Chapter Text
“Tell me,” Brendol says, breaking the silence that had been threatening to swallow the room whole, “exactly how idiotic can you manage to be?” There’s nothing Armitage can say in response, but his father waits anyways, determined to embarrass him, and the worst part about it is—even after all this time—his tactics still work. Armitage clenches his fists tighter in his lap, determined not to show any weakness.
“General, I-”
“I’m not interested in hearing any excuses, boy!” the man shouts, banging his fist down on the board room table, and a few of the other officers jump at the sound. Armitage refuses to break eye contact with his father, but his palms are becoming slick inside of his leather gloves and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck grows stronger as he anticipates the worst possible outcome. It’s alright, he tries to soothe himself, he’s all talk. There are still witnesses. The silence returns, oppressive and heavy and no one will look at Armitage—the other officers flitting their eyes from place to place and refusing to land anywhere near him. They’re all pretending that he’s not there, and somehow that’s worse than being seen as a failure in front of his peers because Brendol is determined to make it so, and he is a man who always gets what he wants.
“Everyone out,” Brendol’s voice is a dangerous hum, and the other men practically trip over themselves as they leap out of their seats. The race to the doorway is quick and quiet, and soon the shuffling stops and Armitage is alone with his father.
“I have given you every opportunity to complete this one simple task, and yet you have failed me still. How can you expect to advance in this organization when you can’t complete one simple fucking task?” Armitage blocks out the crescendos of his father’s voice, and retreats into a safer space, deep in the back of his mind. His father’s words begin to blur together, the same insults and abuse repeated once again. Armitage could still get out of this, if he stays quiet. If he stays firm. After all, Brendol is still wearing his gloves, which means that the worst of it is not yet on the horizon.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!” His father reaches out too fast for Armitage to dodge, grabbing him by the jaw and holding him tight, forcing him to take in the arrant loathing on Brendol’s face. The grip of his father’s hand burns along his jawline, but he knows it won’t bruise. Brendol has perfected the ability to cause his son pain without leaving any visible markings; he’s had a lifetime to do it. Armitage resists the urge to shift out of his father’s grasp but he’s losing his nerve, and just when the pain reaches a breaking point, his father lets go. A wave of nausea rolls through him as he watches his father begin to remove the leather covering his hands.
“It seems I have to teach you a lesson, boy, and this will not be one that you soon forget.” Brendol’s gloves hit the table with a soft slap as Armitage braces himself for the first punch, but he can never be sure where his father will strike. Maybe it’s his imagination, but Brendol seems less controlled than the last time, a little more wild, and those bruises had stayed around for weeks; the shame for much longer. Would it be worse? It’s impossible to say, and the only thing Armitage can think of to calm himself is rather disappointing: it will have to end eventually.
The door slides open without warning, the mechanical swish echoing loudly off the walls in the empty room. Brendol drops his fist and turns to the source of the noise, taking his eyes off Armitage, and he looks to the door as well, curious to see who was brave enough to interrupt the general in a moment like this one.
You’re standing there in the doorway, fresh from your most recent assignment, and for a moment Armitage allows himself to be happy to see you, and happier this time, knowing that you had inadvertently delayed something awful.
“What is it?” Brendol asks, and his demeanor is changed now that he realizes it’s you. He reaches for his gloves and forces them back over his hands, seemingly composed, his previous rage gone, at least for the moment. Armitage isn’t sure if he believes in a higher power, but right now he’s ready to thank the Maker as you stroll through the doorway and into the conference room. There are many bounty hunters employed by the First Order with more experience than you, but you’ve certainly made a name for yourself already, quickly becoming a favorite of his father. This successful mission would be the 33rd that you’ve completed for Brendol … not that Armitage was keeping track.
“Sorry to interrupt, General,” you say, “I just came to report that the target has been eliminated, as requested.”
“Excellent,” Brendol says, and he claps his hands together with approval, “I’ll have the credits transferred to your account immediately.” He reaches for his data pad to initiate the transfer, and Armitage hears him mumble under his breath, “at least someone can do their job right.”
A blush rises to Armitage cheeks—one of the few reactions he hasn’t yet learned how to control—and he hopes that you didn’t hear the taunt. It’s one thing to look incompetent in front of the other officers aboard the ship, but in front of you …
“Thank you, general,” you say, tapping your fingers absentmindedly on the blaster strapped to your thigh as you wait. Your eyes land on Armitage, and he stiffens under your gaze, his neck growing warm under the collar.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” you nod to him, and Armitage can hardly speak. He had been under the impression that you didn’t know who he was, and your acknowledgement, in addition to the relief that his father’s hands had been stayed momentarily, is more than he can currently bear. His throat is dry—he’s not sure what he would say even if he could speak—so he opts to nod instead. Once again Armitage is forced to thank whatever higher power out there that his father is still distracted with the credit transfer. If Brendol noticed the effect you had on him, he would never be able to escape the torment the man would enact.
