, poor, starving, desperate people out there who were trying to scrape a living in the dirt that the Empire and the Republic had left them. It was never supposed to be—” he paused. Dameron was looking at him with some sort of profound emotion, but not one Hux could easily place. “What?”

“I uh,” Dameron shrugged, for once lost for words, “I didn’t know. All that. That you felt that way.”

Hux crossed his arms. “Well, no one ever bothered to ask, did they?”

“I guess we just assumed—well, ‘cause of the whole Hosnian system thing—that you were of all the same mind, y’know?”

Hux nodded. “I understand why someone would make such an assumption. It was always my intention to present a united front; we couldn’t have our enemies thinking the Order was about to rip itself apart from the inside.”

“Then you ripped it apart.” It wasn’t an accusation; Dameron said it with pride.

“I took no pleasure in destroying my life’s work,” Hux said, “but by that point—when I learned Palpatine had been pulling the strings from the shadows and my entire life had been part of his marionette show—the Order was no longer my Order. It was simply the corpse of the Empire, dressed up and slathered in paint, so as to appear new, when at the heart of it was the same rotten, Force-cursed regime that had always been there.”

“You felt...duped.”

Hux huffed a mirthless ghost of a laugh. “To put it mildly.”

Dameron was silent for a beat, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth as he thought, then said;

“It ain’t the same but it’s kinda like why I left the New Republic Navy and joined the Resistance. The New Republic was built on the backs of my parents' sacrifices; it was supposed to be the antidote to the poison the Empire spread. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough.” He shook his head, his expression pained. “Politicians, as always, talk pretty and act dirty. All they cared about was the core worlds. They didn’t give one pfassk about those outer rim planets you mentioned. They didn’t listen to the normal people or those who tried to stand up for them like General Organa—“ Hux suppressed a sneer at the mention of the Princess and Dameron continued, “—and the First Order rose, unchallenged, ‘cause they didn’t think it was going to be a threat to their cosy little lives.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his tired face. “Guess you showed them real good when you blasted the Hosnian system to atoms.”

Hux hated the way Dameron spat the words out like curdled moof milk, his tone tinged with anger. Of course, despite their tentative friendship, for want of a better word, Dameron hadn’t forgotten the monstrous things Hux had done and he never would. How could he? How could anyone? But for the first time, Hux cared; he cared that this irritating, stupid, rash, narrow-minded flyboy still thought of him as the ‘Starkiller’, even after everything he’d done to aid the resistance and the Third Republic.

When the maddening silence between them stretched so thin Hux felt like he would snap in half with it, he admitted:

“It wasn’t supposed to be the Hosnian System.”

Poe’s head snapped up, his anger forgotten.

“What?”

“The Hosnian System. It wasn’t the original target. I’d proposed firing the weapon on an uninhabited system as a demonstration of power. In the face of such a potential threat, the New Republic would have undoubtedly negotiated with us—capitulated to us. It was never my intention to—to obliterate billions of lives. The weapon was designed to end the war with minimal casualties—to be a deterrent against any future insurrection. It was supposed to be a Cold War,” Hux swallowed but the lump forming in his throat refused to dissipate. “It was Supreme Leader Snoke—supported by Pryde and his ilk—who demanded a stronger show of force. They wanted to wipe out the power behind the Resistance in one fell swoop because they feared a repeat of the Empire’s defeat by the rebels. I—” he shook his head. “It matters not. I couldn’t have dissented if I wanted to. The will of the Supreme Leader was not something one questioned. And at the time...I was more than willing to do what I had to.”

Poe was silent for so long Hux began to wonder if he’d actually spoken aloud or just imagined it.

“When I designed Starkiller Base,” Hux continued, “I was so concerned with if I could do it—and how once I did, I’d be on the trajectory to the upper echelons of the Order—I never stopped to think if I should. I admit...it was an oversight on my behalf.”

“That’s...that’s one hell of an oversight,” Dameron said with a humourless chuckle. “But, if you can believe it, I’ve been known to make some pretty dubious judgment calls myself. I’m responsible for more than—” he paused, troubled, “—more than my fair share of deaths. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout wiping out entire planets or nuthin.” His trademark smirk reappeared, the crease between his brows smoothing out.

“Of course,” Hux interjected, lightly, which made Dameron’s smirk edge into a grin.

“But uh, I’m responsible for a lot of deaths. And that feeling—the guilt—it never seems to leave me.”

“I can’t speak much about guilt,” Hux lied. “But I can tell you this: there has never been a military commander in history who hasn’t made mistakes and gotten his people killed. To err is to be alive.”

“Thanks, I think,” Dameron said, then grinned and bumped his shoulder against Hux’s. He didn’t hate it. “Who’d’ve thought I’d be gettin’ a pep talk from General Hugs, huh?”

“Don’t go telling everyone I’ve turned compassionate,” Hux smirked, “I have a reputation as an evil, genocidal megalomaniac to preserve.”

Dameron fixed Hux with that soft, fond expression and Hux found his cheeks warming under his gaze. “Buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you ruined that reputation the second you came out as my spy.”

“Your spy?” Hux spluttered, unsure whether to be charmed or affronted. Although there was something about the possessive determiner that sent an unexpected sharp thrill through him.

“Hey, you did break cover to save my ass.”

“To make sure you were able to stop Ren and Palpatine!”

“Sure,” Dameron winked and chose that moment to saunter away into the refresher. Hux did not stare after him for a good two minutes, fuming, before he snapped his gaping mouth shut to curse Dameron to the stars.

Days passed in the same, comfortingly familiar routine; Hux attempting to read to stave off boredom and Dameron alternating between exercising (distracting), pacing (irritating) and dragging Hux into either inane conversations or games of Sabacc and Dejarik. After almost a week, Hux’s ability to deflect Dameron was waning; he was unused to inactivity and as bored as a Yaka trapped on Abafar.

Thus, when Dameron flopped upside-down on Hux’s bed and regarded him with an intense look, Hux was defenceless.

“What is it now, Dameron?” he said, tossing his datapad onto his pillow. “I cannot bear one more game of pfassking Sabacc and if I ever see that Dejarik board again I will be tempted to ram it sideways into one of your orifices.”

Poe grinned, still upside-down, and gave a non-committal sort of shrug. “Dunno, just bored is all.”

Hux rolled his eyes. “I know. You mention it with a regularity bordering on obsessiveness.”

“Well, if you’re tired of hearing it, maybe you oughtta do somethin' about it,” he said, biting his bottom lip in an over-obvious attempt at flirting.

Hux felt his face heat with a blush. Dameron couldn’t possibly be suggesting they...copulate? Surely he was being teased? He would not rise to the bait.

“I’ve done nothing but entertain you. Believe it or not, I am neither a Twi’lek dancing girl nor a Bith musician. I am not here to amuse you, Dameron.”

Dameron rolled over and propped his chin up on his hands. “Wow, okay, now I’ve got the image of you in a Twi’leki dancer’s costume in my head.”

“What?!” Hux spluttered, outraged.

“Alright, don’t get your underwear in a bunch. I’m not suggesting you perform an exotic strip tease,” he grinned stupidly, “as entertaining as that would be. I just wanted to talk or somethin’, is all.”

Hux’s blush deepened and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, I will engage in conversation if you erase that image from your mind immediately and stop your incessant whining.”

Dameron’s face lit up and he pulled himself to sitting, settling cross-legged atop Hux’s coverlet. “Great! Y’know, there was this game I used to play with the other pilots when we were just sittin’ around waiting for somethin’ to happen; we’d all take it in turns to name somethin’ we’d never done and anyone who haddone it took a shot of hooch.” He laughed at the memory then added; “Course, we don’t have anything to drink ‘cept water so it won’t get as rowdy, but I feel like you’d prefer that.”

“It sounds...infantile.”

“It’s called fun, Hugs, some people in the galaxy know how to have it.”

“I understand the concept of fun, Dameron, but playing a bawdy drinking game—sans alcohol—doesn’t fall under my definition of it.”

Poe rolled his eyes. “And what does then, oh great one?”

“I...” Hux huffed. In truth, it had been a very long time since he’d found enjoyment in anything besides his work, but he wasn’t about to admit to Dameron that his idea of a fun evening involved rewiring a motivator. “Let’s just play your blasted game and be done with it.”

Dameron clapped his hands together with glee and shuffled closer until his knees were almost touching Hux’s thigh. Hux moved back against the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest, which turned out to be a poor choice as it only encouraged Dameron to inch even closer.

“Okay, uh, lemme think of one. Ah!” Dameron grinned. “Never have I ever blown up an entire star system.”

Hux levelled Dameron with a withering glare as the man snickered to himself. “I take it back; I’d rather die of boredom than play with you—”

“Alright, sorry, that was a cheap shot,” Dameron said and bumped his shoulder against Hux’s. “Uh, never have I ever...broken a bone.”

Hux frowned and said; “If we aren’t drinking, what do I do if I have done it?”

“Uh, do a dare?”

“There is not a Sith’s chance in hell I am participating in dares with you in a room full of medical equipment.”

Dameron barked out a laugh. “Point taken. Okay, so let’s say instead we have to tell the story of how we did it.”

Hux’s stomach dropped. “Right. Well. I have. Broken a bone, that is. More than one, actually.”

Dameron nodded. “How’d it happen?”

Hux hesitated. “My father had a hands-on approach to punishment. I’d rather not talk about it.” Dameron’s eyes went wide. Before Dameron had time to make comment, he said; “Never have I ever...swum in the ocean.”

“Really? Isn’t Arkanis mostly ocean?”

“Yes, but you don’t swim in it unless you want to drown, be eaten by a miridon or ripped apart by a pallaskean.”

Dameron gave a low whistle. “I see why it’s famous for fishing rather than uh, pleasure cruises.”

Hux gave a non-committal shrug. He’d loved sitting on the clifftops in the grounds of his father’s house, watching the whitecaps roll in and smash, unyielding, on the rocks below. The salt tang of sea air and the feeling of the cold spray on his face were two of his most vivid and cherished childhood memories. To force the focus away from himself he said;

“What about you, have you ever been swimming in the ocean?”

Dameron nodded. “Oh yeah, back on Yavin four. And I was on Niamos once, looking for some smugglers, and I just had to take a break for a swim. You ever been to Niamos? It’s a playground for the shady and dishonest, but they sure know how to have a good time.”

“Can’t say I have, and you’re not particularly selling it to me.”

Dameron snorted. “We gotta go there one day, maybe I could finally get you to relax a little.”

“Amongst the ‘shady and dishonest’ of the galaxy? I think not,” Hux said, even as his insides gambolled at the idea that Dameron wanted to go anywhere with him.

“Aww, c’mon Hugs, you need someone to teach you how to have a good time.”

Was he flirting again?

“And I suppose you think you’re qualified to do that, do you?” Hux said, unsure if he’d hit the mark; he was not well-versed in the art of flirting.

Dameron flashed a dangerous smile which sent a jolt of heat to Hux’s stomach.

“Oh, I could show you a thing or two.” He leaned in, a smile growing as his eyes flicked down to Hux’s mouth. Hux took a shaky breath, the heat now pooling low in his groin. “And don’t worry, I’d be gentle with ya. Ease you into it.”

Hux swallowed again, the silence thick between them, until Dameron snorted and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Something funny, Dameron?” Hux scowled, his face burning.

“No, I swear to Arcan, I ain’t laughing at you, Hugs,” Dameron said earnestly, “just—” he gestured to the room “—the whole situation. Us, trapped in here together, ex-enemies, two guys who’ve tried to kill each other more times than I can count, and who’ve both saved each other too and now...” he trailed off and shrugged.

“...now?”

“Now we’re...friends.”

Hux raised one sceptical eyebrow. “Is that what we are?”

“For my part, yeah.”

“That is...” Hux didn’t know how to feel, let alone what to say. No one had ever declared themself his friend before. He’d had allies and comrades and plenty of enemies, but never an actual friend. “That is not...disagreeable.”

Dameron barked out a laugh and Hux found himself smiling along with him.

“You really know how to make a guy feel appreciated.”

They fell into a not completely awkward silence, both smiling at the other like idiots, until Hux said; “Your turn, Dameron.”

“What? Oh, the game? Uh...never have I ever...been in love,” Dameron said, then hid his face behind his hand as he yawned theatrically. He was embarrassed or ashamed—or possibly both—which was bizarre. As if romantic attachment, or lack thereof, made one lesser in some way. If anything, avoiding romantic entanglements tended to make one less prone to rash or selfish decisions. It made for a better leader.

Hux snorted. “If the gossip has any credence, you’ve been in love with half the base and the other half has been in love with you.”

Dameron didn’t laugh. “Nah, it’s not like that. Sure, I’ve had some fun but uh, love?” He shook his head. “Never found the right person, I guess. Never had that feeling they go on about in holos and songs, if that’s even real.”

“Don’t look at me,” Hux said, “love is not one of my areas of expertise.”

“Did the First Order even allow relationships?”

“Of course,” Hux said, incredulous, “we had family units with children aboard many of our ships. And dating...romance...was common. We weren’t so stupid as to believe we could stop thousands of people trapped together for years at a time from giving in to their base desires.”

“Did you?” Dameron asked, leaning in.

“Did I what?”

“Give in to your base desires?”

Hux spluttered; “That’s none of your business!”

“Alright, never have I ever hooked up with someone,” Dameron smirked, “better?”

“No, because a, it’s not your turn and b, that’s a barefaced lie. You already admitted sleeping with half of the resistance,” Hux huffed.

“I think your avoidance answers my question. You hooked up with someone, didn’t ya? Who was it? Phasma?” Dameron said, gleefully. “What did she look like under that shiny armour, huh?”

“You couldn’t be more incorrect. Phasma would have killed me—and you—for suggesting such a thing. Plus, well,” he sniffed, his stomach rolling with nerves, “she wasn’t exactly my type.”

“Oh yeah? Who then? Some other snippy, stuffy officer type? Did she keep her uniform on? Or maybe just her hat?”

Hux sighed. “No. There has never been a woman.”

“A guy then?” Dameron said, no judgement apparent in his voice. “Some strapping Stormtrooper?”

“I would never abuse my position and put one of my subordinates in such a situation,” Hux said, remembering how his father had likely done just that to his mother, how it was commonplace amongst the old-guard-Imperial-types to take whatever they wanted from whoever they chose. “And no, there has...never been a man, either,” he admitted.

Dameron seemed surprised but didn’t tease or crow about it as Brendol and Hux’s peers always had. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Was there no one you liked or are you just not interested in sex?”

Hux’s cheeks glowed red at the bluntness of Dameron’s probing questions.

“Of course I am interested in it,” Hux admitted and Dameron gave him a rakish grin. “I am human, after all, despite the common opinion.”

“It’s a wild and varied galaxy; some people just don’t like sex,” Dameron shrugged, “it’s no big deal. So what, you just never had the opportunity then?”

After a long pause Hux said; “I...I never trusted anyone enough. And as you’ve so astutely noticed, I am not the most adept socialiser. Also I—” he looked away, embarrassed, “I hardly inspire lustful propositions.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Dameron said, “tall redhead like you?” He bit his bottom lip, a lascivious smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, and let his eyes rove the length of Hux’s body. “I bet you’d get plenty of propositions if you didn’t strike fear into the hearts of most men with just a look.”

“Don’t tease me, Dameron,” Hux said.

“I’m not,” Dameron replied, “really. You’re an attractive guy. And, y’know, once you get past all the genocide and whatever, you’re alright.”

Hux searched Dameron’s face for any sign of malice or dishonesty and found none; only those earnest brown eyes gazing back at him with something akin to affection.

“...Thank you,” Hux replied quietly, at a loss. What was one supposed to say to that? “You’re...tolerable.”

Dameron laughed, mirth writ over his face. Hux found his mouth twitching up into a smile. “Buddy, coming from you, that’s a glowing endorsement.”

