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When Hux's senses come back to him it is a slow, painful process, mercilessly drawing him back into consciousness. First his hearing, picking up a lazy breeze that incessantly rustles what sounds like tree branches around him, something he would normally find soothing and calming now carrying an eerie dimension that manages to work up a knot of uneasiness at the bottom of his stomach.
Next comes the smell, his nose detecting the distinct odor of crisp snow, fresh and wild; Hux feels the cold flakes flickering over his face as sensations eventually crawl their way up his skin, goosebumps breaking over his whole body while the shivers that start wrecking him feel like thousands of needle prickling every millimeters of his being. The mere thought of moving his fingers makes Hux want to clench his teeth, the experience unpleasant yet unavoidable.
A weak groan manages to get past his throat, scratchy from the dots of ice surrounding him, and when he finally works his eyes open, lashes fluttering against the snowflakes, they struggle to adjust to the brightness of the sky. Hux considers closing them again, the radiance of his surroundings overwhelming him in his battle to understand how he got there in the first place, the orderly system that is his mind and endlessly working brain now failing him as he tries to grasp for information that he does not have, circuits refusing to connect in order to give him an explanation.
That oddity in itself is enough to raise a spark of concealed anxiety. Hux quickly smothers it, prevents it from igniting and subsequently provoke something far worse.
It stays, regardless of his efforts.
Blinking, he takes a deep intake of air before ultimately deciding to try to move, pushing his body to respond, clenching his teeth when the slightest motion aches as if he had spent years buried under the snow, his limbs stiff and uncooperative. The prickles in his fingers turn into vicious stings but Hux wills himself to keep going, sluggish yet definitely mobile, and that small fact reassures him.
What erases that small comfort is the realization that his blaster is not tucked against the small of his back, nor is present the comlink that he always carries in the pocket of his pants. Those are two items that he never parts with, even in his own quarters: weapon tucked under a pillow, device resting on the nightstand. This is the first thing that hints at something being truly off, even more so than his improbable apparition in the middle of some woods he has no recollection of wandering in.
He is already starting to collect information. Analyzing his new environment.
More chilling than the weather and the miles of white forest surrounding him however, is the lack of knowledge about this place – about the fauna and flora of this planet, the risks that could manifest because of the climatic conditions, anything. And if there is something everyone knows about the General, it is that he never does the smallest thing without calculating the exact number of possible outcomes, complications, contingency plans, retreats, strategies, trials, losses and gains - everything that could be predicted or anticipated through the sheer computation his brain is capable of. Never does anything without having the whole set of cards in his hand.
There never is any margin of error in his outlined plans, the mere idea of uncertainty only inviting a vivid irritation and quiet tension that usually makes him scrap his nails into the thin skin of his palms along with a vein pulse above his left brow, and Hux is all about control and composure. Appearances are everything.
That being said, the situation he is currently dealing with is unlike any other he has ever been through. Although the irritation is undoubtedly present, it is not the strongest emotion that is seizing Hux at the moment; as a result, the man finds himself at loss of what to do with it. He is not familiar with helplessness. He is not familiar with feeling lost – literally and figuratively. The fact that he has already scanned everything his eyes could reach without finding a shuttle, or any trace of ship that could have dropped him off on this planet, in the middle of supposedly nowhere, is what concerns him the most.
He refuses to use the word 'worries', as it would admit that he was losing his calm, and he definitely needs his presence of mind more than anything right now. After all, worry leads to anguish, anguish leads to fear, fear leads to panic, and panic never ends well, hence the necessity for him to stay rational. Hux has witnessed the aftermath of panic – he is not eager to try it for himself.
Dusting the snow off his uniform, even though most of it has already turned into frigid liquid and seeped into the fabric, Hux decides to explore the forest while being cautious of where he puts his feet, hoping to find some form of civilization before spraying an ankle because of an unfortunate hole hidden under some powdery snow. The possibility is worth considering. He keeps his eyes squinted, his pupils hurting due to the sun violently reflecting against the white crystals covering the ground around him. He would appreciate the sight, if only it wasn't so incapacitating.
With the squeaking of the crystallized water being so loud and regular under his shoes as opposed to the disconcertingly still picture he finds himself in, Hux forces himself to blow into his gloved hands every five steps, finding comfort in consistency as he keeps moving forward despite the unchanging scenery. This is why he doesn't immediately become aware of the gradual change in the atmosphere, which creeps up on him as he still tries not to give in to the sinking feeling that is slowly gnawing at him, a little more with every scouted meter.
It starts with the wind, when the trees stop providing him with background noise. Hux doesn't notice, too intent on keeping his military rhythm, lest he succumb to the fear he can feel growing at the back of his head. The sound of snow caving in under his boots is enough to keep his ears engaged.
