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Chapter Text

This is my favourite part. It starts and ends here. The pebbles shine, the plan worked, Hansel Triumphant. Lesson number one: be sneaky and have a plan. But the stupid boy goes back, makes the rest of the story postscript and aftermath. He shouldn’t have gone back. And this is the second lesson I took from the story: when someone is trying to ditch you, kill you, never go back.

• Richard Siken

---

In the end, it all comes down to a navigational error. A minor miscalculation, a fraction, 0.1 of a degree and they’re trapped, too close to the planet surface for their radar to work properly, to escape cleanly. If Hux were in a clearer state of mind, if he had but an inch to think, he would be demanding the navigator’s head.

But there is no time, there is no space. There’s rather a lot going on here. The very air seems to close in around him, hot and suffocating. It makes his chest ache – more so than the bruises he has been left with from Ren’s latest temper tantrum.

“We can’t shake them, General,” Mitaka says. His eyes are wide but his voice is steady. He swallows before speaking again. “We don’t have the capabilities to jump to light speed again.”

Truly, Hux has no idea how the Resistance has found them and why now, why now as they are due to return to the Finalizer. He bends over Mitaka’s station, the radar flickers in an out, there is only white noise over the comms. This planet’s magnetic field is playing havoc with everything.

They are flanked by three X-Wings. A small squadron in a normal situation but in an unarmed shuttle –

“Visibility is awful, General!” the pilot shouts back to him. Hux has to bite back the caustic comment that leaps into his throat. He knows that. He is aware. He can see the sheeting rain as well as they can, can hear the rumble of thunder, the frequent flashes of lightning.

“We cannot allow ourselves to be captured,” Hux says and even as he is forming the words he knows what he is asking of his crew. He sets his jaw, sweeps his gaze across the men and women packed into the cramped shuttle Ren had picked out for them. Between them they hold the secrets to the First Order’s inner workings. Every base code, every double-agent. Every piece of technology.

He had his suspicions as Ren relayed the mission parameters to him, as Ren reeled off his chosen personnel and he had voiced them then, gotten a broken collarbone for his troubles. What is happening now confirms it.

Ren has sent them to a planet that is impossible to call for back up from. He has given them a vague mission, an ill-equipped shuttle. He has packed all those most loyal to Hux into one small space.

Well played, Ren, Hux thinks grimly. Well played.

It is not the sort of plot Hux would have expected from him. It’s refined, well-thought-out. Sinister, even. He had always thought if he was to meet his end at Ren’s hands it would be through a split-second decision. His neck snapped in a fit of anger, thrown too hard against something by accident.

This way Ren can give out that he died as a hero, loyal to the last. Perhaps he’ll have a monument commissioned, a statue. Hux’s death will be convenient but Ren’s hands will be clean.

“Sir?” Mitaka says. Hux tightens his grip on the back of his chair. He’s young. So very young.

Hux keeps his back straight. He refuses to be afraid. Better to die here and be remembered a hero, he supposes, than to have his spine snapped by an overgrown toddler having a temper tantrum. He thinks briefly of his father, of Snoke, both of them so convinced of his cowardice, so convinced he served only himself.

He half wants to laugh at the stupidity of it all. Here he is, having clawed his way out from under his father’s boot, having clawed his way to the top of the Order, proving his worth, his loyalty, his genius, his tactics at every turn, leaving his enemies corpses behind him. He has learnt this game thoroughly and he has learnt it well.

And now he will meet his end on a nowhere planet in a fiery inferno, not in the heat of battle but pinned down by three small X-Wings.

A waste, he thinks. A waste.

“If we are to die,” he says, voice steady and clear. “We can at least take the bastards with us.”

There is silence from his crew. Hux wonders if they’ve figured it out yet. If they knew as well as he did they were bowing their heads for the noose as soon as they set foot on the shuttle. If they, like him, pretended not to see, set their jaws, steadied their hands, kept their gaze aloft and pretended their Supreme Leader was an honourable man, was anything but the twisted child he really is.

As one they incline their heads. “Sir.”

There is a flash of lightning. In it’s blue-white glow Hux sees trees, tall and dark and spindly. The shuttle lurches suddenly to the side. There is the terrible sound of metal crumpling, of glass and crystal and plastic shattering.

Hux tries to keep his eyes open but there comes another flash of lightning and it’s brightness has him flinching away, closing his eyes.

He does not get a chance to open them again before the shuttle hits the ground.

Chapter Text

He’s upside down when he wakes, smoke filling his nose, pressing against his mouth, his skin. It burns, it makes his thoughts come slowly. His ears are ringing. His head spins. There is some persistent noise to his left, something bumping against his hand wear it dangles above – below -  his head.

Go, BB8 is begging. Wake up, wake up, you have to go.

“Alright, alright,” Poe’s mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton-wool. The words are heavy, muffled. “I’m going, I’m going.”

His body works on instinct, a hand comes up to release his seat belt, both are outstretched to break his fall. His X-Wing, he thinks, righting himself. Full of smoke. Broken and useless. I’m sorry, he thinks dimly. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

It’s just a ship.

BB8 is insistent, pushing at him, threatening to knock him down. Go! Go, go, go, go!

“Don’t need to tell me twice, buddy,” Poe mumbles.

He crawls free, BB8 rolling beside him. The air hits him, cool and fresh, alive with electricity, a tang of damp earth. In the distance, he can hear thunder.

It comes back to him in flashes, like lightning. The First Order ship on their radar, scoping out a nearby planet. A shuttle, not a TIE fighter, not a battleship, just a shuttle. Meant to draw no attention but standing out instead. Leia had told him to leave it, they didn’t have the resources to spare to chase down every stray ship but Poe had a gut feeling, something instinctive whirring to life inside of him.

Leia had smiled sadly, patted his cheek. Your gut feelings will end us all, Captain, she’d said and it had still stung, his lost promotion. Maybe this was about winning back her approval. Proving he was more than just a fucker.

You got us out on Crait, Finn had said, forehead creased with worry.

Rey got us out on Crait.

You don’t have to do this, Konnix had said. You’ve got nothing to prove. But she had given him the shuttle’s coordinates, helped him track as it bounced across different planets.

There’s blood in his eyes, he wipes it away, presses experimentally across his forehead and finds a gash above his right eye. Not too bad, all things considered. He’ll probably feel this more in the morning, when his bones have had a chance to bruise, he thinks, but when he tries to stand there’s white hot pain from his left ankle, leaves him with stars blinding his vision.

He drops back to the ground. “Yep, that’s definitely broken,” he says, with a wince.

BB8 bleeps with concern.

“I’m fine, buddy, I’m fine,” he assures. “Just need a little bacta and a little rest. But first – ”

He looks around him. The shuttle and the other two X-Wings are nowhere in sight. He remembers those last few moments, breathless laughter in his chest, in his voice, we got them, we got the bastards. He remembers the shuttle lurching sideways, sending him spinning out across the trees.

A large column of smoke is rising steadily a little way down the hill. That must be where the rest of the ships ended up.

Poe stands again, more carefully this time, ignoring BB8’s chirp of alarm. “I’m fine,” he says, transferring his weight to his right leg. “Follow the fires then, yeah?”

Thunder rumbles again. Poe shudders. “And hope we outrun the storm.”

-

He follows a trail of shattered trees to where the shuttle landed, spots one of the other X-Wings nearby, a burnt-out husk. He doesn’t need to look closely to know that the pilot inside is dead.

Petya, his name was. A kid, barely grown, lost everything when the Order shot the Hosnian system out of existence.

The anger rises more quickly than the sorrow, burns it’s way up and through him. “Goddamn you,” he hears himself mutter. “Goddamn you. Goddamn you.”

The shuttle is a wreck too and for a moment Poe revels in it. Revels in the mess of twisted metal and broken glass and fire it’s become but then he stops and thinks. If there is a secret base here, a hidden weapon – a new Starkiller or worse, there will be codes on the shuttle. Schematics. Plans. Something.

If he stands here and watches it burn Petya will have died for nothing. This will all have been for nothing. He won’t let that happen. He has to make this count.

“Stay here,” he say to BB8, wrapping his scarf around his mouth and nose. “I have to see if we can salvage anything.”

BB8 follows him anyway, tells him all the while how stupid this is, how dangerous. Wait for the fires to go down, at least.

“That lightning storms coming,” Poe says. “If it hits the shuttle it could fry all the electrics. They’ll be useless to us then and I’m not letting that happen.”

He finds an opening, what must have been the shuttle door at one point but is now a gaping maw, smoke pouring out of it. He steps in cautiously.

It is, for all intents and purposes, a standard shuttle. It does not look as though it has been fitted out for battle, for carrying precious cargo. Tears burn in his eyes that are only half caused by the smoke, he grits his teeth.

It can’t be for nothing. It can’t be. There has to be something. Anything. Please.

He casts around. A shock of red hair gives him pause.

It is dirtied by soot and blood but it’s colour is unmistakable, stark against the darkening metal. “Well, hello,” Poe says. If Hux is here, there must be something important. Something worth protecting.

Just to be sure he limps his way across and shoves the chair, the ceiling panels that have fallen on the General off. He crouches low to nudge the body onto it’s back. It’s Hux alright, face pale, forehead bloody.

“Is it weird that I’ll kind of miss this asshole? He just so easy to mess with.”

BB8 bleeps impatiently.

Poe is about to stand when Hux twitches.

Poe freezes. “Did you – ?” he says to BB8.

BB8 says nothing so Poe leans forwards to press two fingers to the General’s bare throat. There’s a pulse there, weak but unmistakable.

“Well that’s something at least.”

He drags Hux clear of the wreckage. Aside from the gash on his forehead one of his legs is broken. Badly. The kind of break that makes Poe doubtful he’ll make it if they don’t get help soon. His pants leg is soaked with blood, torn where the bones been pushed horrifically out of place. Poe tries not to look at it, closes his eyes against the waves of dizziness it sends crashing over him.

There might be more but Poe doesn’t stop to check. As soon as the General is a suitably safe distance away he turns back to the shuttle.

BB8 rolls in front of him, bleeps angrily.

Behind them, he can hear the storm approaching fast. The air crackles with lightning. They’re constant, he remembers Konnix telling him. Rove the surface, sometimes smaller, sometimes larger, sometimes engulfing the entire planet.

Leia had smiled after that, soft and sad. You see? We know what we’re talking about, Dameron. We scoped that place out pretty good. Think carefully about what you’re about to do.

She didn’t say: remember what happened last time. She never says: remember when your determination lost as a squadron of bombers. Remember when your impatience, when your inability to follow orders put your friends in danger and led the enemy right to our doorstep. Remember all the lives you stole.

It doesn’t matter. Poe thinks it all the same. Feels it every godamn day. After Crait he hadn’t slept for three days, running himself ragged between helping with the wounded and securing allies and supplies and a safe place for a new base. Finn had watched him, forehead creased, you need to slow down, Poe, he’d said. You need to stop, you need to rest. You deserve.

I don’t, Poe had thought. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.

It was his fault. All his fault. If he had just listened. If he had said no when Finn and Rose came to him. If he had just trusted that maybe someone else could be the hero this time. If – if – if –

 “I know, okay? I know!” Poe says, his voice raw from the smoke and exhaustion. “But if he doesn’t make it then - ”

BB8 bleeps again. Build a shelter, I’ll save what I can. Don’t make me ram your ankle.

Poe puts a hand up to cover his eyes. Oh, he’s tired. His headaches, pounds until he’s almost sick with it. The air around them is heavy with the noxious scent of burning fuel, the copper tang of blood. Petya is ashes. His other pilot – Victoria – is lost god knows where.

They followed him. Trusted him. Even after anything.

He tries to laugh. It comes out all ragged and wrong, like a sob. “Okay, shit. Okay, buddy. Okay.”

BB8 whirs happily and rolls off towards the shuttle. Poe opens his eyes, glances down at Hux.

“See if you can find a medkit!” he calls after the droid.

Chapter Text

Poe is just coaxing a small fire to life when the rain breaks upon them. BB8 whirs in distress and zips across the crash site to join him under the shelter. Poe smiles at them, “Alright?”

The shelter isn’t much but it’ll do for now, made up of fallen trees and branches and a few pieces of the shuttle he could move easy enough with one good leg. Konnix knew where he was heading, they shouldn’t be stranded long.

Once the fires roared to life Poe eases himself down to the ground to rummage through the small pile of objects BB8’s managed to extract from the shuttle. He closes his eyes briefly first, tries to stave off the exhaustion for a little while longer.

There isn’t much. A few ration packs, standard issue, protein bars and water and vitamin tablets, a meagre medkit, bandages, painkillers, someone’s already been through and used all the bacta. There’s also a comms device, a footlocker packed with bottles of liquor, spare uniforms, a few data-pads, most with cracked screens, but those he’ll tackle later.

For now he rolls up his trouser leg to examine his ankle more closely, prods at the swollen skin. It’s bruised and painful but if he straps it up he’s sure he’ll heal just fine. He gives himself a shot of pain relief and builds himself a make-shift splint out of branches and a First Order shirt. He sets a pot of water to boil for cleaning out the cut on his forehead and turns his attention to Hux.

Without bacta, there’s only so much he can do for the General’s leg. It’s a bit beyond the basic combat medic training he has, he knows how to staunch the bleeding, how to make a splint, how to keep him warm to stave off shock but that’s all short term.

He looks over at BB8. “They’ll be here soon, right?”

BB8 buzzes comfortingly.

He cuts away the General’s ruined trouser leg and blanches. He has no idea if he should try and force the bone back into place or try to bandage around, leave that for the professionals. If he doesn’t though, how long should he wait before attempting it? And if he does, how will he know if he’s forced it into an unnatural position? Will that bring on infection quicker? He looks up at Hux again, a sheen of sweat across his features. Maybe he shouldn’t care if it heals wrong. If it hurts him for the rest of his miserable life it wouldn’t be the most awful thing in the galaxy, would it?

If he dies, though – If he dies and there’s nothing useful on the datapads BB8’s scrounged –

Poe sighs. “You’re not secretly hiding a medi-droid somewhere in there are you, BB8? No? Alright. Guess we’ll do what we can.”

He sets about cleaning the wound as best he can, binds and immobilises the leg.

“If you die I am going to be so pissed,” he mutters as he does so. “So, so pissed. You’ve got no idea.”

When he’s done, he sighs, sits back on his heels, remembering too late about his ankle. He hisses in pain and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s tired, so tired and his body is starting to aches, his head pounds.

“Just a few more minutes,” he says to himself. “A few more minutes.”

He opens his eyes, starts checking Hux over for more wounds. He doesn’t find any, no more bloody patches on his dark uniform. Just his forehead then. He reaches for another scrap of fabric, spare Order uniforms BB8 retrieved in place of bandages and soaks it in the boiling pot, presses it to the gash over Hux’s left eye.

The effect is instantaneous.

Hux jerks against him. His eyes fly open, bright and blue against the flush of his skin, the purpling bruises. “What - ?” he chokes and then his eyes settle on Poe, vague and unfocussed. His left arm comes up and Poe has just enough time to spot the dagger sliding free of his sleeve and into his palm.

Poe grabs him by the wrist, forces the arm back down to the ground hard. Hux lets out a growl of pain and his fist opens, the dagger clattering away.

“Holy shit, Hugs!” Poe shouts, panting.

Hux’s breathing seems to steady somewhat and this time when he looks at Poe his eyes are clear. He stares at Poe blankly for a few moments before laughing. With his mouth open, Poe can see the broken teeth within, the blood that bubbles up over Hux’s lips.

“Poe Dameron,” Hux says. “Death must have a funny sense of humour.”

“Actually, unfortunately for the both of us you’re not dead,” Poe says, watching him carefully.

That seems to take a few moments to sink in, Hux frowns at him and several emotions pass across his gaze, too quick for Poe to catch them all. “Why?” he asks, eventually.

“So I can torture you for information later,” Poe says. “Anymore hidden daggers I should know about?”

Hux sneers at him. “Now why would I tell you that.” But there doesn’t seem to be much edge to it, much conviction. Poe’s guessing it’s a no. He releases Hux’s wrist slowly. Hux draws it back to his chest, holds it with his other hand and flexes his fingers.

After a moment more Poe goes back to cleaning out the cut on Hux’s forehead. It matches his, he thinks absently. Hux winces again, screws up his face then rubs at his jaw.

“Where are we?” Hux asks.

“Cloud City.”

“Fuck you,” Hux snarls.

Poe sniggers, shakes his head. “You know, I figured if you were gonna wake up it would have been when I was doing your leg.”

Hux frowns again. “What’s wrong with my – ” He props himself up on his elbows to peer down at it, pales and lowers himself back down slower. His jaw is tight. “Where are we, Dameron?” he asks, again.

Poe sighs. “We’re on your stupid planet, Hugs. The one you led us too.”

Hux closes his eyes. “Marvellous.”

“Well it wasn’t exactly my idea,” Poe says.

“I didn’t ask you to follow us, Dameron. In fact, I would have rather preferred that you hadn’t.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so overwhelmingly evil then,” Poe mutters. He pulls away the cloth, satisfied and looks Hux over once more. “You want a pain-killer?”

Hux nods tightly. Poe twists around to get one. “Give me you arm,” he says. Hux does so hesitantly.

“I take it your ship was destroyed in the crash?” he asks, quietly.

“Nah, I just stuck around on this hellhole for fun,” Poe says, pressing the needle to Hux’s pale skin. “It’s a burnt-out wreck, Hux, so thank you for that.”

“Again,” Hux says. “I didn’t ask you to do that. Whatever happened to your ship, to your men is entirely your fault, Dameron.”

For a moment, Poe sees red, has an arm pressed against Hux’s windpipe before he can stop himself. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Hux’s eyes are wide.

“Fuck,” Poe says, drawing back. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Hux blinks at him, his mouth working silently.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to do that,” Poe mutters. He passes a hand across his eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s never been this tired in his life. Even on Jakku, on the Finalizer with Kylo Ren’s hands pressed to his face, his voice in Poe’s head.

When he looks up again, Hux is still watching him. “What do you want me to say?” he snaps, after a few moments. “It’s alright, Dameron, we all try to strangle our hostages now and again. No hard feelings?”

Poe’s too tired to do this right now. “Just do me a favour and shut the fuck up, Hux, alright? The Resistance should be here soon and you can be carted off to rot in some prison cell and I’ll never have to look at your pasty face again.”

Hux hisses with annoyance but falls silent and Poe stands, shuffles to the other side of the shelter and settles himself down against the wall. “Keep an eye on him, BB8,” he says as his head tips back against the wall, as his eyes flutter shut. “Wake me when the rescue ship arrives.”

Chapter Text

Poe dreams of Crait.

Tunnels twisting, walls pressing in close. The air in the caverns is stale except for brief bursts of freshness. He darts around corners, ducks under low overhangs, chasing a faint glimmer, the faint tinkle of crystals. He should be scared but he’s not – not yet. His heart hammers, the remnants of the Resistance follow close behind. Admiral Holdo gave her life for this. He will get them out.

At the end of the tunnel, he comes to the boulders. The wall of rocks that will sign their death warrant.

He can hear the crunch of boots, quick marching steps further behind them. Kylo Ren’s voice carries, echoes through the small space. Poe’s skin crawls involuntarily. He feels the press of leather gloves, thick, stiff, pressed to the side of his face. Still thinks even now, however briefly, that he’s glad Kylo wears gloves. His palms are probably sweaty.

In real life, this is the part where Rey lifted away the rocks, this is the part Rey saved them all.

In his dreams, Rey never comes.

Poe pounds his fists against the boulders, pounds until his skin is splitting and his bones are bruising.

“This can’t be it,” he’s saying. “This can’t be – can’t be – There has to be a way, we’ll find something – anything – ”

Leia takes his face in her hands, smooths back the worry from his forehead. “Sometimes there’s just not a way out, Poe.”

No, he wants to say. No. We can’t give up. Not now. I can make this right, General. I can make this right.

But there’s no time. In his dreams, there’s never any time.

Poe jerks awake, cry half-formed on lips. His hand goes to his mother’s ring, bound on a chord around his neck. He fiddles with it, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger while he gets his breathing under control.

“I’m alright,” he says, when BB8 whirs at him. “I’m alright, buddy, I’m alright.”

When he can breathe again, when he can think clearly, he lets go of the ring and looks around. The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, it looks brighter outside. He doesn’t know how long the cycles are on this planet, whether it’s morning or noon or evening.

Poe rubs at his face, then at his neck, stiff from sleeping propped up against a sheet of metal. “How long was I asleep?”

BB8 hums. 10 hours.

“What? And no one’s come for us?”

BB8 swivels, the equivalent of a shrug.

Poe gnaws at his bottom lip. Okay, maybe Leia’s letting him stew a little. Maybe they’re having trouble finding him, the trees are dense after all. He can probably spell something out with the wreckage to help them out. Something like help or sos or you were right general I’m sorry.

First though, he has to eat. Then he needs to find his other pilot, the other X-Wing. Maybe Victoria’s alright, maybe her plane is salvageable. Maybe he won’t have to wait for Leia to send someone.