The only positive thing that could be said about Brendol Hux’s parenting style was that it was reliable; if there was a circumstance in which he could terrify, humiliate and abuse Armitage, he would always make sure to utilise it to the full.

In the quiet stillness of the quarantine room, Hux dreamed of one such occasion, where he had said something his father considered ‘cheek’—though Hux was unsure exactly what—and so Brendol had meted out appropriate punishment; a beating so bad that, in pain and fear, he’d made the mistake of begging for his father to stop. Which, as always, only made things worse. Brendol had called him a pathetic, mewling quim, placed his meaty hands around Hux’s throat and squeezed until he saw stars. His vision had blacked as he gasped for breath and fear crawled up his spine; he’d thought the end was upon him, that was going to die, by his father’s hand. The silence was broken as a whimper escaped Armitage’s throat, a shrill, panicked thing that grew into a full-bodied scream as his father released his grip to shake Armitage roughly by the shoulders, slamming his head back against the wall with a skull-splitting thud.

“Hux, Hux!” someone—not his father—called, their tone that of worry, not rage. “Wake up buddy, wake—”

Hux jerked awake and reached for his concealed knife in one swift move, only to find the usual hiding place empty. Disoriented, he thrashed wildly at his attacker, who somehow maintained a secure grip on his shoulders despite Hux’s best efforts to twist away.

“Hux! Calm down, shh, it’s Poe—ah, kriff—just stop, stop!”

Hux stilled. It was Dameron, not his father, looming over him. He was in the quarantine room, not his father’s office. He was unhurt. Far from attacking him, Dameron was attempting to calm him by rubbing his biceps and whispering soothing nonsense.

“You were dreaming,” Dameron said, “it was just a bad dream.”

Hux nodded tightly, mortification at having Dameron witness to such a pathetic display warring with relief and the deplorable desire to be comforted. He allowed himself a moment in Dameron’s reassuring presence to calm his breathing and force his shaking hands to steady. For what did it matter? There was no one left to scorn him or use his weaknesses against him. There were no more indignities to bear.

“You’re alright,” Dameron said, soft and low, “you’re safe here, with me.”

Hux believed him. Perhaps he was a fool, but he believed him.

Dameron sat up slowly and held out a hand to pull Hux up to sit beside him. Hux scrubbed his arm over his face, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat and pushing his hair back out of his eyes. Dameron shuffled a little, moving closer so their bodies were touching from shoulder to hip. Hux let him. As unused to casual touch as he was, there something steadying about having Dameron’s soft, sleep-warm body beside him.

“You wanna talk about it?” Dameron asked.

“Why would I want to do that?”

Dameron shrugged. “It’s s’posed to help. That’s what they’re always telling me, anyway.”

“Does it?“

“Sometimes.”

Hux was silent for a long moment and Dameron waited, a quiet, steady presence beside him.

“I was dreaming of my father,” Hux said, surprising himself with his honesty. He hadn’t meant to say that—to say anything—but it was too late now. He wasn’t a Jedi; he couldn’t make Dameron forget his words with a wave of his hand.

“Brendol Hux?” Dameron said.

“What do you know of him?”

“Read the files, y’know, the usual: built this, blew up that, murdered so-and-so. Republic army officer who switched sides and became kind of a big deal in the Empire and First Order, apparently.”

“His career was a distinguished one, Hux said, for it was the truth. “He created the new Stormtrooper program. Of course, he also murdered child soldiers in secret initiation rites, so make of that what you will.”

“Karabast.” Another long pause, then Dameron asked; “I take it he wasn’t exactly a loving, nurturing kind of dad, huh?”

“That is an understatement.”

“You said before that he uh, broke your arm?” Dameron said, concern evident in the twist of his mouth. “He beat you?”

Hux huffed a mirthless laugh. “Oh, at every opportunity.”

“Kriff.”

“Kriff indeed.” Something about the gentle, warm presence of Dameron inspired Hux to add; “Once, when I was a child, I spilled a drink—dropped the tray, broke the glasses and everything—in front of one of my father’s ‘friends’ and he...he made me lick it up.”

Dameron gave a scandalised gasp, one of his large, tender hands coming up to rest on Hux’s knee.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but your father seems like a glob of mantellian savrip vomit,” he said.

“Oh, he was.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Dameron shrugged, “but uh, good riddance to bad bantha dung seems the more appropriate response. What happened to him?”

“I killed him,” Hux said, “well, I had him killed. It’s the same thing, really.”

Dameron gave a low whistle through his teeth.

“What?”

“I’m a little shocked. I mean, a sleemo is a sleemo but he was still your Dad.”

“What? You think he deserved my respect or my mercy?” Hux said, incredulous.

“No, I ain’t saying that. I uh, I can understand why you’d hate him but...” he trailed off.

“But what?” Hux spat.

“Even if he was a violent, abusive bastard, having the guy murdered ain’t, y’know, a normal response.”

Hux knew that, of course. Patricide was hardly socially acceptable. He shook his head.

“You’re hardly a barometer on what is normal,” Hux spat. Dameron crossed his arms.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Irritated—and vulnerable—Hux’s spiteful side won over.

“The whole carefree, embodiment of happiness, idiot flyboy persona doesn’t fool me. It is a mask. You’re miserable.”

Dameron’s face rolled through a half-dozen emotions—shock, anger, confusion, panic, hurt—before it landed on a sad sort of resignation.

He said; “I dunno what you’re talking about.” He shifted awkwardly and tried to change the subject. “Enjoying death like you do—that’s not normal.”

“If you think I enjoy death, you really don’t know me at all,” Hux replied and stars! Why did it sting to have Dameron misjudge him so? He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin and tried to convince himself that what Dameron thought of him didn’t matter.

Dameron’s frown softened. “It’s sorta hard to get to know you, Hugs. You’re spikier than a sarlacc.”

Hux snorted at the comparison. “You must realise that I am unused to this sort of interaction?”

“Yeah. You could, y’know, just try to be a bit less hostile all the damn time.“

“What would be the point? I’m unlikely to make many ‘friends’ on a rebel base. Or anywhere else, for that matter.“

Dameron shifted, his brown eyes studying Hux with almost unnerving intensity.

“Do you want to? Make friends, I mean?”

Hux honestly didn’t know the answer to that. And he wasn’t about to start picking at such a question when he knew it would only bring him discomfort. Not wanting companionship made him cold, unfeeling, inhuman. Wanting it was folly. The legacy of Starkiller Base would see to that.

Instead of answering, Hux said; “That’s your problem, Dameron; you keep trying apply your own wants and needs to me—to convince yourself that I’m someone I’m not. I’m sure you rationalise my actions because you think I was some poor soul, stolen as a child, abused by his father, twisted and misled by the First Order into something monstrous. That I’m fundamentally like you—that there’s something ‘good’—” he spat the word as if he found it distasteful, “—inside me that you can rescue. That I’m...redeemable in some way. I’m not. And I don’t want—or need—your redemption.”

“Bantha shit. I don’t believe that,” Dameron said, suddenly impassioned, “I think you know that your past—the things you’ve done—are wrong. I do, I believe that. And anyone can change, anyone can turn their lives around and do good. Look at Finn; look at what Kylo Ren did in the end. And you’ve already started down that path.”

The idea that Ren’s last-minute defection made up for any of the monstrous things he did—and was something to be admired—was revolting.

“Finn and Ren were both bleeding hearts from the beginning. It was only a matter of time before they gave in to their pathetic natures. They were weak-willed; too weak to do what had to be done to bring order to the galaxy. I wasn’t. I did what was necessary out of conviction to our cause.”

Undeterred, Poe thought for a moment then said; “If you were so dedicated to the First Order, why did you feed the Resistance information?”

“I told you; I needed the Sith to lose—I needed Ren to lose. He was destroying everything I’d worked for—throwing it away over his vendetta against Skywalker and the scavenger girl—“

“Rey.”

“Whatever. The point is, it wasn’t about me having some attack of conscience.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dameron cut in. “If that was all it was, you could have been more selective with the information you fed us. You could have made sure we got Kylo and nothing else. But you didn’t. You gave us whatever we asked for. Hell, you told us about Palpatine and the Sith fleet. And you didn’t have to save my life. The resistance would have carried on without me, Finn and Chewie. And you certainly didn’t have to come with me.”

“You hardly gave me a choice!”

Dameron rolled his eyes. “Come on, you barely resisted. You wanted out of there.”

Hux would never admit it, but Dameron wasn’t entirely incorrect. He did want to leave, but mostly because he had come to the hard realisation that his days were numbered, rather than his misgivings about his role in the Order. Even if the First Order somehow succeeded, the Sith would take control. Ren would eventually murder him in a fit of rage or Pryde would find an excuse to kill him. Any allies he’d once had—Phasma, Mitaka, Opan—were gone. His time as a leader of the First Order had passed, and he was smart enough to know it was better to live to fight another day.

”There’s a difference between defecting and jumping from a sinking ship,” Hux deflected.

“If it was just about saving your skin you could have left without telling us anything,” Dameron replied, “you didn’t need to become a spy for that. And why be so helpful now, huh? You know we would never torture the information from you, if we even could, so why tell us everything?”

Frustrated with Dameron’s hasty generalisations—and his inability to refute them even though he knew he was incorrect—Hux said;

“I’m a pragmatist. What would be the benefit to me in resisting?”

“Well, if you’re such a dastardly, evil guy, surely it would be better to hold out on us just, y’know, out of spite or something.”

Hux sighed; they were going around in circles. “I don’t know what you want from me, Dameron.”

“I don’t want anything. I’m just trying to help,” he said, so earnestly it made Hux’s heart lurch in his chest. Hux could count the people who had acted in his best interests on one hand.

“I know,” Hux said, defeated. “Has it occurred to you that you might be wasting your time?”

Dameron gripped his elbow, his hand warm and firm, and gazed at Hux with those damn kind, gentle eyes. “Nah. I don’t think anyone in the entire galaxy is a waste of time. Everyone deserves a chance to be better.”

“Better by whose standards? Yours? Organa’s? The Third Republic’s? And what if I don’t have the capacity? What if my morals are my morals and my beliefs are my beliefs and I don’t want to change so I can fit into your mould of righteousness? What if this is all I am?” Hux asked, dreading the answer.

“You really wanna know what I think?” Dameron started. He paused and chewed his lip, carefully choosing his words, then said; “I think you’re a product of the situation—the life—you were born into. You were raised on the ideals of the Empire and the morals of a man who murdered children. You admitted yourself that he was a bully and he abused you. I bet you don’t even know what it’s like to have someone genuinely care about you. What chance did you have of developing empathy or mercy when you were never shown a damn jot of it yourself? You lived in a world where only the cruel and the terrifying and the powerful survived, so you became exactly what you needed to be to do just that; survive. Believe it or not, that’s something you have in common with the rest of the galaxy. I don’t think that makes you evil, Hux. I think that makes you human.”

“So what?” Hux spat, for lack of a more profound response. He felt as if his soul had been scraped raw and laid bare before him by Dameron’s words. No one had ever spoken to him like that before; no one had ever cared to. “What does it matter? Regardless of whatever mitigating circumstances you might dream up, I am responsible for the deaths of—” Hux paused as the gravity of it hit him fully for the first time. Since the firing of Starkiller, he’d blocked it out—distanced himself from it—and reasoned that those destroyed by the First Order were regrettable collateral damage; unfortunate but unavoidable sacrifices that must be made in pursuit of the greater good. When death was an impersonal number on a screen, it was easy to fool oneself into believing the ends justified the means. And one-hundred-and-fifty-five-billion was so big a number it was impossible to even imagine it. But now—now he knew the faces of those he’d once have gleefully wiped out and the faces of their children and husbands and wives and mothers—his actions were much harder to swallow. They lodged in his throat like a splintered chunk of scrap doonium and threatened to choke him. He deserved it. He deserved to die. And if there was any justice in the galaxy and balance in the stars-forsaken Force he’d have perished along with the rest of the fleet.

“I know who you are and what you did,” Dameron said, “believe me, I am well aware of it. At first, it was the only thing I could see; the man who murdered billions at the touch of a button in the name of order. But it’s—” he paused and sighed, bone-deep exhaustion writ on his face “—it ain’t so simple. The things you told us turned the tide of the war. Because of you, we weren’t blindsided by the Sith fleet. You gave us a chance—hope—and that...it’s worth something.”

Hux wanted Dameron to be right. He needed him to be. It couldn’t have all been for nought.

“Sometimes I think about our combined body count, about how many First Order troopers and pilots who were just following orders—surviving—I’ve shot down and...” Dameron continued. He shook his head, lower lip pinched between his teeth. He looked pained and for some reason that stung Hux more than his own suffering. “Thing is, we both thought we were doing the right thing, didn’t we?”

Hux nodded. “I believed our cause was just.”

“So did I.”

“What are you saying, exactly?”

“That we’re more alike than you think. We’re just two sides of the same credit; both killing in the name of peace,” Poe said. He deflated, shoulders drooping, chin dropping to his chest.

The penny dropped.

“So your obsession over my redemption isn’t only that. You think if I can be redeemed, then so can you?”

Poe’s head snapped up. “No, I...” he trailed off. Hux waited. “Maybe, unintentionally, yeah.”

Hux nodded, his throat tight. He’d always tried—often unsuccessfully—to keep his emotions under control, locked down as if trapped behind a ray shield, but now, with his usual defences gone, they rattled around his head like deflected blaster fire. It was ridiculous, but he felt hurt—betrayed—even if he’d suspected Poe had an ulterior motive all along.

“It makes sense,” Hux said, “I mean, we both knew you weren’t honestly attempting to befriend a genocidal war criminal.” He hated that his voice refused to stay level. “Of course, you were looking to assuage your guilty conscience, and that’s exactly what I would expect from a self-righteous rebel who can’t function unless he feels morally superior to—”

Poe stood, anger apparent in the line of his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw. Hux swallowed down his fear and stood to meet him; he’d experienced enough violence that he knew how to endure it with dignity.

Then, Poe kissed him.

Hux had been kissed exactly twice in his entire life; once, by another First Order cadet in their youth—which turned out to be a cruel prank instigated buy the other cadets in order to embarrass him—and now, by a kriffing rash idiot of a resistance pilot, of all people. The two kisses couldn’t have been more diametrically opposed; the former had been chaste and cold and had thrilled Hux about as much as a three-day meeting with the department heads of sanitation and maintenance—that’s to say, not at all. And after it had been revealed as a deception, it had turned his stomach. The latter, well, he was loathe to admit it but the feeling of Poe’s plush lips pressed to his own sent a sharp thrill through him, like the moment before a fall, where you can’t help but enjoy the rush of adrenaline even though you know how much the landing will hurt. And Poe kissed like he flew; recklessly but with such confidence and conviction it was impossible not to be swept along.

After a moment, sense prevailed and Hux said; “What are you doing?” against Poe’s mouth

Poe pulled back just enough to look at Hux scathingly. “Shutting you up for a minute.”

“Ah. Right,” Hux managed before Poe captured him in another passionate kiss, taking Hux’s bottom lip between his as if he wanted to devour him. Poe’s hands found their way to Hux’s back, then up into his hair, tugging lightly and moving Hux’s head this way and that in order to ravish him more thoroughly. Hux laid his hands on Poe’s arms and squeezed, then ran his hands up to Poe’s shoulders. Poe moaned into Hux’s mouth and his arousal spiked at the sound. At once, it became too much, and Hux broke away, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Alright?” Poe asked, as gently as one might speak to a mewling fathier kitten.

Hux nodded sharply, not trusting his voice to stay level.

“You’re trembling,” Poe said, one hand cupping the back of Hux’s head, fingers threading through the loose, long strands of hair. Between that and the unsightly stubble, he was beginning to resemble a Wookie.

“I am not,” Hux lied.

“Why are you trembling? Are you afraid?”

“Of you? Unlikely.”

Poe’s mouth quirked into a gentle smile. “Is it because I get you excited?”