Then it's the scent in the air, the bitter yet sweet aroma of the pines which gently fades away for the faint odor of something foul yet subtle at first, slightly acrid but not so much as being totally unpleasant yet. It is when Hux at last stops to catch his breath, taking advantage of the quick pause to brush disgustingly damp strands of hair from his forehead, sweat making his clothes stick to his skin as it quickly cools off and cause his teeth chatter again, that he wrinkles his nose at the offensive smell. His olfactory system feels so assaulted that a gloved hand flies up to press against his nose and mouth, keeping the reek at bay as much as he is able to.
It is as if what he was inhaling had an aftertaste: it stick to the back of his throat, pungent and nauseating.
Hux knows that smell.
He knows where it comes from, knows what provokes it all too well, and he swallows with difficulty as he takes a step back – to flee the rank air surrounding him, or what comes after, he doesn't know yet. He doesn't care. He's not armed, he's alone, he's exhausted. He's an easy prey. The fear which has been steadily burgeoning becomes restrained dread when he looks on his left and spots a shock of color that usually fills him with a sense of righteous purpose and duty, but there, makes his blood turn cold.
The creature's eviscerated body is not what pushes Hux to run – he's seen his fair share of horrors, regardless of whatever unflattering rumors might be circulating around about his lack of experience on a battlefield. He doesn't bother himself to address them, instead choosing to let the ignorants stay ignorant; underestimating him is something you do not come back from.
No.
What makes his breath hitch and brain go into overdrive is that the corpse is massive. The neck ripped open, still fuming guts splattered onto the snow clearly indicating that whatever monster was responsible for the kill, it is still around. Close. Probably lurking, watching him, waiting.
It's too fresh for the reek to be coming from it. A deceptively gentle draft ruffles his hair – it brings up a waft of rotten meat and old hemoglobin.
Hux thinks he almost catches the dead creature move its ribs in a shallow attempt at breathing. His mind shouts to pull himself together. To not let his knees shake while he reduces the gape between the carcass and himself. His eyes might be focused on the gory feast but all his other senses are on high alert, adrenaline coursing through his veins and making his own blood pound into his ears, heart seeming to grow in size against his ribs and threaten to burst out.
Hux cannot fool himself. This is fear. The taste is oily against his tongue, coating his palate.
His feet come to an halt by themselves as he finally rounds the trees and comes in full view of the display. Both hinder legs are missing and his eyes automatically track the path of red which starts as a pool under the dead animal's rear, only to get thinner and thinner as the distance grows. He spots the limbs fifteen meters away, uncomfortably close. Untouched.
This time it is a brutal gust of wind that takes him aback and nearly overbalances him, his coat flapping around and whipping the back of his calves. He gags when he inhales. The stench is way stronger than it was before, and for some seconds the General's memory throws him back to his first experience on a battlefield gone awry, death encompassing him, the number of bodies on the ground and the feeling of now slimy liquid under the sole of his boots engulfing him as he climbs over them, staggering, blaster still hot in his hand. The smell of it all. This glance into the past is swift but it leaves him reeling.
He attempts to picture the monster's maw against his better judgment, the fangs, the receding gums infected by a lack of hygiene, the sticky fur of its face, still coated with warm blood. Or scabbed where it had the time to dry off. Vicious eyes, gleaming with malevolent intent – the urge to kill and mutilate. Imagination is a curious thing, it has always evaded him and therefore pushed him to become even more logical, more practical. Now, he has no difficulty summoning it. A weirdly convenient timing, admittedly.
Hux is far from being a coward: he weights the pros and cons, the consequences of every taken action and the course to follow in light of the results while keeping in mind the consequences of those which will follow, along with the few chances of hazard. He is a strategist. And as such, he is absolutely certain that his only offered solution is to escape, to run, even as he knows with a deadly certainty that the thing is going to give chase.
It is more than likely that he cannot outrun it, but Hux is not going to wait for his death in this shitty forest, on this shitty planet, without even knowing what the fuck he is doing here: he has things to do, a Star Destroyer to run, a crew to command, a massive pain in the neck to keep in line, a galaxy to bring order to.
His legs dash on their own accord at the sound of cracking twigs, not taking the time to look back to verify whether or not his reaction was legitimate. He is already sure it was. Firs fly past his line of vision as he runs faster and faster, his pace never slowing even when his thighs and tendons begin to ache from the never-ending uneven land, soles sinking into soft snow and lungs begging for a halt. Under the burning feeling of inhaling too much freezing oxygen in too little time, Hux feels as if he's breathing fire.
He thinks he's not that far from succeeding, his exhalations creating dense clouds of condensation that must look like smoke, a trail leading straight to him.
