Chapter Text
"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool."
(T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)
Hux’s head is still ringing with something that probably isn’t concussion. The dimness of this ruin of a fortress should be helping , but fierce, white light streams through the mine’s entrance. Though Hux’s back is to it, it gnaws at the corners of his eyes, makes it feel like there’s a blaster bolt pulsing through his skull.
“Orders, sir?” The trooper’s hushed voice nonetheless echoes in the rotunda.
The troopers have stayed close, gazes darting between the high ceiling and the bins of brittle red salt shards scattered around the room. Hux purses his lips. Even he doesn’t have any fucking orders. He’d figured Ren- no, the Supreme Leader - no, his commander must have ordered reconnaissance of the ruins for intelligence purposes, once it became apparent the insurgents had gone.
(insurgents, insurgents, insurgents. Nothing more. The Order reigns. This is the clean-up phase.)
Anyway, he’d figured it was an intelligence mission. Apparently, however, the Supreme Leader just wanted to kneel in the dirt and look at things that aren’t here.
“General?”
What the hell. They’re all here anyway. Ren can waste his own time, but Hux and his army have rebels to track.
“Scour the complex for any exploitable materials.” Hux’s voice is feeble in his own ears. “Tamper with nothing. Retain anything of intelligence value for the Documents and Media unit on the Finalizer .”
“Yes, sir.” Several troopers chime the affirmation, then disperse in pairs, armor glaring amid the shadows. Hux averts his eyes, closes them against the flashes of white, and finds the same glare behind his eyelids.
Placing a hand on the stone wall to steady himself against impending vertigo, he wills the white gone, focuses on the black specks in its midst. They bleed against the white, spreading into voids and abysses. Into silence and oblivion. He lets them drown him.
(for a little while)
The black isn’t so empty. It’s shot through with five red beams. It reverberates with the Commandant’s voice, all muffled. All he can catch is performanceperformanceperformanceperformanceperformance , crackling like a bad holo connection. A shimmer of gold, tinged with dark blood. Performanceperformance my marks are slipping, I need to study--
Hux’s hand slips, and he opens his eyes with a chill like beetles crawling down his arms. Gods, how long was he out? Most of the troopers are mulling about in his vicinity, still looking busy, but some hold containers: of the red salt, of a couple of motherboards, of broken antennae. The white light in his peripherals seems yellower. Through the entrance in front of Hux, Ren is still kneeling in the dirt, stone-still.
Maybe he’s meditating -- but no, his pose is too rigid, and what’s more, he’s touching the ground. (At once Hux can picture him in Hux’s own chambers on the Finalizer , bare arms bent on crossed legs, eyes shut, an inch above the floor. Peaceful, almost vulnerable.)
Ren’s lips aren’t moving now either, which luckily rules out the activation of any psychic bonds. How long has it been ? Perhaps long enough for him to burrow so deep into himself he’ll get lost finding his way out.
“JX-0923.” She should have the time. Hux turns carefully toward her, clasping his hands behind his back with effort.
“General.” No question in her tone, just deference.
“What was the standard time when you began reconnaissance?”
“Approximately fifteen-thirty, sir.”
“What is the current standard time?”
She extracts a datapad from under her mantle. “Sixteen oh-eight, sir.”
Shit. Not only has he himself managed to sleep leaning against a wall for over half an hour, Ren doesn’t appear to have moved in just as long.
“As you were.” Hux dismisses the trooper with a nod; she returns to scanning the ground.
Hux’s blaster is heavy under his greatcoat, and Ren’s eyes are shut, and it would be so easy . If this weren’t possibly a test, if the Jedi weren’t a viable threat to the Order, if Hux had any personal capacity to wage war on that particular plane of reality, if Ren still wore the mask and his hair weren’t falling in his face like this-- Stop.
It doesn’t matter (nothing does). Hux has to do this:
One: Step into the doorway and let the light hit him in the side of the face.
Two: Blink furiously and clear his throat as loudly as possible
Three: Choke on the words “Supreme Leader,” but say them anyway, at an equally decent volume.
No response. Oh . Excellent. Hux bites his lip and resists the urge to roll his eyes (primarily due to the persistent throbbing in his skull). He takes a few more steps, until he’s halfway between Ren and the entrance.
“Supreme. Leader. Ren.”
Nothing. Alternatively, just leave him here. He’s only going to complicate things moving forward. If only he weren’t so goddamn necessary .
Hux realizes with a strange flicker of clarity that Ren’s kneeling how he used to in Snoke’s presence, how Hux never (voluntarily) had. But now Ren’s doing the same thing in the dirt on this useless mineral planet, in some kind of Force-trance, and it would be so eas-- (not now, not yet).
Hux steps forward again, making his footfalls as loud as possible against the packed earth. Then he’s standing directly over Ren, their faint shadows mingling on the floor in front of them.
“Supreme Leader?” Softer now. The dark head stays bowed.
He’s probably just fucking with you. He probably sensed you in the doorway, and he’s definitely sensing you now, and he knows you’re thinking about your blaster and his hair and-- The thoughts roll in, the usual ugly inundation of horror scenarios and hypotheses. Hux unclasps his hands and moves them to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers against the stiff black fabric of the gloves. Ren hasn’t stirred.