“Being held by you isn’t quite enough to get me excited,” Hux lied again. His cheeks were hot enough to fry bulabird eggs and he was extremely aware that the thinness of his coarseweave slacks would do nothing to conceal the arousal below his waist.

As if to call his bluff, Poe slid a hand around Hux’s waist and pulled their bodies flush. “You see, I think you might be full of bantha poodoo, Hugs.”

Then, Hux kissed him.

Never one to be outdone—and a fast learner—Hux licked into Poe’s mouth, earning an eager groan in reply. Poe’s hands slid in opposite directions; one crept up to lightly cup Hux’s cheek and the other moved lower, fingertips skimming the curve of Hux’s backside.

Hux broke away and took a ragged breath, his mind a tumble of every way this could go wrong. It was stupid, rash, ridiculous behaviour and no good could come of it. Somewhere, deep inside his chest, a tiny flame of something like hope tried to flicker into being. Hux crushed it with a cold fist full of dread.

“This is a bad idea,” Hux said, even as his fingers curled around the loose material of Poe’s shirt, “a stupid, bad idea.” He made himself let go, flexing his fingers as if he’d been clutching a poisonous thornsuckle vine.

“Yeah,” Poe breathed. He let his lips lightly brush against Hux’s in a ghost of a kiss.

“We should stop.”

“Yeah.”

“You will regret this in the morning,” Hux said. The hurt he felt when Poe didn’t disagree was larger than he’d expected. He chastised himself for being so weak, so desperate for affection that he’d let himself care what Dameron thought of him. And to make it worse, the rejection had been wholly predictable—Hux was not fool enough to consider himself appealing in any aspect, especially to a man like Dameron—and he’d still allowed it to happen.

Knowing all that didn’t make any of it less painful.

Poe dropped his hands and took a step back. The urge to follow him—to crowd back into his warm, soft space—was overwhelming. Instead, Hux straightened his back, sharpened the line of his shoulders and tipped up his chin in a practiced routine, one he had performed hundreds of times in the Order, where projecting confidence and cool disinterest had been necessary for survival.

Somehow it felt even more critical now than it had when his literal life had been at stake.

“Yeah, alright,” Dameron said, more to himself than Hux, and gave his hair a distracted ruffle, “you’re probably right.”

“I’m always right.”

Dameron huffed a laugh.

“Yeah, you probably are,” he said, and hovered awkwardly, rocking on the balls of his socked feet, before retreating to his cot. Hux followed suit and climbed back into bed, even though he knew trying for sleep after all that was a fools errand.

“Uh, Hugs?” Dameron said, voice low and unsure.

“Yes?”

“That was one hell of a kiss though.”

Hux said; “I have no metric which to compare it to but...I am inclined to agree.”

That raised a full-bodied, mirthful guffaw from Dameron. “Hugs, you really are a case.”

The next morning, Hux expected Dameron to be either apologetic or awkward. He was neither, instead employing the time-honoured technique of pretending nothing had happened.

Hux was happy to go along with the pretence.

He stretched lazily, lingering in bed to avoid having to look directly at Dameron, who was pottering around their makeshift kitchenette, until the smell of insta-caf became too tempting. He was about to force himself up when he felt the mattress dip as Dameron plonked himself down at the foot of the bed. Hux leaned up on his elbows and Dameron offered him a cup of caf. He wordlessly accepted it, breathing in the aromatic steam.

“Black, no sugar, bitter as your heart; just how you like it,” Dameron teased, no malice in his words.

Hux snorted. He could get used to Dameron’s playful barbs. Especially if the man was going to bring him caf. Hux cradled his mug, absorbing the heat, as he nursed the caf. Dameron settled back against the wall, his own cup hanging from one hand.

“You sleep okay in the end?” Dameron said, probably just so as to have something to say.

Hux nodded at the oblique reference to all that had happened in the small hours.

“Yes. Thank you.”

For some reason that raised a chuckle from Dameron.

“What?” Hux snipped. It was too early.

“Nothin’, I just ain’t used to hearing you say thanks. It’s so polite.”

“I have good manners,” Hux said, affronted. “Unlike some of the primordial knuckle-draggers on this base.”

Dameron gave him a look.

“Meaning?”

Hux shrugged a shoulder.

“No,” Dameron pressed, “if someone has been treating you badly, I wanna know about it.”

“Why? So you can straighten them out?” He mocked. He was surprised when Dameron gave an angry, sharp nod.

“Yeah, damn right.”

Hux scoffed out; “It’s nothing worthy of your time, I assure you.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Fine,” Hux relented. Dameron clearly wasn’t about to let it go. “I’ve been avoiding eating in the mess recently as...some of your friends seem to think it is amusing to ‘tool’ with me.”

The line of Dameron’s shoulders tensed. “How, exactly, are they ‘tooling’ with you?” he growled. Hux blinked; Dameron was angry on his behalf.

“Oh you know, the typical undisciplined foolishness I’ve come to expect from your cohorts,” he said, avoiding the question.

“Hux–”

“They put things in my food. Trip me. Make jokes and threats. Nothing I cannot handle.” Really, after facing Ren’s workplace violence, a few vindictive rebels were nothing in comparison.

Dameron’s reaction was unexpected. He bounced up from the bed, spilling his caff, to pace the room, his bare feet slapping against the duraplast floor.

“Dosh! Kriffing...sithspit...” he muttered. “I specifically told ‘em not to mess around with you.”

Hux wiped the spilled caf from his blanket with a grimace. “Dameron, it doesn’t matter–”

“Yes it does!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. Caf sloshed over the side of his mug and almost hit the ceiling. “We’re supposed to be better than that. You’re not...” he trailed off and look down to where he had stepped in his own spilled caf.

“Not what?”

“Our enemy. Not anymore.”

“Dameron,” Hux sighed. He slipped out of bed and took Dameron’s mug from him, placing it on the table before he could make any more mess. “You have bigger burra fish to fry than a few rebels attempting to antagonise me. Quite ineffectively, I hasten to add.”

Dameron stepped in close, his expression serious.

“I didn’t pull you out of the First Order to see you abused here too.”

“No, you pulled me out because FN-2187 nicked an artery when he shot me in the leg and your overly sensitive conscience wouldn’t allow you to leave me to bleed to death.”

“Not to mention they would have shot you for treason the moment they found out we were gone,” Dameron said, edging even closer. He reached out, his fingertips brushing Hux’s bare elbow. He suppressed a shiver.

“And that,” Hux shrugged. He knew that was his likely end when he decided to become a spy.

“I meant it. You aren’t here to be...punished,” Dameron added.

Hux scoffed. “Yes, I am.”

“No,” Dameron said, “I know that for some goddamn reason you need to cling to this idea that you’re our prisoner, putting in his penance while waiting on death row—”

“That is not what I think—”

“—but that ain’t the case—”

“—penance is not necessary—”

“—you’re here for a new start—”

“—but I am a prisoner—”

“Stars, will you kriffing shut up for one minute?” Dameron exclaimed, vexed. Hux snapped his mouth shut. “I’m tryin’ to say somethin’ here and, as usual, you ain’t making it easy, General.”

Hux just raised an eyebrow.

“You deserve to be treated with dignity,” Dameron continued and Hux couldn’t contain a scathing laugh. “You do. If people start...kriffing teasing and mistreating you, where does it end, huh? With you beaten bloody after good men and women give in to anger for the sake of petty revenge? That’s a path we can’t go down. Not unless we want to end up worse than the people we vowed to stop. We’re supposed to be better than that. We’re supposed to be the good guys.”

Dameron was an idealistic fool.

“When we get outta here, I’m gonna be having words with anyone who’s been messing with you,” Dameron continued, “And you’ll be going to the mess again, with me, so I can teach ‘em how to have some manners.”

“Fine,” Hux capitulated. Dameron was impossible. “If it makes you feel better.”

Dameron’s demeanour softened, his anger receding into something more gentle as his hand closed around Hux’s elbow.

“It would make me feel better, but it’s more about you feeling safe here.”

Hux snorted. “Oh yes, it’s easy to relax in the viper’s nest.”

Poe leaned in a little. Hux decidedly didn’t look at his mouth—at the perfect curve of Poe’s Cupid’s bow—as it pulled into a soft smile.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Poe said simply, as if the words didn’t threaten to ruin Hux completely. As if Poe himself didn’t have more power to hurt him than anyone ever had. Because Poe Dameron could breakhim with just a look.

At first, when Hux had ‘relocted’ to the base on Ajan Kloss, he’d had trouble adjusting to how noisy and chaotic the place could be. Between the constant chatter of too many people stuffed into a too old and too small base, the roar of ships taking off and landing, the bleep-bloop of outdated droids, rainstorms, thunder, and the unpredictable noises of the native fauna, he had found himself overwhelmed. After a life on an orderly—and often silent but for the gentle hum of the air cyclers—Starcruiser, sleeping in such conditions had proved impossible until he eventually got used to the constant background noise. Now, in their quadruple-insulated quarantine room, he was having the opposite problem; it was too quiet. Strangely, what he missed most was the chirp of cicadas, of all things.

At any rate, sleep was evasive, and when he did drop off, he was often roused by the crinkling of plastic as Dameron fidgeted in his sleep. And at first, he assumed that was what had woken him, until he heard Dameron mutter a distressed “No, no, no, please—” in his sleep.

Hux sat up; in the low light he could barely make out the dark shape of Dameron on his bed across the room. He watched, for a moment, but Dameron did’t wake. Rather, he thrashed bout, one arm dangling over the side of the cot, and gave a pained cry.

Hux’s heart lurched and he was moved to action, padding across the room to Dameron’s bed.

“Dameron,” he said, firm but not unkind, “Dameron, wake up.”

Dameron gave no indication he had heard. He shuddered, another unhappy groan escaping. “Don’t, don’t!” he cried out.

Hux frowned and absently worried his bottom lip between his teeth. There was nothing for it. He took a hold of Dameron’s shoulders and shook him. “Poe, wake up. Wake up.”

Dameron’s eyes snapped open and for a moment he looked through Hux completely as his mind struggled to keep up with what was happening. Then he blinked, his whole body sagging against the bed. Remembering how Dameron had comforted him after his own nightmare, Hux kept a firm grasp on Poe’s bare shoulders, his thumbs stroking up and down in what he hoped was a soothing way.

“Hux—” Dameron croaked, his voice sleep-rough, before unexpectedly reaching up and wrapping his arms around Hux’s slender waist.

“Dameron!” he gasped, “Unhand me!”

Dameron ignored him, pressing his face into the front of Hux’s nightshirt. Hux could feel his warm, shuddering breaths through the thin fabric. Dameron’s shoulders shook and a muffled sob broke out of him and Hux was moved with pity in a way he had never experienced before. He tentatively wrapped his arms around Dameron in return, which only resulted in Dameron breaking down completely. Hux gave him an awkward pat, unsure what to do next.

For an intelligent man, he was woefully lacking when it came to understanding basic human interaction.

They stayed that way for a stretch; Dameron clinging to Hux’s middle and Hux awkwardly patting his back, until his sobs quietened. Eventually, Dameron sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes dark in the gloom of the room.

“...Thanks,” he said, sounding on the verge of another bout of crying. “Bad dream.”

“Yes, it...seemed so. I hope...waking you was the correct course of action.”

Dameron gave a snotty-sounding chuckle. “Trust you to make comforting someone sound like a strategy meeting.”

“Strategy meetings I am good at,” Hux said, “comforting crying rebels...well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

Dameron rubbed his eyes, his countenance sad. “Yeah, I know. Thanks though, for...caring.”

“You were disturbing my sleep,” Hux said, “that is all.”

“Sure.”

“I do not care,” Hux sniffed. It was a lie, and a hurtful one at that. He regretted it the moment it left his lips.

“What is wrong with you?” Dameron hissed, “Why do you always have to be like that, huh? Do you enjoy it? Does it make you feel superior? Well, I won’t waste my tears on ya next time—” he cut himself off, his mouth twisting into a pout.

Oh.

“You...your nightmare...” Hux shook his head. Dameron couldn’t be saying what he thought he was saying.

“Yeah, you had a starring role, buddy,” Dameron spat, folding his arms, “more fool me for giving a damn.”

“...do you want to...talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yes. You’re an insufferable twit.”

Dameron laughed despite himself and his whole posture softened.

“Arcan’s sake, Hux, does everything always have to be so goddamn hard?” Hux had the feeling he was talking about more than their friendship.

“In my experience, yes. Nothing that is worth a damn is easy.”

Dameron placed his head in his hands.

“Some days I just...I dunno. I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Everything is so complicated now; it was almost easier when we were still at war. At least then I could just jump in an X-Wing and blast the shab outta something. Now everything is...talking. Politics. Leia is tryin’ to groom me as her protege and it is not what I want. I don’t have the head for it, Hux, y’know?

“You would make an awful politician,” Hux said. Dameron levelled him with a long-suffering look. “Because you actually care about people, Dameron, not because of a deficiency of character. You’d get into a fistfight with some stuck-up core-planet bureaucrat within minutes.”

That raised a smile. “Yeah, I’d probably end up in a Coruscant jail cell.”

“Most likely. You dislike injustice and—rightly so—are moved to act when you see it. That is not the right sort of temperament for a politician. It should be, but sadly the galaxy chooses to send indecisive, selfish-serving buffoons to represent them. You are too inherently rash and good to be a politician.”

This time, the kiss caught Hux less off-guard. Dameron moved in more slowly, his intent obvious by the way he telegraphed his movements, and cupped Hux’s cheek before laying a soft kiss on his mouth. It was a slow, teasing osculation, so different from the tension-breaking kiss the night before it was almost hard to believe they both came from the same man. Both kisses were as perfect as the other, though Hux had to admit the tenderness in this one made his heart thud so heavily it was almost painful.

“Dameron,” Hux warned, but kissed him again anyway. Dameron kissed back, tongue running insistently along the seam of Hux’s mouth until he opened up to him. If that wasn’t a metaphor for their relationship, nothing was.

They sank down together on the bunk, all slow, tender kisses and warm arms and the scent of Dameron so strong it made heat roll through Hux’s core. The kissing tapered off, Dameron tucking his head under Hux’s chin, wild curls soft and smelling of Dameron’s shampoo. Strong, warm arms encircled Hux. A toned, bare calf slid between his own. Hux laid a hand on Dameron’s chest just to feel the rise and fall of it.

“Stay.” Dameron whispered, and Hux found himself nodding when he’d meant to say no. It was too easy, melded against Poe like this, to let himself go—to stop worrying about the after and how it was dangerous and stupid—and just let himself have this. He had never indulged himself any real pleasures before, hadn’t allowed himself anything that wasn’t practical, precise and for the cause. The cause was dead. Why shouldn’t he have this one thing for himself now?

And so he stayed.

Poe fell asleep alarmingly quickly and the level of trust that implied made something hot ache in Hux’s chest cavity. Poe had been the first of the Resistance to offer Hux a sliver of trust; to ask his opinion. To follow his advice. To turn his back as if he didn’t expect a knife between his ribs. And now, this complete and utter openness.

Hux didn’t know what to do with Poe’s irrepressible ability to see good in Hux when no one else had even looked. Hux was a tool, a weapon, something to use and then discard, something to abuse.

But not to Poe Dameron. To Poe he was...real. A person.

It took Hux a long time to fall asleep after that.

But he did. In Poe’s arms.

The next night, Poe slipped into Hux’s bed with no preamble and no excuse. He simply crawled under the covers as if this were something they always did and draped an arm over Hux’s middle.

“I think you’re in the wrong bed,” Hux said. He rolled onto his side to glare pointlessly at Poe in the darkened room.

“I dunno,” Poe shrugged and they were so close Hux felt the movement. “Seems right to me.”

“You can’t just say things like that,” Hux muttered. His cheeks were hot with a blush again, his stomach swooping at the idea that Poe meant it; that being close to Hux like this somehow felt right to Poe.