What keeps pushing him forward, even after having swallowed up miles of white without ever getting a glimpse of what is after him, is the lingering sourness in the air. The smell of decay still clings to him like a bubble of miasma, an invisible threat acting as a drug pumping into his muscles to give him the strength and stamina he would usually lack – Hux is an active person, but aside from his weekly exercises scheduled to keep fit enough in case of an attack, he has little time for that. He's starting to feel it now, bitterly.
He is forced to slow down at some point, before eventually coming to a halt when the falling snow around him starts to remind him of ash, his windpipe a carbonized mess as he attempts to get his breathing back while his body quakes with burned-out energy. Hux is aware the only thing keeping him upright at this very moment, under the exhaustion and sweat weighting down his clothes, has everything to do with dread. He is familiar with danger, but it is the unknown that terrifies him. That and the knowledge he has no chance against whatever has slaughtered that creature.
The only information he has about it is that it reeks of its previous kills, and is, without the slightest doubt, enormous.
It does nothing to put his mind at ease.
As he thrusts himself back up from his undignified position, he feels the world shifting around him. The unconscious and silent warning of something about to happen. He seizes up, forgetting to even breathe.
The monster emerges from behind the trees. Hux wants to claw his nose off. The smell is unspeakable.
Its black fur seems to swallow the light around it, even the snowflakes getting caught in the hairs failing to glisten against the sun as it lets heavy paws fall into the snow, oddly soundless despite their sheer size. The drag of them leaves a faint trail of pink on the shaken white. Hux has read about wolves once, saw a picture of it in a book so old the yellow pages had began to fray under his fingertips as no virtual data were actually available to him, and he would qualify this creature as one if it wasn't for the certainty that no wolf could be that big – Hux's height at the withers. This thing came straight out of a nightmare, black, silent, scratching at your sanity without even trying, the terror taking over you doing the job for it, the eyes looking like bottomless holes if you even managed to tell them apart from the rest of its head.
Hux can already feel himself die a little, the phantom agony of his throat being torn open making bile rise up to his mouth, and it's a close call when he forces it back down. The creature stares, time ceasing as it huffs and puffs, before licking its chops, tongue going back in redder than it should. Hux cannot see the blood against the peculiar and eerie shade of the wolf's fur, but he knows it is there, as he also knows his own soon will be painting it alongside with the rest of its victims'.
He is not delusional, this is how it ends. A vague feeling of frustration squeezes in between the horror and awe the monster manages to rip out of him when he is reminded of his plans of grandiosity and distinguished funerals, and Hux nearly cracks a smile at his own misplaced pride.
A low growl beats it back down, not quite showing teeth yet but menacing enough to get the message across, and he finds himself back to square one, trembling and frozen on his spot. Hux almost begs for it to end swiftly, if only the creature could understand it. It probably would only laugh at him, and take its time taking him apart piece by piece just to enjoy his cries, anyway.
The wolf comes closer with slow, deliberate steps until only four meters separate them both, prowling but unhurried. Clear for the beast that it has the upper hand, and the prey now rendered a lost cause - Hux briefly wonders if it could sense his fear, the rancid scent emanating from the kind of sweat secreted out of nervousness. Surely.
Hux's legs takes a reflexive step back even before his own brain registers the movement, and he senses his mistake as soon as he does it, the creature's chest rumbling with an aggressive snarl which lets him finally see the inside the monster's mouth even as it devours another meter towards him, a virulent reaction to counter its prey's attempt at fleeing.
Hux stills, willing even his lungs to stop for a few seconds as he watches the beast's jaws snap close in an obvious show of aggressiveness, the teeth so deeply tainted by blood that they seem to be one with the red gums. He can feel every single hair on his body raise at the proximity of what is without a doubt going to be his immutable doom, and Hux cannot bring himself to be ashamed of the shaking in his hands – he knows it is not from the cold only. He also knows that no matter how much his body shudders, the tremors so violent they are literally painful, an honorable man would meet his end standing tall, looking at it square in the eyes.
He straightens his spine, ramrod straight, chin lifted in a demonstration of pride at his unbruised ego, and waits for his fate in what he hopes looks like unmovable serenity.
It doesn't come.
Hux's limbs start to traitorously tremble once again as he realizes that the wolf has settled on merely watching him and his little display of military stoicism, as if mocking him for it. As if it was laughing at the mere thought of him even daring to entertain the idea of dying in a honorable way. Hux could almost hear its thoughts, hear it tutting at him like a mother would a child, and he has the vague feeling of words reverberating into his mind, making him wonder if he was actually going mad.
Maybe you are.