He sees right through you. Maybe so. But if he did, he’d stop me right now.
Hux rounds Ren’s form so he’s standing in front of him, then kneels. Or more accurately, crouches. His dignity may have been tarnished on Ren’s account, but he can at least spare his uniform the same fate.
Here on the ground--in the dust, in the dirt he’s actively ignoring--Hux is closer to Ren than he intended, their knees mere centimeters apart.
Look at you, grovelling before Ren for the second time today. Hux isn’t. He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t. I need him. No. That’s imprecise. Revise and re-submit: He’s necessary.
“Ren.” No titles, no obeisance. Just the name, hanging in the space between them like battle debris, like a question.
The Supreme Leader opens his eyes, and damn him, if they aren’t ringed with the same pathetic shimmer of liquid that’s been betraying Ren ever since he broke the mask.
It’s unseemly. If he can’t keep his composure, he needs to cover his face and stop being such a goddamn embarrassment to the Order. The Order? It’s Ren’s Order now, Hux reminds himself, and he’s going to do to it what he pleases.
He probably heard that; stop thinking--
“It- it isn’t supposed to be like this.” Ren’s voice is low, and his gaze darts between Hux’s eyes and the dirt. “This- empty.”
Of course it’s empty in here, Ren. Of course it’s empty because your ridiculous vendetta has once again impeded our progress.
Hux swallows, excises the thought as soon as it forms. What he says is: “Yes. We’re too late. The troopers are reconnoitering the mine for any indicator of the Millen- of the Resistance ship’s flight plan. They’ll finish soon, and it’ll be best if you--”
“Not the mine, Hux.” Something in Hux’s chest clenches, not at the neglect of his title, probably out of hunger or stress. “All of this,” Ren continues, thickly. “The galaxy’s at my fingertips, and everything Snoke ever said- predicted about my destiny and the Dark Side, is this close to coming true. But I-” He lowers his head again and traces a finger though the dirt. “I feel nothing.”
“Apathy,” says Hux, sharper than is wise,“that’s a first for you.” This doesn’t quite look like apathy, though. It’s closer to a nihilistic spin on Ren’s typical histrionics - in which case, Hux really has neither time nor patience for it. “I have every confidence it will pass-” (Just the slightest hesitation.) “-Supreme Leader. In the meantime, we need to get off-planet. Quickly.”
“Why.”
Oh, God. Not this, not now. Hux can’t tell if it’s bait or blank despair. “I’m not going to answer that,” he says. “You know damn well why this isn’t finished yet.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and say it? It’d be good for you.” Ren stares at his own knees, blinking slowly. His eyelashes are infuriatingly long, dark against his skin.
“Say what , Ren,” Hux all but hisses. “‘I told you so’? Not the sanest option for keeping my windpipe functioning, is it?”
Unexpectedly, Ren’s lip quirks slightly upward. “Say it anyway. I need to hear it out loud.”
“Hear what , Ren?” My treasonous intentions? A romantic confession? “I won’t be party to an existential crisis--you don’t have time for it. Every minute wasted is another parsec between us and that freighter.”
“There’s a start. Keep going.”
Hux doesn’t. Not exactly. This is futile and absurd. “Now that Snoke’s gone, you need someone else to berate you?”
“Historically you’ve been fairly good at it.” Ren should say that with a smile, or the echo of one, but he doesn’t, instead his tone stays hollow, and he stands. Hux scrambles to his feet after him, reflexively brushing off his uniform even as black spots whirl before his eyes.
“That was before I was your direct report, Supreme Leader.” Hux takes a step backward, and his hand strays to his neck, where a red and violet supernova blossoms under his collar, an impressionistic masterpiece of fingerprints. A reminder. “It is no longer my prerogative.”
“You wish it were.” Ren’s tone is pensive more than anything. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”
In this light, Hux can hardly distinguish Ren’s pupils from his dark irises. It’s alarmingly like being stared at by a hole in space.
“My wishes-” Hux bites his lip. “-are hardly relevant. We have work at hand.”
Despite the dust on his gloves, Ren runs a hand through his hair. “I know.” He follows Hux out of the room.
Later, on the Finalizer (back at last) , Ren’s fingers drum the console in front of the primary viewport. He ought to change his gloves; he’s going to smudge dust on the durasteel. “Hux, as soon as we find my fath- that ship, we’re going to blow it straight to hell.”
“No prisoners,” says Hux, dispassionately. Even aboard his own ship (in his own one-time domain) he knows better than to argue. He takes a sip of tea and mentally catalogues the stars in front of them.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” says Ren. “But it sounds like you’d like to try?”
Hux swallows another sip. The strong herbs (and hydration) should be helping with the headache, but the throbbing persists.
This has to be some kind of test, Ren determining how contentious a tool he’ll be. (Your marks are slipping. ) Hux inhales. This is dangerous. Just go along with him, just go the fuck along and save yourself. It isn’t worth the gamble, it’s-- He can’t stop himself.