“The transfer has been initiated,” Brendol drops his data pad back on the table, and any pleasant feeling Armitage had experienced from your recognition has quickly disappeared, replaced with the dread of facing his father alone once again. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have to deal with my son.”
“Actually, sir, I was hoping I could discuss something with the lieutenant briefly.”
Armitage’s eyes snap to his father, waiting to see his reaction. It’s obvious that Brendol is surprised by your request, traces of anger flashing across his face, but his father is capable of being charming when needed, and he masks his annoyance.
“Why?” Despite his attempts to cover it, there’s still a hint of disgust in Brendol’s voice, one that always appears when Armitage is brought up, but you don’t seem to notice.
“It’s nothing, really, just a bit of intel I picked up and thought I’d pass along. I know you’re a busy man, General, and I’d love to explain it to you directly but I have urgent business on Hosnian Prime and I need to return to my ship as soon as possible. I thought it might be easier for you if I reported to the Lieutenant now on the way back to the hangar, and he could impart the information to you at a more convenient time.”
Brendol looks to his son, and Armitage tries to seem disappointed, annoyed even, under his father’s gaze. He knows that if Brendol suspects that leaving with you would bring Armitage any kind of pleasure, he would immediately refuse. Apparently his act is sufficient, because Brendol hesitates, and then concedes.
“Very well,” he says, “but we’ll continue this conversation later.” Armitage can’t find any place in his mind to worry about that now; he’s too elated at the thought of spending a moment alone with you, and finally being away from his father.
You walk silently down the corridors of the ship at a leisurely pace, and Armitage grows nervous. Should he say something to you? He tries to muster the courage, but he can’t think of the right words when he’s too busy sneaking glances from the corner of his eye. He thinks he’s being subtle, but you catch him looking and look back, a small smirk on your face.
“There was no intel, in case you were wondering,” you say, “but I thought you might want an excuse to get away.”
“Oh?” Armitage is not feeling very articulate, and it’s the only thing he can manage to say in response as he tries to process all the information he’s being presented: the fact that you know who he is—which is already disorienting enough on its own—and that you recognized the threat Brendol posed, then still put yourself at risk for Armitage’s sake. He’s never had someone look out for him like this before.
“I haven’t known the general for long, but I’ve seen enough to know that he’s a man who has lived to control others through fear,” you look straight ahead as you speak, and Armitage is afraid to hear you talk this way. Statements like that could be seen as treason, even if you weren’t an official member of the Order.
“The general is a good leader,” Armitage says, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears, “a strong leader. The one that we need.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” you respond, so casual in your defiance of one of the most powerful men in the galaxy, “leaders who control others through terror are easily overpowered. No one stays afraid forever.” Oh, how Armitage wishes that were true. He should not be participating in this conversation, but he likes to hear you speak. The ease with which you defy his father is refreshing, and a little addicting. Maybe his father’s abuse is not as inevitable as he once thought.
“Then who do you think would make a good leader?”
“Actually, Lieutenant, I would say you.” A solid swell of pleasure wells up in Armitage’s chest, and he has to swallow it down before he can speak again.
“What?” He needs you to say more, knows that he could live off your praise for the rest of his life, and he wants to take in as much as he can before he has to face his father again.
“I mean, I’m no expert, of course,” you say then, stopping outside the entrance to your ship and turning to face him, “but I have seen you work with some of the other men here, and they seem to have a decent amount of respect for you, when the general isn’t around,” you shift from foot to foot, delaying your departure, “I think that you would make a fine general for the First Order.”
“Thank you,” The gratitude falls unbidden and unplanned from his lips, even though it’s not enough; Armitage can’t possibly express how much your words mean to him. It’s not just the compliment that he values, but all of it: your candor, your aid in escaping his father, and most of all, that you noticed him. The weight of it all is making it hard for him to breathe, but he thinks he could die happily, if it was in your presence. You step closer to him, lowering the volume of your voice so that only he can hear, and he wants to engrave this moment to memory—the sound of your whisper in his ear, the electric feeling of you in such close proximity.
“I know how you feel,” you say, “and I know what it’s like to be treated poorly by someone who is supposed to care for you. So if you ever find yourself in need of my services for, ah, personal reasons, just know that I’ll take care of him, free of charge.” You step away from him and onto the loading dock of your ship, turning back once more before you leave.
“Whatever you decide, you know how to find me,” you wink when you say it, and Armitage nods in confirmation. You disappear into your ship, but he doesn’t leave the hangar just yet, wanting to stay in this feeling for as long as possible. Suddenly, facing his father doesn’t seem so daunting, and he thinks that he will take you up on your offer. There’s not much he wouldn’t do, if it meant seeing you again.