Hux is asleep, face tipped towards him. His cheeks are flushed, his hair falls about his face, damp with sweat and curling. He twitches, his lips move, mumbling words too softly for Poe to make out. He reaches out without really thinking about, presses a palm to Hux’s forehead. It’s warm but not burning. Not yet, anyway.

Hux shifts under his touch and Poe draws back. Out of interest, out of guilt, he peers at the General’s throat. He doesn’t think he was forceful enough to leave a mark but just in case. There are bruises there and Poe flinches back before he realises they’re old, close to healing. A smooth line around Hux’s pale throat, like someone slipped a noose around his neck and pulled it tight.

He shudders and moves back to his corner.

“Breakfast,” he says. “That’s what we need, right, BB? Breakfast and then I’ll go find Victoria.” He grabs up one of the ration packs and unwraps the protein bar. “You’ll watch Hux and I’ll come back with Vick and a working X-Wing and we’ll get the hell off of this rock.”

-

As he trudges through the forest in the drizzle guilt and anger chase themselves around his head, vying for attention. He should have gone after Victoria as soon as he’d strapped up his ankle, he should have left Hux to burn in the wreck of his shuttle.

It’s easy enough to find the path cut through the trees by the third X-Wing. It must have dinged something before it crashed, getting spun out away from the main impact, rolled away, burning, cutting a burning swathe into the forest.

The trail comes to an abrupt end at a gorge. A great ugly fissure in the earth.

Poe drags himself to edge of it and leans down. A river runs far below, wide and deep and strewn with rocks. Here and there he can pick out twisted scraps of metal and there, on the rocky bank lies the pilot, limp and still as a ragdoll. Even from far above Poe can see that she’s dead, her neck bent at unnatural angle, her chest a mess of gore and viscera.

She had been with them since the beginning. Since before Poe defected, even. She’d hated him at first. Thought him a brash idiot. He won her trust, her friendship.

This is where she ended up.

Think carefully about what you’re about to do, Leia had said.

Poe curls his fist into the stones and dust of the cliffside. Clenches his teeth.

When the rescue arrives, he’ll have her body brought up, have what’s left of Petya collected. They’ll have proper burials. They’ll be remembered. They’ll be remembered well.

He stays there for a few moments; the rain passes him by.

Back at the crash site he finds BB8 scanning plants at the treeline. “Find anything useful, bud? Something good to eat would be nice.”

BB8 bleeps noncommittally. Poe guesses no.

Hux is awake too, staring out at him with cold fury. “Your Resistance hasn’t turned up yet,” he says, like it’s Poe’s fault, like Poe’s orchestrating this somehow.

“Yeah, I asked them to stop off for food on the way and they’re having trouble deciding on what to get,” Poe says, walking back over to the shelter. He eases himself down into a sitting position, reaches for another shot of painkillers. “You know how it is. Could take them days. Weeks, even.”

Hux exhales, closes his eyes.

“Awh, come on, Hugs, don’t be like that. You saying you don’t enjoy camping out with me on the rainiest planet in the galaxy?”

Hux opens his eyes to glare at him.

Poe smirks. “Hey, if you’re not happy with how the Resistance rescue efforts are going maybe you should call your First Order buddies.”

It doesn’t have the intended effect. Hux doesn’t flinch or rage against him, doesn’t spit angry threats of torture, execution, instead he snorts out a laugh. “You’ve been fighting us how long, Dameron? You should know by now that the Order aren’t exactly sentimental.”

Interesting, Poe thinks. He shrugs, “Or maybe they just got sick of you. I mean, I gotta say, having spent a grand total of two hours with you conscious I wouldn’t exactly be in a rush to get you back.”

Hux smirks, “Projecting your insecurities, Dameron?”

Poe has to give him that one. He settles back against the wall of the shelter, stretches his legs out and watches BB8 poke through the undergrowth. “I’m kind of glad the First Order hates you so much,” he says. “I really didn’t fancy you guys throwing me another torture party.”

He hears Hux sigh. “How has no one killed you yet?” he mumbles.

“Might have something to do with the incompetence of your Order, General. Or the fact that none of your guys know how to aim. Or fly. Or anything, really.”

“Ah, so that’s why we’re winning so easily. I had been wondering.”

“Yeah,” Poe says. “That’ll change.”

Hux hums. “Now they’ve lost you maybe,” there’s an edge to his voice, cruel and biting. “I suppose you had no small hand in those idiots sneaking a code-breaker aboard the Destroyer. After all, you were the one who escaped with that traitor. Tell me, how many of the Resistance were killed attempting to flee to Crait? How many would have been spared were it not for you?”

Poe takes a deep steadying breath. When he closes his eyes he still sees the shuttles exploding against the expanse of space. “How many died when the Destroyer went down? How many when Starkiller Base went up in smoke?” He counters but Hux doesn’t flinch, there’s not even a flicker of regret in his cold blue eyes.

“I bet you don’t even know,” Poe says, shaking his head with disgust. “They were all just fodder to you, weren’t they? Good little soldiers blown to bits to further your sick dreams. Sorry, the dreams of your Supreme Leader. You know, I heard there’s been a change in leadership, how’s that going for you?”

That gets a rise out of him. That. The barest hint of a flinch, a ripple of something like disgust. Of course, Poe thinks. Kylo Ren taking over will have impact on how Hux does things, the way he commands his men, the battles he fights and does not. Why should he care if a dread-nought’s worth of men die? A planet’s worth?

Hux smirks. “See, that is the difference between us and you, Dameron. Determination. Dedication. We are willing to give everything for our cause. With you there is always a limit.”

And the thing is, he seems to believe every word of what he’s just said. Poe shakes his head at him. “Well congratulations, you’ve officially convinced me that you’re completely insane. The universe will be a lot better off when you’re all dead and gone.”

Hux laughs, low in his throat. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Dameron? Your side has lost. We have the numbers, the technology and even if we lose, even if Supreme Leader Ren is struck down by your scavenger girl someone else will rise. There will always be those who seek to bring order to your chaos, Dameron.”

Hux’s face has bruised, dark angry purple-blue smudges along the left side of his face, curling around his jaw and eye socket. There’s dried blood around his mouth, his bottom lip is swollen and bloody. The cut on his forehead has reopened. He can hardly lift his head.

And yet, he holds Poe’s gaze defiantly. Proudly.

“Call it what it is, Hux,” Poe says, darkly. “It’s tyranny you bring. Not order.”

Hux smirks. “The same words can mean different things to different people.”

“Uh-huh, well I feel like the words shut and up when used sequentially mean the same thing universally,” Poe mutters, he lets his head fall back against the wall.

“BB8, I’m going to strangle him!” he calls. From the other side of the crash site, BB8 beeps. Poe sighs. “You’re no help.”

With one last glower at Hux he stands, sets about improving their shelter before the rains return.

Chapter Text

The drizzle starts up again as Poe is attempt to build some sort of door for the shelter. It’s not something it really needs, despite the constant rain, the little planet isn’t very cold. It’s odd, he thinks. It’s warm here, balmy, almost tropical but the trees are hardy firs, the plants – the ones he’s looked at closely - look like ferns.

He’s trying not to think about whether that means winters are harsh here. They won’t be here that long. Someone will come. Someone will find them. He’s rearranged the crash site to spell out SOS, he keeps glancing up at the sky, expecting to see X-Wings high above him.

Leia’s letting you stew, he tells himself. She’s just trying to teach you a lesson.

He’s trying not think about other possibilities. The sensors in his suit were damaged in the crash, he would have flatlined on the monitors. Maybe they just assumed. Maybe they flew over, saw the wreckage. If that’s true no one’s coming. He’ll have to find his own way off planet.

He makes his way back inside as the rain gets heavier. Hux is still awake, staring crossly at the ceiling. He shifts his gaze to Poe when he comes in. Poe ignores him, settles himself back against the wall with the datapads from the shuttle.

“BB8, don’t stay out there too long, I’m not carrying you around if you get rusty,” he calls.

BB8 rolls back in after the first rumble of thunder. Poe sets down the datapad he’s failing to gain access to and looks for something to dry the droid off with. “Alright?” he asks, when he’s found one of the spare Order uniforms. BB8 whirs in thanks.

Hux stares at them.

“Yeah, I’m not in the mood to explain the concept of caring about things other than yourself to the man who obliterated an entire system,” Poe says, staring back.

Hux actually has the audacity to look vaguely offended by that.

Poe shakes his head and goes back to the datapads. He’s not really making any progress, two won’t turn on at all, one bleeps but the screens dark and he can’t get past the security on the only one that seems to be mostly working. BB8 can’t help either, there’s a fingerprint scanner to bypass before anything else.

After a few fruitless attempts, he huffs. Hux is dozing, Poe nudges him with his foot. “This isn’t yours, by any chance?”

Hux blinks at him, eyes darting between Poe and the datapad. “What?” he mumbles.

“The datapad,” Poe repeats. “Is it yours?”

Hux narrows his eyes. “You mean that datapad that appears indistinguishable from all other datapads in the Order?”

Poe sighs. “Did you ever think people would like you better if you weren’t such a sarcastic dick all the time?”

Hux raises an eyebrow, “Did you ever think there’s someone a good deal closer to you who might benefit from that advice?”

Poe sits back. “You know, I feel like most men in your position would be more polite.”

Hux sneers at him. Poe notices he looks a little paler, a little weaker. “I should probably feed you,” he says, without quite meaning to.

Hux snorts, closing his eyes again. “Might be an idea.”

“Maybe not though.”

Hux cracks open an eye. “You were the one so keen on keeping me alive.”

Poe looks at BB8. “I am the most patient man in the galaxy,” he says and stands to fetch a ration pack. “Let me help you sit,” he says. He thought briefly about asking but he’s pretty sure all he’d get is another sarcastic comment.

Hux grunts and Poe bends to drag him upright, propping him up against a piece of debris. His skin feels warm, clammy even under the fabric of his shirt. Poe frowns. “You feeling okay?” he asks, once Hux is upright.

Even leant against something, it’s obvious Hux is having a hard time keeping himself up right, not sliding right back down. He still glares at Poe though, still says, “I’m stranded on an unoccupied planet with probably my least favourite person in the entire galaxy and oh, yes, my leg is a mess. So I think okay might be pushing it.”

Poe sighs and hands him a ration bar. It takes Hux a few tries to open it but he gets there, breaks off a small corner and chews it slowly.

Poe watches him. “So I’m your least favourite person in the entire galaxy, huh?”

“Second. Maybe third, if we’re counting the dead,” Hux says, examining the bar’s wrapper. There’s evidentially something that surprises him in the ingredients because he raises an eyebrow and looks back at the bar with mild distrust.

“I think we can count the dead,” Poe says. “So third. That’s still pretty impressive. Bet I’m in good company.”

Hux smiles faintly. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love them both.” Looking faintly green, he sets the ration bar down.

“You’ve eaten like two crumbs,” Poe says. “I mean, I know you’re scrawny but I always figured that was more to do with lack of sleep and caffeine addiction than diet.”

Hux has closed his eyes. “Been reading up on me, Dameron?”

Poe takes the opportunity to lean forward and check his temperature. Hux’s forehead burns. “Shit,” Poe mutters. Hux looks up at him, his eyes bright and fevered.

Poe draws back, reaches for the makeshift bandage on Hux’s leg. He can feel the heat radiating from it before he even touches it. “Fuck, fuck.” He unwinds the wrappings. The skin surrounding the break is tight and red and swollen, the rest looks even worse.

Poe closes his eyes briefly. “If it was this bad why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Hux defends. “It was covered up!”

“You couldn’t feel it!?”

Hux has nothing to say to that. He clenches his jaw, stares down Poe defiantly. Poe breaks first, shakes his head and goes to fetch the medkit. “This is bad,” he says quietly to BB8. There’s still no antiseptic, no bacta, the liquor will have to do. He snatches it up and tears one of the First Order shirts into ragged strips.

When he goes back to Hux he finds him staring down at his leg, a strange look in his eyes, like it doesn’t belong to him. He jerks out of it when Poe soaks one of the strips in the liquor and leans forwards. A full body flinch that must jerk his leg because he lets out a little yelp of pain and grits his teeth. “What are you doing?” he snaps.

“Trying to make sure your leg doesn’t rot off?”

Hux blinks. “Well not with that. You can use it on the edges but not – it’s too strong you could do more damage.” His cheeks are flushed but Poe’s not sure if it’s from fever or rage. Both, probably. “Don’t you have basic medical training?”

“I’m a pilot!” Poe says, spreading his hands. “What? You gonna tell me advanced wound care is part of basic for the First Order?”

Hux half sneers. “Yes, actually.”

“Well alright then, doctor. You wanna tell me what I’m actually supposed to do?”

Hux exhales, looks down at his leg. The first time he tries to speak the words come out shaky, jumbled. He closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath and tries again. “Use that on the edges, like I said. Then use water for the rest. Clean water, as much as you can spare. You need to irrigate it.”

“Okay,” Poe says. He’s set out containers to catch the rain water, there were purification tablets in the shuttle. Water at least won’t be a trouble. “And then?”

Hux looks back up at him at that, like he’s said something incredibly stupid. “Bandage it back up and splint it?”

Poe sighs. He deserves an award for this. So many awards. “I mean about that bone. It’s never going to heal properly if we don’t – ” he trails off, feeling queasy at the thought of it. “Um. Put it back?”

Hux looks queasy too. He looks back down at his leg. “Your Resistance should be coming soon?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” Poe says. They will be. They will be.

“Then we should leave it.”

Poe takes a breath. “And – And if they don’t come soon?”

Hux looks up at him slowly. “They are coming soon though. Right, Dameron?”

“Well, they’re not here yet, so.”

Hux seethes.

This isn’t going well, BB8 whirs.

You’re telling me, Poe thinks.

“BB8 can you go fetch in one of those water containers?” He asks. BB8 bleeps reluctantly but leaves and Poe looks back to Hux. “Look, if you have a secret base or something on this planet, now’s the time to speak up.”

“If I had a secret base or something would I be dying here with you?” Hux shouts.

Poe closes his eyes. “You’re not dying,” he says, when he opens them. “But you need to tell me what to do if they don’t come.”

Hux glares at him, the anger mostly burnt away. Now it’s just exhaustion, misery. Poe can’t hold his gaze anymore. “If they don’t come then – ” He swallows. “You don’t push it back in. You have to pull on the leg, relax the muscles, hope the bone slides back into place.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Poe says.

“No,” Hux agrees.

“Okay, well. I suppose we should get started, then.”

-

Hux passes out roughly half way through Poe’s attempt at cleaning his leg, bites clean through his bottom lip to keep himself quiet. It’s kind of scary, Poe thinks later, listening to Hux mumble his way through dreams, that determination to not flinch, not cry out.

It’s dark out now, still raining steadily. “We’ll have to get a message to them,” Poe says, fiddling with his mother’s ring. BB8 beeps, questioning. “The Resistance. They must think we’re dead so if we want to get out of here that’s what we gotta do.”

Outside, lightning flashes. Hux flinches at the bright light but doesn’t wake.

“It can’t be that hard, right? All we gotta do is find a working radio and somehow get it to transmit past this planet’s stupid magnetic field or whatever.”

BB8 hums, presses against his side. Poe pats them absently.

“We’ll figure it out somehow,” he says. “We’ll get back home.”

Chapter Text

He dreams of Crait again, of salt crunching beneath his feet, rickety old ships cutting swathes through it, exposing the blood red earth below. This time though, he’s helpless to stop it.

He watches from the Finalizer, through Kylo Ren’s eyes, the New Supreme Leader bent over him with a sneer affixed to his face, his hand clamped around the side of Poe’s head. “Stop,” Poe’s asking, beginning. “Stop, please.”

The First Order advances.

“Stop, stop, stop.”

It turns his stomach to beg, to plead with Kylo Ren of all people and he jerks awake with the taste of bile in his throat. His hand goes to the ring. It takes a little while for him to get his bearings.

They’re still on the planet, no rescue in sight. It’s still raining. Hux is still mumbling in his sleep, louder now, the words clumsy and rolled together. He’s turned onto his side, as much as he can anyway with his leg held in place, a sheen of sweat across his features.

He’s still burning. Poe has no idea what to do.

The damp has seeped into Poe’s bones, he’s cold, aching. “We should find better shelter,” he decides and BB8 whirs to life beside him bleeping in agreement. “Find some shelter and find a way to get a message to the Resistance,” he says, surer now.

Before he leaves, he counts out the ration packs they have, the uniforms, the pain killers and purification tablets. They’ve got enough food for another week or so if Poe can get Hux to start eating properly, more if he can’t. There’s enough uniforms that he can keep using them as bandages for a while and have some left over. As for the painkillers, there’s only five left.

Poe’s ankle is in agony but he’ll have to clean out Hux’s leg again later and the next day, and the next and that seemed painful enough even drugged up. He’ll have to set it too, at some point. Soon if he’s planning to move them. He packs them all away in his make-shift medkit, turns to Hux and says, “You better be grateful, pasty-face.”

Hux doesn’t respond, only twitches and mumbles.

Orders, Poe thinks. It sounds like orders, battle plans, strategies, the fragments he can hear clearly anyway. He huffs out a laugh despite it all. Of course Hux’s fever-dreams would involve his day job.

“That guy’s nuts, BB8,” he says, unwrapping a ration bar and setting a pot of water to boil. “Nuts.”

-

He thinks briefly about waiting to see if the rain will stop before scouting out but that could hours, days. Time they don’t really have. The spare uniforms are no help either, apparently the First Order don’t believe in rain coats. The greatcoats are thick and warm but they’re fabric, not made for keeping the rain out, Poe thinks.

His own clothes are still damp in places where he’s been crouched or curled in on himself to sleep so he strips them, pulls on the dark shirt and pants of the Order and sets his own things to dry by the fire.

“I won’t be gone long, alright? And I won’t go too far,” he tells BB8. “Keep an eye on him. Come find me if he gets any worse.”

BB8’s annoyed at being left behind again but the droid doesn’t argue, just rolls obediently to Hux’s side.

He’s plotted out a rough route in his mind, he’ll head out from the crash site to his X-wing, make sure there’s nothing left salvageable there and arc out from there, loop back around to the crash site. There were craggy hillsides, he thinks, spotted them as he was looking for the shuttle what feels like years ago. They might hold caves, something to keep the damp out, something more durable against the rain.

He’ll have to start thinking about food too. There must be wildlife on this planet, edible plants. Maybe he can test some out on Hux when he’s less on death’s door. Maybe that should be if not when.

Poe pushes that thought away, sets about selecting a new branch to use as a crutch.

-

His X-Wing is completely burnt out, a useless shell of twisted metal. It hurts more than it probably should to see her like that. She’ll probably start rusting from the rain soon, sit uselessly on this stupid planet until she crumbles.

Like his pilots.

He swallows thickly, pushes on. The rains heavier now, the First Order coat he wears soaks it up, heavy and damp. The thin shirt beneath clings to his skin as the wet starts to seep in.

He finds a stream not far from the X-Wing, fast flowing and glittering with fish. He’s pretty sure he can figure out how to catch one if it comes down to it. If not, hopefully fishing was part of First Order basic too.

A little further on he finds a cave that he’s reasonably sure is empty. It’s not too big and it’s close enough to the crash site that they should be able to see any rescue ships that turn up. He’ll leave a note anyway, something nice and apologetic about having learned his lesson, about have snagged a pasty General to make up for it.

He’s drafting it out in his head on the way back when BB8 comes zipping through the trees to meet him, whirring in distress. Poe drops to his knees instinctively, “What’s happening, buddy?”

It’s not a rescue, not a flood, lightning hasn’t struck their little shelter and set it ablaze. Hux is worse, shivering on the floor next to the dying embers of the fire and he’s been sick, pale bile on his cheek, on the floor beneath his head.

I shouldn’t have left, Poe thinks, followed closely by what would you have done to stop this if you hadn’t?

Hux arches away from his touch when Poe bends to wipe up the bile, cringes, whimpers. “Don’t tell my father,” he mumbles. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up, I’ll – ”

His eyes are squeezed shut.

Poe swallows.

“I won’t tell your father,” he promises. “Just let me – ” but Hux doesn’t seem to be listening, he’s mumbling again about troops. Poe sits back, eyes Hux’s leg. It’s never going to heal if he doesn’t set the bone, they’ll never be able to move.

He soaks a cloth with chill rainwater from outside, presses it to Hux’s forehead. “I don’t suppose you scanned any miracle cure plants out there, did you BB8?” he asks.

The answer is no. Poe sighs.

He wants to try and set Hux’s leg tonight, they shouldn’t have left it so long. But he wants him at least half-conscious before he tries, just to be sure he’s doing the right thing.

“Come on, Hugs,” he says, shaking him gently, dabbing at his forehead. “Come on. Wake up. Wake up.”

None of it works. Well, needs must, he figures.

He unbinds Hux’s leg, soaks a rag in liquor and presses it to the edge of the wound. Hux jerks awake, trashing, eyes wide and dazed. Poe presses him back down, gentle but firm. “Hux,” he says, clearly. “Calm down, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

It takes a few moments but eventually, Hux’s eyes slide into focus, bright and blue against his fevered skin. “Poe Dameron,” he rasps.

“Yep. I’ll be your doctor today. And your nurse,” Poe says, smiling encouragingly. “Do you remember where we are? What’s happened?”