“Well, on the off chance that another ship or base--or even alliance-- does exist, it may be prudent to conduct a few interrogations.” Hux’s mind draws a graph behind the stars ahead, fine blue lines to pin the universe in place. In his peripheral vision, Ren inclines his head.
“However,” Hux continues, placating, “a decisive strike against the entire ship would be more effective against the two Force-users. And the Supreme Leader’s personal catharsis is an equally high priority for the Order’s stability.”
“Personal catharsis.” Ren hmms quietly. “Since when is that your army’s priority?” Ren clenches, unclenches, clenches his fingers. To keep his own from shaking, Hux grips the mug until he can feel his knuckles whitening under the glove. The other hand he splays across the console beside Ren’s fist.
“The Supreme Leader is the Order,” Hux says, obsequious, shamefully afraid. “His family affairs take the military and political priority he assigns them.” Snivel some more, why don’t you? Whatever. This is a survival tactic.
“This isn’t like you and your fath-- the Commandant.” Ren’s voice is satin-soft (serpent-soft, most likely). “This is the most basic dimension of the entire war. You and I, the Resistance, all our fleets and machinations, we’re- we’re like water-speeders on the surface of an ocean. This - the Force - it’s the current underneath pushing us forward, or the maelstrom dragging us down.” Ren swallows, visibly. “Weren’t you watching me and Skywalker on Crait?”
“After I’d recovered,” Hux manages, attempting dignity while you and I, you and I, you and I burns through his brain like atomic radiation. He sips his tea.
Of course he was watching, ears ringing, ribs on fire, trembling for at least three reasons he understood and at least six he didn’t. He’d recovered fairly quickly too, quick enough to watch Ren’s footprints show up crimson against the white salt. Quick enough to think, inexplicably, idiotically, of blood in the snow on Starkiller, while the world fell to pieces under his feet.
“Are you?” says Ren, and he’s looking at Hux with an unnerving keenness. Hux blinks. The bridge is stable; nothing’s falling.
“Am I what. ”
“Quite recovered?”
Hux’s reply comes out candid, caustic: “From your shoving me against a wall?”
“When you put it that way…” Ren’s lips twitch, almost wryly. “It was hardly the first time.”
It isn’t fair, what the quip does to Hux, pulls him back to those nights, to Ren’s lips on his, greedy, desperate; to a heap of mingled, tangled black fabric on the floor--greatcoat and cowl and tunic and cloak and two pairs of gloves.
Nights on the Finalizer , on the Absolution-- in his father’s old chambers, because they could, because fuck you to expectations and propriety, because we are young and we are mighty and one day we’ll arrive. Nights of I love you, Hux ; of Snoke’s bruises and Ren, I’m going to save you .
And after: calm, warmth, and something like safety. After: curling into the paradoxical solidity of a man who is--who was, and is no longer--so irresistibly fragile.
(It isn’t fair, what Ren does to Hux.)
Hux, however, sips his tea and smiles thinly. “Thank you for your concern.”
Ren’s gaze drops from Hux’s face to their hands on the console, both of his own and Hux’s left.
“Of course,” he says, and then - as if nothing has changed since the ill-fated droid mission, as if Starkiller hasn’t collapsed into the void, as if Snoke isn’t dead, and there isn’t a ring of bruises around Hux’s neck - Ren uncurls his fist and covers Hux’s fingers with his own.
Hux’s pulse instantly accelerates, with a carnal instinct that is almost certainly fear. Ren gnaws his lower lip for a second.
“Your glove is dirty.” Hux moves to withdraw his hand, but Ren tightens his grip.
“So?”
“‘So?’ ” Hux hisses, at once acutely aware of the hum of conversation among the officers seated behind them. Just let him do it, it doesn’t matter, whatever it takes to stay alive, bide your time- No. Some things, Hux cannot allow. He yanks his hand to his side. “We aren’t doing this, Supreme Leader. ”
“You did it.”
“I was…” Hux gropes for words. “...taking your pulse.”
“In the top of my hand.” Ren’s lips contort dangerously, as if a laugh might break out.
Ren didn’t see himself in the medbay, after Starkiller. He didn’t see the tubes and needles poking into him, the cadaverous gray pallor of his skin. He didn’t watch the shallow blue cosine-curve of his heart rate on the monitors. He didn’t sit by the bedside, looking at the feeble, bloodless, nerveless hand resting on the coverlet. He didn’t look at that hand and almost- almost - regret.
Hux raises his mug and drains it. “That was different,” he says. “I’m not actively dying.”
“Neither was I.” Ren tilts his head to one side, eyes bright.
“Well, you came damn close.” Hux sighs. This is ridiculous. “It hardly matters now, does it?”
“You would have grieved for me,” Ren observes. “It would have absolutely destroyed you.”
Hux can feel Ren’s touch on the surface of his mind, light as a brush-stroke. He must be trying to plant a thought, rather than extract one. It isn’t working.
“Once,” Hux says. “No longer.” He steps away from the viewport and back to the work. He’s surprised to feel Ren’s touch recede.
Hux has a six-hour sleep cycle scheduled, but for all he’s bone-weary, he doubts he’ll use all of it. It’ll take an hour of staring at the ceiling just to process everything before he can even begin to relax, and afterward there’s the problem of staying asleep.