The tone sounds amused as the sentence rings into his brain, and Hux's head snaps up to stare at the monster, which only subtly cocks its head to the side. Aghast, he barely has time to register the sensation of cold sweat dripping down the side of his brows, his own subconscious apparently deciding to quit and send him sprawling into lunacy without giving him the decency of a sane mind for his last moments. He would scoff if every muscle of his face wasn't frozen by either fear or cold. Instead, the creature appears to do it for him, a heavy exhalation blowing out of its muzzle as it resumes its movements, snow still silent under the consequent claws, as if not presuming to disturb the creature's hunt lest it takes its rage out on the woods around them instead.
The beast chooses to circle him almost leisurely, giant head moving along in order to keep an eye on its prey, toying with Hux's nerves even if the erratic beating of his heart was surely obvious to its sharp ears. His whole body is shaking, mouth dry and the muscles in his neck twitching with the absolute certainty of his imminent death, already anticipating the moment where they'll get torn apart.
The wolf is carving an oval into the snow around Hux, never getting off path even after the fifth or sixth circle, and as it comes out once again from behind him its dirty chops rise into a silent snarl. Hux could swear the expression looks like a grin.
The thought is morbid but doesn't leave him, and he surprises himself looking for a hint of macabre mirth in those pitch-black eyes.
He finds it.
His stomach drops.
An unsteady breath escapes him, the gray puff of mist temporarily blurring his vision but still allowing him to see the enormous black shape of the wolf through it as the creature continues its round, the pace almost a saunter now that Hux understands the beast is not only a compact mix of predatory instincts and incredible physical abilities, but also highly intelligent. Capable of reading his expressions and respond according to them in such a human manner it makes his skin crawl the exact same way it does when something looks normal at first glance, but your brain keeps sending waves of unease through your bones at the implied feeling that something is inherently wrong.
That you need flee, even when you try to keep a nonchalant facade while struggling against the unpleasant heaviness in your belly, thinking it's just your imagination even though your senses are already heightened against your will as your body's reaction to a possible threat makes your self-survival impulses kick in.
Just like now. And as Hux figures out this creature is even more of an anomaly than he initially thought, even perhaps inclined to what could be described as human cruelty, it has already found its way back behind him. Obviously, it likes playing with the psyche of its preys before ending their lives - quite to his dismay, Hux might have mentally corrected himself if he had been in the mood for euphemisms.
The fine hairs on the nape of his neck stand up at the warm and threatening attention it is suddenly given after hours spent collecting flakes of chilled water, the putrid smell enveloping him in a cocoon of decay at the creature's closeness; he could almost feel the maggots crawling across his skin, and the thought alone makes him want to gag.
The General closes his eyes then; there is no point in denying the inevitable, and the beast is clearly done toying with its food. Either it will feast on him, or just dismember him for fun in a twisted version of that one game he remembers children are particularly fond of, which consists of plucking the wings off of flying insects, or their legs, then just leave them on the ground, unable to move of flee.
Hux is a cruel man but oddly enough, even as torture stands by him as a necessary mean as long as it holds purpose, he has always found this particular game extremely inhuman, the act completely unnecessary aside from the will to make the insects suffer at length in some sadistic show of power held over a lesser life. That is not his conceived idea of how things should work when in a position of power, but he has come to realize quite quickly that few were the people who thought like him.
He has to wonder, still, if this is what is going to happen to him. If the predator has already decided to just leave him for dead, bleeding out on the snow, the liquid sanguine and thick as it gets filtered into the layers of white. Hux would rather have the beast tear him in two with a swap of his claws.
The smell is organic, old blood seeming to clot his nostrils even if the reasonable part of his brain knows it's only his imagination playing tricks. He has just realized the pain in his fingers are not from the biting cold anymore, but from him clenching them too tightly through the gloves. He has no doubt they would look white and already catatonic, were he to remove the leather.
Hux grits his teeth instead.
The chuckle against his skin makes his breath hitch unpleasantly as it catches in his throat, and his eyes snap open, the sound way too close to his ears and way too human than what would logically be possible – his brain stops the thought right there for a reason Hux would be hard-pressed to find, even if the man wasn't in such a frenzy already. His survival instincts have already taken hold of the reins and he finds himself whirling around in order to take a reflexive step back, feeling his heartbeat thrum through his entire body as he stumbles over his fucking boots in an aborted move to escape and crumbles unceremoniously to the ground before he even has the time to get a glimpse of the creature.
He would never admit it out loud but Hux doesn't even know what he's doing anymore, the shame as strongly felt as the panic that has taken control over his every bones, his mind screaming at him hundreds of different options that don't make any sense despite the training he has had, despite his years as a general; he should know, he should be able to adjust and calculate and make sense of as to why he is currently facing boots.