After a beat or two, Hux nods.

“I’m going to try and set your leg,” Poe says and Hux looses what little colour he has almost instantly. “We can’t stay here and I can’t move you if we don’t set it properly, alright?”

Hux’s expression would suggest that it’s not alright, not at all but he doesn’t argue. He swallows, his expression is strained, not quite frightened, more resigned. “You’ll – ” he says, voice cracking. “You’ll have to be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Poe says, he smiles again but it’s weak. Weak and useless, it doesn’t comfort Hux, doesn’t make this all suddenly okay and anyway, sweat beads at his forehead, his hands are anything but steady, quaking with nerves. He goes to wipe his palms on his trousers, forgets they’re soaked through.

“Should I clean it out first?” he asks.

Hux bites his bottom lip, chewing it in thought. It’s still swollen were he bit through it the evening previously and it strikes Poe as an almost childish gesture. Here he is, in a make-shift shelter on an uninhabited planet watching General Hux of the First Order, destroyed of the Hosnian System, murderer of millions, looking uncertain and afraid.

It’s – It’s a lot.

Eventually Hux nods and Poe takes in a deep shuddering breath. As he leans forwards to start, Hux grabs at his wrist. Poe looks up, startled.

“Wake me up,” Hux says, “before you do anything to the bone. Wake me up if I pass out.”

Poe swallows and nods.

-

When he starts trying to set the bone, Hux screams.

Chapter Text

We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.

-

Hux wakes in the darkness, or becomes aware in the darkness. It presses in on all sides, close and comforting. He’s never feared the darkness, never shrunk away from it. In his time he’s used it, curled it around himself like a cloak, built it into a weapon. Drained away a system’s sun to obliterate his enemies.

The monsters he’s faced never felt the need to hide in the shadows. They were comfortable enough in broad daylight.

Now though, now, he finds himself afraid. In this unfamiliar dark, his father’s voice echoing in his ears, no son of mine will cry. Don’t beg son, begging will only show everyone what a worthless welp you are.

It’s ridiculous - ridiculous - to be a man grown, to have faced down battles, wars, armies, power-crazed lunatics and to still tremble at the sound of his father’s voice but here he is, at once colder and hotter than he’s ever been, shaking so hard he’s sure he can hear his bones break and pleading, pleading.

And Poe Dameron. Poe fucking Dameron, rebel scum, resistance pilot, is sitting over him, a dark smudge against the black, giving him water, feeding him mouthfuls of protein bars, shushing him when he cries out. He’s not being kind, or soothing, but his hands are gentle.

It’s alright, he keeps saying. It’s alright, you’re alright, it’s alright.

The first time he wakes and Dameron raises a small plastic cup full of water to his lips, Hux is so desperate, so damn thirsty that he has swallowed the whole thing before he thinks it could be poison. But even as he thinks it, he knows Dameron would never do it like that.

Or would he? Would he see it as a mercy? Putting a lame animal down easily, putting it out of it’s misery.

Hux wants Dameron to snap at him. Wants him to treat him like the prisoner he is. Not like this. Not decently.

Hux doesn’t know what to do with decent.

Chapter Text

It’s a few days before Hux is really awake again, doesn’t even stir when Poe unbinds his leg to clean. Poe doesn’t blame him. His ears are still ringing with it all, not with Hux’s cries but with the silence afterwards, when the rain had stopped at long last and Hux’s leg had been straight.

“It’s done, it’s done,” he’d panted. “It’s over, we did it, we did it.”

And Hux’s chest had been heaving, his eyes damp. Poe had reached out without really thinking, combed his fingers through Hux’s sweaty hair. “We did it, we did it.”

Hux had been gone already, breath evening out.

Poe had fallen back against the opposite wall, arms aching, asleep before he’d even really hit the ground. He’d only remembered his soaking wet clothes when he woke up shivering an hour or so later.

“Well at least that’s over with,” Poe says, patting BB8 absently.

BB8 makes a sound like they’re dubious, like maybe Poe shouldn’t assume they’re out of the woods yet.

Hux is still feverish, whimpering and shivering, blue eyes dazed when Poe manages to rouse him to force food and water into him. He looks small under the greatcoat Poe’s thrown over him. Small and pale.  

Poe sits, half watching Hux, half sketching out a map of their little world on a small scrap of paper he’s managed to salvage. He did this for Finn once. Not this, but something similar. After Rey left, after Starkiller. Every spare moment he had he spent at Finn’s bedside.

He wonders if Finn fought for him when Poe’s life sign flickered out on the screen and Konnix bit her lip, took a steadying breath and went to tell Leia, went to explain that Poe had left without permission, had fucked up again, had gotten more of their people killed. He wonders if Finn had demanded they sweep the planet, had demanded a surface search.

He wonders if it was only Leia that overruled him.

In his sleep, Hux cries out and twists away from nightmare. Poe keeps leaning forward automatically to comfort him, then pausing when he remembers who this is, what Hux has done. He leans forwards anyway, brushes back Hux’s sweaty hair, mumbles some soothing nonsense. Keeping him calm means it’s less likely he’ll wrench his leg after all.

“I’m sorry,” Hux mumbles. “I’ll do better. I’ll be better.”

-

It rains solidly, torrentially for two straight days, water pools around the crash site. Poe builds barriers to keep it out but it seeps in, he still wakes up in half an inch of cold water. “You should have woken me,” he grumbles to BB8.

BB8 bleeps, offended.

Hux is shivering again.

Poe lets his head drop into his hands. “We have to move,” he says, miserably. It’s still raining, they’re already half flooded. BB8 beeps in alarm, points out how difficult it’ll be.

“I know,” Poe snaps, then sighs. “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s not your fault. It’s just – Can you start moving our stuff up to the cave?”

He wishes Finn were here. Or Rey. Or Rose. Or anyone, really but he can’t think about that now. He has to focus on this, on moving Hux safely, on getting them both up to the cave with no more broken limbs.

He sloshes across the shelter to kneel beside him. Hux is too tall for him to easily carry and BB8 won’t be much help if builds a stretcher. He shakes Hux’s shoulder, roughly. “Come on, Hux, I need you conscious.”

It’s a while before Hux stirs, cracks his eyes open slow and bleary.

“Well, it’s about time Sleeping Beauty,” Poe says. “Listen, we need to move, okay? The shelter’s flooded.”

“What – ” Hux mumbles. “Where?”

“I found a cave,” Poe continues. He has no idea if Hux really understands what’s going on right now, if he remembers where they are or who Poe is but he’s not struggling at least. “It’s mostly downhill from here and I’ll carry you but I need your help, alright? Do you think you can do that?”

After a moment, Hux nods.

“Alright,” Poe says gently. “I need you to sit up, then.”

-

It’s slow going. Hux is mostly dead weight, sprawled across Poe’s back and twice as heavy for his sodden clothes. He shakes against Poe, whether with cold or pain or fever Poe has no idea.

It’s still raining, storming. The forest floor is slippery, BB8 rolls slowly in front him to clear a path. Poe’s ankle screams with every step.

“Almost there,” he says, more to himself than to Hux or the droid. “We’re almost there. Just a little further.”

He almost sobs with relief when they make it. BB8 has already gone on ahead and moved their stuff, collected up some logs to dry out for firewood. The woods still damp but BB8 rolls over to it and tries to light it as Poe eases Hux down to the ground.

“There, that wasn’t so hard was it?” Poe says, collapsing beside him. He takes a few minutes to sit with his head pressed to his knees and breathe deeply. He can’t rest yet though. They’re both sopping wet and BB8 still hasn’t managed to get the fire going. Sleeping in wet clothes is only going to make things worse.

Poe changes quickly, lays the wet clothes out on the smooth stone floor to dry. “Leave it BB8, the woods to wet,” he says, but BB8 ignores him, keeps pressing it’s little lighter against the branches. “We’ll be okay without, I promise.”

He tries to wake Hux before changing his clothes. Hux doesn’t stir though. It’s probably easier this way, Poe imagines Hux wouldn’t be thrilled about the suggestion of Poe changing his clothes. He can change Hux’s shirt at least, the last thing he needs is anyone pneumonia or something.

Hux is still wearing the dark shirt and jacket he was on the day of the crash. It’s still stiff with blood in places and suit. At least the rain had the added benefit of washing some of the grime out of Hux’s hair. He undoes the buttons first, then hefts him up to slip his sleeves off, keeps up this soothing stream of nonsense in case Hux wakes up and panics.

There are still bruises all over Hux’s chest and back, most of them are from the crash but some look older, closer to healing. There are scars too, more recent ones whittle down to thin red lines from bacta, older ones raised and white. Poe frowns. They’re probably from combat or something, but Poe can’t remember seeing anything about active duty in the dossiers the Resistance have on him.

It’s tricky getting the dry shirt on. Hux’s skin is clammy from the fever and the rain, the thin cotton keeps sticking to it but he gets on with Hux waking up and lays him back down. The trousers are harder but he manages without thinking too hard about it.

He covers Hux with two greatcoats when he’s done, tucks them round him tight. He takes another for himself and settles down against the cave wall. BB8’s finally given up on the fire and rolls over to sit beside him, beeping meaningfully.

“I’ll eat in the morning,” Poe says. BB8 whirs instantly but Poe’s eyes are already closing.

-

Poe wakes to something warm and bright.

For a moment, he thinks it’s torches, rescue. Apologies and gratitude is already rising in his throat, relief breaking over him in a wave. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Thank you so much for coming.

He opens his eyes and it’s the sun. Just the fucking sun because the rain has finally stopped and the sun is going down, flooding the cave with warm orange light. Poe closes his eyes against it and groans. “BB8, how long was I out?”

Nine hours.

Poe scrubs at his face.

The bright light wakes Hux too. He twists away from it, mouth downturned, searching for darkness. The light makes his hair look redder, makes it glow coppery and bright. He blinks awake slowly and looks around at the cave, then frowns at Poe. His eyes are clear, his fever must have broken.

“Where are we?”

“Our old shelter flooded so I had to move us.”

Hux keeps frowning but he doesn’t ask anything further. He turns his head towards the mouth of the cave, stares out at the sun.

“You want something to eat?” Poe asks. Hux doesn’t answer but Poe grabs an extra protein bar anyway and places it down beside Hux. “We’re running low on these. We’re gonna have to find more food soon. First Order basic doesn’t cover fishing, by any chance does it?”

Hux narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Never mind,” Poe says. “We’ll destroy that bridge when we come to it.”

He moves to sit in the mouth of the cave, staring out across the forest. “Of course it would stop raining now,” he mutters. “Just as the suns going down. I hate this rain.”

He’s not expecting Hux to reply, not even sure Hux is really listening but he must be because he says, in a very soft voice, “I don’t mind it. It reminds me of home a little.”

Poe hums thoughtfully. It rained a lot on Yavin 4 too but that was different. Warm, steamy. Teeming with life, insects and birds chattering, little reptiles and mammals scampering underfoot, the comforting branches of Luke’s tree. Not this cold little forest, empty and crackling with lightning.

He looks across at Hux surrounded by the warm light. “Home, huh? Where’s home for you?”

Hux doesn’t turn to look at him, keeps his gaze tilted out towards the trees. At the angle Poe’s sitting, he can’t make out Hux’s expression clearly. “Arkanis.”

Poe recalls it distantly, a little planet on the outer rim. Struggling under the Empire, wealthy and powerful under the New Republic. He’s never been there, never had occasion to. “Do you miss it?” he asks and Hux seems to shudder, as though waking again. Waking from whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“I left when I was four,” he says, tone clipped. It doesn’t answer the question but Poe guesses it marks the end of the conversation. Still, it doesn’t hurt to try.

“I miss the planet I grew up on,” Poe says. “Yavin 4. It was beautiful, let me tell you. We lived in this little house beside this huge tree that was a gift from Luke Skywalker. My parents built the house themselves, you know? And it was…”

He goes on, talks to Hux about his childhood with his grandfather, about the little house they built for themselves. He talks about the rainforests and green spaces, the rich wildlife, the flowers, the birds, halfway through he’s pretty sure Hux falls asleep but by that point he can’t pretend he’s telling Hux anymore. He’s just talking. Just remembering.

Chapter Text

In the morning, a fog rolls in and hangs heavy, damp and cold amongst the trees. Poe’s breath rises in little white clouds before him. He’s huddled under the last First Order greatcoat, his ankle complaining every time he so much as thinks about moving it. BB8 tells him he’s an idiot, he brought this on himself. Poe grumbles back that he couldn’t just stay at the crash site, soaking wet and watching the water rise.

Hux is still sleeping soundly. He’s stopped shivering, stopped sweating so much. Poe’s starting to feel less panicky about him, about his leg.

It doesn’t mean he’s any less panicked about the rest of their situation though.

Since he can’t really go anywhere, he’s started compiling a list of things about the planet they’re on, the length of the cycles (about thirty hours, he figures, give or take), the scant hours without rain, the plants he’s seen, the lack of wildlife. When he’s done as much of that as he can take he pulls out the comms device and stares at it thoughtfully.

Outside of the datapads, which he’s pretty sure are only built to handle shortrange transmissions, it’s the only thing they’ve got capable of getting a signal off world. He has to find a way to boost the signal, to cut through the planet’s interference but if he breaks it that’s it. They’re doomed.

He’s unlocked the single working datapad using Hux’s finger print as a universal override and BB8 to crack the code. It took a while but he got in. The pad belongs to a Lieutenant Mitaka, Poe assumes and while there are base codes and locations, there’s nothing that’s really going to be of any use to him right now.

The First Order’s tech is slicker than the Resistance’s. They’ve got more resources, more minds. It’s based on old Imperial stuff but so much more advanced.

This is where he could really do with Finn. Or Rose. Or anyone, really.

Instead he has Hux so he nudges him awake.

Hux wakes blearily, still half caught in a dream and mumbling but he snaps out of it when Poe barks at him.

“Hey, Hugs, you just gonna lie around sleeping all day or are you planning on helping us get off of this rock at any point?”

Hux scowls at him. It’s kind of nice, in a weird way, to be back to unconcealed animosity. Poe knows where he stands like this, knows how to talk to him, how to act. “Might I remind you that it is your fault we’re stuck on this rock in the first place,” he snaps.

Poe snorts. “Right. I’m the one who decided to plough my shuttle into the X-Wings chasing me instead of, I don’t know, landing and giving myself up like a reasonable human being. Oh, wait, I’m sorry. I’m the one who gave the order to plough my shuttle into the X-Wings.” He crosses his arms, triumphant.

Hux glares at him then smirks, “You know, generally when one is trying to convince someone to help them they don’t start with insults.”

“Uh-huh, well, one’s not asking. One’s telling. Unless someone would like to stay here forever, of course. Stuck with one.”

Hux sighs and raises a hand to massage his forehead. “Stop referring to yourself as One.”

“Nope,” Poe grins.

Hux shoots him a withering look and starts the laborious process of dragging himself up.

“You want me to – ” Poe starts.

“No,” Hux snarls.

“Okay, alright. One gets the message.”

Hux closes his eyes briefly. When he’s pulled himself upright, he winces, glancing down at his leg. He looks back up at Poe, meaning clear. Poe thinks about making him ask for painkillers. Use your words, General. Come on. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? But he’s not that cruel. He’s never been that cruel.

He reaches towards the medkit, BB8 pushes it towards him. “We only have a few more of these, okay?” Poe says. “And I’ve been saving them all for your pasty ass despite the fact that my ankle feels like someone’s trapped it in a trash compactor or something so you better start being nicer to me, Hugs.”

Hux stares at him, uncomprehending.

Poe tosses the medicine across the cave towards him and he catches it, deftly, staring down at it for a moment, then staring back up at Poe. Poe can see the gears turning behind Hux’s cool blue eyes. He’s trying to figure out Poe’s angle, trying to figure out what game Poe’s playing here, how Poe’s using it to his advantage. It’s kind of sad Hux can’t figure out that Poe’s game is being a pretty decent human being.

Eventually, Hux looks back down at the painkillers and rolls up his sleeve to administer them. With Hux’s gaze no longer on him, Poe feels himself relax a fraction and, after a moment, he picks up the comms device and shuffles over to sit closer to Hux.

Hux eyes him warily as he approaches.

“Calm down, Hugs,” Poe says. “If I was going to try anything I’d have done it before I carried you half way across the forest.”

A faint bloom of colour starts across Hux’s cheeks. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Poe sighs. Rolls his eyes. “You know what? I’m not even going to touch that today,” he says, ignoring the way the colour spreading across Hux’s cheeks deepens. “Look, I pulled this out of your shuttle. It’s the only communication device we’ve got. Any idea how we can boost the signal?”

Hux looks down at the radio, then back up at Poe. “Do I look like a technician?”

It takes every ounce of self-control within him not to shake Hux by the shoulders or something at that point. Poe makes a faint noise of frustration, can’t stop if from bubbling up and out.

“I’m not asking you because you look like a technician,” Poe says very slowly and carefully. “I’m asking you because you use this tech everyday or thereabouts and you probably know more about it than me. It’s our only way off of this rock, okay? So just drop the sarcasm and please think.”

Hux holds his gaze a moment. Something flickers across it, not quite fear Poe thinks, nerves, maybe, dread. Like Hux doesn’t want responsibility for this, like even though he’s convinced of Poe’s incompetency, he’s terrified that he’ll mess this up too. He exhales slowly and reaches out to lift the device into his lap, turning it over, examining it.

“I don’t know if we can do anything to this to boost the signal,” he says eventually. “But even if we could it’s from a shuttle, it’s not built for communication over long distances. Even if we amplify the signal beyond the planet’s interference, it wouldn’t reach your Resistance unless they’re still somewhere within the system.”

“Someone would hear it,” Poe says.

“Slavers maybe. This system is almost completely uninhabited, it’s used by exiles and smugglers and criminals.”

Poe growls with frustration. “Okay. So we hail a passing slave ship. They come pick us up, we overpower them and steal their ship.”

“Yes,” Hux snorts. “Because we’re both fighting fit.”

“You aim a blaster with your leg, General?”

Hux glares at him crossly. “No. But the fact remains that between us we only have two working legs and a droid that – outside from operating gun turrets – doesn’t appear to have combat capability. Anyway, it’s more likely they’d simply shoot us, if they don’t know who we are, at least. We don’t exactly have the makings of good labourers.”

Poe huffs. “Might be worth giving them a call anyway,” he mutters. “They might cut out your tongue or something and save me having to do it.”

“Well you asked,” Hux growls back.

Poe can’t keep still anymore. He stands, gingerly. Paces, keeping his weight off his bad ankle. Hux leans away from him as he circles close, eyeing him up, watching him closely. “What were you even doing here?” Poe snaps and he doesn’t miss Hux’s flinch.

“There’s nothing. Nothing here of any use,” Poe continues. “It’s not a good site for a base, or a weapon. You were in a shuttle. A shortrange shuttle. Why were you out here? Why was any of the Order out here but why, specifically, were you out here?”

“That’s none of your business,” Hux says. “And if you think I’ll – ”

“Oh, come on, Hux,” Poe sighs. He lowers himself back down, a measured distance away from Hux this time. “You might as well tell me. You seem convinced we’re going to die here anyway, so.”

And Hux – Hux sighs too. His shoulders slump, he tilts his head downwards and his hair falls into his eyes. “Well. I’m afraid you’d have to ask our Supreme Leader what our true purpose here was,” he says, his bitterness palpable. “As far as I can tell we were sent here to die. To be shot down out of range of the fleet so Ren could rid himself of one more threat to his childish vendetta with clean hands.”

Poe refuses to feel sorry for him, instead he laughs. This bitter, angry, regretful thing that tastes caustic in his mouth. “So that’s it then, huh?” He says. No, demands. “You guys were sent out here because Ben Solo didn’t wanna play with you anymore and my pilots died because I was stupid enough to think you guys were up to something big.”

He shakes his head, angry tears burning in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Hux has raised his head now but his hair still falls into eyes. He watches Poe from under the red strands with the closeness and intensity that someone would watch a dangerous, unpredictable beast.

Poe scrubs at his eyes, tries to force back the tears, to swallow the hard lump in his throat back down. He doesn’t want to break in front of Hux and it’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t. He refuses.

“Kylo Ren killed Supreme Leader Snoke, you know,” he says, blinking hard. Deflect, deflect. “Rey told us all about it.”

Hux looks slightly perplexed at that, not surprised, not annoyed or furious. “I know,” he says, haltingly. Not because he’s uncertain but because he’s unsure why Poe’s bringing it up.

Poe glares at him. “You do?”

Hux shrugs. “Ren’s story was that your untrained scavenger took out not only himself and the Supreme Leader but the praetorian guard as well unassisted. I don’t know anyone that would believe that story.”

“You haven’t seen Rey fight,” Poe says, holding Hux’s gaze. They’re silent for a moment, staring at each other across the cave, eyeing each other up.

Hux looks away first, lowers his head again with a heavy sigh. He still looks tired, pale, worn. Poe sighs too, brings his hands up to cover his face briefly. “So if we wanted to extend the range of transmission outside of the system,” he says. “Any ideas how we’d do that?”