Still, his rooms on the Finalizer have a way of putting him at ease. They look little different from his temporary chambers on other ships (the same sharp, silver lines of the furniture, the black rugs, the blue chairs), but there’s something home-like about these rooms that he’s never fully appreciated. Or at least they’re warmer than what he’s been using for the past few days on the Supremacy .
He drapes his greatcoat over the chair at his desk, slips off his boots, and makes quick work of his tunic. Gooseflesh immediately covers the bare skin, but it doesn’t stop him from pausing in front of the mirror.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. Behold Ren’s handiwork.
The abrasions ring Hux’s throat and coat his left side--rib cage to hip bone, before disappearing under his breeches. They complement the dark shadows under his eyes. This looks like the aftermath of a fight at the Academy, minus the blood.
The thoughts start clamoring: disgustinghorriblebrokenweak-willed-slip-of-a-boy .
It isn’t just the bruising. His ribs jut out a bit too prominently. His hair is off (no time to properly gel it the past few days- you’ll fix it, you’ll fix it, it’s fine). He runs a hand over it all the same. As he moves, the mottled skin stretches green and purple over the bones. It hurts . ( It’s taken him this long to notice.)
His hand drops. You should take something for this - you should drink something for this - you should grab your blaster and - No. I just need to sleep-
The faint whir of the bedroom doors opening scatters the thoughts. There’s only one person on this ship that would- Hux barely has time to throw on his robe before Ren steps in, doors irising shut behind him.
“Supreme Leader.” Hux ties the robe and clasps his hands behind his back as Ren crosses the room to stand toe to toe with him, by the mirror. “How may I be of service?” Hux’s smile should be pure vitriol. Exhaustion, however, dilutes it.
“Let me see you,” says Ren, apropos of everything and nothing.
“I can’t very well stop you, can I?”
“No.” Ren looks Hux up and down, gaze lingering on the burgundy blotches visible above the robe’s collar. “I want you to let me.”
Hux bites back his instinctive response of too-fucking-bad , keeps calm. “Oh, so now it matters? To what do we owe this change of heart?” The vitriol comes through alright this time.
“Reflection,” says Ren, and a controlled tremor runs under his voice. “On you, on me. I realized after, on Crait, the nature of our circumstances, and you- you need to be whole. If any of this is going to work, I need to fix you.”
“Fix me?” Hux all but spits. “Like a misprogrammed droid?”
“No!” Ren’s eyes are bright, shimmering with liquid. “Gods, no. No. Not like that. I just- I- Let me see you. Please. I need to see the extent of the damage.”
“Why?” Don’t push him, just let him, you need to stay alive-
“Because you’re hurt- “ Ren swallows. Hux notices his lips are cracked and peeling. “-and you- you matter.”
‘You’re hurt.’ Ren says it as if he weren’t the perpetrator, like some kind of savior.
But: youmatteryoumatteryoumatter. Hux knows this. He knows perfectly well how necessary a tool he is (more necessary than Ren would be to himself). He doesn’t need Ren to tell him so. He doesn’t, and yet- Ren’s hair is hanging in his face. And yet-
Oh, hell. Hux unslips the loose knot in the robe’s belt. His hands hang at his sides, and his fingers scrabble at the hangnails on his thumbs.
Ren bites his lip, raise his eyes from the floor to Hux. “May I?” He lifts a hand - ungloved - toward Hux’s collar, adds almost bashfully,“My hands are clean.”
“That’s certainly a tremendous comfort.” Hux takes the slightest step backward.
Ren more than compensates with a step of his own, bringing them chest to chest. “Let me,” he whispers. Hux feels no Force-touch. This is a survival tactic.
“Very well then.” Hux tenses, pulse thudding in his ears. “Do it.”
Ren folds the robe’s collar further down, runs ghost-light fingers over the angry handprints on Hux’s throat. “I did this,” he murmurs, repeats it again and again, as if marvelling. “I did this.”
Ren’s hand slips under the fabric, runs down Hux’s collarbone and his chest to examine his damaged side. Ren’s fingers are cold against the burning bruises; the light touch feels strangely like snow, when the first few flakes brush your face and dissolve.
“I did this,” Ren says again, “I did this,” sounding so lost and bewildered that Hux can’t collapse into memory, can’t pretend that this is a caress and all is well. Still, Ren can probably feel his heart drumming madly against his ribcage.
“I did-” Ren starts, and though Hux can hardly trust his own voice, he interrupts him.
“Have you stopped to consider the fact that you shouldn’t have?” ( For God’s sake, idiot, don’t scold him like a child. He can crush you with a flick of his wrist.)
Ren has reached Hux’s waist; he withdraws his hand. “I’ve been considering it most of the day,” he says.
“Decent of you.”
Ren’s lip quirks upward feebly, briefly. “Let me fix it. Please. That much I can do.”
“Do to… apologize?” Hux scoffs. He can’t fix this with a few Force tricks; there’s more damaged than just Hux’s skin. “It’ll take more than that.” More than he has to offer.