Boots that quickly get replaced by Kylo Ren's smirking face as the man crouches down to Hux's level.
He doesn't even register the Knight's attitude as his eyes are drawn to the sheer amount of red covering his face, the hemoglobin thick on his skin as it moves along with his expression when Ren's smirk stretches a little more, just enough, lips revealing what Hux already knew would be there while hoping, for once, to be wrong. He isn't.
When Hux tries to form words – which ones, he wouldn't exactly know -, only snow sputters out of his mouth.
The blood on the Knight's teeth is far from being dry, still glinting against the sun. Ren's lips move, closing back over the traces of red against ivory, and a drop falls from his chin. It hits the snow without a sound, but Hux doesn't need to see it to know what it looks like at their feet.
“General. How undignified.”
It's the patronizing tone in the Knight's voice that sends Hux back on his rails, straightening up in a sitting position in a flutter of fury and embarrassment, the latter only present in his head as there is no way he would show such a weakness to the man currently facing him. However, the burning glare is definitely there as he stares down at Ren as much as a man flat on his ass can. Admittedly it doesn't have much effect, but Hux will be content with anything considering what hell he just went through.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hisses through gritted teeth, fear giving way to pure white hot wrath, and he has half a mind to grab the Knight's disgustingly wet shawl in order to push his infuriating face into the snow. Or maybe just punch him, Hux is not picky when it comes to bringing harm upon what obviously is his fucking tormentor. He refrains, however. Barely, but what's left of his dignity would not appreciate him lowering himself like this.
There is also a lot of things that are left without answers, and he unfortunately needs Ren to remedy to that. The latter seems to ponder over Hux's question, amusement still clear on his lips despite the unsettling coldness of his eyes, but Hux doesn't leave him the time to answer as he is suddenly reminded of the last minutes – hours? - spent running and picturing every gruesome deaths imaginable. He cuts straight to the point, “The wolf.” A deep intake of air. Hux stares. “Where is the wolf, Ren?”
He already knows where the wolf is. Just in front of him. Ren seems to pick up his train of thoughts since he doesn't even grant his question a proper response, only tilting his head to the side and opening the hand resting on his thigh towards Hux, his whole demeanor saying 'yes, exactly' without any words needed. He cannot pinpoint why or how but the Knight is being even more unnerving than usual: in the way he holds himself, his manners, the way he talks to Hux, how he watches him with this unnatural sharpness while looking totally numb.
He doesn't know what to make of it, has no idea where to start, but it's dangerous and makes him want to crawl his way out of his own body. It looks like Ren, but a small part of him is whispering in his skull, telling him to look out, to notice. What, he isn't sure, but he agrees with that small voice.
The Knight's fixed gazed on him, oddly unblinking, doesn't make it any easier either. Hux is still furious, but the wariness is quickly becoming the predominant feeling.
“Well, at first I was going to simply walk up to you, but then I got curious,” Ren suddenly admits, as if that explained anything. The non-sequitur puzzles Hux more than his silence, but he doesn't let it show and instead takes advantage of the moment when Ren diverts his attention to a nearby tree, seemingly thinking about the rest of his sentence, to put him under a closer examination. The gore present all over his face makes it harder for inspection, and Hux allows himself to squint his eyes as imperceptibly as he is capable. He doesn't have much time before the Knight's heads swivels back to him without warning, the movement strangely clean in its executions. Hux is reminded of the Finalizer's droids, artificial and abrupt. Or a vulture. “I've seen you manage a battle from afar, up in your precious central command and now I've seen you flee one. The only thing that's missing is the sight of you fighting in the middle of it.”
Ren looks almost pensive as he delivers the barb, and Hux would truly believe that he was if not for the slight quirk of his lips, barely there but still noticeable for a man whose job is to have eyes everywhere. Hux eventually stands up, a sneer on his face as he glowers down unto the Knight who is still crouched down with a look of boredom adorning his features. He slowly raises an eyebrow at the General. Somehow, Hux doesn't feel as if he had taken back the upper hand, still sensing the Knight's presence around him, almost smothering. The situation is insane, yet Ren seems totally unfazed by it. Hux would put the blame on the nature of the other man's usual missions, but even he knows they have nothing in common with what is happening right now.
Then, something in his brain ticks.
“This is a dream.”
A slow smile appears on the Knight's face, and Hux's eyes narrow at the hint of satisfaction he manages to read there. Why would this simple statement bring forth this kind of reaction from Ren, Hux is not eager to find out; as such it is only normal that he takes another step backwards as the Knight decides follow the other man, getting up, his eyes never leaving Hux's form.
“It is.”