“I can. I did.”

“You’re reckless and impulsive and foolhardy—”

“Is this some sort of game where we just list synonyms?”

Hux huffed. Poe chuckled.

“You’re the most insufferable man alive—”

Poe cut him off with a kiss. There was no hesitation on either part this time; Hux opened his mouth and Poe’s tongue pressed inside again, tasting him. Hux flicked his tongue against Poe’s and Poe groaned, something primal and full of desire.

Hux’s hands gripped the front of Poe’s sleep shirt. Poe curled a hand around Hux’s hip. Hux bit Poe’s bottom lip. Poe bit Hux’s neck. Hux moaned. One thing led to another, even better thing.

Before he knew it, Hux was on his back with Poe leaning over him, pressing him into the meagre, plasticky mattress. As arousal rolled over him, Hux had to break away to gulp down air. His whole face—his whole body—felt fit to spontaneously combust. The way Poe was gazing at him, pupils blown wide in undeniable arousal, was doing little to calm his own frisson.

Poe licked his lips then leaned in for another kiss, his body pinning Hux to the cot, one hand gripping one of Hux’s wrist and restraining it over Hux’s head. Momentarily, panic overwhelmed Hux as quickly as a rogue wave can overwhelm a floundering ship, and he froze. Poe pulled back, concern and puzzlement etched into his face.

“Hux?” Poe said, then pinched his bottom lip between his teeth. It was so endearing—and attractive—it was almost enough to snap Hux out of his stupor. “Hey, hey,” he said in a painfully earnest and contrite tone, “everything’s okay, we can stop.” Hux was certain no one had ever used such a tone with him in his life. No one had ever softly caressed the sharp line of his cheekbones or ran the pad of their thumb over his bottom lip. No one had ever come close to the level of intimacy—of positive regard—that Poe was displaying and Hux was kriffing ruining it with his stupid, inappropriate trauma response.

Something of his thought process must have shown on his face as Poe gave an amused little snort, released Hux’s wrist and shifted his weight over to the side, freeing Hux.

“Better?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Hux said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology not accepted,” Poe said and Hux blinked, taken aback, before Poe continued, “‘cause you don’t have anything to apologise for. We’re in uncharted territory here an’ there ain’t one thing wrong with not knowing what you want.”

Hux gave a curt nod. “I am...inexperienced in this area.”

Poe’s kiss-wet lips curved into a smile, but not because he was amused by Hux’s ineptitude. No, it was one of those soft, affectionate smiles; the sort that made Hux want to believe that perhaps, sometimes, men like he were lucky enough to catch the attention of men like Poe Dameron.

“So we go slow,” Poe said, and kissed Hux in the centre of his forehead. “Or not at all. It’s up to you.“

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Hux nodded.

Poe raised an eyebrow. “I’m gonna need a few more details.”

“I’d like it if,” Hux paused and cleared his throat, “if you’d kiss me again. Please.”

Poe grinned. “You’re polite. I always imagined you’d be more—” he gave a vague gesture, “y’know, bossy. Commanding. General-y.”

“Dameron,” Hux warned and Poe captured his mouth in a kiss before he had chance to say anything more.

They kissed for a while, their fervour ebbing and flowing like the ocean, but never rising to a breaking wave. When things started to get heated, Poe always broke off and laid his hot forehead against Hux’s neck, his fingers twisting in the coarseweave of Hux’s Resistance-issue shirt as his breaths came out warm and quick against Hux’s chest. It was both lovely and maddening. Clearly, Poe was waiting for Hux to take the lead, to move them forwards, which was all well and good except Hux had no idea what to do next.

“Dameron,” he said, already embarrassed before he’d even said a word about it and glad the man wasn’t looking directly at him, “I want...more.”

Poe leaned up and scrutinised Hux’s face. He must have been satisfied with whatever he saw there as he broke into a smirk. “Alright,” he said, “tell me what you want.”

The thought of having to describe the lewd things he wanted Dameron to do to him was almost as mortifying as admitting he didn’t even really know what those lewd things entailed.

“What? No! This isn’t a sleazy Zeltros pleasure holo.”

“You know about pleasure holos?”

“Shut up, I hate you–”

“No, you don’t,” Dameron smirked. Why was the idiot sculag always right? “Not even a little bit. Else you wouldn’t let me do this—” he said, sliding a hand under Hux’s nightshirt. Hux gave an involuntary gasp when Dameron’s fingers grazed a nipple. They came together in another fervid kiss as Dameron made short work of the buttons of his nightshirt, then mapped out the plains of Hux’s chest and stomach with gentle fingers.

And that was as far as he went.

After a few minutes—in which Hux’s skin started to become over-sensitive from Dameron’s minstrations—Hux snapped.

“Stop it,” he said, irritation seeping into his words. Poe drew back as concern flashed over his face, his hands pausing their gentle exploration.

“You okay? What is it?”

“Stop—stop touching me like that,” he hissed.

Poe blinked. “Like...what?” He skimmed his fingertips over Hux’s stomach, pausing at the sharp jut of his hipbone. “This?”

Hux swallowed. “You don’t have to do that—touch me like you’re afraid I’ll shatter into a million shards. I’m not weak—”

“I know,” Poe interjected, a soft smile gracing his kiss-swollen lips, “you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. And I’m not—I’m being tender. Some people enjoy that, y’know?”

Oh.

“I can be rough, if that’s what launches your starship,” Poe continued with a wry smile.

“No, no I—” Hux hesitated, “—I don’t think I’d enjoy violence in this context.”

“Me neither,” Poe said then kissed Hux’s jaw, working his way up to the soft skin behind his ear, “I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter.”

“Mmmm,” Hux managed, distracted by the warmth of Dameron’s tongue in his ear, “so I have heard.”

Dameron drew back to scowl at him with (mostly) mock annoyance.

“It’s kinda considered rude to call your bedmate a schutta during, y’know?” He slid a hand down to the waistband of Hux’s pyjamas and paused, asking for permission. Hux gave a curt nod and Dameron slid the one remaining garment down. Hux flushed pink; he hadn’t been nude in front of another sapient being since he was a teenage cadet using the shared refresher.

Dameron grinned wickedly, eyes roving over Hux and lingering on his exposed prick. “Kriff me, Hux,” he said and licked his bottom lip, “look at you.”

His blush deepened. “Don’t tease me, Dameron, not about that.”

When Dameron looked up with pupils blown as wide as the night sky, Hux knew he wasn’t teasing at all.

“I would never,” Dameron said, kissing slowly up one milky thigh, “never about that. Never, baby.”

The endearment sent as much of a thrill through Hux as the kissing. “Good. I–ah–I-uh—” Hux stammered, coherent thought a challenge when Dameron was so close to his erect length.

“What’s the matter, Armitage,” Dameron purred, “tooka got your tongue?”

“Shut UP–” he started, but couldn’t complete the sentence; Dameron took him into his mouth and all thought vanished like smoke on the wind.

Poe, of course, gave fellatio as if it were a privilege for him to have the head of Hux’s length bumping the back of his throat. Like he had something to prove by it. Poe had no discernible gag reflex and clearly knew exactly what he was doing; Hux pushed away any thoughts of previous recipients of Poe’s enthusiastic mouth. They didn’t matter. In this moment, it was Hux’s prick Poe was lavishing with pleasure, Hux’s hip he was squeezing, Hux’s foot hooked around Poe’s back to keep him in place.

Hux, who Poe looked up at with those wide brown eyes blown dark with want. It was the eye contact—and the clear arousal in it—that pushed Hux right to the edge of release.

“Dameron—careful—” Hux warned, his voice rough. Poe just rubbed his thumb over Hux’s hip to acknowledge him, to say ’yes, I’ve heard you, go ahead’ and stars! was he really allowing Hux to spend in his mouth?

The thought alone finished him off and Hux’s release sped out of him at lightspeed, every muscle pulled taut to near-pain before going utterly slack and with pleasure. Poe groaned and swallowed as if he enjoyed it and didn’t let up until the sensation became torturous and Hux had to push him off with a strangled ”Ah, no more, I beg you!”

Poe rested his chin on Hux’s pale thigh and grinned up at him with swollen, wet lips, unbearably smug.

“How was that then, General?”

Hux couldn’t find it in him to snark back and instead threaded a hand into Poe’s wild curls. Poe leaned into the touch like an over-affectionate tooka.

“Adequate,” Hux said, but the curl of his lips showed he was teasing. Poe chuckled and crawled up to kiss him. Hux could taste the acrid tang of his own release on Poe’s tongue, which should have revolted him, but instead made his stomach tighten once again with want.

“Only adequate? I’ll have to try harder next time,” Poe said, laying kisses over his jaw.

“Next time?” Hux said with faux-nonchalance. Gods, if Poe was going to offer to do that again he would be a fool to refuse.

“Yeah. Or we could try something else?” Poe raised a suggestive eyebrow.

Curiosity piqued, Hux asked; “Such as?”

Poe grinned wider than a nexu and far more deadly.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he kissed Hux again—slow, coaxing, a little possessive now, as if he could lay claim to Hux with just his mouth. Poe’s hands roamed with purpose, mapping Hux’s skin with new intent. Hux’s breath caught as Poe settled between his thighs and for a brief moment they simply looked at each other. The teasing had faded, leaving behind something deeper, something reverent.

“Still with me?” Poe asked, voice low, roughened by want. He reached up and tucked a stray, coppery strand of Hux’s hair behind his ear.

Hux gave a short nod. “Yes. I want—” he paused and his throat worked. “I want you.”

That was all the permission Poe needed.

They moved together with aching slowness, every motion deliberate, built on months of tension and the fragile trust that had bloomed between them like wildflowers through cracked duracrete. Hux had never given himself to anyone like this—open, bare, undone—but he did so now without hesitation. Poe made it easy. Gentle where he needed to be, firm where it counted, murmuring soft encouragements that made Hux’s stomach twist and his heart lurch in equal measure. Hux had never imagined being so vulnerable could ever feel like this; like safety.

When Poe finally pushed into him, the stretch of it burned briefly—which Hux had expected—but not enough to want to stop, not enough to outweigh the heat or the closeness. And when pleasure replaced the ache, when Poe hit his prostate with the same dogged accuracy he had shot down TIEs with, it surged through him like fire through ice, leaving him helplessly trembling against the waves of sensation.

They moved as one, tangled in each other, sweat-slicked and shivering. Hux clung to Poe, fingers digging into broad shoulders, legs bracketing his hips, drawing him in again and again and again. Poe kissed him through the final moments, sloppy and open-mouthed, swallowing the low, ragged sounds Hux made as he fell apart again.

After, they lay together in the warm hush of the aftermath, breath mingling, limbs tangled. Poe’s hand drew lazy circles on Hux’s side while Hux stared up at the ceiling, utterly ruined and, for once, startlingly content.

“So,” Poe said after a moment, voice a little hoarse. “Still just ‘adequate’?”

Hux let out a surprised laugh, and turned his head to look at him. “Dameron,” he murmured, voice wrecked and fond, “you’re intolerable.”

“Dontcha think we’re on first name terms now, Armitage? I mean, I have been inside you,” Poe said, grinning.

Hux flushed red from his ears to mid-chest. How the stars the man could say such things with a straight face was beyond him.

“Fine, Poe,” Hux said, testing the syllable out in the space between them. Poe gazed up at him with soft eyes, curls in disarray over his brow, a gentle smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. An unusual sort of pride bloomed in Hux’s chest at the knowledge he had reduced Poe Dameron to near-senselessness, and not with torture or violence, but with pleasure.

“Armitage—” Poe said, then smirked and shook his head. “It still sounds so kriffing formal. Might as well call you General.”

Hux frowned. “Except I’m no longer a General. And Armitage is my name,” he shrugged “though hardly anyone has ever used it.“

“I’m guessing First Order types aren’t much for cute nicknames, right?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I ain’t having it,” Poe said, casually running his thumb over Hux’s cheekbone. “I think a new chapter of your life deserves a new nickname. How about...Red?”

Hux raised a judgemental eyebrow.

“Mitty?”

“Not if you want me to respond.”

“...Tage?”

“You can’t be serious.”

Poe thought for a moment then suggested; “Armie?”

Hux’s first instinct was to roll his eyes and rebuke Poe, but the endearing smile on his face gave Hux pause.

“Ah, I think we’ve landed on a winner,” Poe said, triumphant, “unless you’d prefer I called you Hugs for the rest of our days?”

Poe alluding to any sort of future together beyond this moment sent a wave of warmth—and hope—through Hux’s body. “I think I’d have to strangle you to death as you slept.”

Poe barked out a laugh and Hux found himself smiling. Stars, he’d really lost all sense.

“You’re so damn charming,” Poe grinned and pressed those plush lips to Hux’s in a lazy kiss, his body bonelessly draped over Hux like a blanket. They kissed and kissed with no direction or purpose other than to linger in the taste and feel of each other, lost in their microcosm.

Chapter Text

Hux didn’t realise he’d dozed off until he awoke both sweating and shivering at once. His first thought was that Poe had somehow poisoned him during their intimate encounter, but even in his fever-addled state he dismissed the thought as quickly as it had arrived. If Poe wanted him dead, he could have accomplished that at any point since he’d forcibly dragged Hux from the First Order.

Then he remembered why they were locked in a quarantine room together in the first place; the virus. Dank farrik.

“Dameron,” Hux said, nudging the snoring lump beside him, “wake up.”

Poe blinked awake, looking for all the world like some sleepy ewok. “What’s wrong?”

“I am sick.”

Poe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“Not like that, you imbecile! The virus! I’m burning up.”

Poe was wide awake in an instant. He pressed the back of his hand to Hux’s forehead in the seemingly universal test for a fever.

“Yeah, you’re not looking so hot there, buddy. I better call Kalonia.” He paused, brows drawn low in concern. “Hey, you think I’m gonna get it now too? Y’know, considering what we did last night?”

Hux glared. “Well, seeing as you and I exchanged just about every bodily fluid possible and you had your tongue inside my mouth for a prolonged period, I’d say the chances are high.”

“I had a great time too,” Poe winked. If the room hadn’t begun spinning, Hux would have thrown a pillow at him.

Kalonia, dressed in a biohazard suit, poked and prodded Hux until she could confirm what he already knew; he had the virus. The next forty-eight-to-seventy-two hours were going to be unpleasant with chills, a fever high enough to induce hallucinations, vomiting and a violent headache. The latter had already begun pounding away behind his eyes and was due to get worse as the fever ran its course. As yet, Poe seemed to be unaffected.

“I’ve given you antivirals, antiemetics, antipyretics and analgesics, but even with all those you’ll feel like you’ve been run over by a bantha for a few days,” Kalonia said. “I’ll leave you hooked up so I can monitor your vitals, but the only thing that’s going to make you feel better is rest. And time.”

“Luckily, he’s got plenty of that,” Poe smirked.

“Can’t you take him with you?” Hux said.

Kalonia chuckled. “Oh no, it’s been so peaceful out there. You can keep him.”

“Ouch,” Dameron interjected, hand over his heart, “you wound me, Doc, you know that?”

“You’ll get over it,” she said. She instructed Poe on the correct timings and dosages of Hux’s various medications (Hux tried to listen, to make mental note of it all but it was next to impossible when his head pounded in time with every beat of his heart) and left, the airlock once again shutting them off from the outside world. Poe perched on the edge of Hux’s cot and smiled down at him.

“How ya feeling, Armie?”

“Like death would be a small mercy.”

Poe chuckled. “You sure have a flair for the dramatic, dontcha? Can I get you anything?”

Hux shook his head then regretted it when the room started to spin again. “No.”

“You want me to let you sleep it off?”

“Yes. But–” stay, he thought.

Poe waited, head tilted to one side, his eyes searching Hux’s face. “I’ll sit right here if you like,” he said and ran a gentle, tender hand through Hux’s hair.