“I know.” Ren’s eyes flicker downward. “But you’ll sleep better if you aren’t in pain. I need you in optimal condition.”
Like a droid, Hux resists the urge to repeat.
“I’m not letting you use the Force on me,” he says, tensing. Not after earlier today.
“It wouldn’t be using the Force on you, more like… guiding the Force in you to achieve a mutually beneficial result.” Ren laughs, a low and ephemeral thing like a cannon blast. “That isn’t what you meant, but…”
“You thought you’d appeal to my weakness for technicality.” Hux stretches his lips into something like a grimace. Black specks dance before his eyes. “No, thank you,” he says, blinking.
“You don’t trust me.”
“How can I?”
Ren purses his lips. “Because I need you, as I’ve said, and you know it. I may not have your penchant for strategy, but I can see far enough past my own nose to know this can’t be done without you. I want to fix this. I want to start fixing this.”
He can’t he can’t he can’t. There’s nothing that will mend this; there’s nothing Ren can do. But his hands were gentle earlier, and he hasn’t killed Hux yet. If he meant to, he surely wouldn’t be waiting for permission. (And then there’s I need you .)
Hux’s bruises are throbbing, and he’s unsure how long he can keep arguing with Ren before he collapses on his feet out of sheer exhaustion. He needs to sleep well.
Hux sighs, nods, and slips out of the robe in silence, tossing it onto the bed behind him. “Should we sit down for this?”
“Probably.” Ren steps forward, almost hesitantly.
Hux gestures to the bed with a shrug, head ringing with the klaxon of mental alarms. He’s dangerous, you shouldn’t- Whatever. They sit on the edge of the bed, Hux with his legs folded under him, Ren with his boots on the floor.
“Are you sure?”
Hux nods.
Ren lifts a hand to loosely cup Hux’s throat. He probably doesn’t need to touch you to do this. But he is, and with the touch a warmth and a coolness spreads over Hux’s skin, beneath it. It tingles a bit, like vaseline rub when he was a child, when he wasn’t quite sick enough to waste bacta.
Ren lifts his hand. “Better?”
“Somewhat.”
Ren almost smiles, then moves his hand to Hux’s side. As Ren moves his hand down the discolored ribs, Hux realizes his own pulse is stable. Must be an effect of the Force. The thought unnerves some faraway part of him, the logical Hux, the commander of legions and the destroyer of worlds. But right now Ren’s fingers are soft, and the relief is instantaneous.
Ren finishes - almost - too quickly, then stands. He was blocking Hux’s view of the mirror, but no longer. Hux’s reflection shows inviolate skin, no trace of any abrasion. (It didn’t fix the visible ribs or the fatigue around his eyes, but still.)
Ren is looking at him expectantly. “Not so bad, was it?”
“Not really.” Hux makes a point not to thank him. Ren shouldn’t expect gratitude for cleaning up his own messes, for--childlike--fixing his own broken toys.
Ren tilts his head, ever so slightly, to one side. “Good night then.”
“Good night.”
The black specks swirl before Hux’s eyes, multiply, tunnel his vision. As soon as the doors slide shut behind Ren, he collapses into a dead sleep.
By 0600 Hux is on the bridge, pacing in front of the viewport and waiting for his tea to cool. Bolander, the lead analyst on duty, reports no further information on the Resistance ship’s location.
“Nothing of value from Documents and Media?” Hux is certain of the answer, but it’s worth confirming.
“Nothing yet, General.” Bolander shakes her head. “Unfortunately.”
Hux thanks her and dismisses her to her post. This should be over already; the war should have ended yesterday.
At 0700, he meets with the captains in the Finalizer ’s main officers’ conference room. Glancing around the table, Phasma’s absence stings. Hux draws his mind back from the edge of that particular void and invites Peavey to begin his brief.
His gaze still wanders around the room, to the faces of the officers, to the furnishings. The room is holo-enabled, with an appropriately secure connection that’s going unused at present.
We’ll have to record the official announcement in here , Hux realizes halfway through Peavey’s report on the Finalizer ’s operational status.
“Our signals collection equipment took some damage from the Supremacy ’s debris, but repairs are scheduled to begin later this cycle. Full capacity should be restored by or before 0600 tomorrow.”
“Good,” says Hux, detached. “Excellent.”
There hasn’t been a statement regarding Snoke’s demise and Ren’s new position. Ren’s title was no secret yesterday, but in the mad dash toward Crait and the chaotic aftermath of taking a headcount, establishing formation, and reviewing the mission, no official version of events was released. Rumors won’t suffice to explain a de facto coup.
Hux adds the item to his mental task list, but it’s really the only priority for today, besides watching and waiting for intelligence on Resistance maneuvers. Ren. He’ll need to consult Ren about it.
The meeting ends precisely at 0800, and Hux leaves the conference room without exchanging further pleasantries. He’s already turning phrases and paragraphs over in his mind, fusing them together, rending them asunder again, honing them to sharp perfection.
Ren may not want you putting words in his mouth. Oh, please. Ren needs all the help he can get.
Hux makes his way back to the bridge. Unsurprisingly, the Supreme Leader hasn’t yet appeared.