When he looks back up, Hux is looking down at the device again. “We’d have to root it through something more capable. The transmitters from your X-Wings would work. They’re built for long range communications.”

“Yeah,” Poe agrees. “But they’re also burnt to shit right now, so.”

Hux looks up at him. “All of them?”

Poe thinks about Victoria’s ship. “Well, one of them might be more intact but it’s at the bottom of a ravine at the moment.”

“That’s not ideal,” Hux says and he says with such sincerity that despite it all, Poe finds himself huffing out a laugh. Hux looks at him with a curious expression on his face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Poe says, shaking his head. “I mean, this whole situation is not ideal but yeah, you’re right Hugs. That in particular is definitely not ideal.” He shakes his head again, laughing softly to himself.

Chapter Text

The rain holds off for a while, the fog lifts. Hux has fallen asleep again, still propped up against the cave wall. His head is tipped backwards. It doesn’t look comfortable.

Poe sits against the opposite wall, legs outstretched, bored out of his mind and slowly convinces himself that the transmitter in his X-Wing might be salvageable. There’s a large part of him that knows it isn’t, the transmitter was in the cockpit - the bit that burnt up in the crash – but it’s better than the alternative.

He keeps having these moments, these little flashes, where reality sets in and his chest gets tight and it’s hard to breathe. He’s stranded on this planet, everyone he knows, everyone he loves is out of reach. All he’s got is this First Order General who can’t walk and can’t trust and can’t be trusted –

He slides his mother’s ring around and around between his thumb and forefinger, thinks about Leia saying, hope is like the sun, if you only believe it when you see it you’ll never make it through the night. Leia’s eyes had been bright with amusement then. Holdo’s eyes were bright with hope and unshed tears.

The transmitter has to work. It’s their only hope.

BB8 tells him he’s an idiot. Reminds him about the fire, about his ankle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Poe says, slipping the ring on it’s chord back beneath his shirt. It’s warm against his skin. He stands up. “We shouldn’t waste the weather.”

You’ll hurt yourself, BB8 says.

“I’ll be careful,” Poe promises. He looks at Hux, decides it’s probably safer to wake him now and tell him than to risk him waking alone and panicking. It’s funny how that worries him now. Kind of weird. He rubs at his eyes, bends down to shake Hux awake.

Hux wakes with a groan and a hiss of pain, blinks a few times before focusing on Poe and groaning again. “What is it now?” he growls, closing his eyes again almost immediately.

“I’m going back to my X-Wing to check the transmitter,” Poe says.

Hux cracks open an eye at that, frowns. “What?”

“I’m going to see if it’s still working,” Poe clarifies. “Come on, Hugs, keep up. I thought it was your leg that was broken, not your brain.”

Hux opens the other eye to glare at him and shifts himself into a more upright position. “I thought you said they were ‘burnt to shit.’ Your exact words.”

“Well, yeah. But it might be salvageable.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, “You didn’t think to check?”

Poe draws back. “I mean I was kind of distracted by the fires and – oh yeah, the dying First Order General bleeding all over me.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

That’s what I said, BB8 whirs.

“You see? Even the droid agrees.”

Poe cuts a glance at BB8. “Traitor,” he accuses. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. If I don’t at least check it’ll bug me.”

“It’ll bug you,” Hux repeats, with an expression of disdain.

“Yes, Hugs, I have emotions. I know, I know. They’re not exactly something you’re familiar with but I’ll do what I can to help you understand if you like.” Poe shakes his head and looks again at BB8. “You know, I’m really starting to miss the days when all he did was lie about and whimper.”

Hux’s cheeks flush hotly. “I do not whimper,” he hisses.

Poe sniggers. “I knew we should have recorded it,” he says to BB8. He stands up, retrieves a greatcoat and shrugs it on. “I won’t be long, anyway.” He’s halfway to mouth of the cave when he hears Hux call out. His voice is small, barely there even in the emptiness of the cavern. Poe pauses for a moment before he turns back, half convinced he’d imagined it.

Hux’s cheeks are still red, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembles. His mouth moves a few times but no words come out. Poe waits a moment before sighing, “I don’t have all day, you know. It’ll start raining again soon.”

“Can – ” Hux says, breaks off, scowling. More at himself than either of them, Poe thinks.

“Use your words,” Poe says, impatiently. He regrets it a little, watches as Hux’s eyes widen in faint surprise and his expression darkens.

“I’d like to come with you,” Hux forces out eventually, the words strained around his clenched teeth.

It’s so unexpected that Poe finds himself laughing, a short little bark. Hux flushes darker. Any darker and he’ll match the colour of his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But – you can’t walk.”

“I’ll be fine,” Hux insists, eyes hard.

Poe feels his smile start to ebb away. He’d probably still be so insistent if he’d lost both his legs. I can walk, don’t you dare think I can’t. Poe’s ankle starts to complain, he leans against the cave wall to take the weight off. “No,” he says, as gently and as firmly as he can muster. “You really can’t.”

Hux is spitting with rage. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

Don’t act like one then, BB8 says.

Poe laughs again. “Hey, they said it. Not me,” he says, when Hux makes a wordless noise of annoyance. His smile softens though. He can’t help it. It’s pity, or something like it, something that twinges in his chest at the sight of Hux’s anger, Hux’s embarrassment. “Look, I get that you’re bored but maybe we should start with something a little closer, alright? Not trekking halfway across the forest. Besides, I’m not really interested in carrying you back up here again. Next time it’s not raining.”

Hux holds his gaze for a while, trying to stare him down, maybe but he looks away eventually and gives a small, tight nod.

Poe nods too. “BB8, stay with him.”

“The droid should go with you,” Hux says, as Poe is turning to leave again.

“Awh,” Poe says, turning back. “Worried about being left all alone with BB8? You’ll be safe, I promise. BB8 only likes fair fights.”

“No,” Hux says stiffly. “Because you’re injured too.”

Poe grins. “Hugs, are you worried about me?”

Hux sighs tiredly. “No. But as you pointed out I can’t walk.”

“Ah, so you’re just worried I won’t be around to make a fuss over you. Well, don’t you worry, Hugs. I wouldn’t die and leave you all alone out here.”

Hux rolls his eyes again, tilts his head back against the wall. “Just leave.”

“With pleasure,” Poe says.

He’s just out of sight of the cave when he hears BB8 rolling down towards him. Poe pauses, leaning heavily on the branch he’s using as a crutch. “I told you to stay,” he says as BB8 reaches him.

He told me to go. He’s persuasive. And rude.

“Yeah,” Poe says. “I bet.”

-

It’s started to rain again by the time he reaches the X-Wing. Heavy drops, freezing cold. The lightning provides him with light at least as the clouds gather.

“Almost got here without it raining,” he mutters to BB8. “Didn’t we, buddy?”

Poe’s X-Wing is upside down. He lowers himself carefully, slides himself underneath it by inches and sits up in the cockpit. Most of it is burnt and twisted, a metal skeleton. There was never a chance for the transmitter to be saved.

He curls his hands into fists.

He knew that. He knew that and he still came.

The rain pelts down above him, thunders against the metal. Stars, he wants to scream. He wants to shout. He wants to break this burnt out wreckage to pieces.

“Well,” he says, struggling to keep his voice level. “You were right, BB8. I’m an idiot. This was pointless. A waste of everyone’s kriffing time.”

BB8 says nothing. They’ve slipped into the wreckage, press against Poe’s side comfortingly. To calm himself, Poe pulls out his mother’s ring. He fidgets with it a moment and then takes a few steadying breaths. “We should get back to the cave.”

It’s raining, BB8 points out. Lightning.

“Yeah. We can’t sit here and wait for it to stop all day though, can we? Poor Hugs is probably worried sick.”

He’s probably not even awake.

“Stop trying to ruin this for me,” Poe scolds.

-

BB8 is right of course, Hux is asleep when Poe gets back to the cave. Curled on his side on the floor, huddled in on himself. The fire has burnt out because of course it has and stupid, he should have spent the day gathering logs and kindling, not marching off into rain and wind and mud for something he knew was pointless.

But woulda, coulda, shoulda. He can’t think about that right now.

He piles up the few logs they have left, kindles a little fire and changes out of his sopping wet clothes. When he’s done, he fetches two protein bars, one for himself, one for Hux. Hux’s voice is faint, his gaze unfocused when Poe shakes him awake this time. “You’re all wet,” he mumbles, blinking at Poe’s wet hair.

“Yeah, and you need to eat,” Poe says, dragging him upright. He tries to be gentle.

Hux closes his eyes as Poe rights him. Shakes his head like he’s dizzy. Poe shoves one of the bars into Hux’s palm, folds Hux’s fingers over it before he can let it go. Hux looks down at for a moment and then sighs, lays his head against the wall and closes his eyes. “I don’t want to eat.”

Poe settles himself down beside him. “Well, you kind of have to.” He draws his knees up to his chest and frowns down at Hux. “When did you last eat anyway?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Exactly,” Poe says, tapping the bar clasped loosely in Hux’s hand. “So, eat. I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

After a moment, Hux sighs and starts to unwrap it. Poe stares out at the rain. Victoria’s X-Wing is their only hope, then. Strewn at the bottom of a ravine, smashed to pieces by rocks and water. There’s a chance though. A chance.

“The transmitter wasn’t salvageable then?”

Poe shakes his head. There’s an intake of breath from Hux and Poe pre-emptively adds, “And if you say I told you so I’ll smother you in your sleep. I’ve already had enough about it from BB8. Now, eat.”

When he glances back, Hux is staring down at the bar in his hands. He breaks off a piece, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, crumbling it to pieces.

Poe has to bit back the rawer edges of his frustration. “If you’re feeling sick then – ”

“I’m not,” Hux says, immediately.

This time Poe can’t hold it back, lets out a growl of frustration. “We’re never going to get out of here if you don’t start trusting me.”

Hux glowers at him. He’s still got that wary look in his eyes, the look of something feral and trapped. Spitting and mistrustful. Poe looks away. Can’t we just pretend, Poe thinks about saying. Can’t we just pretend we’re not enemies just until we get off this stupid rock. He doesn’t, though. He can’t.

This is the man who destroyed an entire system, after all.

But this is all he’s got.

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you,” Poe says, tiredly. “As much as I want to. And if you haven’t figured that out yet then – ” he breaks off. “Do you want to die here? On this stupid planet, all alone except for me? Because I sure don’t.”

Hux is searching Poe’s face, for what Poe has no idea but after a moment he shakes his head.

“Good,” Poe says. “So can you maybe stop being such a drama queen about everything and just eat? If we’re going to get off this planet I’ll need your help.”

Hux holds Poe’s gaze for a few more moments before he raises the bar and takes a bite. He chews slowly, swallows cautiously. Grimaces. Poe smiles, pats his good knee. “Want some water? I’m gonna get you some water.”

-

He falls asleep watching Hux eat the bar with painful slowness, slumped beside him against the cave wall.

He doesn’t dream of Crait this time. He dreams of Hosnian Prime, of a bright flash of red in the sky and then nothing, lives snuffed out, turned to stardust with barely enough time to look up at that terrible light tearing its way through space.

When he wakes, Hux is warm against his side, shifting restlessly in his sleep.

Poe’s eyes are damp, there’s a lump in his throat. BB8 hums soothingly. Poe takes a shuddering breath and reaches up to grip his mother’s ring. He holds it tight, tighter. Squeezes it till the dull edges press into his palm, leave an indentation, dark against the rest of his skin.

“We’ll be okay,” he says to BB8. “The transmitter in Victoria’s ship will work. We just need to find a way to get down there.”

Chapter Text

It rains solidly through the next day. Poe drives Hux mad with his pacing, only leaves briefly to gather up firewood and set it to dry. Once he’s done that he drums his fingers on his thighs, taps his feet impatiently, sighs, hums to himself. Gets out their meagre supplies and lines it up in neat rows to count it even though he knows how much they’ve got of everything by heart. Even BB8 gets annoyed and rolls to the back of the cave to sulk.

Poe packs all the stuff back away, goes back to pacing.

“Stars,” Hux mutters. “Don’t you ever sit still?”

It’s the first thing he’s said all day that isn’t monosyllabic. His voice is thin, irritated. His left hand is balled up tight against his left thigh, clenched around the thin material of his trousers so tightly his knuckles are white. They only have three painkillers left. Poe had offered, Hux had declined. He’s probably regretting that right about now.

Poe stops pacing and grins at him. “Not if I can help it. Helps me think.”

Hux huffs, settles back against the wall. It’s clear he’s not intending to ask anything further but Poe’s bored. Just about crawling out of his skin. He wanders a little closer to Hux. Hux’s eyes are closed but he’s still paying attention, he tilts away from Poe as Poe comes to a halt in front of him and crouches down.

“You know what else helps me think?” Poe asks, leaning closer to Hux like he might do with Finn or Rey or Rose to convey a plan. Hux’s jaw tightens in annoyance. Silence, he’s probably thinking, hoping. “Bouncing my ideas off of someone.”

As Poe stands, Hux makes a choked off noise of something like despair and Poe smiles.

“So, the last X-Wing is at the bottom of a ravine, right?” Poe says, pacing again. “I only got one look at it but it might be intact. It wasn’t on fire at least. Trouble is getting down there. I mean, I could climb but not on this ankle so I guess we’ll have to find some other way. There might be a path down somewhere further along. Or I was thinking we could make some sort of pulley system.”

He turns back to Hux just in time to see him mouth a pulley system to himself with a pained expression.

“You know, like a lift. Might be the quickest way down. We’d need to find rope, though. Or vines or something.”

Hux sighs, sits up and affixes Poe with a look that clearly suggests Poe’s the single greatest affront to his existence he’s ever faced. “Don’t we have more pressing concerns?”

Poe frowns. “Like what?”

“Like food?”

“Oh, right.” Poe waves a hand, half dismissive. “I told you already, there’s fish.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, “You weren’t joking about that?” His voice is slightly strained and there’s a split second of confusion in his gaze before it defaults back to annoyance.

Poe feigns innocence. “Why would I joke about that?”

“Because you seem incapable of taking anything else seriously!” Hux snaps.

Poe bites back his laugh. It really is too easy. “Well, I wasn’t,” he says, coming back to stand over Hux. “There’s fish. The streams not too far from the cave. We’ll go when it stops raining.”

He lingers a moment before crossing back to his side of the cave and settling down. “I wasn’t joking about First Order fishing training either,” he calls. “I have no idea how to fish.”

-

It’s stopped by the next morning, there’s even the hint of weak grey sunlight pouring into the cave when Poe wakes up. He scrubs a hand across his face and eats half a protein bar before waking Hux with a gentle kick to his good leg.

“I’ll take you down to the stream with me if you eat this and promise not to fight when if I help you,” he says, tossing the half-bar into Hux’s lap. Hux is still a moment, assessing. Eventually though, he reaches for the bar and nods cautiously.

Poe nods back.

This is a bad idea, BB8 says quietly.

Poe looks down at him, shrugs. Yeah, maybe.

-

As it turns out, Hux isn’t great at keeping promises. He snarls and snipes when Poe takes a hold of his wrists to pull him upright, flinches away and throws Poe’s grip off when Poe tries to hold him steady. The trouble is, Poe realises as Hux is standing, leaning heavily against the wall, panting and swaying with his eyes squeezed shut, that he has no idea how much of it is simple instinct.

He’s standing close enough to Hux to see that he’s trembling. His arms are outstretched, hands hovering an inch or so away from Hux, ready to catch him if he falls. “Alright?” He asks, gently, gently.

Hux exhales. Frustrated, determined. His cheeks are a furious red. He nods, tightly.

“Okay, then,” Poe says. “Now, you’re gonna have to lean on me if you want to go anywhere. I’m pretty sure you’ll topple over if you don’t.”

Hux tenses and for a moment Poe’s sure he’s going to fight him, going to bite back and refuse and fall on his ass but he doesn’t. Instead he opens his eyes, looking warily at Poe. It’s resignation, Poe thinks so he edges closer, snakes an arm around Hux’s shoulders. “Easy,” he says, low and under his breath. “Easy.”

He’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or to Hux. The air around them feels thick, heavy.

BB8 hovers around them, making soft, worried noises.

“You have to let go of the wall,” Poe says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as he feels.

Hux doesn’t look at him as he pushes off the wall, keeps his head slightly bent so his hair falls into his face, obscures his eyes. He sags against Poe slowly, by inches, until his weight his mostly against him and he lets out a small sigh of something like relief.

“Alright,” Poe says again, taking a moment to adjust to Hux’s warm bulk. He’s not all that heavy and this’ll certainly be easier than carrying him. “Let’s take this nice and slow, yeah?”

Hux is still not looking at him, makes this little huffing noise low in his throat like yes, get on with it, Dameron. Poe could be petty, could yank Hux forwards without a warning or set a fast pace but honestly, he just wants this to be over with so the first step he takes is slow, steady.

“Great,” he says. “Almost there.”

“I wish I had my dagger back,” Hux mutters.

Poe nods. “That’s the spirit.”

When they reach the mouth of the cave and step out onto the planet’s surface Hux lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes, tilts his face towards the sun. There’s a faint breeze in the air that tousles his hair, sweeps it back and off his face. He looks almost peaceful so Poe stops, lets them stand for a moment.

Looks away quickly when Hux opens his eyes.

-

Down by the stream, Poe finds a large flat outcrop of rocks to settle Hux down on. Poe lowers him down slowly, gently. He’s shaking again or maybe he never really stopped, red-faced, chest heaving. Poe sets a hand on his shoulder, Hux is too tired to throw it off. “Okay?” Poe asks.

Hux’s nod is shaky.

“Okay,” Poe says and then, to shatter this weird thing that’s settled itself around them, he reaches forwards to ruffle Hux’s hair. “Great job, buddy.”

Hux startles and scowls and Poe makes a show of wiping his hand against the material of his coat. “Yikes,” he says. “Your hair could do with a wash.”

Hux’s scowl deepens but he’s still too out of breath to say anything back. Poe takes it as a victory anyway, shuffles closer to the waters edge to peer down at the little shimmers of silver flitting about within it. They’re a decent size, a few weeks ago he could polish three or so off and call it a meal. Here, he’ll settle for one. That should be doable; one for him, one for Hux.

He hopes they aren’t poisonous.

He pulls Hux’s dagger from the inside of his greatcoat and leans over the water, prone.

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Hux says, after a moment.

Poe doesn’t let it distract him. “You’re worse than BB8,” he says, keeping his eyes on a largish fish that keeps darting in and out of his shadow. “I just have to grab it.”

Hux hmms but stays quiet.

Poe chooses his moment to strike and lunges. The fish darts away and Poe changes his angle at the last minute to go after it. The switch in direction wrenches his ankle, sends Poe plummeting into the stream with a yelp of pain.

“I told you,” Hux says, when Poe’s mostly right side up again. He’s smirking, bottom lip caught half between his teeth like he’s trying to keep himself from laughing. Poe scowls at him, half-heartedly splashes some water in his direction.

“What would you suggest then?” He says, standing up and splashing his way out of the stream. The fish have mostly scattered but there a few lingering just out of reach.

Hux holds his gaze evenly. “Spears? Hooks? Baited traps?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Poe says. “I didn’t realise fishing and wilderness survival skills actually made up part of First Order training.”

“They don’t,” Hux says. “I thought they generally made up part of this thing called common sense but I suppose that is in short order amongst the Resistance.”

“Alright, build some if you’re such an expert,” Poe snaps, stalking off towards the cage.

“With what?” Hux calls after him and then, slightly alarmed, “Where are you going?”

“Your common sense,” Poe shouts over his shoulder. “I’m going to change. Watch him, BB8.” And it’s petty and pointless, he knows. It’ll probably start raining again soon and he’ll be soaked either way but he mostly just needed to be away from Hux and his smug arrogance for a bit.

Back at the cave he changes. Thinks about slipping on his own clothes but they’re still stiff with blood and grime. He’s about to leave when he pauses. The weather is still holding, the clouds have burnt off and the sky looks clear. He bundles up the dirtier uniforms, the old shirt strips he’s been using to bind Hux’s leg into one of the larger containers he’s been using for water, snags the hand sanitiser he got out of the shuttle to go along with it.

Cleaner clothes might not be something Poe actually needs, he reasons as he lugs the tub back to the stream, but they don’t have an inexhaustible supply of fresh ones to use for bandages either.

-

When he gets back to the stream he finds Hux surrounded by a collection of branches, sticks and twigs of varying sizes. They’re arranged in a ring around him, neat little groups according to size. Poe stops dead in his tracks and stares, uncomprehending for a moment until he spots BB8 rolling towards Hux and placing a stick into his outstretched hands.

Hux turns the twig over in hands a few times and then bends it, checking it’s suppleness. “Good,” he says, more to himself than the droid. He sets down in one of his piles and says to BB8, “More like that, please.”

BB8 beeps and rolls off again, back towards the trees. Poe shakes his head in disbelief and carries on.

Hux looks up as he approaches, eyeing the tub Poe’s carrying. Poe looks pointedly at the sticks. “Are you building a nest in case I don’t come back for you?”

Hux hardly reacts, leans forwards and pats each pile in turn. “These are for spears,” he says, patting some long-ish sturdy branches. “These are for building a trap.”