Ren nonchalantly passes his tongue over the front row of his teeth, cleaning some of the blood still tainting them, then leaving his mouth subtly parted as the muscle retreats back to its place – enough for Hux to imagine what's there, but not see it clearly. As he is reminded of the grotesque carcass he encountered at the very beginning of this nightmare bill rises up his esophagus, although he manages to will it back down as discreetly as possible.
“Good, so you're not real,” he chooses to say instead of swallowing the surplus of saliva brought up by his unsavory reaction. It also is to reassure himself, the goosebumps occasionally raising now under his clothes having nothing to do with the cold. It becomes a full-body shudder when Ren lets out another chuckle, low from inside his chest, similar to the one he breathed against the nape of the General's neck when he thought he was about to die. Hux's jaws clench on their own volition.
“Oh, but I am.”
The smile turns swift and acid as he literally purrs out those words, a blade flashing just before it sinks into your jugular, and Hux is overwhelmed by a sudden and visceral need to dig his nails deep into the flesh under his jaw and rip whatever pieces he can, make himself bleed out and dry or drown his own lungs and chest. It's alien, terrifying, yet warranted; his own survival instincts are telling him to end his life right now before the being that has resumed prowling around him does it for him instead.
There's a promise in those slow steps, in the way the Knight is dragging his feet into the exact same traces he used as a beast, the pattern of a predator rather than a man; or how the sun is now entirely illuminating his face as he stops once again in front of Hux. Mere inches from him – the blood is starting to flake. The air is foul and greasy again, and Hux wants to scratch at the skin underneath but finds himself unable to even move a phalanx. The sight is ominous, yet fascinating.
It shakes him to the core.
“There's something wrong with you,” he breathes, fear hooking its claws into his flesh and finally touching bones, so slowly that he only feels them now – they've been at work for quite some time, he now realizes, so diligent and tactful in their task that even the General hadn't perceived them until it was too late. It would be worthy of his admiration, were he not the target of it.
The bark of laughter which rings in his eardrums should sound humorous as Ren throws his head back in an obvious display of amusement, but somehow what Hux catches more than anything else is the ominous lack of mirth in the Knight's voice. When his attention settle back on him, Ren's eyes are as sinister as his laugh.
Then, Hux finally notices.
He wants to bolt.
It's in the odd angle in which his fingers are set into the black gloves, crooked like sick branches that refuse to drop dead. In how the teeth appear deadlier, the points discreet daggers beneath the deceptively plush lips. In the eyes, pitch-black and bottomless as the rim of his irises eats more white than it should. It is subtle, two millimeters in circumference at most, but enough to set Hux's realistic expectations into a cacophony of horrified murmurs and screams alike. His logic is offended, his mind terrified. Ren looks completely dead behind them, and Hux would think him temporarily blind if those creepy orbs weren't focused on him with such intensity.
“That's not a very nice thing to say, even for you,” the Knight admonishes after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, his reactions looking delayed while at the same time being filled with unnatural focus that rubs Hux the wrong way. He has no way to be sure if this is the Knight's innate state under his helmet, or if it's the effect of being in someone else's dream – the only time he has ever seen him with the damn thing off wouldn't allow him to make any judgment over the subject. Now, he has to wonder if Ren had looked like this too during that one encounter. If he had looked as abnormal as he did now, and if so, how Hux could have even missed it.
“Answer the damn question, Ren: what are you doing here? What do you want?” Hux's patience has reached its limit long ago, but the creature in front of him at least has the decency, even if not on purpose, to boost his tolerance when dealing with a direct threat. He has no intention of bringing Ren's ire on him in any circumstances, be it real or not, and Hux has the very strong impression it wouldn't be a hard thing to trigger; he is conscious of the very fine line he is walking.
“Maybe it's this vulpine aspect about you that calls to me, always so cunning, full of practical guile. Makes me want to claw that constant smugness off your face.”
Hux has to fight off the urge to take another step back as the other man slowly offers those words, considering him in a manner that is way too cool for the sentence this expression is linked to. Looking like he's actually deliberating over whether or not he should act on it. What follows makes Hux glad he had so many hours of training in keeping his face under total control at all times, otherwise he is certain it would have betrayed the absolute horror and wariness coursing through his veins when Ren chooses to elaborate. “I've never been able to know if you die in real life when you die in a dream. I should probably settle this uncertainty, one day – although I do know that if I just disfigure you here, there won't be any traces of it when you wake up. Lucky you.”
The grin that breaks over the Knight's features a few seconds later is not comforting in the slightest, and Hux has to take a deep breath in order not to clench his teeth too hard under the pressure of the situation, the uncertainty. He has no idea where this is going – no idea about anything, really – and his only wish right now is to wake up from whatever that is, rush to Ren's rooms and smash the buckle of his belt into his fucking teeth. The thought is quickly forgotten, however, when the reason behind Ren's sudden glee is explained, and Hux's body turned to ice in the process.