At 1100, Hux is examining a mangled collection dish in the Signals unit, when he gets a comm from the bridge.
“The rest of the equipment should be repairable,” Opan, his chief intelligence officer, is saying, “but this particular disk may require--”
“General.” A more junior analyst turns from his screen, pressing his earpiece. “The Supreme Leader requests your presence on the bridge.”
“We’ll finish this later,” Hux assures Opan, then heads for the bridge.
Ren is waiting for him at the viewport, against a backdrop of constellations. (Which is a stupid thing to notice.)
“How’s your neck?” says Ren.
“Happily possessed of an unrestricted airway.”
Hux gives him a mirthless smile, looks out through the transparisteel. The two of them are reflected on its surface, and Ren’s mouth contorts ambiguously, as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or shout the whole Star Destroyer out of the sky in wrath.
Hux allows a beat, and then: “We need to discuss public diplomacy.”
“I’m guessing that means you have an inaugural speech prepared for me.”
“More or less.” Hux turns back toward Ren with calculated ease. “We probably need to review a few details before I finalize a draft.”
“Such as?”
Hux starts walking, and Ren follows suit. “We aren’t going to use your bullshit about the girl killing Snoke, obviously,” he says, voice low. “That’s awful for morale, and outrageous besides. We’ll say he sustained fatal injuries in the destruction of the Supremacy, leaving you in command.”
“I prefer the version with the girl.” Ren stops in place; Hux turns toward him. What the hell. “The whole Order saw Skywalker’s...abilities yesterday; they’re already afraid of what the Light can do. Why not amplify that fear, use it as a tool? That kind of collective terror - it doesn’t have to be a paralytic. It’s a formidable weapon if tempered properly.”
“All things according to the Supreme Leader’s preference, of course,” Hux swallows a sharper response. “However,” he says, “if I may offer a counterpoint?”
“Please.” Ren gestures permissively, keeps walking.
“The angle of this message needs to be strength, camaraderie. You can’t be the bearer of threats, not in your first public address. You need to be on their side , not proclaiming how weak we are and what will happen to them if they fail.” Hux’s voice drops softer, colder.
“And wouldn’t that inevitably raise the question -- in some minds, anyway, not all, but still too many -- of why and how Kylo Ren could have possibly let the murderer get through him to his master? You’ll agree that that much needs to stay...highly classified.”
“Between you and me,” Ren corrects. That ridiculous thing in Hux’s chest clenches at the intimacy of the phrase.
“But I suppose I agree,” continues the Supreme Leader. “We need to promote unity above all else. And I’m sure many of them lost colleagues, friends stationed on the Supremacy - by accident, in the wreckage. If I can share that particular grief…”
Hux nods. “Exactly. You’ll be that much closer to having their loyalty.”
They pass a console wrapped in yellow tape reading FOR REPLACEMENT | DO NOT TAMPER | FOR REPLACEMENT | DO NOT TAMPER. Blackened lightsaber gashes gape beneath the strips.
“I suppose I already have their fear,” Ren says, drily.
“I suppose,” Hux agrees, releasing a breath and redirecting the subject. “I’ll have the script finished by the end of this cycle.”
Ren pauses in his step again. “Thank you.”
Hux ignores him. “I take it I’m dismissed?”
“Yes, General.”
Hux turns back toward the viewport, leaving Ren to reckon with the ruined panel.
At 1600, after a few hours of tapping on and off at his datapad between briefings from a workstation on the bridge, Hux sends the draft to Ren in an encrypted file.
At 1900, over a largely flavorless nutrient bar and some weak and disappointing tea (he apparently used the last of his Tarine this morning, and is now officially making do ), he checks his inbox. No reply from Ren. Not even a read receipt. Wonderful. Just - truly. terrific. And completely expected.
The address needs to be reviewed before the end of this cycle, for recording and broadcast tomorrow at the latest. Every day without an official story is another day for rumors to germinate, blossom, putrefy, and spread. Bad news for a peaceful transfer of power.
Hux rises from the workstation and informs Bolander he has a meeting with the Supreme Leader. Her shift will end at 1930; Hux doubts he’ll return before she goes off duty.
Heading down the corridors toward Ren’s chambers, Hux opens his datapad’s biotracker application to ensure Ren is actually there. (He is.)
Hux runs opening lines through his head, grasping for appropriate verbiage. “Supreme Leader, did you receive my message?” “Ren, you jackass, this is absolutely urgent.” “Supreme Leader Ren, was there a glitch in the file I sent you this afternoon?” He finds himself outside Ren’s door, presses the mounted comm.
“Supreme Leader, this is Hux, following up on the draft I sent you at 1600.” He releases the comm, and waits.
“Supreme Leader, this is Hux. It’s urgent.” Radio silence.
“Supreme Lead--”
He hears something crashing, something shattering; hears Ren’s voice, sharp, but too low to make out words. Walk away, Hux. Walk away, save it, it’s not worth it.
But something cold curls up in his stomach, burrows deep. One more try.
“Supreme-” Fuck it . “Ren. Are you alright?”
Ren’s voice comes through a bit breathy, quivering, as if he’s too close to the microphone. “Come in, Hux.”