Poe sets the tub down and bends to examine Hux’s collection. “A trap?” he echoes.

Hux takes up a long thin branch. “If we get enough of these we can make a long cage,” he says, setting the branch down. “We tie them together with these,” he taps some thinner, sinewy ones. “Weight it down, put it in the stream and block off the rest. Hopefully they’ll swim right into it.”

“That’s…actually pretty simple,” Poe says. “Will it work?”

“It has a better shot then your method, at any rate.”

“Alright. No need to be a smartass. What do we need the spears for?”

Hux shrugs. “Back up. I’ll need my dagger, though to sharpen them.”

“Yeah, no,” Poe says. “That’s not happening.”

“What was it you were saying about trust?” Hux says, pointedly.

Poe snorts. “Yeah, the line between trust and naivety might be kinda thin but I am firmly on this side of it, thanks. Nice try though.” He straightens, picks up the tub again.

Hux nods to it. “What are you doing?”

“Laundry,” Poe answers, without missing a beat.

“Laundry?” Hux repeats, as though it’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard.

“Yep.” Poe sets the tub down by the stream and pulls out the small bottle of hand sanitiser. “I know you First Order Generals probably have a whole army to do that for you but the rest of us make do on our own.”

“Not like that, I hope,” Hux says, eyeing Poe’s set up dubiously. “You do know that it is nowhere near sanitary?”

“Calm down. I’m going to boil the water first. Besides, unless you’ve got some detergent hidden up one of those sleeves of yours this is a good as we’re going to get.”

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take long to build a fire and get the water boiling. He double-wraps his flight-vest around his hand to pull it off the flames and pours about half the hand sanitiser into it, stirring it in with one of Hux’s discarded sticks. It lathers up better than Poe had expected and before he starts washing the clothes he cups some between his hands and rinses it through his hair, washes his face. He’s not as filthy as he could be thanks to the constant rain but oh, it feels good. He’s never wanted a ‘fresher more in his life.

He looks over at Hux when he’s done. He has his back to Poe, looping together his trap while BB8 scouts for more materials. “Hey, Hugs,” Poe calls and he looks over his shoulder, irritated. “Want me to wash your hair?”

Hux blushes easily Poe’s learnt and he does so now. “Certainly not.”

Poe considers this for a moment before deciding he’s probably in more qualified to make this decision than Hux is. “Well, I’m gonna do it anyway,” he says, inching the tub closer to Hux so he doesn’t waste the water. Hux splutters out protests and tries to shuffle away.

“At least I’ve been wondering around in the rain to keep clean,” Poe says, catching him by the collar. “You’ve just been lying around sweating.”

Hux seethes as Poe scoops water onto his hair and starts to rub it through. “Be grateful it’s only your hair I’m washing,” Poe tells him and the flush spreads down Hux’s neck, disappearing beyond his collar. “Exactly.” Poe says.

When he’s done, Hux shakes the wet hair off his face and fixes Poe with a glare that could cut through steel. It’s impressive consider the odd angles his hair is sticking up in, the suds slowly sliding down his face. Poe picks up one of the cleaner shirts and starts rubbing Hux’s hair dry.

“Remember: it could be worse,” he says as he does so.

“Try it, Dameron,” Hux growls. “And you’ll soon see that I don’t need a dagger to kill you.”

Poe laughs at the pure rage in his voice. “Is it weird that I’m slightly turned on, right now?” he asks just to watch Hux seethe.

He’s disappointed though, instead of wordless rage he’s met with Hux glaring at him from under a damp fringe and saying, “No. What’s weird is the lack of survival skills you have.” Which is far less fun.

-

Hux finishes his trap just as Poe is setting the clothes out to dry on low hanging branches. He lowers it into the water while BB8 dams off the rest of the stream and settles beside Hux on the rock to wait. Miraculously, it still isn’t raining. There aren’t even clouds gathering on the horizon.

A few fish flit around the entrance to the trap but none have ventured in yet. Hunger is starting to gnaw at Poe’s belly.

“This better work,” he says to Hux.

Hux seems to take this very personally. “Or what?”

“We starve?”

Hux huffs at that, looks back to the stream. Even if it does work, Poe reasons, it’ll just mean food for today. They’ll have to do this again tomorrow if they want more, it’s not like they’ve got a fridge.

“We could smoke them,” Hux suggests before Poe’s really realised he’s voicing his concerns out loud. Hux is staring very intensely at the water when Poe looks over at him.

Poe frowns. “Do you know how to do that?”

Hux’s gaze is fixed on the water. There’s something odd there, in his blue eyes. Something sad, distant. Troubled. He’s frowning slightly, like he doesn’t really know what or why he’s saying this. Like he can’t remember how he knows. Then he blinks. The uncertainty is shuttered away.

“You’re supposed to salt them first,” he says, looking away from the water and taking up a small twig in his hand. “But it might work without.” His voice is flat but there’s something in the hardness of his gaze, in the very deliberate way he snaps off the twigs extra branches that has Poe expecting something more. It doesn’t come though and Poe probably should have known there was no way he’d get anything genuine out of Hux without a little effort.

“So, food preservation techniques were part of First Order training?” He says, slowly.

Hux’s sigh is heavy. He snaps the twig in two and tosses both parts into the stream. “No,” his tone is clipped. What he says next he says hastily because he knows Poe will ask. “I learnt it from my mother.”

Poe wracks his brain. He doesn’t remember anything about Hux’s mother from his file. There had been lots on Brendol Hux, lots on his role during the Clone War and there had been an image too, he remembers. A large man, red hair like Hux’s slowly turning grey, grey eyes, meaty hand on the back of his small son’s neck, steering him into some unknown building. The image had been taken in secret, passed to the New Republic as proof of Brendol Hux’s continued existence. No mention of a mother though.

For a moment he feels slightly dizzy, realises he’s never considered the fact that Hux had a mother. He finds himself trying to picture that small boy from the image sitting on the kitchen counter like Poe did as a child, small hands resting on a wooden surface, head bent over some mixing bowl as a woman with red hair and blue eyes explained what she was doing in a soft, gentle voice. Someone gathering him into their arms, singing songs to him, playing games, reading stories. Tucking him in at night, smoothing back his hair. Pressing gentle kisses to his forehead.

The image is undercut by a bolt of red light cutting through space, ash and stardust left drifting through space.

He’s thinking of his own mother then, settling him into her lap, arms secure around his middle and teaching him to fly. She always smelt faintly of engine grease, laughed loudly when he flipped them upside down or banked too fast when turning. Her hands were calloused when they brushed back his curls, when they helped him climb the glowing branches of Luke’s tree.

He can’t imagine anyone treating Hux so tenderly.

He finds his hand drifting towards his mother’s ring, draws it to soothe himself.

He’s thinking about General Organa and her son, wondering if her mind fills itself with images of him as a child when anyone mentions Kylo Ren. If she still remembers his fist word, his first steps. If she still thinks of the songs she used to hum to soothe him to sleep.

 “Did she, uh,” Poe starts because he needs to distract himself from those thoughts. “Did she like to cook?”

Hux shrugs, one-shouldered. “She was a kitchen-worker. She didn’t have much choice.”

Poe frowns. “I thought your father was an officer?”

“He was.” Hux meets Poe’s gaze then, challenge in his eyes. It takes Poe a few moments to piece it together. Ah. Explains Hux’s inferiority issues at least.

“Were you close?” He asks next.

Hux doesn’t answer. He picks up another twig, stabs aimlessly at the ground. “She died when I was four.”

“Is that why you left Arkanis?”

Hux’s laugh is bitter. “She tried to stop my father from taking me,” he shakes his head, stabs the ground more meaningfully. “Stupid woman. He kept saying the Empire needs children but she didn’t listen. She kept struggling. If she’d just – ” he breaks off.

Poe swallows. The image in his mind has changed now, gone is the soothing voice, the gentle smile. Now there’s harsh, shrill fear, booming anger, a small boy cowering. Don’t tell my father, Hux had begged in his sleep, cringing away. Please. “I’m sorry,” Poe says.

“Don’t be,” Hux is smirking. Dark, twisted. He thrusts the stick deep into the earth and drags it back towards him, gouging out a deep path. “I made sure he suffered for it. My father’s death was more painful than you can imagine.”

Something icy curls through Poe’s gut. He shudders.

Hux looks up from his stick and towards the stream once more. He smiles proudly and Poe follows his gaze, sees a handful of little fish flitting about in the make-shift cage.

-

Oddly enough, Hux sleeps soundly that night.

They wait until they’re back at the cave to cook up their fish. Poe makes two trips, one with the clothes, one with Hux, BB8 rolling behind them dragging the make-shift cage. They catch seven fish, Poe cooks three as Hux explains the basics of smoking. He’s tired, that much is clear, his words are clumsy, running together. More than once he has to stop to collect his thoughts and start again.

He seems oddly calm after their talk about his mother. Poe’s still on edge about it, keeps thinking about that image in the file, the way Hux had laughed, the way he’d smiled.

Hux falls asleep as the storm rolls in. It’s a big one, big as the one they crashed in. Poe sets the fish to smoke following Hux’s instructions as best he can and settles down to try and sleep. BB8 has already switched to low power mode for the night so it’s just Poe awake, listening the rain thunder through the trees and the thunder rumble.

He doesn’t sleep well, tosses and turns, keep jerking awake from strange fragmented dreams –

He cowers behind his mother as someone shouts, as someone tries to take him away –

He pounds his fists into the unmoving rocks on Crait -

He runs through the jungles of Yavin as a bolt of red appears in the sky –

He chases through the crowd on some unknown world after a man with a too-tight grip on a small boy’s neck –

He stands on a shuttle knowing Leia has sent him to die, does the only thing he can think to do to protect his cause.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time it starts getting light outside so Poe gives up on sleep, decides he might as well go and see if he can find an easy route down to Victoria’s X-Wing. He takes BB8 with him, shakes Hux awake to tell him where they’re going, to tell him firmly that he’s staying here. Hux doesn’t argue. Too tired, Poe thinks. Walking to and back from the stream yesterday must have tired him out more than he thought it would.

The X-Wing is still scattered at the bottom of the ravine despite the raging river. He can make out the cockpit, driven deep into the rocky bank.

Victoria is still there. Stiff and cold.

Poe tears his gaze away, turns to BB8. “Alright, I’m gonna mark this spot,” He says, casting around for something to do so. He finds a stick and drives it deep into the earth as a marker. “Now, you’re gonna go that way and I’m gonna go this way. We’ll walk for half an hour and then we’ll turn around and come back, okay? If we find a route down we mark it.”

BB8 beeps their assent.

“Okay, lets go then.”

-

Poe tries to keep his mind blank as he walks or to focus on things other than Hux and his mother. Like whether or not there’s more to eat than fish on this planet or whether the fish is in fact poison and it’s just extremely slow acting. Or whether there are edible herbs or plants. Whether there’s enough hand sanitiser for a bath.

He doesn’t find a route down. Neither does BB8.

Hux is still asleep when they get back, lying so still, looking so unguarded and untroubled that Poe’s compelled to check his pulse just in case. It’s there though, steady and warm beneath Poe’s fingers. His hair lies smoother now, since Poe’s washed it, falls delicately into his face instead of in grimy locks.

Part of Poe fights the urge to smooth it back.

He squeezes his mother’s ring and thinks of something Leia told him once, when Poe had just joined the Resistance, had just learnt who Kylo Ren really was. It wasn’t so much of a secret as it was something not many people thought to ask but Poe still remembers the shock of it, of learning that Ben Solo and Kylo Ren were one and Leia had sighed, world-weary and said:

Look, Dameron, you really should have learnt this by now: there’s no such thing as monsters. There are just people. And some people make bad decisions and some people have bad decisions made for them and if the right person makes the wrong decision, sometimes the whole galaxy pays for it.

Chapter Text

“You’re certain there’s no other way down?” Hux says, watching Poe closely.

Poe closes his eyes, exhales slowly. They’ve been talking in circles while it storms for what feels like hours. “Yes,” he says carefully, opening his eyes. Hux is frowning deeply at him. “I walked for half an hour in one direction, alright? BB8 went in the other. There’s no other way down.”

Hux rubs at his jaw. Poe’s seen him do so before when he’s thinking. It makes him feel kind of ill that he knows Hux well enough to have picked up on little gestures like that.

“We’d need rope,” Hux says finally. “There was none on board the shuttle, I’m assuming there was none in your X-Wings either.”

Poe shakes his head. “We could use your hair,” he suggests because Hux’s hair is getting long, his fringe tumbling into his eyes, copper strands creeping down the nape of his neck. It’s softening him out, making him look less like a First Order and more like a beggar from the outer rim by the day.

Hux scowls at him. A week ago a comment like that would have had him flushing deep red, now he just looks mildly annoyed. “Yours is longer,” he points out.

“Hm. And stronger probably. Yours is looking kind of thin.”

That doesn’t get so much as hint of colour either, just an irritated huff. Poe doesn’t want to call the feeling that twists in his gut disappointment but he’s not sure there’s another word for it.

“So,” he prompts. “Any suggestions?”

Hux is still thinking. His hand has gone from his jaw to the back of his neck. “I – ” Hux starts but he breaks off for a coughing fit.

It’s gotten steadily colder over the past few days, the rain has gone from icy water to slush. It’ll snow soon, probably. Blizzard. Ideally, Poe would like to get off this planet before that happens. Especially with the rattle that’s settled itself in Hux’s chest.

Poe gets up to fetch him water. He’s taken to keeping it by the fire these days, the cold water only makes Hux’s cough worse. Hux keeps saying it’s getting better, Poe’s not so sure. Poe waits for it to pass with a frown, hands Hux the cup wordlessly when it’s over. When he was little and had a cough, his father used to make a paste from the rainforest plants to ease his breathing, but he hasn’t been able to find anything similar in the woods.

Hux swallows down the water and breathes deeply for a few moments, then carries on like nothing’s happened. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, plant fibre maybe, but we’d need an awful lot of it to lower someone down into a canyon.”

“Okay, plant fibres,” Poe says, nodding. “Good. Like the inside of a tree, would that work?”

Hux shrugs and it seems to pain him not to know, not to have certainty.

“Alright. We can work with that.”

He settles back against his side of the cave and waits for the rain to let up and for BB8 to switch back on to full power mode, chews on some of the smoked fish they’ve started storing. Hux watches him for a while longer before tilting back his head and closing his eyes.

-

It takes a while to gather enough fibre for a rope. Poe drags Hux with him whenever it’s not raining and sits braiding it together whenever it is. He’s found Hux a sturdy branch to use as a crutch, to save Poe from carrying him. Hux sneers at him for knowing how to braid, Poe asks if he’s jealous, tells him he’ll braid Hux’s hair if asks nicely and makes an admirable effort at dodging the water Hux throws at him.

He ends up teaching Hux anyway, points out it’ll go quicker with the two of them.

Poe’s been back to the ravine a couple of times, trying to gauge the distance accurately. Hux insists on coming along and seeing it for himself before they try anything.

“It’s too far for you,” Poe says, dismissively. “You can’t even make it to the stream and back on your own without needing several breaks.”

That gets a flush of annoyance. “Help me, then,” he snaps.

Poe smirks, glances up at him from the piece of rope he’s braiding. “Not with that tone of voice.”

Hux huffs. “Please,” he adds, through gritted teeth.

“Better,” Poe says. He looks up properly, enjoying the angry clench of Hux’s jaw. “Look, it really is a long way. I’d have to carry you out there and back and then we’d both be out of commission for a day or so.”

Hux opens his mouth to argue but whatever he’s about to say is swallowed by a hacking cough.

“And there’s that,” Poe adds. “I’ll take BB8 with me, it’ll be fine.”

“You’ll probably tie that rope to the first branch or sapling you find and end up in the same state as the X-Wing,” Hux snarls when he’s stopped coughing.

Poe looks at BB8. “He really thinks I’m stupid, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Hux seethes. The low voice he uses makes him cough again and Poe shakes his head, fetches him water.

The rope has to be long enough by now, it can loop almost double around the cave and he’s sure it’ll take his weight. He feels good about this, light. The exhilaration he used to get before take-off, fireworks crackling through his veins. He pats Hux on the back as the coughing tapers off and Hux still finds it in him to scowl.

It doesn’t matter, Poe tells himself. They’ll be free soon. He’ll be home. He’ll be home.

He’s going the next time they have a clear day, no matter what Hux thinks.

He dreams that night of flying, of soaring over the rainforests of Yavin 4, the base on D’Qar. He can see Finn below him on the runway, Rey and Rose too. Leia’s somewhere inside wearing a half-fond smile. Took you long enough, she says when Poe comes in to land.

-

He wakes early the first clear day they get, bright sunlight streaming in. There’s a thin layer of snow on the ground, melting quickly as the sun rises. The cold is working it’s way into Poe’s bones, making them ache. Hux is still asleep, curled on one side as small as he can make himself with his bad leg still outstretched, still immobilized.

Poe stands over him a few moments, considering.

If he wakes him, tells him where he’s going, Hux will insist he come. Or whine incessantly. One of the two. Instead, Poe drops another greatcoat over him in case the fire burns out before he wakes and packs the rope and a few hunks of smoked fish quietly.

BB8 tells him it’s a bad idea but they keep quiet when Poe asks, suggests re-splinting tighter Poe’s ankle before they go just to be safe.

“Good idea, buddy,” Poe tells him. “I knew I kept you around for something.”

He picks his tree carefully when they get to the ravine. He and BB8 have practised this best as they can on one of the trees outside of the cave. It’s simple: the rope is fastened, looped around BB8 and a branch over hanging the ravine, Poe holds on and BB8 lowers him down.

As long as the branch doesn’t break and BB8 doesn’t suffer some sort of complete power failure it should all go smoothly.

The weather’s holding. Poe takes one last look down the canyon before looping the rope around his wrist and clutching it tight. “Ready, buddy?” he asks. There’s sweat beading his brow.

It’s alright. He can do this. He’ll get the transmitter. He’ll get them off this planet.

Ready, BB8 beeps.

“Okay,” Poe says, taking a breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

BB8 hesitates a moment before starting to lower him down.

“Easy does it, buddy,” Poe says. “Easy does it.”

-

It’s cold in the canyon. Poe knew it would be but it still leaves him shivering, his fingers numb against the ropes. “Almost there, BB8!” he calls and hears a faint bleep of recognition from far above.

Closer now he can see how fast the rivers running down here, how white and frothy the water is where it rushes over the jagged rocky bed. He can see the cockpit is mostly intact, if completely separated from the rest of the bird, the pilot’s chair thrown free. He sees Victoria, frozen, face down. Not Victoria anymore.

He closes his eyes briefly.

The cockpit is caught between two off-shoots of rock in the centre of the river. It’ll be tricky to get out there with one good leg.

“Alright, BB8, I can reach the ground!” he shouts, as his good leg meets the bed.

He untangles himself from the rope and turns back to peer up the canyon, squinting against the sunlight. BB8 rolls over to the edge, looks down at him whirring.

“I’ll be fine!” Poe yells. “You just get ready to bring me back up!”

BB8’s beep is dubious.

Poe turns back to the river, to the wreckage. “Okay,” he says to himself, eyeing up potential routes. He picks one out. “Okay, okay.”

He takes his time inching across the river, leading with his good leg, careful not to put too much weight on his bad one. The stones are slippery beneath his boots, the spray icy where it hits him.

Careful! BB8 warns.

When he gets back to base he’s going to live in a nice warm bath for at least a week.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he reaches the cockpit, can hardly swallow back the small, relieved laugh that bursts from his chest. Now comes the tricky part.

He eases himself up onto one of the rocks, edges along so that he can reach into the cockpit through the shattered windscreen. He can see the transmitter, can just about reach it.

“I’ve almost got it, BB8!” he shouts. “I’ve almost got it!”

It’ll take more than a little force to yank it free, he’ll use Hux’s dagger to ease it’s way. He reaches in, gently, gently, starts working it loose. The cockpit groans under his hands and he stills for a moment.

They’ve got one chance at this. If the cockpit falls into the river before he can get it free they’ll lose it to the current or to the water damage.

Careful! BB8 calls again, alarmed.

“I am being careful!” Poe shouts back. “I am! Just – ”

The cockpit groans again, teeters forwards.

Sweat runs down Poe’s face, drips off the tip of his nose.

One good hard yank and it’d be free but he’ll have to move quickly in case the cockpit falls forward, traps him beneath it.

Poe! BB8 calls.

“It’ll be fine,” Poe says, haltingly.

He yanks on the transmitter hard.

It comes loose, wonderfully loose, superbly loose and he pulls it free with a whoop, cradles it to his chest.

The cockpit falls forwards.

Poe moves just a little too slow.

Chapter Text

When Poe opens his eyes again, for a moment the world seems completely grey.

His head is spinning, tipped back against the slick rock behind him. He blinks. The grey is the sky, dark clouds gathering.

Poe winces as he raises his head.

The rest of himself comes back gradually.

He’s slipped into the water, almost up to his chest. His good foot he can move freely, the other is pinned under the cockpit.

He can’t get it free.

But the transmitter – the transmitter is safe. Clutched to his chest, out of the water and the spray.

So there’s that. There’s that at least.