Hux sniffed. “If you insist.” He closed his eyes and focussed on the sensation of Poe’s fingers teasing at a loose strand. “That would be...agreeable.”

Poe hummed softly and continued his ministrations until Hux fell into a fitful, fever-addled sleep.

Hux dreamed, but not of his father and not of pain or loss or fear; he dreamed of lying in an open field on Arkanis on a rare clear day, his face warmed by the welcome and recherché presence of the sun. Beside him lay Poe, bonelessly supine amongst the long grass, hair tousled and cheeks pinked from the heat of the day. Poe’s hand wrapped possessively around Hux’s, his fingers squeezing now and again as if to remind Hux he was there. A gentle breeze plucked seeds from the fluffy-headed weeds that grew in thickets and danced them across the bright blue of the sky. Hux reached up and caught one, holding it in his palm for a moment before letting the wind carry it away.

“That could be us,” Poe said, “we could float away, let the wind carry us.”

Hux shook his head. “You could. You can fly anywhere. I’ll only drag you down. You should cut me off like ballast.”

Poe turned and laid his head on Hux’s chest. “I’d rather be down here with you than flyin’ up there.”

Dream-Hux, unburdened from guilt, fear and reality, believed him.

It took three days for the fever to break; three days of which Hux only had fragmented, unintelligible memories of Poe bathing his brow with a cool cloth, changing his sweat-soaked bed and muttering soothing nonsense into his ears.

“Thank goodness you’ve come through the worst of it,” Kalonia said, once again submitting Hux to a zealous examination from within her biohazard suit. “Commander Dameron has driven me to distraction with his incessant calls about your condition.”

“Incessant calls?” Poe said with mock outrage, “I was just doin’ my due diligence.”

Kalonia rolled her eyes and gave Hux a conspiratorial wink. “Sure, whatever makes you feel better. Anyway, you’ll be fit as a f’nonc in no time. Just take it easy for the next few days and keep your fluids up. You’ll be out of quarantine before you know it.”

Hux blinked. Of course, now he’d had the virus, he would soon be able to return to his room and his work. The idea of freedom—limited as it was—should have thrilled him, but it didn’t. The time he’d spent here with Poe had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced; the emotional and physical intimacy they’d shared was probably the closest Hux had ever come to a romantic relationship.

And now, like their period of isolation, it would end. It was one thing for Poe to go to bed with Hux in the privacy of a quarantine room where the rest of the Resistance would be none the wiser, but it was a whole other anti-gravball game to carry on a relationship out there in the real world, where gossip spread faster than the rakghoul plague. Plenty Resistance members had made their hatred of Hux painfully obvious and they would no doubt see any relationship between them as a betrayal by their beloved Commander Dameron. If made to choose between Hux and his friends, Poe would—and should—choose the latter.

Unexpectedly, it hurt.

Kalonia was still talking, but Hux didn’t hear a word of what she said. He dumbly watched her leave, staring at the airlock for several long minutes after it cycled closed. It was only when Poe nudged his shoulder that Hux realised he’d addressed him.

“You alright?” Poe asked, concern evident in his face even if his tone was light. “Virus didn’t turn your brain to mush, did it?”

Hux shook his head. “No. I’m just...tired.” It wasn’t a lie; he felt exhausted despite having spent most of the last three days insensate.

“Yeah, me too,” Poe said, “didn’t get much sleep.”

“Why?”

“I was keeping an eye on you, Armie,” Poe smiled. Dark circles lined Poe’s eyes and his usually healthy complexion was pale and wan.

“You...stayed awake for three days...to keep watch over me?” Hux said. He could hardly believe it. That Poe would go to such effort for him was unthinkable. No one had ever even noticed his pain before, let alone tended to him or held (an unnecessary but not unwelcome) vigil over his sickbed. The only sympathy he’d ever been accorded was the practical sort of comfort offered by med droids, and that hardly counted when they were merely following their programming. Even DeeDee—Brendol’s old droid, who had done more to raise him as a child than any human—hadn’t been kind, hadn’t cared, but had attended to him because she was commanded to do so.

The only people who had ever attended to Hux were subordinates who had also been commanded to do so.

Poe was neither droid nor subordinate. Frankly, Hux was beneath Poe in all the ways that mattered; rank, social position, moral standing.

“...why?” Hux asked, genuinely dumbfounded.

“I was worried,” Poe said simply, as if that explained it all.

“I was not in any real danger—”

“So? You were uncomfortable.”

“I’ve had much, much worse.”

Poe frowned. “That doesn’t mean you have to suffer now.”

Hux snorted. “You’re the only person alive who doesn’t think I should be suffering eternally.”

Poe casually took Hux’s hand, threading their fingers together as if it were something they did regularly. Before Poe, Hux couldn’t remember ever doing something as simple as holding someone’s hand. No one had ever wanted to.

“First off, I don’t think that’s true. And secondly, maybe I’m just the only person who knows you.”

“You are the only person who has ever been persistent enough to,” Hux admitted.

Poe leaned in. “I am very persistent.”

Hux leaned in too. “Yes. Like a particularly virulent strain of mould. Or a fungal infection.” He smirked and Poe grinned in return.

“How romantic,” Poe said, then kissed him. It sent a sharp wave of desire through Hux, even in his exhausted and fever-rumpled state. He allowed himself the indulgence of kissing back, his hands coming up to grip Poe’s biceps without thinking. If this blissful respite from real life was due to end soon, then Hux would take as much of it now for himself as he could. After all, he’d never been accused of being selfless.

“I could make you feel better,” Poe said against his mouth, “if you’re well enough.” Hux was about to ask ’well enough for what?’ but the slow slide of Poe’s hand down Hux’s side and the creep of his warm fingers under Hux’s waistband answered the question for him.

“I think I could manage,” Hux said, “if you were extra attentive.”

Poe grinned in that lopsided and utterly endearing way of his and said; “Oh, I can be extra attentive alright,” out of the side of his mouth before pressing his lips once more to Hux’s.

Poe’s mouth trailed lower, slow and deliberate, every kiss and scrape of teeth a wordless question that Hux answered with a quiet, shuddering sigh. Hux’s hands tangled in Poe’s hair, urging him closer. His fingers tightened, pulling Poe’s mouth back to his own for a kiss that was more heated, more demanding. Poe’s hands slipped lower, past Hux’s waistband now, warm palms smoothing over the curve of Hux’s hip with a teasing possessiveness.

“You’re still burning up,” Poe said, his voice thick with arousal as he pressed his lips to Hux’s throat. His hand moved, fingers brushing over sensitive skin, and Hux’s breath hitched, his hips arching up as if they had a mind of their own, moving in search of more friction.

“And whose fault is that?” Hux managed to snipe, though his tone was breathless and lacked any of his usual bite. It was hard to even affect annoyance when his every word was punctuated by the shallow pants of want. “You’re more dangerous than the damned fever.”

Poe laughed, low and husky, his voice vibrating in the space of Hux’s chest.

“I’ll take the blame,” he said, his hand curling around Hux’s now-hard length with a slow, sure touch that had Hux biting back a groan. Gods, Poe knew just how to touch him in order to make him want to shake apart instantly. Hux’s eyes fluttered shut as pleasure sparked under his skin, each deft, deliberate stroke sending heat coiling tight and low in his abdomen. Poe’s thumb pressed just beneath the head, a torturous flick that left Hux gasping and jerking into Poe’s hand. And with the way he moved—firm, skilled, and so very attentive—Hux found it impossible to keep his hips still and his voice quiet. An embarrassing moan escaped him, but it only seemed to spur Poe onwards.

“You sound so good like this,” Poe murmured, his voice low and reverent as he watched Hux through heavy-lidded eyes. “I could listen to you all night.”

Hux let out a breathless laugh, though it was more a whimper as Poe’s hand tightened just enough to make his vision spark with white-hot pleasure.

“Don’t be sentimental,” he tried, but the effect was ruined by the way he gasped at the next stroke.

Poe pressed a kiss to the hollow of Hux’s throat, soft and wet. “Not sentimental,” he said against Hux’s skin, his breath hot. “Just greedy.” His mouth moved along Hux’s collarbone, nipping just hard enough to leave faint marks against the pallor of Hux’s skin. Then Poe rubbed his stubbled jaw in the crook of Hux’s neck and Hux shivered uncontrollably at the sensation. Poe’s hand moved faster, twisting at the end of each stroke in a way that had Hux’s toes curling against the bed and his mind whiting out like a hyperspace tunnel. Hux clung to Poe’s shoulders, nails digging into the muscles there as his control slipped further and further away.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Poe managed to strip Hux’s carefully curated control away every damn time. Hux was pathetically weak for him; for his soft curls and softer eyes and words like silk and hands that touched with reverence and want all at once.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Poe said, kissing his way up Hux’s throat, catching the edge of his jaw before finally finding his lips again. The kiss was messy and desperate, Poe’s tongue sweeping in to taste every gasp, every muffled moan that Hux couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Poe—” Hux’s voice cracked on his name, his body tightening in a telltale way that meant release was embarrassingly close already. Poe seemed to sense it, his hand speeding up, his other hand bracing Hux’s hip to keep him pinned and squirming. And stars, it probably said something negative about his psychological state, but being held down like that by one of Poe’s large, strong hands just pushed him to the precipice more expediently.

“Let go for me,” Poe coaxed, his mouth brushing Hux’s ear in a hot whisper. “I want to see you come undone.”

And Hux did—his head tipping back, lips parted in a cry as the pleasure broke over him in waves, his whole body tensing and then going deliciously slack against Poe. Poe didn’t stop until Hux was shaking with the aftershocks, until he was forced to pull Poe’s hand away with a shuddering breath and a look that was half-wrecked, half-sated.

“Greedy bastard,” Hux managed, voice hoarse but tinged with a shaky, blissed-out smile.

Poe just grinned, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the galaxy. “For you? Always.”

Once he’d recovered his senses enough to manage it, Hux slid a hand over the lewd bulge in Poe’s trousers, but Poe covered Hux’s hand with his own to still it.

“No,” he said, his tone gentle but firm, “you’re not a hundred percent and it ain’t a tit-for-tat situation, baby.”

“But I should,” Hux replied.

Poe’s fingers tightened around Hux’s hand, anchoring him. “You’re already doin’ everything I want just by being here,” he said softly, his thumb stroking over Hux’s knuckles. The words made Hux’s chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fever. When had anyone actually enjoyed Hux’s company before Poe? When had anyone wanted him there just because they liked having him near?

Never.

Hux shifted restlessly, his gaze flicking up to meet Poe’s. “I don’t like being indebted—”

“You’re not,” Poe interrupted. “I just want you to let me take care of you tonight.” He leaned in to brush a slow kiss over Hux’s lips, a kiss that was almost chaste in contrast to the lasciviousness of what they’d just shared.

Hux wanted to argue—he always did—but Poe’s hand was warm on his jaw, guiding him back down onto the pillows with a tenderness that silenced the protest on his lips. Poe’s other hand drifted up to push sweat-damp hair off Hux’s forehead, his touch reverent.

“Just lie back, Armitage,” he said, his voice thick with affection, with want, with a need that didn’t demand anything in return. “Let me look at you. Let me take care of you.”

Hux let out a shaky breath, but he gave in and let his weight sink back into the bed, let Poe look at him in that dangerous way—like he was something to be cherished.

In that moment, with Poe’s tender hands on him and the post-orgasmic tiredness already pulling at his eyes, Hux almost believed he could be.

Perhaps it was the remnant of the fever that sparked Hux’s nightmare—or perhaps the vulnerability that was wrapped up in every interaction with Poe—but it struck like an unexpected blow in the depths of his previously peaceful sleep.

He was a boy again—perhaps five or six years old, as he was still in Brendol’s grand, crass house on Arkanis rather than holed up on some half-dead cruiser in deep space—playing with a half-dozen die-cast durasteel ships on the carpeted floor of his small room.

Then the heavy, unmistakable footfalls of his father made him pause, a mini TIE fighter clutched in one hand.

Brendol appeared in the doorway of Hux’s small room like a towering spectre, his broad frame filling the doorway in a way Hux’s slender shoulders never could. He grabbed Hux by the arm, fingers bruising in their cruel hold, and dragged him towards the stairs. The smell of whiskey and cigars hung around Brendol like a miasma. Hux dropped the TIE model somewhere along the landing and it clattered away.

“Father?” Hux managed to squeak, “Where are we going?”

Brendol’s only answer was to curl his fingers more tightly around Hux’s wrist until he could feel the bones underneath flex and he yelped in pain.

He should have known better than to make a sound. The look of utter disgust on Brendol’s face hurt as much as any slap. Brendol sneered and pulled Hux onwards by the arm; Hux half-walked, half-fell down the stairs after him, his short legs struggling to keep up.

Then Brendol pulled him towards the door under the stairs—it was stained wood, set into the panelling of the wall so as to be almost invisible unless one was looking for it—and Hux resisted.

“No, please father, no—” he begged pointlessly. Begging never helped. “Not that, please, I’ll be good!”

Brendol wrenched the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and then picked Hux up, his little feet kicking uselessly at the air, and unceremoniously shoved him inside. Hux fell to his knees, the wood beneath them dusty and cool.

The door closed with a slap of wood against the frame. The key turned in the lock.

It was pitch dark inside and cold. Hux’s too-quick, stuttery breaths filled the space.

“You’ll stay in there,” Brendol slurred from outside the door, “until you learn!” The lesson he was supposed to learn wasn’t specified. But then, Brendol never needed a reason. Hux’s very existence seemed to be cause enough for punishment, as if he had offended his father just by being born.

Then, silence but for his own panting. The dark pressed in from all sides, the walls too close. His fingers groped in the gloom, running over the rough duracrete and chipped paint as he tried to steady himself, to resist the tears that burned hot behind his eyes. If he cried, he’d just have to stay longer. If he screamed, Brendol might open the door, but only to strike him before locking it again.

He counted in his head, as DeeDee had taught him to do in order to ‘control his childish emotions’. One. Two. Three. Four. A gasping breath. Five. Six. Seven. He swallowed. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Then, a flash of bone-deep terror as he realised just how much he needed to use the refresher.

No. No no no.

He rattled the door and called out.

“Please father, I need the refresher!”

Silence. And growing panic.

“Father! DeeDee! Maritelle!”

Nothing.

He rattled the door again. Cried. Screamed. But he may as well have ceased to exist for all the attention it got him, for all the good it did. He knotted his legs together and sobbed from the agony of it—and the horror of knowing what would happen if he wet himself.

Brendol didn’t take his belt to Armitage’s backside often, but when he did...stars, he’d never known pain like it. And then the discomfort and indignity of not being able to walk or sit for days. The thought alone was enough to keep him from wetting himself a while longer, but he was a child, and biology could only be resisted for so long. Warmth and wetness spread through his underthings like shame itself had been made physical.

And then Hux woke up.

He sat up in the dim light of the quarantine room, hands fisting the sheets in a death grip. His cheeks were wet, but more mortifying by far was the cloying wetness of his sleep pants and the sheets beneath him.

No, gods, not now! he thought and a sob escaped Hux, bubbling up from him involuntarily. Not here!

Which woke Poe, who was curled beside Hux, one arm thrown over his waist. Poe blinked up at Hux blearily, only half-awake.

“Armie? What’s the matter?” He asked. Then Poe’s eyes went wide and he stiffened. He looked down at the sheets. Comprehension washed over Poe’s face and then his expression folded into something full of sadness and worry.

Hux genuinely wished death on himself.

“Kriff, Poe, don’t—do not look at me!” Hux said, helpless against the tightness in his throat and the hot pinpricks behind his eyes. Of course, how fitting it would be to burst into tears now also and ruin the last shred of dignity he still had. He pulled away, knees drawn up to his chest like a shield.

“Armie,” Poe said, not angry but kind, concerned. That was worse somehow than disgust would have been. “It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t!” Hux hissed. “I pissed myself like an animal!”