“I've... intercepted certain thoughts that you've been harboring; a certain brand which, were it to be caught by Supreme Leader Snoke, would have you executed,” the Knight continues, not bothered by the other man's frozen expression nor the obvious dread he is trying to conceal to no avail, his slow circles eventually taking him back behind the General. He stops there, a pause in his words while Hux gradually feels his heart attempting to climb its way up to his mouth, his whole body high-strung as he waits for Ren's next course of action even as he forces himself to keep his eyes steady, staring straight ahead and pretending not to feel the other's presence at his back.
The only thing Ren gives him is an amused hum, a quiet sound that washes over him like an ear-wrenching alarm when he realizes the Knight is actually quite enjoying himself, playing with his emotions through carefully crafted strings of sentences, and Hux is now starting to suspect that Ren is way smarter than what meets the eye. He also suspects, albeit begrudgingly, that Ren is actually responsible for the image he projects to the outside world, molds it, uses it to suit his needs on purpose; it's a terrifying thing to think about, even if it still is a mere suspicion so far. Hux hopes it's only his paranoia speaking.
“You seem to know exactly which ones I'm talking about.”
“Would it change anything if I tried to refute it?” Hux chances, priding himself on the strength behind his voice even as he feels like it might start to crack at any given moment – his vanity wouldn't allow it, but maker, does his body want to give in.
A curt snicker, followed by a drawled “No” is the only response he gets from the Knight as the latter resumes his leisurely walk, allowing Hux to watch him from the corner of his eyes when he circles him once again. “Wondering if I'm going to throw you to the wolves, aren't you?” Ren smiles at his own private joke. Hux does not. His whole body twitches. “What I do depends entirely on you, General. Think wisely.”
“What do you mean?” 'I'll be at your mercy one way or another' goes unsaid, but not unacknowledged. The General's curiosity and interest is piqued nonetheless; considering the dangerousness of what is being discussed, Hux would have thought Ren was just tormenting him for the fun of it before ending his life in what would probably be a very painful manner. This is high treason, real and concrete, and he didn't think the Force user could skim over his thought so thoroughly as to discover something he had taken pains to hide. Not without his knowledge, at least: the few times he has actively seen Ren enter someone's mind, there always was screaming and tears involved. Hux hadn't felt a thing.
“I could tell Snoke. As soon as words of your upcoming betrayal pass my lips, you will die,” the Knight says as he stops his feet a short distance away from the General, facing him. The subtle tilt of Ren's head is the only indication he is given that the Knight really means every one of his words, his expression too neutral to assist him in reading into his motivations. Maybe he is putting himself in danger too, if only by not killing Hux on the spot as soon as he had learnt about his plans. “Or you could accept my help, include me into your plans. Put me to good use, if you will.”
This is a bold move, and if Hux knows anything about those, it's that there always is an ulterior motive behind any proffered aid. Especially when it is from a man whom has made it clear that he would have your head on a platter at the first occasion. It is even more puzzling if the feeling is obviously mutual.
“What would you even get out of it? Aren't you Snoke's lapdog?” The words are not even fully past his lips that Hux realizes his mistake, Ren's eyes narrowing dangerously and the beginning of a snarl lifting a corner of his lip, distaste clear as day.
“I was,” the Knights growls slowly, those two small words rolling of his tongue like molasses, and he looks as if he wanted to spit them instead and was physically unable to do it. Maybe some form of conditioning, Hux's mind supplies as he watches the whole thing unfurl. Ren's eyes flash with something that makes him want to swallow his own tongue down, black completely taking over the sclera for a brief second before going back to their previous state – still too dark for comfort. “He has nothing to offer me anymore.”
“So you're turning rabid on him, biting the hand that feeds,” Hux resumes simply. He is regaining control over himself – still grasping at the edges, but it's a start.
“Not precisely. He just hasn't realized the 'laptog' has grown into a full hound yet, hasn't made the right accommodation. Refuses to, even.” Ren almost looks surly as he drags the explanation out of his mouth, making a face that reminds Hux of a child who just found out the fishbones haven't been removed from the flesh when one gets stuck into his gum. With less crying, and more sourness.
The General cocks an eyebrow at the implied presumption. “And you're assuming I will?”
“I'm not assuming anything – I know you will.”
There's something in the voice he uses here, precise and sharp, that makes Hux's eyes narrow at the inevitability it conveys, the layers of oddity piling up one over the other as time goes on and forcing him to listen even as he desperately wants to stop. The situation is unreal, hazardous at best, and were the setting taking place on his ship, with the both of them awake, he would do all in his power to put an end to it straight away. However, this is not the case, and as much Ren's presence makes the hairs raise on his arms, he cannot find it in himself to stop his brain from weighting the possibilities the Knight's offer is opening.