“BB8…” he tries, his voice cracks, comes out as a weak rasp. He swallows thickly before trying again. “BB8! BB8! Come on, buddy! I’m trapped, I could do with some help!”

He’s squinting up the canyon wall to where he’s sure BB8 was waiting but BB8’s not there. There’s no response. The rope still hangs from the tree, waving slightly in the breeze.

BB8 wouldn’t leave. They wouldn’t just leave.

“BB8!” he calls again. “BB8!”

He has no idea how long it’s been, he realises. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours.

BB8 might have gone to find another way down. Who knows how far they could have gone.

Poe closes his eyes. Tries to steady his breathing.

It’s alright. He can figure this out.

He just needs to get his leg free and then he’ll be fine. He can get out of the river, up the rope.

Simple.

Easy.

His legs are mostly numb below the knee but he tries, stars does he try.

-

He becomes aware of the faint high pitched sound for a while before he figures out what it is. His teeth are chattering, his arms beginning to ache where they’re folded around the transmitter. He hasn’t been able to get free.

There’s a moment where he thinks it’s the hum of an engine. Their rescue at last but no - it’s too small.

A flurry of leaves tumble into the canyon before BB8 appears. The droid coming to a halt just before they plummet off of the edge. Poe! Poe! I brought Hugs!

It takes Poe longer than it probably should to understand what BB8’s saying. He laughs when he does.

It’s ridiculous.

This whole thing is ridiculous.

Hux arrives then. Peers over the edge of the canyon, stark white and panting. His arms are visibly shaking where they’re holding him up and Poe can’t make out his expression for way down here, he assumes it’s some mixture of loathing and anger and annoyance, but he’s never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

“Hi, Hugs!” He shouts, can’t stop his teeth from clacking, his voice from shaking. “I found the transmitter!”

Hux doesn’t say anything back. He looks to BB8 and then to the rope, says something too quiet for Poe to hear.

“I’m kind of trapped,” Poe says, he’s rambling now he knows. “And cold.”

He only remembers Hux’s bad leg when Hux is gripping the rope, easing himself off of the wall and out into the empty space between. His leg hangs heavy, held stiffly with branches and scraps of black fabric. Useless.

“Oh, shit,” Poe mumbles. “Oh, shit, oh fuck, you shouldn’t be – ” but he stops because there’s no one else. There’s no one else.

It’s windier now, the rope sways. Hux’s knuckles are white where they’re looped through the fibre.

It’s like a dream. A stupid, awful dream. Any minute now the sky will be shattered by a burst of red light, he’ll realise he’s trapped beneath the rocks on Crait – held in place by Kylo Ren on the Finalizer, that he never left, he never escaped, it was all a fantasy –

“Don’t pass out,” Hux says, from somewhere above him. “I certainly won’t be carrying you anywhere.”

“Don’t pass out,” Poe echoes. “Got it.”

“And don’t drop the transmitter,” Hux adds.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Poe says.

He watches Hux get closer and closer to the ground. Hux is still breathing heavily, has his good leg extended and ready but he still stumbles when he reaches the ground, brings his bad leg down too quickly and falls back against the canyon wall behind him with a hiss of pain.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Hux growls, but from the way he’s clutching at his thigh he’s anything but. He sits for a moment, before easing himself back up. He moves towards the bank clumsily, dragging himself mostly on the floor. He’s left his crutch up above. “Pass me the transmitter.”

Poe’s shifting up to do so before he pauses, eyeing Hux with a slight frown.

Hux sighs, more out of exhaustion than annoyance Poe can see. “Do you really think your droid would let me back up there without you?”

It’s a point, a good one. Poe leans towards the bank as far as he can, holds the transmitter out. Hux reaches it just barely, pulls it towards his chest with a huff of relief. He sets it down by the wall, far from the spray where it’ll be safe. It’s only then that he turns back to Poe, questioning.

“My foots trapped,” Poe says, shifting his leg. “The cockpit fell on me.”

Hux’s gaze drops to the water, flits back up to Poe’s face. “Are you injured?”

“I have no idea,” Poe says, smiling weakly. “I can’t really feel it.”

Hux nods, his expression carefully blank. He starts casting about for something on the bank, Poe’s getting impatient when Hux leans forwards and lifts a sizable sheet of metal out of the water. He bounces it in his grasp for a moment, testing it’s strength, it’s durability, something like it, then he looks up at Poe, meaning clear.

He’s going to try and use it to lever the cockpit off Poe’s foot.

Poe swallows, “Are you sure that’s safe?”

Hux scoffs. “Well, it’s not like I can do anything else, is it?”

Which is true. He can’t walk out to Poe, can’t dip down and life the cockpit off him with his hands. He can’t really walk full stop. So Poe licks his lips, looks up at BB8 far above them and then back at Hux, scruffy and unkempt and tight jawed but here. Here.

“Okay,” he says.

Hux nods. Shuffles himself forwards so he’s as close as he can get to the water without falling in. He holds out the sheet of metal over the water, angles it downwards towards Poe’s leg. He looks up at Poe once more before he lowers it, cutting through the water, driving it down. He watches Poe carefully as he probes.

“That’s my foot,” Poe says. “My foot, again.” He can’t feel much more than dull pressure but it does the job. “My ankle. That might be it, I can’t feel anything and – ah, no that’s my foot again. Come on, Hugs. I thought you First Order types were supposed to be precise about things.”

Hux glares at him. “I could leave you to freeze to death you know.”

“I’m trying to encourage you,” Poe says. “Constructive criticism.”

Hux thins his lips, tries again. This time, it makes contact with something other than Poe’s leg. He pushes harder, angles it upwards. Poe feels something shift, feels a great pressure being lifted off. “That’s it!” He cries, so loudly that Hux almost lets go. “That’s it, Hux. Come on, just lift it a little higher.”

He can hear Hux’s breath coming in quick pants, can hear his breath wheezing slightly.

“Come on, Hux,” Poe says. “Come on.”

Hux grits his teeth, drives the metal in further, throws his entire body against it as leverage.

It works.

Poe’s foot comes free.

He’s running, stumbling forward through the water, falling onto the bank, mostly over Hux.

Hux is coughing, warm beneath him. Poe lies still, mind still not completely caught up.

His legs are starting to ache.

He’s free. He’s free and they have the transmitter.

He can’t stop the laughter that builds in his chest. It comes out weak and strained, muffled by Hux’s chest. “That was ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.

High above them BB8 is zipping around in circles, whirring with joy.

“You’re an idiot,” Hux says when the coughing has stopped. “An idiot.”

Poe is still laughing. “I know. I know.”

The laughter subsides, Hux’s breathing starts to steady. “You’re soaking,” he says, eventually.

And Poe hums. “Listen, if you’re about to suggest we snuggle for warmth or something – ”

Hux shoves him off roughly. It almost sends Poe back into the river. Hux’s face is flushed with anger. “I was about to ask you to get off me so that I wasn’t soaked too.”

“You’re no fun,” Poe says, leaning down to rub at his feet. He looks up to find Hux watching him. “Well, what are waiting for? Take the transmitter back up. I’ll need a few minutes before I can stand anyway.”

Hux lingers a moment before he goes and Poe thinks –

It doesn’t matter.

-

It starts to snow as they make their way back to the cave. Poe tries not to think about it, the flakes that start small and scattered but are soon coming thick and fast, he concentrates on moving, on putting one foot in front of the other. BB8 is ahead of them as always, rolling slowly, a bright blue light against the white.

He and Hux lean against each other as they walk, two good legs between them, Hux keeps having to stop to catch his breath, to heave out coughs. It’s all Poe can do to keep upright. Almost there, he wants to say but he’s shaking too hard, he’s too focused on fighting the urge to just lie down in the snow and sleep.

He can’t stifle the wrecked sound of relief he makes when they reach the cave, staggers ahead to change out of his wet clothes and sinks down onto the floor, wraps a few of the greatcoats around himself. He’s never been this cold in his life. It’s weaved itself into his bones. He curls into himself, shivering. BB8 whirs worriedly.

“I’ll be alright,” Poe assures him. “I just need to warm up.”

Hux is piling logs up, stoking a fire. His hands are shaking as he tries to light it, he swears – breaks off to cough. BB8 rolls over to help him, lights the fire with their own little blowtorch.

“Thank you,” Hux mutters to the droid. He slumps against the wall, watches as Poe shuffles as close to the flames as he can get.

They haven’t spoken since the canyon. The transmitter sits between them.

You didn’t have to do that, Poe thinks about saying, wants to say. You didn’t have to save me.

He thinks Hux would sneer, remind him he can’t walk, point out BB8 would probably have forced him down the canyon if he hadn’t gone willingly. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d sigh, shake his head, roll his eyes, tighten his jaw. Maybe Poe would be left feeling angry and empty, staring at Hux’s pale face in the flickering light and trying to work out what he’s thinking, what he means. Trying to work out whether he saved Poe to save his own skin, because he thinks he owes Poe something or because –

“You should let me look at your ankle,” Hux says, voice tight.

Poe doesn’t know what to do but nod, extend his damaged ankle.

Hux holds his gaze a moment before scooting closer to him. He doesn’t look back up as he removes Poe’s shattered splint. Poe hadn’t even thought of it as they walked, his legs were numb enough to dull the pain. He’s not so much gentle as he is efficient, pulling away the shattered wood, discarding the strips of fabric, wiping away the blood where the splinters have broken the skin.

With his head bent, in the firelight, his hair looks soft, the colour of sunsets, shinning dully. Poe curls his hands deep into the coat around his shoulders to stop from reaching out.

“What about your leg?” he asks, as Hux is re-strapping his ankle.

Hux’s hands still, he glances up briefly. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have been able to stand at all if it wasn’t.”

“Define fine,” Poe says. It comes out more gently than he really means it to.

Hux is looking up at him again, mouth twisted unhappily, eyes narrowed, about to snap but he must catch something Poe doesn’t want him to in his expression, in his eyes because he lets out a soft sigh, looks back down at Poe’s ankle and finishes up.

He moves away and Poe feels cold.

“We should sleep,” Hux says, gruffly.

“Yeah,” Poe says. “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

It’s still snowing when Poe wakes. It’s solid white outside the cave, starting to pile up, tumble in, bringing with it a muffled hush.

He can’t have been asleep long; the fire is still burning, though the flames are getting low. The cold must have woken him. He tries to go back to sleep for a few minutes, buries his face in the coats, curls himself as tight as he can but it does no good. He’s shivering too hard, sucking in air so cold it makes him choke and cough.

He wants to ask BB8 to put another log on the fire but BB8’s at the back of the cave on low-power mode. He’ll have to do it himself.

He tries to keep the coats as close around him as he can as he crawls over to the fire, hisses each time his bare skin meets the cool air. He piles on as many logs as they can spare, sits trembling by the flames as they creep up the wood. Even this close he’s still cold, far too cold.

He burrows down again, squeezes his eyes shut. He’s never done well in the cold and the snow these days just makes him think of Starkiller, of frozen forests, stretched out beneath him.

Hux is bundled up too, just his hair visible under the coats piled atop of him. Poe can see the way his shoulders shake, hear his hitching, rasping breath.

Once when Han Solo showed up on D’Qar and he and Leia were on the outs he sat with Poe and talked to him about Hoth. The biting cold, the snow, the ice. Luke Skywalker almost freezing to death. Poe’s always been pretty dubious about that tale and either way, they don’t have a Tauntaun.

“Hux,” he says, before he can think better of it and Hux shifts under the coats, raises his head an inch or so, angles towards the sound of Poe’s voice. “You awake?”

Hux huffs in answer.

“I know we said no snuggling for warmth,” Poe says. “But – ”

Hux huffs again, shifts under his coats. Then he looks up at Poe, his expression grim. He doesn’t speak, just shuffles backwards a little, quirks an eyebrow. Get on with it then.

And Poe’s moving forwards before the briefest flutter of sense passes by – this is the man that built Starkiller, brought death and ash and destruction.

He pushes it away.

It takes a few minutes to arrange all the coats across them both. Hux is rigid, unhelpful, tucks himself back under the coats as soon as Poe’s settled down. After a moment, Poe does the same. It’s warmer but Poe can still feel Hux shaking a little, can still feel chill air between them.

“Can I - ?” he starts. It’s pitch black beneath the coats. He has no idea what Hux is thinking, if he’s regretting this, if he’s as cold as Poe is. “Push me away if you need to,” Poe says. “Alright?”

He moves forwards slowly, a hairs breadth then pauses, waits, moves forwards when he’s met with no resistance. He stops when their legs are brushing, when he can feel Hux’s breath on his face.

And it’s warmer now but he’s far from sleep, hyperaware of how close Hux is, how he can hear how tight Hux’s breathing is.

This is wrong. This is –

“I’m sorry,” Poe says, gently. “This is kind of weird, isn’t it? But you’ve stopped shaking now so you must be warmer too and we don’t have to talk about this ever again, if you’d like. Because I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

He thinks Hux relaxes a little at that so he keeps talking. It’s easier than letting the silence grow, after all.

“You know, if you’d told me a month ago I’d end up cuddled up with a First Order General, I’d have – actually, you know what? I probably would have assumed Leia sent me in undercover. I always thought I’d pretty good at that. I mean, I’ve got the looks, right? And I bet there’s more than a few in the Order who’d be more than happy to slum it with me. What do you think, Hux? Think I’d make a decent honey trap?”

“You talk too much.” Hux says. Poe’s not sure if it’s an answer or just a general complaint.

Poe laughs weakly. “Yeah, always been a weakness. Force of habit. Nervous tic, you know. You should be used to it by now.”

Hux sighs, this soft little noise and he must shift his head because Poe feels the brush of Hux’s forehead against his own. Hux freezes, goes to draw back immediately but Poe’s hand comes up to hold him still before Poe’s even really processed what’s happening.

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

Poe’s hand is cupped gently around Hux’s cheek. “It’s alright,” he says, voice shaky, uncertain whether he’s talking to himself or to Hux. He strokes his thumb back and forth soothingly, like he’d do to frightened animal.

Like he’d do to someone pressed against him in the dark.

Hux’s hand comes up to grasp Poe’s wrist.

“Hux,” Poe says. Stars, he wishes he could see Hux’s face, Hux’s expression.

Hux doesn’t push him away. His hands are warm even through the leather of Poe’s jacket. Poe’s hand starts to move, traces Hux’s cheekbone, rubs over the stubble clinging to his jaw. His thumb just brushes Hux’s mouth before Poe slides his hand up and through Hux’s hair. It’s not as soft as it is in the little thoughts he ignores all day, still thick with grim and grease but Hux’s breath hitches, sounds almost like a sob.

And this isn’t –

This isn’t –

He’d take this back if he could, he thinks, even as his hand slides back down and he presses their foreheads closer together.

I wish, he thinks, you were anyone but you.

I wish I could go back.

I wish I hadn’t – I hadn’t –

But he has and Hux is warm and solid and real. Not some static photo in Leia’s file, not a voice on a comm-link, not a monster he can pour all his hatred into. All his anger, all his frustration, all his fucking dead friends and nightmares and – Hux is just a man here. A stupid, sarcastic, clever man. A boy who killed the father who stole him.

“Do you ever think,” he starts, his eyes squeezed shut, “about what you’d have been like if you’d stayed on Arkanis?”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say immediately. Hux turns his head, starts to shift away.

“No, no,” Poe says hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that – ”

But Hux sighs, says, “Dameron.” His voice heavy with thousands of unsaid things.

“Wait,” Poe says. “Wait. I just – ”

He tugs Hux back towards him and Hux doesn’t resist.

The first time he presses their mouths together it’s chaste. Fleeting. Barely there between the doubt and regret thick in his throat and for what feels hours afterwards they lie still, breathing heavily in the dark. Poe keeps waiting for Hux to shove him off but he doesn’t so Poe slides his hand down to the pale skin of Hux’s throat and then lower still, over Hux’s uniform and then up beneath his shirt, against the flat pane of Hux’s stomach.

Hux gasps at that, his grip on Poe’s wrist slackens a moment before shifting to Poe’s shoulder, curling in to the fabric there.

The next kiss is decidedly less chaste, all teeth and pent up frustration and Poe’s angry – so angry – that Hux has done this to him, that he’s allowed himself to do this, to feel this. Hux must be angry too, because he drags his teeth across Poe’s bottom lip, he’s the first to draw blood.

In the morning, Poe thinks, as he growls and slips his hand lower, just teasing at the waistband of Hux’s trousers, he’ll regret this. He’ll be sick with regret about this but he breaks the kiss to mouth down to Hux’s throat, to scrape his teeth over Hux’s pulse point and Hux makes this breathy little sound that Poe wants to commit to memory, to hear again and again and again and the morning feels a very long way away.

Chapter Text

When Poe wakes up the snow has stopped and it’s a bright, blinding white outside. It’s warm in their nest of coats, almost stiflingly so and at some point during the night Poe has thrown an arm out into the cool air and light pours in.

Hux is still asleep, curled towards Poe. His head is pillowed on one arm, the other is bent between them, half obscuring Hux’s face. He looks far more fragile and delicate than he has any right to, frowning slightly in his sleep, cheeks flushed from the close heat. There’s a bite mark on his throat, just below his jaw that Poe doesn’t remember leaving there.

He does remember the desperation of it all – the rawness. The teeth, Hux’s fingers curled tight around his wrist – breaking the kiss to whisper are you sure? do you want – against Hux’s lips. Hux kissing back in answer, fingers curling into Poe’s hair and tugging, insistent. The small sounds he made against Poe’s mouth as Poe brought them off with quick hurried strokes.

Poe lies still for a very long time.

It’s not like he hasn’t made mistakes before - woken up in the wrong bed on the wrong planet, a headache pounding behind his eyes, the lingering taste of alcohol sour on his tongue. But he’s never ended up in bed with a First Order officer, let alone a general and it’s never – he’s had people that it meant something with, of course. He’s had people that set off supernovas in his chest, put jet-fuel in his veins, he’s had people that make him feel like he’s flying even though his feet are firmly on the ground but this has crept up on him. Something small and festering that has crept between his ribs and set down roots.

Hux twitches in his sleep, makes a soft, unhappy sound and Poe’s hand is moving of it’s own accord to soothe him.

Oh, Poe thinks, bleakly. I should have left you to burn.

His mother’s ring feels very cool against his chest.

Eventually, Poe eases himself out from under the coats, retrieves his jacket – cast off at some point during the night – and kindles a fire. They’re running low on wood and fish and the sky outside looks relatively clear but if Poe squints he can make out a dark swell far over the trees. They should stock up in case they get snowed in, or something.

He lingers before he goes, caught between waking Hux and BB8 so that at least one of them is aware of where he’s gone. He settles for Hux because BB8 is still on low power mode, doesn’t have infinite energy reserves, kneels to wake him, curling a hand through his hair and shaking him gently. “Hey, Hugs.”

Hux is bleary, blinks up at him. “Dameron?” His voice is soft with sleep.

“I’m going to get more firewood, alright?” Poe says. He keeps his voice low, soft. “And check the stream hasn’t frozen over. I’ll be back soon.”

Hux blinks a few more times before he nods, tucks his face back under the coats and before he goes Poe can’t resist bending to press a kiss to the top of his head left exposed. Hux’s ears go red and Poe finds himself snickering, feeling stupidly warm and light until he’s out amongst the still, frozen trees and warmth starts to ebb away.

-

When Poe was little, his mother used to give him her ring for safe keeping when she flew, used to slide it on to his narrow fingers and kiss them each in turn. Now, Poe has crooked a finger underneath the frayed chord that holds it around his neck and drawn it out to sit on top of the dark First Order shirt he wears.

He’s thinking about Hux again, not the way he was pressed against him in the pitch black last night or the way he looked in the shuttle wreckage, deathly pale and covered in blood and grime. He’s thinking about that small skinny boy from Leia’s dossier, back in that imagined kitchen with that imagined woman, wondering whether Hux has anything to remember her by. He thinks Hux would probably be annoyed at him for dwelling on it, snap that he doesn’t need Poe’s sympathy, that he’s never asked for it.

Poe would still feel it though, Poe would still want to take it all away from him. The nightmares, the uncertainty, the scars – not from combat now he’s certain. The same way he wants to take away the things Finn still does on instinct, drilled into him by men and women like Hux. The same way he wants to take away the way Rey still wolfs down her food like it’ll be snatched away from her at any moment. The same way he wants to away the way Leia closes her eyes for a brief moment when they talk about Kylo Ren, the way Rose only has her sister’s necklace to remember her by, the way everyone had looked after Crait with their numbers whittled down and so many lost –

None of them would ask it of him, he knows. But stars, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still ache for it.

His mother used to love that about him, used to cradle his face and press kisses to his forehead, my idiot sunshine-boy, always trying to the best by everyone. His father used to despair, shaking his head every time Poe came home with split knuckles and scraped knees as a boy, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him the first time Poe screwed up and got someone killed, the first time Poe threw himself recklessly at everything that came afterwards to try and make it right, holding him tight afterwards.You can’t save everyone, Poe!

Watch me, Poe remembers thinking.

Then he’s thinking about Hux again, growing up on a small planet under siege, shivering in a large cold house, snatched away to be raised in somewhere dark and lonely and unknown. He doesn’t think Brendol Hux would hold his son, tears in his eyes, cursing every star and every deity in the galaxy for such a reckless child but thanking them too for his safety.