“You’re not an animal, you’re unwell. It’s okay—”

“Stop saying that!” Hux snapped. “Stop being so—so soft! So good! I don’t deserve it!” The sob that broke out of Hux was ragged, desperate, devastated. Poe wordlessly gathered him into his arms and Hux let him. Pathetic and needy as it was, Hux let him.

It was all he’d wanted as a child; to be held and told it was okay. That it didn’t matter. And Poe offered it so freely, as if it cost nothing.

Hux could just as easily resist gravity as Poe’s tender embrace and soothing words.

After the sheets were changed and both men cleaned up—with profound lack of judgement on Poe’s part—they sat on the edge of the bunk. Hux twisted his hands in his lap and glared at the far wall as if it were to blame for his shame.

“I feel I owe you an explanation,” Hux began, but Poe shook his head and slipped a hand into Hux’s as if it were normal now for them to hold hands. As if Poe found comfort from it—from him. As if Hux wetting his bed had only made Poe more endeared to him instead of revolted.

“No, you don’t owe me anything. But if you wanna talk, I’m here,” Poe said, his brown eyes wide and earnest.

Hux took a deep breath. He’d never talked about Brendol with anyone, aside from the odd snide remark to Phasma, and he hated how it made his hands shake even now, years after he’d had the man killed.

It turned out people could still hurt you even after they were long gone.

“When I was a boy—around five years old—I wet my bed,” Hux said, with a strangely detached tone, as if delivering some dry technical report. “My father was displeased. He considered it weakness. He beat me for it.”

Poe’s fingers curled more tightly around Hux’s but he didn’t interrupt.

“Then he called the staff in—at three in the morning—and humiliated me. Rubbed my face in the mess as one might do to a misbehaving pet. Instructed them not to assist in changing my sheets until morning. Of course, all he succeeded in doing was making me so afraid of erring that I didn’t really sleep properly for years,” Hux continued. “He used to lock me in the cupboard under the stairs as punishment. Make me hold it in until I was ill or wet myself. I...I dreamed of it. I assume that’s why I...did that.” He paused to scrub a hand over his face. “I know now how...inappropriate Brendol’s parenting was—”

Now Poe did interrupt. “I wasn’t just inappropriate, Armie. It was cruel and abusive.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Call a spade a spade,” Poe said, but not unkindly. “He was abusive and you were a little kid who didn’t deserve it. He traumatised you.”

Hux bristled at the implication even as he knew it to be true. He had been traumatised: first by Brendol and Gallius Rax; then by Pryde and Brooks et al; then by the other cadets; then by Snoke and Ren. He was weak and other men—stronger men, crueller men—had targeted him for it.

“It’s kind of a miracle you’re as well-adjusted as you are. Y’know, patricide and genocide not withstanding,” Poe quipped with a tentative grin and Hux couldn’t help the surprised snort of laughter that escaped him.

“I don’t know how you manage to do that,” Hux said, giving Poe a much too fond look. The man was too charming—too affable and disarming—to resist.

“What?”

“Break the tension. Make me feel...as if it is okay to be a mess around you.”

“It is.”

Hux was silent. Because that was the most dangerous part of all this; not the sex, but the emotional intimacy. Sharing his body and being cast aside, Hux could weather. He could cope with that. But being so openly accepted despite his many and glaring peculiarities, only to lose it...could be deadly.

Really, it was better that this would all be over soon, before Hux could do something stupid like fall in love with Poe Dameron.

“Maybe I’m just too awesome to get ill,” Poe proclaimed three days later, in the middle of a set of suspiciously shirtless sit-ups. Hux was holding Poe’s feet in place; ‘spotting him’, Poe had called it, though Hux presumed it was an excuse to get Hux close so he could show off a little.

“Maybe you’re too stupid,” Hux retorted and Poe snorted an inelegant laugh. Hux found his lips curling into a wry smile. For some reason, making Poe laugh—not at him but with him—felt powerful. Fulfilling. Good. It was ridiculous. “You’re so brainless even orthomyxoviridae avoid you.”

Poe paused at the peak of his sit-up, face inches from Hux, and said:

“So what I’m hearing is you’re dumber than a virus, seeing as how you’ve been thoroughly captivated by me,” Poe grinned, pleased with himself. Hux couldn’t help the laugh that barked out of him. Poe leaned in further and kissed him. Hux didn’t resist.

Unfortunately, they were interrupted by the crackle of the comms panel set in the wall beside the door. Kalonia’s tinny voice filtered through.

“Commander Dameron? Mister Hux?” She said, and Poe jumped up to answer her through the comm unit.

“Yeah? We’re here, Doc,” Poe said.

“You’re both being released from quarantine tomorrow,” Kalonia said brightly, “which I’m sure will be a great relief to both of you.”

“You betcha Doc, we’re desperate to get out of here now and back to normal,” Poe replied, smiling widely. “I’ve got cabin fever here y’know?”

Hux said nothing.

Later, Hux shifted his duffle to the floor near his cot, his few belongings stuffed inside, and turned to find Poe in his space.

“Stars, Dameron, it’s like having a living shadow,” Hux exclaimed. Poe just grinned and ran a hand up Hux’s arm, his eyes wide and dark with want. Hux shivered; he still couldn’t believe Poe was looking at him—too skinny, too pale, too angular him—like that. Like he was edible.

Poe stepped in close, guiding Hux backward with gentle pressure until the backs of Hux’s knees hit the edge of the cot. He didn’t say anything—just looked at Hux like he was something precious, something that was his to claim.

“You’re staring,” Hux said, trying for sharp but falling short. His voice came out low, unsteady.

Poe reached up and brushed a thumb along his cheekbone, then down to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.”

It was unbearable, the way Poe looked at him. Like he saw something worth wanting. Like this wasn’t just quarantine-induced boredom or convenience. It was too much. It made Hux hope and he’d long since learned how dangerous hope could be. So Hux kissed him to shut it out; to silence the part of him that hoped. Poe kissed him back immediately, melting into it with an ease that Hux envied. His hands slid under Hux’s shirt, and the touch of warm skin made Hux shiver again.

They undressed slowly, like neither of them wanted to break the moment. Poe opened Hux’s shirt, fingers brushing the pale skin beneath as he undid each button. He pulled it off and cast it aside, then let his fingers trace the contours of Hux’s body: the line of each rib; the sharp points of Hux’s hipbones where they bracketed the concave stretch of his stomach; the sinewy muscle beneath the creamy skin of Hux’s chest. Poe smoothed his hands over the litany of scars littered over Hux’s torso; old silvery lines and newer pink ones, all shapes and sizes. It was overwhelming, to be seen and still wanted, and so Hux let Poe guide him down to the cot, the two of them tangled in the too-narrow bed, skin to skin. Poe moved over him like water, steady and sure, leaving a trail of kisses along his throat, down his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” Poe murmured against Hux’s skin, and Hux almost laughed, but the sound stuck in his throat. No one had ever said that to him. Not like that. Not sincere.

Hux gasped when Poe mouthed at his hipbone, the edge of his teeth scraping sensitive skin.

“Poe—” Hux’s voice cracked.

Poe looked up at him, eyes dark with want, and said, “Let me take care of you.”

Hux nodded, helpless.

Poe reached under the cot and retrieved the tube of medical-grade lube they’d used before, and slicked his fingers. He kissed Hux slow as he pushed one inside, then another. Hux gritted his teeth, eyes fluttering closed, one arm thrown over his face to hide his blush.

Poe caught his wrist and pulled it away.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Please.”

So Hux let him see. Let him see the want, the vulnerability, the sharp ache behind his eyes as Poe prepared him with slow, careful precision. Every stretch, every curl of Poe’s fingers, made his breath stutter. He was almost undone already by the time Poe finally pushed inside, and so Hux clung to him like gravity. It was too much; the stretch, the pressure, the way Poe filled him like he belonged there. The way Hux felt whole and seen and wanted.

“Stars, you feel—” Poe groaned, burying his face in Hux’s neck “—you’re perfect.”

Hux made a wounded sound in response, legs wrapping tight around Poe’s waist, pulling him deeper, closer. Poe rocked into him slowly at first, then faster, the rhythm building until the cot creaked and the plasticky mattress rustled and the only sounds were breath and skin and quiet, desperate gasps.

Poe’s hand found Hux’s cock and stroked him in time with each thrust, driving him toward the edge with relentless tenderness, those gentle, callused pilot’s hands controlling Hux with the same skill they controlled a ship. Hux came with a choked cry, back arching, his body trembling around Poe, who followed with a broken moan, collapsing against him as he released inside Hux.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. As he lay in Poe’s arms, head pillowed on his chest, Hux found the courage to raise what was on his mind.

Hux whispered, “That’s the last time.”

Poe stiffened. “What?”

“Tomorrow...our quarantine will be complete,” he said.

“Yeah, and not so much as a sneeze from me. If it weren’t for the company I’d complain how it’s all been a big waste of time,” Poe said, aiming for levity.

“And I’ll go back to my work and you to yours,” Hux continued.

Poe nodded, fingers smoothing down Hux’s arm. “Yeah, I’m itching to get back in my ship. This is probably the longest I’ve gone without flying in, oh, ever.”

“And things will be...as before,” Hux said, more a statement than a question. Poe tensed beneath him.

“Armie?”

Hux extracted himself from Poe’s arms and sat up. Poe leant on his elbow and fixed him with a quizzical look, brows drawn down in concern.

“It wouldn’t do for a Resistance general—a vassal of the Third Republic, no less—to be seen fraternisingwith the enemy,” Hux said. The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

“What? No, that’s, that’s a load of verrik spore!” Poe said, sitting beside him, the sheets a pooling around his waist.

“Is it? Tell me, how many people on this base had friends or family in the Hosnian System?”

Poe blinked. “Uh, I dunno, some, I guess—”

“And how do you think they would feel if they saw you and I cavorting? Angry? Betrayed?”

“I don’t give two bantha ticks about that,” Poe said, but the crease in his brown and the downturn of his mouth said otherwise.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Hux sighed. “And I assume you hadn’t thought that far ahead. How typical of you, Dameron.”

Poe was unusually quiet, which hurt Hux more than if he’d argued the toss.

“We’re not star-crossed lovers in some ridiculous, romantic holo-drama,” Hux continued, hating the words as soon as they left his lips. “Things like this—they don’t just work out. They end; either quickly or badly. I think the former is preferable, don’t you?”

Poe shook his head, a sardonic smile on his face. “Might’ve known you’d run at the first sign of trouble. I mean, that’s what you did before, right? Ran from the First Order as soon as things went south.”

The barb was meant to hurt, but Hux saw through Poe’s attempt at provocation and kept silent. Poe was clearly upset at the idea of this—whatever this was between them—being over, which was rather unexpected. Hux tried not to dwell on his own rising emotions; his regret, fear, hope, and kriffing affection. Emotion led to bad decisions; Ren was a testament to that.

“But I get it, that’s what men like you do, isn’t it?” Poe continued, anger rising, “You don’t give a dosh if you hurt people. I mean, you’d have to be some sort of kriffing sociopath to kill billions of people, right? As if you could care about anyone but yourself.”

Now that hurt. Hux had—foolishly—assumed Poe thought a little more highly of him. He shouldn’t be surprised though; if life had taught Hux anything, it was that he was innately repellant. He didn’t deserve the good opinion of a man like Poe. Hux got up and pulled on his clothes, his back to Poe.

“Exactly,” Hux lied, “I don’t care about anyone. Least of all jumped-up pilots with saviour complexes.”

Poe was silent for a long moment, but Hux could almost feel the hurt radiating off him. He didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare look at the pain that was no-doubt evident on Poe’s overly expressive face.

“You don’t mean that,” Poe said quietly, voice wrecked. Hux had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could reply.

“Don’t I?” Hux said, and fled to the refresher.

That night, they slept in their separate cots, both facing opposite walls.

Except Hux didn’t actually sleep at all. Instead, he lay silently in the dark, listening to Poe snore softly, and when the airlock hissed open at dawn, Hux left before Poe woke.

Falling back into his old routine of working until his eyes dropped, then slipping into bed, exhausted enough to sleep through the remainder of the night without chemical assistance, was easy enough. Banishing Poe—and the memory of his warm, gentle hands and his soft, caring eyes—was more difficult. On their release from quarantine, Poe had apparently decided avoiding Hux completely was the best option, as Hux hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him for three rotations (not that he was counting, or pining like some lost pup), which made it all harder still. Stupid, pointless thoughts forced their way into Hux’s consciousness, things like ’ I hope he’s well’ and ’I wonder if he’s sleeping enough’ and ’does he miss me too’ and regularly disturbed his concentration. After one such incident, in which he’d wasted a valuable thirty minutes thinking about Poe’s eyes and his stupid, beautiful smile, he gave his current thread up for lost and made for the mess hall.

Not on the off chance of seeing Poe, but because even he had to eat sometimes.

The mess itself wasn’t so much a hall as a series of curved scaffolds, lashed together and covered with tarps, leaving two sides open to the elements—and the unwelcome intrusion of the abundance of local insect life. Thus, the buffet was covered in metal lids and patrolled by a droid who defended the food against bugs as if it were in a battle that would decide the very fate of the galaxy.

Hux collected a tray of the usual rustic, too-spicy (for a palate accustomed to ration bars and protein cubes, at any rate) hotchpotch of foods; a fragrant bean stew accompanied by a ball of rough-looking bread, an unidentified pink-skinned fruit and a slab of what looked like half-melted transparisteel, which Hux assumed must be some sort of dessert. With a menu like this, the Resistance need not resort to torture.

He sat in his usual place, off to one side of the mess, alone on a small table, his back to the servery, eyes on his datapad. He struggled through the stew and his watery, gritty instacaf, avoided the bread entirely and was considering attempting the melted transparisteel blob when a tray clattered down opposite him.

He didn’t need to look up to know it was Poe.

“Heya, Armie,” he said, sounding strained. Tired. Maybe even sad. Hux couldn’t help but glance up; Poe looked as strung out as Hux had ever seen him, and his heart lurched at the sight. “Can I sit here?”

Hux nodded when he meant to say no and swallowed down a ’What’s wrong’. Gods, it was good to see him again. Too good. His stomach did something dramatic and fluttery.

“Sorry I haven’t been by,” Poe said, examining the bread roll on his tray, “it’s been—well, I’ve had better days.”

“It’s fine,” Hux said, “when you don’t constantly hang around my room like a mynock at a power station. I actually get work done.”

Poe chuckled. “Yeah, missed you too, Armie.” His smile faded. “I uh, had some rough news.”

“Oh?” Hux said. If he let his knee rest against Poe’s under the cover of the tabletop, it was purely accidental.

“My—my Dad,” he swallowed and Hux’s heart clenched. “He was making a supply run to Ord Radama when he was ambushed by pirates. He—he’s okay,” Poe said, voice shaky, “he made it, but it was a close thing. And I realised I hadn’t even spoken to him in—kriff, I don’t know. Too long.”

“I am glad he was unharmed,” Hux said, and meant it, even though he’d never laid eyes on Kes Dameron. He was Poe’s father—and ostensibly a caring one—and thus, he mattered.

“I went to see him, but it had to be a brief visit. I’ve got a mission coming up,” Poe’s hand crept across the table until his fingertips were touching Hux’s. “Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Hux shook his head. “It’s fine. It’s not like I’m your wife, waiting at home for your return.” But his heart turned over when he realised Poe hadn’t been avoiding him; he’d just been caught up in his own minor crisis. And even after the way Hux had spoken to him, Poe was still here. Still sitting opposite him in the mess as if Hux hadn’t deliberately been cruel. As if they were still...something.

Poe gave a devilish grin. “Now there’s an image.”

Hux’s cheeks warmed with a blush. “Dameron—” he warned, which only made Poe break into a chuckle.

“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up placatingly. “Sorry. How have you been?”

“Busy, as ever.”