The doors slide open, and Hux smells the lightsaber before he sees it, the thunderstorm scent of it effusing out into the corridor, filling the room as Hux steps in. Ren stands in the middle of the floor. His blade flickers for a moment, casting the room scarlet, before he retracts it. Smoke issues from a new rent in the wall in front of him. The doors shut behind Hux.
Hux suppresses a sigh. “What the hell is it?”
Then he notices Ren’s chest is heaving, hands are shaking, face is bloodless, eyes are red-rimmed. Like after a session with Snoke. The curled-up, cold thing in Hux’s stomach - like the ice dragon at the heart of a black hole - rears its head.
Ren drops the lightsaber onto the night table beside him, then sinks, nerveless, onto the edge of the bed. “Ghosts,” he says, head bowed. He runs his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees.
“Ghosts,” Hux echoes, stepping gingerly over to the bedside to stand above Ren. “I don’t see any ghosts.”
“Of course you don’t. Doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
Lovely. The Force has decided to torture him, as it’s sometimes known to.
Hux bites his lip. “Are they here now?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Ren looks up, shakes his head. “They’ll be back.”
Hux fights the base urge to settle onto the bed and comb his fingers through Ren’s hair.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he manages, coldly. “Are you disposed to discuss the address I’ve prepared?”
Ren sniffs and clears his throat. He swings his legs onto the bed and settles against the flat pillows, closing his eyes. “You deliver it.”
“No. It’s your speech, I wrote it in your voice, for you. I can’t deliver it.” Hux clasps his hands behind his back. He couldn’t drum up the kind of emotion for Snoke the script requires. Ren would at least be able to fake it. “It’s very specifically tailored, to the Supreme Leader, to Snoke’s heir..”
“You’re better at this sort of thing,” Ren murmurs. “You give it,”
“Supreme Leader, I-” Hux begins.
“That’s an order, General Hux,” says Ren, without opening his eyes.
Hux briefly purses his lips. “Supreme Leader. Wouldn’t you at least like to review it before it’s broadcast?”
“I trust your judgment.”
Hux isn’t flattered. He watches how Ren’s fingers tremble at his sides. “This is a bad time, clearly,” he says. “My apologies. I’ll come back first thing next cycle when you’re better composed.” The file has a timed encryption; he’ll have to resend that, too. He makes to turn toward the door.
“No,” Ren says, voice watery, eyes open now, “you can stay. Please stay.”
Hux freezes. How- what- no, this is wrong - “What for?”
“Talk to me. Insult me, if you want. Just- distract me.”
“I have to be on the bridge, Supreme Leader. I can’t sit in here and prattle at you.” Hux pinches the bridge of his nose, but something aches in his chest.
“Fine then,” says Ren, and inches into a sitting position. “I’ll prattle at you.”
“No.”
“Ask me something.”
Hux clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides. This can be a game for two. “Why don’t you want to deliver this speech?” he says, petulantly.
Ren smirks. “Because I’m bad at speeches.” Hux raises his eyebrows.
“And besides,” Ren continues, “Snoke operated from the shadows; it worked reasonably well for him. That’s why he had you.” He lingers on you for just longer than necessary. “I can think of less than three occasions on which he appeared in public.”
“And you don’t think assuming the throne would merit a public appearance?”
“It’s unnecessary.” Ren cracks his knuckles in a sort of stretch. “There’s ample precedent for the Supreme Leader to be a bit… faceless.”
“Your face , Ren-” says Hux, pacing to the end of the bed.
Ren smiles. “Ren,” he murmurs. “That’s the second time.”
Oh.
“Apologies, Supreme Leader.” Heat creeps across Hux’s face.
“No, it’s fine,” says Ren, still smiling, looking satisfied. “Keep going.”
Hux clears his throat, paces back to his former position. “Your face , as I was saying, is exactly what they need to see, now that the mask is gone.”
“They’ve seen my face now. Some of them. That’s enough.”
“That’s terrible politics,” Hux says. “You need their trust, their loyalty--they need to see you. They need to hear from you directly. Snoke had their implicit trust; you have to earn it.”
“I have you.”
Hux tries not to savor the words. “I’m not enough,” he insists.
“That’s what you’re for.” Ren shrugs. “You’re the writer; you’re the orator. I need to stay in the shadows. It’s unnecessary for me to give your speech,” he summarizes. “Next question.”
Hux would protest, if his head weren’t still reeling from youyouyou . Biting back his natural inquiry -- what the hell kind of mood are you in-- he purses his lips and lets his gaze roam the room.
“What exactly have you been doing all day?” is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows he’s likely to get some cryptic babble about locating the Resistance by “searching my feelings.” He’s not ready for that.
His gaze wanders to the other side of the room, to the alcove in the durasteel wall where Ren has apparently moved his shrine.
“Speaking of masks,” says Hux, and rounds the bed to stand beside the urn holding the shriveled, ash-gray husk of Vader’s helmet. “If you’re done with your own, why do you still have this?”
Ren is silent for several seconds, lips quivering.
“It’s an heirloom,” he says at last, stiffening. “It’s something to live up to.”