He pushes those thoughts away, concentrates on the crunching of his footsteps. Finn and Rey had none of that either and they still came through on the right side of things.

His mother’s ring taps against his chest as he walks, taps against his shirt-front.

He wonders what she’d say to him now if she knew.

-

Hux is awake and sitting by the fire when Poe returns. He has both the shuttle comms and the transmitter in his lap, examining them both. BB8 sits beside him, bleeps uncertainly when Hux pries a panel off of the transmitter. “If it wasn’t meant to come off, it wouldn’t have so easily,” Hux tells the droid, lifting the transmitter up for a closer look.

“Words to live by,” Poe calls and Hux only briefly glances up at him as Poe trudges the rest of the way to the cave, sets down the pile of wood he’s gathered. “The stream isn’t frozen over, I’m going to take the trap down. We should probably stock up on food in case we get snowed in.”

Hux lowers the transmitter at that, looks Poe over, gaze lingering deliberately on Poe’s ankle.

“It’s fine,” Poe assures, coming to sit beside him. Hux stiffens a moment when Poe settles against him and Poe can see the brief indecision in his eyes. He doesn’t move away though, instead relaxes against Poe with a soft exhale.

“I think you’re probably better at splinting then me,” Poe goes on.

Hux hums noncommittally, looking down again at the transmitter in his hands. Poe leans over to peer down at it, rests his chin lightly on Hux’s shoulder. “Find anything promising?”

Hux bristles. “I told you I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

“Hey,” Poe soothes. “It’s okay. It’s not like we haven’t got time.”

“Although,” Poe adds, nudging Hux playfully. “It would be nice to get out of here before the temperature drops even more. So, no pressure or anything.”

Hux sighs crossly and Poe smirks as he stands to retrieve the fish-trap.

-

They don’t talk about what happened the night before.

When Poe gets back he sets some fish to smoke in their makeshift contraption, watches Hux fiddle around with their only way home. They eat in silence as the next storm rolls in, bringing with it more snow and this time, thunder and lightning. The bright flashes of lighting, the low rumbles of thunder seem eerie without the accompanying roar of the wind and rain. For a while they sit beside each other to watch it.

Poe keeps stealing glances at Hux, entranced by the way he’s lit in turn by the warm glow of the fire and the blue glow of the lightning, his skin standing out stark and white, his hair turned a deep, bloody red. There’s something far away in his gaze, something bleak and distant.

Poe wants to set a hand at the nape of his neck where a thin strip of skin is exposed between Hux’s hair and the layers of shirts he’s wearing. He wants to set a hand atop the one Hux has gripping tight at the knee of his wounded leg. He wants to slide his fingers around Hux’s jaw, tilt his head towards him, kiss him until that look has ebbed away and his eyes are dark and hungry.

And it makes him angry still to want that but that hot, burning rage that makes him want to break things is quickly burning out, wearing itself down into a low, steady pang of guilt, of despair.

He turns away, bites the inside of his cheek.

Last night was a mistake. An accident.

It was stress relief. He was still running on adrenaline and Hux just happened to be the only other person on this planet. That’s it. That’s all it was. It doesn’t have to mean anything more – not if Poe doesn’t want it to.

And if –

And when they get the transmitter wired through the comms device this won’t matter anymore. Poe won’t have to think about it ever again.

-

They sleep pressed together again because it makes sense, because it’s still sub-zero. Hux lies down first. Poe lingers, watching the storm, debating whether or not he should just chance it on his own. If he stays near enough the fire and wakes BB8 to keep it going during the night – but eventually he cracks, shakes Hux awake and ignores the twist in his chest at Hux’s sleepy protests.

“I’m sleeping here again, alright?” he says, when Hux seems mostly cognizant.

Hux sighs, closes his eyes, mumbles something like, did you really need to wake me up for that?

“I’m sorry?” Poe says and Hux shakes his head.

“Do what you want, Dameron,” he says, before turning his head to face the other way.

He’s asleep again before Poe’s finished settling down, arranging the coats around them and Poe drifts in and out of dreams and fantasies where he climbs on top of Hux and pins his wrists above his head, sucks more marks into that long pale throat. Sometimes Hux sneers at him, goads him on. Sometimes he reverses their positions, the crisp First Order General once more, black leather gloves cool against Hux’s skin, scum, he hisses. What would your princess think of you now? Sometimes he slips a dagger between Poe’s ribs and watches him bleed out on bed sheets.

Sometimes he’s the Hux that lies beside Poe, scruffy, wary, hands alternately pulling Poe closer and pushing him away. Let me, Poe keeps saying. Let me, let me, let me, please. Hux keeps pressing his face to the crook of Poe’s neck. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, he says.

Chapter Text

The snow keeps coming, piles up against the cave entrance. The temperature steadily drops.

Hux’s chest is getting worse, Poe keeps waking up to him coughing, choking, struggling to breathe, eyes squeezed shut, one hand balled into his shirtfront. There’s nothing Poe can do except bring him water and try to soothe the worst of it. Hux is always exhausted, paler every day, the smudges under his eyes darkening. He slumps against Poe after fits sometimes, forehead damp with sweat and Poe rubs his back, mumbles easy, easy, there you go, just breathe, Hux, breathe, into his hair until his breathing evens out and he’s asleep.

Poe lets him go then, shifts backwards, tries not to look to hard at the fading mark on Hux’s throat.

It’s too cold to leave the cave except for absolute essentials so mostly Poe sits with Hux by the fire and bickers about how best to connect up the two comms devices they have. Hux keeps saying things like, “Well, Dameron, if being stuck here with you has taught me anything it’s that your ideas tend to leave a lot to be desired.”

And Poe says things like, “Hey! At least I got the transmitter!”

“After you almost got yourself drowned! What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?”

“I would have figured it out! Probably.”

And so on.

It’s a few days before Hux is happy enough to try it out, pushing it towards Poe with shaking hands and hanging back while Poe sets it down by the cave entrance and turns it on. The light on the transmitter flickers on and Poe whoops, claps his hands. By the fire, he hears Hux’s breathing tighten.

“Now lets see if we can send something out,” Poe says, kneeling to programme in the frequency. He’s using one of the Resistance’s emergency channels, there are few they still use so he picks one at random. He sets it to send out an SOS distress signal, sits back on his heels when he’s finished and watches the interface flicker.

“How will we know if it’s worked?” he asks. To root it through the shuttle comms and boost the signal they’ve had to take out the receiver.

“We’ll know it’s worked if someone comes and rescues us,” Hux says, his voice is tight and strained, his breath coming in close little gasps. “Or kill us. Whichever.”

Poe looks up at him immediately, his face is drawn, his hands balled into fists against his thighs, knuckles white. Poe moves off to fetch him water before he starts coughing, kneels in front of him, one hand on his shaking back waiting for the fit to end. It’s a long one.

When it’s over Hux pitches forwards and Poe catches him, raises the cup of water to his lips and rubs soothing circles into his back. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he says as Hux’s chest stops stuttering. “It’s over.”

Hux lies against him, limp, eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. “Your friends better hurry up,” he says after a long while, his voice grim.

Poe swallows, rubs Hux’s shoulder absently. “You’ll be alright,” he says, firmly.

Hux’s hands are pressed against Poe’s chest, one lying flat, the other fiddling with Poe’s ring. He does that a lot, Poe’s noticed, probably started by accident but he’s never asked about it and Poe’s never told. His forehead is damp against the side of Poe’s neck. “Dameron – ” he starts but Poe cuts him.

“Hugs, you’ll be fine.” He says and then, because his ankle is starting to complain, he shifts them gently so that he’s seated, Hux still slumped against him. “You’ll be fine,” he says again and when twists his head to peer down, he finds Hux’s eyes open, gaze heavy.

Stars, Poe wants.

He must shift then because Hux flinches, almost imperceptibly and says, “You shouldn’t.”

Poe stiffens. “Shouldn’t what, Hugs?”

Hux swallows thickly. A light flush has crept into his cheeks. His arms tense a moment, like he’s about to lift himself off of Poe but either he decides he’s not recovered enough yet or he decides he doesn’t want to because he settles back against Poe, closes his eyes.

Poe sighs. “Let’s get you lying down.”

He half-carries Hux across to the pile of coats, gets him settled and then, after a moment, lies down beside him. Hux is still mostly against him, head resting against Poe’s shoulder. He reaches up, ill-advised and runs a hand through Hux’s hair.

Hux tenses, takes a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t,” he says, again.

Poe sighs, leans forwards to press a kiss to the top of Hux’s head. “I know,” he says. “I know, but – ” He shifts then, shuffles downwards so that they’re at eye-level. Hux is watching him, expression pained. Poe raises one hand to cup Hux’s jaw, fingers playing against it.

“Just let me,” he says. “I want – ”

And there’s no darkness to hide in this time, the thrumming in his veins that tells him how wrong this is, how it was a mistake, always a mistake is quiet underneath the cold growing realisation that this might be it. Either they’ll be rescued or they won’t be. Either this will be over or it’ll drag out, strung along for as long as Poe can control himself, tense and heavy and –

Hux closes his eyes but he doesn’t move away.

Poe kisses him slowly, gently. There’s none of the anger, the desperation of the first time, he eases them together, curls one hand gently through Hux’s hair, rests the other against his chest so that he can feel the reassuring thud of Hux’s heartbeat. Hux relents, sighs into his mouth, brings his hands up to frame Poe’s face. His skin is dry and cracked from the cold but Poe doesn’t care, Poe doesn’t care.

And Poe wants more - stars, does he want more. Wants to kiss down further, lay Hux before him, map out his body with his hands and his mouth, watch Hux tip his head back, commit the little sounds he makes to memory but Hux’s chest is getting tight again, he’s warm and heavy and tired against him so he pulls back, contents himself to lie beside him and pretend he doesn’t see the dampness around Hux’s lashes where his eyes are still squeezed shut.

-

“I’m sorry,” Poe says, gently.

Hux doesn’t say anything back. Instead, he takes another shaky breath and presses closer, burying his face in Poe’s neck. His hands are balled up in Poe’s shirt, his back shakes lightly. Poe rests his chin on top of Hux’s head and holds him there, holds him steady.

-

He’s out gathering wood when he hears a rumble and whoosh from overhead.

It doesn’t register at first – not really, not when he’s concentrating so hard on how bitterly cold it is, how his fingers feel numb even under the thick leather of Hux’s gloves, on clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. It’s still snowing, lighter today though, the sky is open and white.

It’s probably more chance than anything that Poe looks up, spots something big and grey crawling across the sky.

His brain puts it together then and it’s like someone’s light a match in his chest, a series of fireworks racing through him, rattling his ribcage. There’s disbelief at first but then he’s jumping, he’s cheering, he’s bounding through the snow towards the cave, wood forgotten, laughter racing through his veins.

This is it.

This is it.

We’re going home, he thinks. I’m going home.

He feels light, he feels dizzy with it.

He sprints into the cave, shakes Hux awake. “They’re here!” he cries, when Hux looks at him with dazed blue eyes. “They came for us! It worked! It worked!” He hugs Hux tight, kisses him soundly, nudges BB8 awake and races back outside to draw a marker in the snow.

He’s just finished marking out a letter H – for here or for help, he hasn’t decided yet, when the ship soars over head again. Poe jumps up and down, waves his arms. “HERE!” he shouts. “I’m here!”

The Falcon sees him, he’s sure of it. It turns, swoops back overhead lower.

“YES!” Poe shouts. “YES! YES! YES!”

He falls backwards into the snow, laughing so hard he can’t think straight – BB8 has come out to join him, zips around him beeping wildly. “We’re going home, buddy!” he pants. “We’re going home.”

The Falcon soars overhead again, angled downwards for a landing.

After a few moments Poe picks himself up to watch it touch down. He goes to meet it, a little way away from the cave, is almost upon it when the boarding ramp hits the snow and Finn comes sprinting out towards him.

“POE!” he shouts and it’s music – music – to Poe’s ears. “POE! I KNEW YOU WEREN’T DEAD! I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!”

They meet in the middle with a bone-crushing hug, Poe’s pretty sure he’s never held anyone so tightly in his life. “Oh, Finn, oh buddy,” he’s saying, he’s laughing, he’s crying. “Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m so glad to see you, I’m so glad.”

“I knew it,” Finn is still saying. “I knew you weren’t dead.” And he’s laughing too, loudly, heartily.

They break apart eventually and Finn still has his hands on Poe’s shoulders. “You – ” he says, still grinning. “You could really do with a shower.”

Poe laughs again. “I missed you, buddy.”

“Me too,” Finn says, firmly. “So what happened, man? Is it just you or – ”

He breaks off when Rey steps out of the Falcon, runs towards them. She hugs Poe too, tightly, firmly. She’s not shaking with joy like Finn but Poe can feel the relief rolling off her in waves. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, we should have found you sooner.”

“No,” Poe says, the tears are flowing freely now, running warmly down his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

Finn wraps his arms around the both of them and Poe shakes. “I thought – ” he says. “I thought – ” but he can’t even finish it, isn’t even sure what he’s trying to say.

I thought I was dead.

I thought you weren’t coming.

“Are you alone?” Rey asks gently when they finally break apart.

Poe shakes his head, uses the sleeve of his coat to dry his eyes. “BB8’s here too and uh, General Hux.”

Both Finn and Rey’s eyes lit up at the mention of BB8. At the mention of Hux though, they frown, exchange a look, half-disbelief, half-confusion. “As in First Order General Hux?” Finn asks.

Poe nods.

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Rey says.

“Yeah, lot of that going around,” Poe says. “He could also do with a shower though, so. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

-

Back in the cave, Hux is sitting up, one hand resting on BB8.

Poe is still smiling, is still overjoyed but –

But –

He’s asked Finn and Rey to wait outside. When Poe steps in, BB8 seems to look to Hux for permission before he zips out to say hello and Poe smiles wider hearing Finn and Rey greeting him.

“So it worked,” Poe says. “Whatever you did to the transmitter, it worked.”

Hux’s eyes are very wide in the dim light. For a moment, Poe can see everything, fear, anger, relief. Poe drops to his knees in front of him, reaches out but –

What can he say?

Then Hux blinks and in an instant, everything is shuttered away. His gaze goes cold, impassive. His posture straightens. His expression goes flat.

“Hux,” Poe says, uncertainly.

Hux eyes him coolly. “Better not keep your friends waiting, Dameron.”

Poe drops his hand back his side.

This is for the best, he thinks.

This is for the best.

He nods. “Come on, then.”

Chapter Text

oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued

-

Dameron leads him out of the cave. His grip is firm but gentle, fingers still clad in Hux’s own gloves, the leather worn and fraying from the wood they’ve been used to haul.

His chest is weak, rattles and wheezes with every breath he takes. When the freezing air hits him, when he swallows down a lungful, it’s all he can do to stay standing, to keep from succumbing to coughing fit. Dameron must have noticed a change in him, or perhaps he is just anticipating, because he eyes Hux nervously, sets his other hand at the small of Hux’s back.

Hux tries to ignore it, the mingled concern in Dameron’s dark eyes. It will wear away as time goes on, he’s certain. Burn out. It was never real in the first place after all, kindled from their circumstance, from the way their lives were thrust messily together, from a series of events neither of them could have predicted.

Well, perhaps some could have been predicted.

Perhaps some could have been avoided.

He ignores too the tight knot in his chest, the one that has nothing to do with the cold and the damp or the constant pound of his shattered leg.

He feels Dameron squeeze his wrist gently, a question unasked. Alright?

Hux ignores that too.

Outside, there are two figures, bent down with Dameron’s droid between them. The traitor-stormtrooper and Ren’s scavenger girl. They stand as he and Dameron step out into the light, look to him as one with twin expressions of contempt on their faces. When they look to Poe again though, that cold hatred is gone and there is light, there is relief, there is something steady and warm.

He half wants to laugh at them. Tell them all the things their beloved Commander has been doing, the things Dameron has hissed into his hair when he thinks Hux is asleep, the way they have clung together, the marks Dameron pressed into his hips, his jaw. But he glances at Dameron side-on as he gives a brief account of how they came to be here and feels dizzy at the thought of it. Feels ill.

Dameron keeps looking at him gently, tenderly, for all that he tries to hide it. Like Hux is something precious, something fragile, something to be handled with care and delicacy. To be coaxed, encouraged. Hux feels ill at that too, feels his skin crawl, his heart pound, sick with it. You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong.

There is nothing delicate about me.

He thinks of how his father would laugh to see him here now. Sent to die by a bratty child, rescued by rebel scum. Tended to. Nursed.

Pathetic, Armitage, even for you.

The girl asks that he be cuffed, her eyes hard. This is the girl Ren would have him believe slew the Supreme Leader, a whole platoon of guards. This is the girl Ren said bested him, the girl Dameron speaks so highly of. Yes, he sees it. She is strong, she is firm and there is something wild about her. Not the untamed, unbridled savageness that lurks in Ren’s eyes - the thing born of fear and self-loathing and bitterness – something fierce and steady. Something dangerous and tightly controlled.

Dameron looks uneasy at her suggestion, the traitor agrees.

Dameron does not argue. He looks apologetic as they trudge towards the rebel ship, his fingers still clasped around Hux’s wrist, one arm around his shoulders to support him as he walks. His touch burns. Hux wants to cast it off, to snap at him, but if he opens his mouth the cold air will rush in and smother his lungs. He’ll fall, unable to breathe in front of them all and Dameron will fall with him, eyes wide with concern, will set a hand on his chest gently, will tell him it will all be alright, over and over again and Hux will want to scream.

-

On the ship, Hux holds his arms out obediently to be cuffed, holds the scavenger girl’s glare as she affixes them to his wrists and turns them on. There is a hum as they clamp together, heavy and cool. He can breathe more easily here, in the stale warm air. Dameron lets go of him slowly and Hux sways, grits his teeth behind his closed lips with the effort of keeping upright.

The girl leads him through the ship’s living quarters and into a small sleeping area.

“Sit,” she says, indicating the bed and there is none of Dameron’s concern, none of the sympathy that makes up a constant undercurrent to his words.

Hux obeys, holds back the sigh of relief that threatens to slip from his mouth.

“Poe says there’s something wrong with your chest,” the girl says, simply. “He says you can’t breathe properly. Do you need us to find something now, or can you wait until we can get you to a medbay?”

Hux shakes his head. The girl nods, “And your leg?”

Hux musters up the energy to sneer. Truth be told, his leg is in agony, has been since the crash, even with Dameron’s pain killers to dull it’s edges but, “I’ve managed this long,” he says and the girl studies him for a moment, her gaze quick and clever.

“Alright,” she says, evenly. She’s more confident than Dameron, Hux thinks, more self-assured. Dameron’s confidence comes with conditions, with nervous, kinetic energy. Alright, he’s always saying. Okay, okay, I’ll just – I can do this – to himself more than anything. “I’m going to go and get you some food, then I’ll uncuff you. There’s a shower through there if you can stand. Otherwise, we shouldn’t be long.”

She leaves without a backwards glance and Hux lowers himself down onto the mattress behind him. The room smells warm, lived in. The sheets are worn-soft, so unlike the crisp smooth silk of his bed aboard the Finalizer. There’s more to the room but his head is too heavy, too slow to take it in.

He shifts, unused the gentle give of the mattress after so many days with only hard rock beneath his back and he’s suddenly hot, too hot. He raises his arms, unbuttons the coats layered atop one another with clumsy fingers, agonisingly slow. When he’s done his arms ache, he spreads them out, tilts his head to the side.

The girl will be coming back, he wants to be awake, needs to be awake but –

He is breathing easily. He is warm. Sleep is creeping through him, soft and soothing, reaching up to grasp him, muddling his thoughts.

Just a moment, he thinks. Just a moment.

Chapter Text

He wakes to Dameron squeezing his shoulder insistently.

It takes a few moments to place himself, to shake off the hazy flashes of colour and bursts of sound of his dreams and he is unused to it. He has never dreamt much – not since he was a child, at least – his sleep has always been artificial, chemically-aided, concocted and manufactured specifically so that when he finds a spare few hours between paperwork and tactics he can fall into an easy, undisturbed slumber. Without the pills his dreams are coming fast and thick, blurred together at the edges – the house on Arkanis, the desolate sands of Jakku, Rae Sloane’s hesitant touch, his failure at Starkiller.

There is the comforting hum of a ship engine, the softness of the blankets beneath him. He recalls the joy bright in Dameron’s eyes, clear in his voice, loud like bells and leaving Hux’s ears ringing as he sat on the cold stone floor of the cave and tried to make sense of it all.

Dameron does not look joyful now. He is perched on the edge of the bed a measured distance from him, head slightly bowed. He looks weary, washed out. His hair is damp, curling more so than usual, the scent of something vaguely floral rolls off of his skin. The ring he wears and so often fiddles with hangs loose, resting atop the white t-shirt he has changed into. He has never said who it belongs to but Hux has his suspicions – had tried to convince himself at first that it belonged to some pretty wife or strapping husband back at base, some loving spouse that Dameron pushed from his thoughts when he crashed their mouths together – but Dameron is too loyal for that, too good.