“Did you miss me?” Poe’s fingers threaded between Hux’s and squeezed.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Idiot.”

“Evil space overlord.”

“Brainless flyboy rebel scum.”

Poe snorted. “I missed this.”

“Perhaps I should send you comms messages full of insults?”

“Please do—” Poe started, but paused as someone approached their table; it was the small engineer girl with the ridiculous hair—Tico—the one who’d bitten a chunk out of Hux’s finger. The one he’d ordered to be executed, once. Sometimes it still struck him—how it felt like a different life—like it was someone else who had committed all those terrible acts and Hux was merely privy to their memories. How it felt like both forever ago and only yesterday all at once.

“Ah, Poe, there you are,” Tico said, her eyes falling on Hux then darting away. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. “General Organa wanted me to pass this on to you—” she handed him a datapad, “a report on pirate activity in the Gordian Reach.”

“Thanks, Rose,” Poe said, “wanna join us for a bite?”

Dameron’s choice of words was too on the nose to be accidental. Incorrigible bastard.

Rose’s eyes flicked over to Hux again and held his gaze for a second before her features settled into a scowl. “No offence, but I’d rather share a Klatooine paddy frog buffet with a hungry Hutt,” she said.”

“Oh, the feeling is mutual, I assure you,” Hux spat, defensive.

“Hey, hey, c’mon guys, there’s no need for that,” Poe exclaimed. “We’re all on the same team here.”

Rose let out an exclamation of disbelief. “I don’t care what he says—” she pointed a finger in Hux’s face and he was tempted to bite it in retaliation, “—or what you or General Organa might think, but he is up to something. He can’t be trusted. And I don’t understand why you’d waste a minute on a man who murdered billions.” She turned on her heel and left.

The mess was quiet; all around them resistance members were whispering behind cups and casting furtive glances their way. Hux lifted his chin and glared defiantly until the room settled back into the usual chatter and clatter of cutlery on trays.

“I uh, I’m sorry,” Poe said, stricken.

“Why? She’s right. I am a mass murderer. I can’t be trusted.”

“Bantha shit,” Poe said.

Hux held up a hand to cut him off. “What did you think would happen, Dameron? That they’d welcome me into their clique with open arms? You are even more naive than I thought.”

“They’ll come round.”

Hux stood. “Or they won’t. This is why it isn’t a good idea,” he said and retreated to his room, Poe’s eyes burning into his back as he left.

Hux wasn’t surprised when he was disturbed from his work by a knock at the door a short time later. Poe entered without waiting to be admitted; the privacy of a door that locked from the inside was a perk Hux had yet to earn. Hux continued to stare with an exaggerated intensity at the tiny, scattered components of a binary motivator someone had dumped on his desk, presumably to be fixed.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt your work,” Poe started.

Hux gave him a sceptical look. “You’ve never worried about interrupting me before.”

Poe’s face scrunched up in a way that should not have been endearing. Or attractive.

“I—I—” Poe said and Hux could see the man was about to fall apart before it happened. He hated that he was correct—that he knew Poe well enough now to see it coming. Poe’s bottom lip wobbled, his eyes wet, and Hux went to him without thinking, as if Poe were a black hole and Hux, having touched his gravitational field once, was now forever destined to circle around the man until he was eventually pulled in and ruined.

Poe reached for him in his need and that, of all things, broke Hux’s resolve to enforce some distance between them; being needed by Poe was a powerful thing and Hux was weak. He was weak and desperate for affection and always had been. He’d burned the Order down out of hatred for Ren and the Sith—out of a desire to stop them from destroying any good that was left between the chaos and horror—but he’d have just as easily destroyed it all—the entire galaxy, if needed—for this: to be wanted.

And so he took Poe into his arms. The man buried his face in Hux’s neck, leaning up on his toes.

“Shh, you’re okay,” Hux said. Being comforting did not come naturally to him, but he patted Poe’s back awkwardly anyway. For Poe, he would make an attempt. “Tell me why you are crying, Poe.”

“It’s just...my dad nearly...y’know? And things ain’t always been good between Dad and me but—” Poe’s breath hitched and he grasped at Hux’s shirtfront “—but they’re okay now. We’re not close but it’s fine, right? And I realised I never told him.”

“Told him what?”

“That I love him.”

Hux rubbed Poe’s back. He was out of his depth here; he had exactly zero experience with positive parental relationships and expressions of sentiment.

“I am sure he is aware. You’re rather demonstrative with your affections,” Hux said and Poe sniffled.

“And I was already upset ‘bout how we left things,” Poe added. “I was shitty to you.”

“I was worse.”

“You were scared.”

Hux pulled back to look at Poe. He meant to be snippy—to deny being scared, even though it was true—but it was impossible to remain annoyed when Poe was gazing up at him with those pathetic wet eyes.

“I...assumed you would not want to sully your reputation by being so associated with me,” Hux admitted.

“You thought I’d be ashamed?”

Hux looked away. “You should be.”

“Sithspit, Armie!” Poe exclaimed and took Hux’s chin in his hand, turning Hux’s face back to look at him. “I’m not ashamed to be with you. You’re not him—the war General—anymore.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“Do you care what the others think?”

Hux paused. “Of me? No. But of you...I find it...pains me to think I could be tainting your image—”

“Stop,” Poe said, firm but not unkind. “You aren’t. And if people do think less of me for this...then I don’t care to know their opinion. They don’t know you. They don’t know how we are together.”

“Poe—” Hux started, but Poe cut him off.

“Look, I don’t know if this–” Poe gestured in the scant space between them, “will work. But I know this much; if we don’t try, we’ll never know.”

“I–” Hux began, but Poe leaned in and kissed him so tenderly his protest died on his lips. “Okay,” he said.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Poe beamed. “I won’t let you down, Armie.”

Being let down by Poe was not what concerned him. Poe didn’t let people down. That was Hux’s speciality.

Hux was not an easy man to get along with and he knew this. Nature had made him soft—as a boy he had been soft, kind, curious, prone to daydreams—but nurture, or a lack thereof, had made him sharp, guarded, argumentative, sensitive to rejection in a way that spoke of the soft child who still lurked somewhere under the armour Hux had crafted over three decades of being treated like he wasn’t even a human.

But somehow, Poe Dameron didn’t seem to mind. He took Hux’s sharp words on the chin as if they didn’t cut but rather...amused him. He shrugged it off when Hux argued for the sake of it. He peeled back the armour and held the soft, breakable parts of Hux he found underneath with his warm, gentle hands and that beautiful patient expression as if it was worth the effort.

As if Hux were...something precious he’d been gifted.

Which took some getting used to.

As did the casual affection and the way Poe touched him as if it cost nothing to drape his arm over Hux’s shoulder or lean his forehead against Hux’s or slide those thick, tan fingers between Hux’s slender pale ones like they belonged there. In public, the opinions of his colleagues be damned to sith hell.

Hux had lived a life under constant scrutiny by his comrades and superiors, but it had not prepared him to be the centre of resistance base gossip.

When he’d first come to the Ajan Kloss base and, unexpectedly, been removed from a prison cell and given quarters and some basic freedoms, he’d drawn every eye in every room he entered. Which was understandable; he’d been the face of the enemy to these people. Starkiller, they’d whisper. And fascist—which had been like a slap. He’d never considered himself a fascist until that point.

But they were right, of course. He was the epitome of one, without ever having meant to be. And oh boy, that did a number on his already shaky self image.

But now...well. Being so associated with Poe Dameron was having some side effects. In general, people were more tolerant. Not because they thought better of Hux, but because they loved and respected Poe so much that most of them chose to overlook Poe’s apparent lapse in judgement.

Poe’s closest friends however...were still painfully suspicious of Hux. He didn’t blame them; he’d tried to kill most of them repeatedly. The only one who seemed almost unbothered—and unsurprised—by whatever the hell was going on between Hux and Poe was Rey. But then she’d had some sort of toxic, weirdly co-dependent love/hate relationship with Kylo kriffing Ren, so her judgement was questionable at best.

Or perhaps she just understood that men like Hux and Ren—Ben— were more than the mindless evil bastards the galaxy had painted them as.

Regardless, base gossip and varying general opinion aside, Poe was unwavering. And Hux...Hux began to trust that Poe might be the first person to stay.

A few days later, Hux was working in the maintenance workshop when Poe found him and slipped an arm around his waist. Hux stiffened; he was still unused to such displays of affection in public.

“Hey, Armie,” Poe said into his neck.

“Poe,” Hux turned in his arms, “do not manhandle me while I’m working.”

Poe released him, but not before planting a kiss on his cheek. Hux huffed and felt the tips of his ears flush pink, though he was more pleased than he’d ever admit. He eyed Poe; he was dressed in full flight gear—a gaudy orange resistance flight-suit and life support vest. Hux found himself adjusting a strap without thinking, making sure the vest fit perfectly, and Poe smiled at Hux like he’d just handed him the moon.

“I’m shipping out,” Poe said, still smirking at Hux’s fussing, “gotta go scope out the Gordian reach, see if I can’t find the mudscuffers who attacked my dad.”

Hux frowned. “A revenge mission?”

Poe shook his head. “Nah, just gotta do my part to keep a lil’ peace in the galaxy.”

“I don’t think that’s your job,” Hux said. Both his stomach and heart made their displeasure known at Poe—an accomplished fighter pilot!—zipping off on his own to track down some pirates. “It’s beneath your position.”

Poe raised an eyebrow.

“I mean to say, shouldn’t the Third Republic be taking over the peacekeeping duties?” As always, the bureaucrats in the Core worlds were quick to judge and slow to act when it came to the safety of the lowly citizens of the outer rim.

“Okay, so maybe it’s a little bit of a revenge mission,” Poe admitted, one hand coming up to touch Hux’s shoulder, “but more to make sure people out in the reach can travel without being harassed.”

It irked Hux that Poe would be so eager to throw himself into danger when it was no longer really necessary. But the war was won and Poe was a fighter without a cause; it was probably foolish to think he would just retire or become Organa’s political protégé. Poe seemed to thrive on danger and chaos in a way Hux would never really understand and would have to learn to tolerate if he were to keep this thing between himself and Poe alive for as long as possible.

“Can’t someone else do it?” Hux asked. “That is—I mean—you’re needed here, aren’t you?

“Yeah? You need me here, do you?” Poe smirked, one hand coming to land on Hux’s hip.

“I didn’t say that,” Hux snapped. “I don’t need anyone.”

Poe sighed a long suffering sort of sigh and Hux actually felt a little guilty.

“You’re really married to the idea of being some sort of lone wolf, huh?”

“It’s not—it’s—” Hux sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face “—I have learned to trust no-one but myself. Needing someone else isn’t something I do. You should to get used to that.”

“Or you could, y’know, try?” Poe said. He leaned in and brushed his lips softly against Hux’s. “You can trust me.”

“I am trying, Poe,” Hux replied, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt.

“Then come wave me off.”

“Like I’m your war bride?” Hux bristled. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Poe looked crestfallen and damn, why did that make Hux’s heart clench?

Poe simply leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Hux’s downturned mouth and said; “Later, Armie,” before turning and walking away.

Hux dithered on the spot for barely a minute before he followed after Poe like the sentimental idiot he’d become.

Hux entered the hangar—an ancient, wide cave, the high ceilings scattered with sparkling stones—in time to see Poe making final preparations. He leaned against a stack of crates, helmet nestled under one arm, watching as a technician raised BB-8 into his X-Wing’s droid port. Organa, Rose and Finn had gathered to see Poe off in a disgustingly heartwarming display of camaraderie. Hux hung back, using the screen over Connix’s desk to obfuscate himself, unsure if he would be welcome.

What was he thinking? Of course he wouldn’t be welcome among Poe’s friends.

“You going to hide behind my desk all day or go say goodbye to your boyfriend?” Connix said without looking up from her work.

Hux blinked. They’d never spoken before, though he was aware of Connix (and as many higher ranked resistance members as he could keep straight in his head).

“I don’t know what you mean,’ he replied, curt enough to imply the subject was closed.

Connix rolled her eyes. “Sure, and I’m a Wookiee.”

A series of venomous retorts rolled around in Hux’s mouth, but he kept them contained behind his teeth. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands clasped behind his back in a gesture from his days in the Order he’d yet to throw off, and made to leave. But he was too late; BB-8 spotted him from his position up in the rear of the X-Wing and warbled a greeting loud enough for Poe to hear. Hux turned and raised a hand in silent greeting; the droid bleeped back merrily. Hux dared a glance at Poe. It was a mistake, as the kriffing idiot was grinning at him with open affection. To leave now would be cruel, so Hux cleared his throat and marched over to the gathered group.

“Armie,” Poe said, “you’re here.”

“Obviously,” Hux replied, aiming for standoffish and missing. It was difficult to maintain his veneer of disdain when Poe kept looking at him like he’d hung the stars. “I came to wish you well on your mission, Dameron.” Hux could feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the hangar bay on him. He was used to such looks; they meant nothing to him anymore.

“Why?” Finn interjected, “What’s it to you?”

“Finn,” Organa said, quiet but firm, but she was ignored. So much for the chain of command.

“No, I want to hear why a First Order General is interested in a Resistance mission,” Finn continued. Rose was silent, but her face wore a matching stern expression.

“Ex-First Order—” Poe interjected.

“An ex-stormtrooper questioning my motivations?” Hux sneered, “That’s rather like a Jawa calling an Ewok short.”

“Armitage,” Poe said, disappointment writ in the lines of his brow, “don’t.”

Despite himself, and despite their company, Hux was about to protest the unfairness of Poe jumping to the defence of Finn—who started the argument!—when Poe continued.

“And Finn, just give it a rest, alright buddy? We’re all on the same side here,” Poe said, hands spread between them placatingly.

Finn pouted and opened his mouth to say something more, but was cut off by Organa.

“Everyone,” Organa said, her tone now that of an order, “cool off before I make you cool off.“

Finn huffed but said no more; Rose was a silent but unpleasant force beside him. Poe took Hux by the elbow and guided him away from the group, over to the side of his X-Wing.

“Sorry,” he said, his hand still curled around Hux’s arm, “sorry about Finn, he uh–”

“He hates me.”

“Well...”

“It’s fair,” Hux smirked, “I can understand why. It makes a lot more sense than...however you feel about me.”

Poe huffed a laugh. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Coming to say goodbye. I didn’t want to leave things, y’know, like that.”

At a loss for words, Hux simply nodded.

“I shouldn’t be gone too long. Maybe when I’m back we can uh, go out somewhere. Just you and me. There’s a little place I found one system over that serves the best spicy ronto wraps outside the core.”

“If you like,” Hux replied, steady and disinterested in tone even as his heart whirred into life like an engine in his chest. Was Poe planning to take him to dinner? Like, an actual, honest to goodness date?

“Okay,” Poe said, his smile so bright it made Hux ache to look at it, “then uh, I should be going.” He let go of Hux’s arm and made for the ladder.

“Poe,” Hux said. Poe turned and grinned broadly at the use of his given name in public. “Try not to die.”

“No promises, Armie,” Poe said. From above, BB-8 bleep-blooped something in binary which Armitage didn’t quite catch. “Yeah, you’re right, BB,” Poe muttered, then closed the gap between them. He leaned in and kissed Armitage, so tenderly and slowly that it stole his breath. When they broke apart, Poe’s doe-eyes were wide and soft with emotion. For him—for a pfassking no-good ex-general bastard who didn’t deserve it—and he had no idea how he’d achieved such a thing. But it felt good.

Stars, he was done for.

Finn groaned in disappointment and Rose turned on her heel and marched out of the hangar. Organa gave a small, resigned sort of sigh as if her worst fears had come to fruition.

“Yes, well,” Hux said, straightening. He was used to prying, disapproving eyes watching his every move and their scathing scrutiny only made him tip his chin up in defiance. He hated the thought of people looking at Poe with such derision—it made his fingers itch for a blaster. Or better yet, a blade with a monomolecular edge. “Get going, flyboy.”