“To live up to?” Hux echoes. “You’ve surpassed him. He was nothing but Palpatine’s bloodhound.” Hux’s fingers absently stray toward the mask. “He--”
“Hux, no, don’t touch it! It’s--” Ren’s eyes flash with something like fear; he makes to put his feet back on the floor.
Hux’s hand falls on the gray metal. He runs his fingers over the ripples where it’s half-melted, twisted. It’s cold, and scored with tiny fissures. Nothing happens.
“It’s what?” Hux tilts his head to one side, withdraws his hand, and crosses the room.
“Strong with Force memories,” Ren murmurs. “I always forget you can’t-”
“Can’t...?” Sense it? Use it like he can? Jockey for his position as the most powerful being in the galaxy?
“Nothing.” Ren shakes his head, repositioning himself. “What were you saying about Vader?”
Hux is back by the bedside. He clears his throat. “Just that he never grew out of his master’s shadow, like you have.”
“He merely had different priorities.”
“He still never ruled the galaxy.” Hux can’t quite filter the bitterness out of his voice. He thinks of Snoke’s empty throne and the wreck of the Supremacy, floating like a ghost town in the vacuum of space.
“You can sit, if you want.”
The throne. Hux blinks. Ren nods to the foot of the bed, across from him.
“I’d rather not.”
“Fine,” says Ren, brushing his hair out of his face. “You can if you want to, that’s all. It’s easier to talk that way.”
Hux sighs, faintly. He might as well get off his feet. He kicks off his boots and slips out of his greatcoat, laying it beside him on the bed. He perches at the foot of the bed, pulls his knees toward his chest. They’re silent for a moment. Hux shrugs. Ren smiles.
“I don’t rule the galaxy,” he says.
“Not yet,” Hux replies, tone clipped. He twists the rough coverlet between his fingertips.
Ren coughs out a laugh. “I don’t even have a plan.”
“I’ve noticed,” says Hux, all but primly.
“I’m open to suggestions.” Ren leans back against the pillows, folds his arms across his chest, then says, bizarrely, “Tell me about your empire.”
“I don’t have an empire, Ren.” Hux clenches his jaw, twists the blanket tighter around his finger, cutting off the circulation. “You have an empire.”
“What’s the difference?” Ren says it as a challenge, but his eyes are soft. There’s something contagious, conspiratorial, in his look.
Hux shakes his head, scoffs. “You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”
“Maybe.” Ren’s lip twitches. “Still. Tell me about your empire. I know you’ve dreamed of it, made plans. I can see the outlines on the surface of your mind. It’s - absurdly intricate.”
“You don’t want to hear all that,” Hux demurs, involuntarily running the blueprints through his mind: palaces, monuments, organizational charts.“It would put you right to sleep.”
“Good.” Ren blinks heavily.
Hux watches him for a moment. “You haven’t slept, have you?”
“Not exactly.”
Hux pops his lips. “Ghosts?”
“More or less.”
Hux looks up and down Ren’s relaxed form, the deceptively solid shape of him. The fine line of his scar is partially visible beneath his hair. Damn him, his eyes are still red-rimmed. (Stay.)
Hux sighs, and the thoughts come screaming.
This is it: the worst idea you’ve ever had. You can’t- He’s dangerous. He’ll destroy you on a whim, kick you aside like so much debris. Enough. No, he won’t. He needs me.
Hux needs to remain necessary, remain trustworthy. He extracts his datapad from the folds of his greatcoat next to him, and inches slightly left so that Ren can stretch out.
Is this what you’re going to do now? March for him, dance at the end of his string? He may be docile now, but he’s a groundquake, a volcano, a hurricane. You can’t trust-
Hux knows. He’s always known, known long before Ren became ruler of the known universe. But this- this is… politically advantageous . Assure him of your loyalty - your personal loyalty.
That’s all this is. A rational choice. Politics in action.
Hux rolls his eyes, mostly for effect. “You should get some sleep,” he says, more gently than he means to. He unlocks the datapad and opens a report.
“Hux-” Ren’s voice sounds close to breaking. (It’s nothing unusual, but still.)
Hux glances up from the screen. “I’m little use against ghosts, but-”
“Thank you.”
Hux nods and returns to his reading. He flicks through a dozen or so intel reports before he looks up again. Ren’s eyes are shut, chest rising and falling slowly. There’s something wistful in Hux’s smile.
He gingerly swings his legs over the side of the bed, is careful not to disturb Ren as he slips his boots back on. He stands, lifts his greatcoat, and feels his knife in the sleeve as he puts it on.
The sheath is cold and solid, and the blade inside is acutely available. And here is Ren - dark hair tangled around his bare and lovely throat. It would be so easy.
But it wouldn’t. ( ‘I have you.’ ‘You matter.’)
Hux circles the bed and bends over Ren. Answering some base instinct, he brushes Ren’s hair away from his face, then presses his lips to Ren’s forehead.
Pathetic. Look at you- Stop. Enough. I need him.
Ren doesn’t stir. Hux lifts his datapad, dims the lights, and opens the door. He steps out into the corridor. It no longer smells of storms.