His words might be filled with certainty, no doubt can be perceived, but even though Hux has a knack for detecting lies and hesitations in one's tone and finds nothing that can be called into question, it's that exact certitude that makes him pause.
“How can you--” the three quick steps it takes the Knight to crowd his personal space along with the hand taking hold of his chin efficiently kills the words in his throat, a quiet gasp the only sound escaping it.
“You're aware I was only asking out of politeness: your mind has already picked an answer,” Ren sneers in his face, and it isn't how his features pinch up in an unpleasant sight in itself that makes Hux swallow painfully around the sudden panic, but the brutal proximity. He can smell the Knight's latest victim's blood off the glove keeping him in place if he so much as inhales through his nose. “You already got a taste of what it would be like to say no, what it would be like if Snoke unleashed me on you.” Ren's face is now uncomfortably close to his, breathing against Hux's skin and making his lashes flutter.
Heart in his throat at the mere prospect of going through that again, Hux pictures himself on the Finalizer's bridge, knowing Ren is giving chase, knowing he can't escape, what awaits him. Somehow, though, this is not this mental image that makes him agree and bend to Ren's strange whims, no. It's the terrible yet oh so tempting idea of having the Master of the Knights of Ren under his command, ready to execute his orders and carefully crafted schemes. The possibility that he, too, will give Ren a hand, and might have an arm taken instead.
It's alluring and dangerous and Hux finds himself thrilled beyond measures. He exhales, the air smooth yet dragging against the back of his throat, and looks up into the Knight's disturbing eyes. He doesn't need to say anything, and Ren doesn't need to hear it. The hunger is plain on his face as he releases Hux's chin from his grip, and Hux knows the expression is mirrored on his own.
“Until we meet again, General.”
___________________
When Hux wakes it's three minutes before his alarm sets off, cold sweat clinging to his skin and acid smell in his nose. It takes him a mere three seconds, the time for his heart to settle down from whatever his brain had conjured up during his sleep, to realize with a dawning sense of horror and shame that what is attacking his nostrils happens to be coming from a wet area from underneath the sheets, his shorts soaked and sticky from the unpleasant liquid. He has pissed himself – he cannot wrap his mind around the fact that he, the highest ranking General of the First Order, has pissed himself because of a fucking nightmare.
The fact leaves him cold with blinding rage as he leaps out of bed, face flushed and burning from embarrassment even though there is very little chance anyone but himself would ever hear about the incident, and lets his body clear the mess from his sight and go on about his morning routine on autopilot, his entire being fuming even as the quick shower is supposed to put his mind at ease. At least, usually. The worst is that he doesn't have the damnest idea as to what had moved him so much his body's only response, instead of waking itself up, had been to empty his bladder all over himself.
Somehow, he doesn't want to know. He might be furious but even he knows there are things better left into the limbo of his unconscious.
___________________
The meeting with Snoke leaves him even more unsettled than usual, and that's a hard feat to beat. When he eventually turns his head towards the Knight standing at his side for the first time since their summons, however, the General stills, the reaction wrung out of him without his accord. His knuckles turn white under the layers of his coat, starting to cramp, and he doesn't understand – he doesn't understand why his entire being is suddenly responding this way to the sight of a man he crosses paths with everyday, nor does he understand why the shrieking sound of a voice at the back of his head is screaming at him to run, while his legs are ironically rooted to the spot without letting him a say in the matter.
It feels like he is experiencing an out-of-body experience, the train of thoughts ridiculous enough to make him scoff were the situation any less distressing.
The other man, who deigned grace them with his graceless features for the second time since stepping foot on the Finalizer – and Hux can't help but notice, a fleeting afterthought that serves no purpose, that it is the first time he sees the Force user ever since he has come out of the bacta tank, scars still raw in tow - stays motionless and seemingly unaware of Hux's condition for what feels like forever to the other man, the latter's muscles remaining stubborn and unresponsive and terrifyingly frozen until the Knight's hands discreetly twitch around his helmet, feet moving until he's facing the General.
Ren smirks, eyes dark, knowing. This is not a kind expression.
Hux swallows as discreetly as possible, careful to keep his face blank, but the bob of his Adam apple betrays him: the Knight's lips stretch into a wider smile, skin taught over the enamel hidden underneath, deadly, carefully covered under the pretense of a common human gesture.
When Hux blinks, he sees teeth flashing.
The mask is back in place and its owner already out of the room when he snaps out of his lapse in control, the last few seconds erased from his memory by a visceral, unexplained terror that has him nearly collapsing under his own weight.