“Aye aye,” Poe said, tipped him a wink and climbed into his X-Wing. The hangar emptied, except for Hux who remained long enough to watch the T-70 lift off and disappear beyond the canopy of the lush jungle trees.

Hux felt Organa’s steady, quiet presence beside him for a moment before she spoke.

“I knew he cared more about you than he let on,” she said, her voice level and surprisingly devoid of judgment. “Poe is many things, but a good liar is not one of them.”

That was true.

“Unlike me,” Hux replied.

“I wasn’t insinuating as much,” Organa sighed, “but I understand your position in the First Order would have relied on subterfuge.”

Hux snorted. That was putting it mildly, what with demented Force-users on all sides pressing their will upon him like the dark, deadly tendrils of a mind-flayer.

“Here, we live and die by trust. By honesty. The Resistance was built on it,” Organa continued.

“I thought it was built on equally intangible hope,” Hux replied, caustic.

“That too,” Organa said, not taking the bait. “Sometimes Poe hasn’t been able to see that hope and sometimes he’s been dishonest in his pursuit of it. But he’s always on the side of good. His motives—” she sighed again, and Hux could almost feel the exhaustion nagging at her from beneath her ever-resilient exterior, “—his motives can’t be questioned. His methods...” she shrugged.

“He’s rash. Careless. He jumps into a plan before considering every eventuality. He relies far too much on ‘luck’,” Hux curled his lip. Luck was not real—or if it was, then it had been eternally set against him, “and charm and good looks, and not enough on solid strategy. He feels everything, every loss, every mistake, takes each defeat personally, as if the fate of the whole galaxy rests on his shoulders alone.”

“Yet, you love him,” Organa said, as if it were that easy. Hux hadn’t allowed himself to even think of the shape of that word—love—concerning Poe. For what did Hux know of love?

“That’s absurd,” Hux spat. “I don’t—I never—not that it’s any of your business!” he finished, lamely. The blush in his cheeks only amplified his mortification.

Organa raised a sceptical eyebrow. “A pity,” she said, glib, “as he’s besotted with you.”

Hux, for once, was speechless.

“Would it be so bad,” Organa continued, “to admit you care for him?”

“It’s not for my benefit that I resist, but his,” Hux admitted. “It’s not like he can make an honest man of me and take me home to his father, is it? I am a war criminal. By your laws, I committed genocide. The Third Republic calls for my head regularly. What would be the point of—of any of it?”

Organa listened, her head cocked to the side in a display of gentle attention. Hux bristled; how dare she look at him like that–like she cared for him one jot beyond what her precious Resistance could use him for. All politicians were the same.

“Oh, Poe’s a big boy, he can make his own bad decisions. And perhaps he thinks you’re worth it.”

“I know you’re the resistance’s self-styled mother figure,” Hux hissed, “but after meeting your actual son, I think I’d fair better without your advice.”

Organa gave a sad smile. “That was the problem. I spent too much time mothering the Resistance and not enough mothering my son. He was seduced by a great evil and I didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

“And I suppose you think Dameron’s suffered the same fate?”

She laughed, a clear, light sound like the peal of a bell. For a moment, she looked every bit the young, refined princess Hux had seen in the First Order files before the weary cloak of war draped over her features once again.

“Poe’s more a seducer than a seducee. And I don’t think you’re evil, Armitage. Misled? Yes. Brainwashed? Perhaps.”

“Because you know me so well,” Hux frowned, annoyed at the use of his given name–as if Organa thought of them as congenial acquaintances—and the assumption he served the First Order out of some blind, insensate devotion.

“No. But Poe’s no fool. He has a big heart and he forgives more than most, but he’s not stupid. If he sees good in you, I’m inclined to trust his judgement.”

Hux crossed his arms. “The people of the Hosnian System might dispute that.”

“Starkiller, like all First Order schemes, was ultimately instigated by Snoke—or Palpatine, I suppose.”

“I built it. I pressed the kriffing button. You pity me—think me some manipulated marionette, dragged along by the strings of my cruel masters and made to dance to their evil tune,” Hux scoffed. “I assure you, I made my own choices.”

Organa raised an eyebrow, pity writ so clearly on her refined features it set Hux’s teeth on edge.

“Why are you so determined to have me think you a monster?”

Hux sighed as he gazed out towards the star-pitted black of the night sky.

“Because that’s all I know how to be.”

Slowly, Organa reached out and touched Hux’s elbow. He fought the urge to jerk it away; he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort.

“That’s not true. You know how to be someone Poe Dameron loves.”

Hux turned away, the peace and solitude of his room calling to him as a Nightsister’s song.

“I wish that were true.”

With Poe whizzing recklessly through hyperspace, Hux sequestered himself in his room for the foreseeable future and buried himself in the ever-growing pile of busywork so as to not spend his every waking moment worrying about Poe. Not being privy to the details of resistance missions, he didn’t realise the pilot was overdue until he was woken from a nap by the cantankerous blue R2 unit everyone treated as some sort of pet.

[Worst Order! Command = wake],” R2 beeped.

“I am awake,” Hux snapped, dragging himself upright, “what do you want?”

[Objective = deliver message. Message priority = urgent]

Hux dragged a hand over his face. “What the stars are you bleeping about?”

[Hux = trustworthy] [droid designation BB-8 collect data. Hypothesis = true]

“I—what? BB-8 said I’m trustworthy?”

R2 made a bleep of frustration as if Hux were slow on the uptake.

[Statement = true] A pause, then: [Message subject field = pilot designation Black Leader]

Hux frowned. That was concerning. “Okay, you have my attention.”

[2300hrs Black Leader Dameron scheduled check in != complete]

“Poe missed his check in?”

[Droid designation BB-8 = location unknown. Black Leader Dameron = location unknown]

“Wait, what do you mean ‘location unknown’?”

R2 continued. [Droid designation BB-8 statement = true. Hux = property pilot Dameron]

Hux sighed. This is what happened when one didn’t wipe their droids regularly. He’d get more sense from a juvenile bantha. However, he couldn’t stop his heart from zipping around in his chest at R2’s choice of words. Had Poe said that to BB-8 or was it just droid-logic? The idea of belonging to someone should have triggered a wave of revulsion in Hux—he was no mere creature to be owned, no matter his current status as a sort-of prisoner—but it didn’t.

Stars help him, it felt good.

[X-Wing serial number T-70-ROAE-HAL = assigned Black Leader Dameron. X-wing serial number T-70-ROAE-HAL = Signal lost. Last location = Dasna system] R2 bleeped sadly.

Dread settled as heavy as molten chromium in the pit of Hux’s stomach. Poe was a reckless, foolhardy, brainless flyboy with a hero complex a parsec long. He was fated to go out in a fireball one day, but Hux hadn’t imagined it would be so soon—not when the war was finished, bar the shouting.

Not when they’d just found each other.

R2 rolled over to the droid port in Hux’s room and plugged in; the small, outdated monitor flashed up with a map of the Dasna system, in the outer rim of the New Territories, where thirteen small planets and several hundred moons and asteroids orbited a dying red dwarf sun. Hux had a passing knowledge of the system; a third or so of the planets held life, but the conditions were frigid enough that resources and sentient life were scarce—so much so that the First Order hadn’t bothered to maintain a presence there.

“Have they sent a rescue?” Hux said. That’s what noble, rebel-types did, wasn’t it?

R2 released a stream of expletives that would make a gang of weequay pirates blush.

“Am I to take that to mean you find their efforts lacking?”

R2 made a sound akin to a child blowing a raspberry and pulled up a classified report on Hux’s monitor. Hux scowled; they’d sent a couple of ships to Poe’s last known position and found half of Poe’s T-70—and the remains of its ruined transponder—but no sign of the pilot or BB-8. They had run several scans of the system, but they showed either zero life signs or too many to be able to decipher if any one of them was Poe.

MIA, the report said. Likelihood of survival: minimal.

No, Poe was alive.

It was irrational and based on zero empirical evidence, but Hux knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Perhaps Poe’s affinity for hunches had rubbed off on him.

Or perhaps he just wasn’t able to face the prospect of losing Poe.

Either way, he’d choose to believe—to hope—that Poe was alive until proven otherwise.

“They’ve given up,” Hux huffed, indignant. “They barely even tried. What the kriff happened to hope and trust and all that—that verrik spore?”

[Hux = assist. Hux = find Dameron. Hux = find droid designation BB-8]

Hux gestured to his room. “How, exactly? The New New Republic—” he spat with renewed vitriol “—doesn’t take suggestions from me. I can attempt to contact Organa, but the chance of her listening to me on this matter is slim. I’m afraid she’ll think my opinion biased. And I can hardly go myself, can I? I am under curfew. I have neither ship nor clearance.”

[Ship designation T-6 TWEV-7WE = available. R2-D2 = override curfew protocols]

Hux scrubbed at his face with a frayed cuff; a nervous habit his father had hated enough to beat Hux for if he ever caught him at it. Now though, with no one watching, he allowed himself the small comfort. Was he really about to do this—to trust an ancient and likely senile bucket of bolts—and risk the tentative relationship with the resistance he had debased himself to achieve? They could revoke his defector/refugee status and turn him over to the Third Republic senate. As the senate were, in Poe’s words, ‘baying for blood like a rathtar rammed in an escape pod’ over the Hosnian system thing, they would treat him as a war criminal and execute him posthaste. Likely to a twenty-one ion cannon salute and ticker-tape parade. Maybe they’d even make it a galaxy-wide holiday and celebrate every year by hanging a red-haired mannequin outside the senate building.

That was not how he had imagined being remembered, even if it now seemed rather fitting.

Was he really about to risk everything for an ill-advised affair with Poe kriffing Dameron? It would be the wrong and oh so very stupid choice, but in his heart—his heart! Not his head! Stars have mercy!—he had already made his decision. He’d made it the moment R2 had told him the awful news. There was no way in Sith hell he wasn’t going after Poe.

It’s what Poe would do if the roles were reversed.

“Ok, droid,” Hux said, a plan already forming, “Tell me everything you know about Dameron’s mission.”

R2 made short work of slicing into the rebels' system and reclassifying Hux’s chain code from prisoner to private. Hux wasn’t sure if this was a damning indictment of the resistance’s pitiful security or a testament to the droid’s hacking abilities, but he was grateful either way, as now he had access to all of the sensitive areas of the base. R2 issued him flight clearance for an old T-6 shuttle which, theoretically, Hux knew how to fly, though the reality of navigating it through the moons and asteroids of the Dasna system might prove too much for his lack of practical flight experience. He’d only received minimal pilot training; the Order hadn’t wasted time or resources teaching people skills they wouldn’t need.

The precocious droid had even managed to steal one of the ugly orange flight suits and matching helmet, emblazoned with a gaudy resistance symbol. Hux waited until the small hours, when the base was at its quietest, then changed into his ‘disguise’. His lip curled when he caught sight of himself in the refresher mirror; he looked ridiculous and every bit the complete traitor he had become.

He pushed the thought away with a shake of his head. It didn’t matter anymore; nothing mattered now but finding Poe. Poe and his smile like a slice of starlight. Poe and his messy curls and stubbled jaw and soft, plush lips. Poe, who somehow managed to chase away the darkness of loss and rage and uselessness which seeped into Hux’s bones like something rotten and threatened to hollow him out from the inside.

He had to find him, dead or alive, or die trying. Because what would be the point of all this—of anything—if he couldn’t save the one person who had ever really mattered to him? It was selfish and stupid—two things Hux had never been—and he’d likely end up dead or in prison himself, but he didn’t care. Poe deserved to live, even if Hux’s life was forfeit.

Maybe that was what love was.

The quiet decision to die for someone who smiled at you like you mattered.

Stealing through the base in the semi-dark of a night lit by flicking halo floodlamps and liberating the T-6 proved remarkably easy. Again, Hux wondered how a ramshackle group of terrorists with such poor security had managed to bring down the dominant power in the galaxy. Perhaps when one could trust one’s allies, draconian security measures ceased to be necessary. Hux had never been able to trust anyone; Phasma was the closest he’d ever had to a real ‘ally’ and he was under no illusion that she wouldn’t have killed him in a heartbeat if it had become necessary. Here, among rebels who either hated or pitied him, he was the safest he’d been since his father took him from Arkanis.

Hux ran the start-up cycle in the T-6 and took off with no interference. Then, the challenge began in earnest; finding Poe. He set hyperspace coordinates for the Dasna system and once he was safely underway, tried to extrapolate Poe’s trajectory based on his last known coordinates, speed and direction. It was taxing, but Hux fell back into the rhythm of it with little effort; engineering and her sister disciplines of maths and physics came as easily to him as drawing breath. He was the man who had designed Starkiller Base—and ensured those designs came to fruition—after all.

The irony of risking his life on a rescue mission for the man who had been party to the destruction of his magnum opus was not lost on him. But it was the past; it was easier to accept the reality of his relationship with Poe Dameron if he thought of both himself and Poe in terms of who they were now rather than who they used to be. General Armitage Hux of the First Order would never have developed affectionfor Commander Poe Dameron of the Resistance. But Armitage “Armie”Hux, begrudging Resistance technician, was a different man, who had, unfathomably, fallen for his colleague and unlikely friend, Poe. The paradigm shift had been slow and Hux had resisted it, clinging on to his old identity like a hungry tooka to a scurrier. For who was he, if not General Hux of the First Order?

“Someone...someone good,” Hux muttered, checking his calculations for errors, “someone worthy of him.”

He’d managed to narrow down Poe’s probable position to two planets and their relative moons. It was still like looking for a burr seed in bantha dung, but it was a start.

When Hux’s shuttle dropped out of hyperspace he immediately saw why navigating this system was an issue. The whole place was littered with asteroids and Hux had to take immediate action to avoid a collision, pulling the ship into manual control when approximately six alarms blared at once, everything from proximity alerts to radiation counts to gravity field warnings. Hux, not a pilot by any stretch of the imagination, found his heart rate rocketing and his palms slick with sweat as he attempted to avoid a large asteroid only for a dozen tiny fragments to skitter off the hull with a clatter that made him jolt in his seat.

And then he made a mistake. In avoiding another group of micro-asteroids, he allowed himself to skirt too close to the gravity of one of the closer planets—some desolate rock so devoid of life that no one had bothered to even name the thing—and found himself dragged towards it. Hux pulled too hard on the controls and overcorrected.

Then, something exploded.

More precisely, one of the T-6’s sail-like wings. Alarms screeched and Hux—unflappable Hux—panicked. He was in trouble; trouble in the shape of that unnamed planet growing large in the viewport.

He was going down. There was nothing he could do to avoid that eventuality now. All he could do was strap in, aim for open ground, and pray to whatever deity might exist that he didn’t end up a smear on the surface of the frigid rock beneath him.

Hux pulled back hard on the controls, aiming to come in as flat as he could, all engines now firing in reverse to slow his descent.

And that was when he found the landing gear was...well. Gone. Perfect.

Hux grimaced; this is why he didn’t do wild, reckless things! He needed to plan for every eventuality and he hadn’t and now he was going to fail Poe—of course he was!—and get himself killed in the process. As the ship skimmed low over the surface of the planet—over forests of tall coniferous trees and past the grey spires of mountains—he couldn’t help but look for Poe. For a flash of an orange flight-suit or the shape of a broken X-Wing in the snow. Because he’d become someone who hoped now and gods it was stupid and dangerous, but he couldn’t help it. And so he prayed. To live. To find Poe. For the galaxy—which owed him nothing—to give him this one kriffing thing!

And that was his final thought as the ship skimmed over an ice field like a stone over water and slid on its belly, hull screaming against rock, until it came to rest on the floe.

Silence, blessed silence, for a long moment.

And then the horrific sound of ice cracking, the noise as loud as blaster fire. The ship listed to one side, tottering on the edge, before sliding off and into the dark water below.