No, whoever wore that ring once is dead now, Hux is certain and that he finds comfort in that disgusts him.

He takes his next breath too sharply and it catches, has him lurching forwards as his chest seizes and he’s wracked with coughs. Dameron does not hesitate to set a hand on his shoulder, rub his back, brow furrowed in concern. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, does not curl around Hux like he would have done back in that cave, on that planet.

When Hux is through, gasping wetly, Poe eases him back down onto the mattress. “You told Rey you didn’t need anything,” he says, voice tight and brittle. He sighs, shakes his head, angry with himself. “I should have told her not to listen to you.”

He still has a hand on Hux’s chest, resting lightly as Hux takes careful, measured breaths. Hux is too tired to say anything back, to argue, to defend himself, his chest is still too tight.

“We’re almost there,” Dameron says, drawing his hand back slowly. He swallows then, not looking at Hux. “I’ll need to cuff you again.”

Hux hadn’t realised he’d been uncuffed, or perhaps he had forgotten he’d ever been cuffed. He glances about the room, spots the cuffs on the bedside table beside a tray of food. The girl must have brought it while he slept, he thinks. He exhales, extends his wrists obediently. Something like relief flits across Dameron’s warm eyes.

Hux looks up at he ceiling when Dameron reaches for the cuffs. He cannot lie in this place and not think in some fashion of Ren, it is after all, a childhood relic of his. He remembers the day he first learnt of Ren’s parentage, the cold anger he had felt, the revulsion, the way Snoke had laughed when Hux had voiced his displeasure, the way he had brought Hux to his knees with a mere flick of his wrist, hard enough that Hux’s kneecaps cracked. You must expand your thinking, Lieutenant, Snoke had said, ruined face folded into a sneer. Do you not think it lends our cause strength to have the son of Leia Organa and Han Solo behind us? Perhaps your father was right about you.

“Should I be worried that you’re being so well behaved?” Dameron asks as he slips the cuffs around Hux’s wrists gently, false brightness in his voice. Dameron feels conflicted about this, Hux knows though he’s not sure of the reason behind it. Whether the guilt stems from what he did on that planet or from what he is about to do, is currently doing.

His grasp on Hux’s wrists lingers just a fraction too long.

Hux wants to laugh, to sneer. What does Dameron expect him to do? Even if he had two functioning legs, where would he go? What would be the point? He has no force behind him anymore, his most loyal officers, his most trusted, are scattered charred bones on a nowhere-planet in a nowhere-system. Once, he thinks, that would have incensed him, enraged him, renewed his dedication but since the dreadnought a weariness has made itself at home in his bones, has dulled his sharp edges, sapped his strength.

“Where else would I go?” Hux asks, simply.

And Dameron looks at him then, looks in pain. Wrecked. Hux can hardly remember what it feels like to hate him, to want to carve that smile from his handsome face or slip a blade in somewhere close and slow to kill. Dameron is beginning to lean forwards and Hux knows he must put a stop to this, Dameron does not have the strength of will or the conviction.

“Won’t your friends be getting worried about you, Dameron?” he snarls and there is less hurt in Dameron’s eyes this time. He draws back, stands up.

“I’ll be back when we land,” he says, curtly.

When he’s gone, Hux closes his eyes, breathes too deeply and starts coughing again. It passes quickly this time but it still leaves him feeling drained. Weak, feverish. His father’s voices rises loud in his ears, pathetic, boy, absolutely pathetic. I should have left you to die with her.

-

When they land, Dameron comes to fetch him, hypospray in hand. He presses it to the side of Hux’s neck before he can protest and Hux breathes a sigh of relief as the painkiller hits his bloodstream. It makes him dizzy, light-headed. He can’t recall whether he’s eaten today.

The scavenger girl and the traitor watch from the doorway, prickly with hostility. Dameron keeps his voice low, his brow furrowed and angry. “Can you walk?” he asks, too quiet for the others to hear. Hux nods tightly and Dameron hauls him up by his cuffed wrists.

The planet they step out onto is bright and warm, the hum of insects and birdsong hangs in the air. The runway is cracked, not just from heat but from thick roots and smaller green stems. The buildings surrounding them are in much the same condition, cracked, crumbling, windows smashed. Another relic, he assumes, from the last war. He notes the scattered pockmarks on the walls and sprayed through the concrete, the bombed out roof on one of the furthest buildings – this place saw combat, they must have a record of it somewhere, they must – if he could simply get a message to –

But there will be no messages, he recalls, bitterly. There will be no triumphant blaze of glory as he razes the last of the Resistance to the ground. Ren would not thank him for his aid, more likely he would blow whatever planet this is out of the sky with Hux still on the ground and maybe that would be okay. Maybe that would be the path of least resistance.

Dameron’s hands are warm where they grip at the back of his neck, rest on his back, supporting as much as they restrain. He is marching Hux to his death and he does so knowingly. Hux was a fool to think –

But they are being met by a small group of people, General Leia Organa at the head of them all and Hux cannot dwell. Instead he watches with tremendous detachment as Dameron smiles, raises his hand from where it rests on Hux’s neck in a sloppy salute. It’s the same smile he wore when they caught their first fish, when they retrieved the transmitter, when they got it working. Bright, boundless. Giddy. Like a child, a stupid, sheltered child who still believes in things like heroes and happy endings.

“General, sorry I’m late. I had some engine problems, you know how that is, right? I brought you something back though,” he says, smoothly.

Organa is smiling. Her hair is grey, pulled up elegantly, her hands folded neatly as she waits. Royalty still clings to her, no matter her chosen title. “I can see that,” she says, lightly. She turns her dark gaze onto him briefly. Hux realises how wrong he was about her son sharing her eyes. They are the same shade, yes, the same shape even, but where Ren’s eyes have always betrayed the turmoil within him, always told far more than Ren would like, Organa’s give away nothing.

“General Hux, isn’t it?” she asks, voice cool and Hux would like to sneer at her, to remind her that no, he is not a General anymore and that, as the supposed-leader of the Resistance, she should know that but as he opens his mouth his breath stutters, catches. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to swallow it back.

The hand Dameron still has on his back curls into his shirt tightly. “He needs a medic.”

And Hux scowls even as Organa turns to nod to the small group behind her, “Have someone ready to see him in his cell.” When she turns back she is smiling again, sharp, prim. “We have a room all ready for you, General,” she says, a curl of pleasure in her tone as he bristles.

A man steps forward, intention clear. Dameron lets him go, lets the man take his place.

“Rey, go with them,” Organa says, as the man shoves Hux forwards. “Make sure our guest causes no trouble.”

-

He is half expecting them to lead him to an empty room, a basement somewhere, unused storage space but the cell they lead him to is, in fact, a cell. There are three, two really since the plexiglass front of one is shattered. The door of one hangs open. It is small without being cramped; a camp bed against one wall, a small chair and table, a light grey shirt and trousers folded neatly atop it. There is another door near the back of the cell – it hangs open in the shattered one and he can glimpse tiles, a washroom, he thinks.

There is laughter on the tip of his tongue. If this is how they treat their prisoners, if this is how they treat him, the man who built Starkiller, who brought them to their knees, they are weaker than he thought.

He is marched into the cell, to the camp bed. The man steering him shoves him down onto it.

The medic doesn’t meet his eyes as she works, straps a flexpoly bacta cast to his leg. She listens to his chest, gives him a shot of antibiotics and leaves a few bottles of pills and scrawled instructions on the table. “You should eat before you take them,” she says as she leaves, voice cold. “There’ll be side effects if you don’t.”

When she leaves, the man and scavenger girl go with her, Hux is left alone.

He should try the door at the back of his cell, he should investigate the pills but he’s still so tired. His thoughts running together, becoming jumbled again, his chest still thick, rattling. He lies down on the camp-bed, the thin blanket irritates his skin, old and fraying as it is. It smells stale, musty. There is no sound in the cell but his own weak, whistling breathing.

He keeps waiting to feel something. Cold fear, hot anger, despair thick in his throat. Instead there is only the bone-deep exhaustion that has been with him since Crait, that has become all consuming now he does not have Ren’s tantrums to attend to, now he does not have troops to command.

This time it’s Ren’s voice that rises in his ears, hot and tight over the sheer force of his rage. Remember who you are speaking to, General. Hux is on the bridge of the Finalizer, Ren is elsewhere but he is gripping Hux’s throat, squeezing tight. Hux is trying not to gasp for breath, trying not to crumple here, in front of everyone.

He raises a hand to his throat even though there’s nothing to grasp at, nothing to pull away.

Chapter Text

“He has pneumonia,” Someone is saying. There is something cool being pressed to his forehead, something cold and metallic is being pressed against his chest. “It’s severe. He should have been given intravenous anti-biotics. I’ll have a word with Alia.”

“Can you really blame her?” Someone else snaps – the traitor, Hux recognises distantly. “I still don’t understand why we’re helping him. He’s not going to tell us anything, General. Trust me, I know that man, he’s a fanatic no matter what Poe thinks  – ”

He’s cut off by General Organa. “He’ll be tried when the time comes, Finn,” she says.

“And besides that,” the first voice says. “I took an oath, so did Alia. I’m not going to let this man die of something treatable just because he’s reprehensible.”

“Thank you, Kalonia,” Organa says.

The cool metal is removed from his chest and there’s a rustling sound as someone – Kalonia, he presumes – stands up. “I’ll have Poe kept under observation. Pneumonia can be contagious and the last thing we need is an outbreak. I’m going to get a few things from the medbay. Try to wake him up while I’m gone, I need to get a better idea of his health.”

“I’m awake,” Hux grumbles, slitting an eye open. His vision is slightly blurred at the edges. A woman stands over him, tall with straight brown hair, greying at the ends. Organa is a little further back; the traitor is out of his line of sight. Pacing, Hux thinks by the shuffling sound of footsteps.

“Well,” Kalonia says, looking to Organa. “In that case, all I need you to do is make sure he doesn’t choke to death on his own phlegm while I’m gone.”

“Finn, go with her,” Organa says.

“But – ”

“Go with her,” she repeats, voice firm.

There’s a scoffing noise and then the traitor leaves, pauses to glower at Hux as he follows Kalonia out of the cell.

Hux’s head is pounding, thick, heavy. His arms are curled tightly about himself, his body damp and trembling. Organa stands against one wall, watching him thoughtfully for a few moments before she crosses to the chair and desk and lifts the chair to Hux’s bed side. She places it a careful distance from the cot, sits down in it straight-backed, hands resting on her thighs. Hux wishes he could raise his head to meet her gaze but every time he tries he feels dizzy, sick. His chest wheezes more.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, the voices rise as one in the back of his mind.

“You know,” Organa says, leaning back in her seat. She has such an ease about her, confident, self-assured, Han Solo, he imagines was much the same. It is hard to understand how they came to produce such a dark, fearful son. “I had the displeasure of meeting your father once. Nasty piece of work that one.”

Hux knows immediately what she’s doing. She’s testing the waters, trying to find his weak spots, striking while he’s at his weakest. He wonders if Dameron told her all about it, shared what Hux had let slip that day by the stream and feels anger coarse through him. He hadn’t meant to tell Dameron that – hadn’t even thought of it himself for years until that stupid planet.

Well, fine. Hux knows this game, has been raised to play it, has had it’s rules impressed upon him since leaving Arkanis. He knows how to do this, he knows how to do this well.

“I hear he passed on,” Organa goes on. “By your own hand, no less. Nice of you to do something for the good of the galaxy, General.”

Dameron must have told her.

“Oh, trust me, General,” Hux says back. “That, I did for the good of myself. I had no intention on helping the galaxy as a whole and if I did, I can only apologise. It was entirely inadvertent.”

Organa nods, something like amusement glittering in her eyes because she’s been raised for this too and she’s been playing much longer than Hux. “I bet you and Dameron got on well,” she says.

Hux can’t stop the angry flush that spreads across his cheeks at that and for a moment, he entertains the notion of telling her exactly how well they got on. Lay it all before her, watch the smug smile fade away to be replaced by anger, revulsion. Maybe she wouldn’t believe him. Maybe Dameron’s already told her. Broken down, confessed all tearfully, begged for forgiveness. He doesn’t want to think of it now, the way Dameron pressed against him, the way he panted, how gentle he was when he slipped his hands into Hux’s trousers, how he kept asking over and over and over, is this alright? Can I –

Instead he raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘well.’”

“I would define ‘well’ as spending four weeks alone with the man and not strangling him.” She is trying to keep things light though Hux doesn’t understand why. She must want him dead as much as the rest of her little group does, must know how little he thinks of her, there seems no point in pretending otherwise. Listen to the traitor, he wants to say, I’m a fanatic. I’ll never tell you anything, but something holds his tongue.

Organa seems to have decided he’s not going to respond to her last comment and has sat forwards, arms folded across her chest. She looks oddly like Ren in that moment though a great deal calmer. “Poe says you were sent on that mission with the deliberate intention of you not coming back.”

Hux can see where this is going, does not have the breath or the energy to draw it out longer than necessary. “The enemy of my enemy is not always a friend, Organa,” he says.

And Organa laughs. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

Hux sighs. “Then why are we still doing this? Why not just hang me and get it over with?”

That of all things seems to give her pause, a flash of something like curiosity, like intrigue passes her gaze and she tilts her head before folding all of that neatly away. “Is that what you’d prefer?”

Hux would have preferred if Dameron had just left well enough alone and let him burn like the rest of his men. Organa’s gaze is deep, intense, probing. Hux finds himself glancing away. It makes him look nervous, he knows. Uncertain. But he’s not. He’s not. He just doesn’t want Organa getting the wrong idea about this. This isn’t him having regrets about his choices, this isn’t him wanting the fall on his sword for fear they’ll torture him and make him talk, make him spill the Order’s biggest secrets.

This is just exhaustion. Pure fucking exhaustion.

“It’s the only way this is ending and you and I both know that,” Hux says. “Why pretend otherwise?”

Organa raises her eyebrows, nods. “It’s interesting that you feel that way.” Her tone is neutral, Hux can’t tell if she expected something different, if she expected him to beg her to spare his life, to try and talk her out of execution by any means possible, to bargain away secrets in exchange for lenience. She looks as though she is about to say more but the medic returns, the traitor close behind her.

“He looks alert,” the medic comments.

“He does indeed,” Organa agrees.

-

There are no windows in his cell, for some reason that is what irks Hux the most about his current predicament. It is odd. He has spent the good majority of his life on ships of one form or another, under artificial sun lamps and regimented night shifts and yet he misses the rise and fall of the sun, he has grown irritatingly used to it.

Perhaps it would be easier to bear if they would grant him a clock, would dim the lights for half the day but they do not.

The medic, Kalonia, visits him thrice daily, takes his temperature, watches him swallow down weak broth, dry bread, bowls of tasteless porridge, hands him pills and glasses of water to wash them down. He is not used to eating so regularly. Even before the crash, his meals had usually been protein bars washed down with strong black coffee when Phasma would corner him, demand to know when he had last eaten and call him an idiot.

Kalonia rarely speaks to him outside of things like sit up, raise your shirt, swallow this. She checks his leg, comments, “This is a nasty break. You’re lucky to have survived,” the first time, like Hux doesn’t know. Then she frowns, “It hasn’t been set properly. If it heals like this you’ll be in constant pain.”

She looks up at him and Hux is certain she is going to tell him it will have to be re-set, that she will make arrangements. Instead, she twists his leg and – numb from the bacta and painkillers – all there is is a sickening crunch, the grinding of the shattered ends of bones together. Hux sees stars, falls back dizzy and sick.

The medic redoes his cast and leans up, her smile vague. “All done.”

And if feels better afterwards, takes his weight more easily, but he hears the sound sometimes when he’s drifting off to sleep and shudders.

Outside of that, he has no visitors. No one has come to question him, to intimidate him. He has finally washed, shaved, looks all together more like himself and all at once not at all. He thinks he looks paler than he used to, washed out, weary. His eyes purple-ringed with fatigue as they have always been but duller now. He has picked his palms raw sitting on his bed in the clothes they have given him, waiting for something to happen, wondering at the state of the galaxy out there.

He thinks sometimes, curled on his side, cheek pressed against the rough material of the camp-bed, that the whole Resistance could be wiped out above him and he would never know. If no one checked their base he would be left here, locked away and waiting.

He does not sleep well, kept awake by paranoia and vague dreams until Kalonia starts feeding him sleeping pills during her last visit of the day. He knows that must be it even though he does not think she has been giving him any extra – so maybe it’s the food she’s drugging? Maybe it’s the warm sweet tea she makes him swallow and he would accuse her but each time he thinks to there is something that holds him back, some small whisper that hisses but what if you’re wrong? What if that’s just what they want you to think.

Kalonia keeps examining his palms, red and swollen, and frowning. She removes the razor from Hux’s small washroom as though Hux is some melodramatic teenage boy who needs protecting from himself. And Hux will not pretend the thought has not entered his mind, after it has begun to be easier to walk and he paces his rooms to keep himself occupied. The small shaving blade draws his gaze. It could be quick, if he wished it.

He thought of Dameron a lot in those moments. Thinks of Dameron a lot. Unwillingly, unhelpfully. Stray thoughts and memories rising in his throat like bile. Hot, acidic. He thinks of Dameron pressed against him in the dark making soft, soothing noises as Hux sweated his way through nightmares and fever-dreams, thinks of the way Dameron had pushed Hux’s sweaty hair off of his face, eyes still closed, voice rough with sleep mumbling, shh, shh, you’re alright. Go back to sleep. It’s alright.

He thinks of the unconscious way Dameron would reach for him, brush up against him, touch his shoulder, his knee, his hair when he was awake. The odd warm feeling of being nestled together under one of the greatcoats before their small fire, watching snow fall outside.

He wonders sometimes if they’re watching, if there are tiny cameras tucked away in the corners of his cell and Organa and the scavenger girl and the traitor and Dameron are watching him pace in increasingly tight circles, watching him spiral out into the depths of his paranoia, watching him sit on his bed and pick at his palms, watching him digging his nails hard into his own flesh to try and keep himself awake – to try and stave off the sleeping pills pounding through his bloodstream.

This, he thinks, is far worse than any torture he and Kylo Ren could have dreamt up. He has not felt so tightly wound, so teetering on the brink of an abyss, as this since he was a child, tiptoeing around his father. Or perhaps he has always felt so tightly wound and it is only the lack of distractions that has left him so spun out, that leaves him gasping for breath, unable to process – that has him curling about himself in the small corner of his cell between the chair and table and the wall.

He wonders if they watch that too.

Chapter Text

He is curled in his corner against the wall when Dameron’s droid arrives and bleeps at him. It takes him a few moments to realise the soft sounds aren’t just in his head and look up, frowning. The droid is rocking back and forth by the door. It bleeps with excitement when he looks up at it, swivels it’s body a few times.

“Oh,” Hux says. “It’s you.”

He’s still for a while before he slowly unfolds himself and stands, smooths the creases out of his trousers more out of habit than anything else, and makes his way across to the droid. It’s practically vibrating with excitement, rattling the plexiglass pane where it’s body is pressed against it. Despite himself Hux snorts fondly.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, reaching the door and crouching down to be more level with it. “Did Organa send you here to torture me for information?”

The droid makes an exaggerated show of being upset, calls him paranoid.

Hux sighs, shifts into a kneeling position. “I suppose you’re right. I get the feeling you wouldn’t be very good at torture anyway.” He leans his forehead against the glass, rests his palm against it too even though he knows it makes him look pathetic. “What am I supposed to think though? They’ve kept me here for days and there’s been nothing. How am I not supposed to be paranoid?”

The droid swivels. It’s equivalent of a shrug, Hux has learnt.

“Don’t play dumb,” he says. “I know you have a high clearance level.”

The droid feigns ignorance though, gives nothing away.

“Alright,” Hux says. “If not for information, why are you here then?”

Worried, it says.

Hux frowns. “Droids don’t get worried. You wouldn’t be much use if you did.”

The droid is about to say something further when a voice from behind them interrupts.

“Actually, BB8’s special. They have a strong loyalty sub-programme. I don’t know why they’ve latched onto you, though.”

Hux draws his hand back from the glass immediately and stands, his cheeks hot. Ren’s scavenger girl is staring at him, a good arms length from the glass. The contempt is clear, bright in her dark gaze, in the set of her jaw, in the curl of her fists at her side. There’s a fair amount of caution too in the way she’s angled her body slightly to the side, in the hand curled against the lightsabre at her belt and maybe curiosity in the way her gaze sweeps over him, assessing, in the way she frowns.

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” she says, dropping her gaze briefly to the droid. “General Organa said so.”

Hux takes the brief opportunity to steady himself, to swallow uncertainly, to clench his fists to stop his hands from shaking. Nerves are prickling in his gut, murmuring soft insidious things in the back of his mind. This is the girl Ren said slew the Supreme Leader, the girl Ren said took out his entire guard and Hux knows it to be rubbish, to be Ren covering for his own weaknesses but he also remembers the way Dameron had looked when he said you haven’t seen Rey fight.

This girl is strong with the force, stronger then Ren, even and if Ren could best Snoke, then it follows.

She is looking at him once more, holding his gaze steadily. Something ripples across it and Hux flinches involuntarily. He had always been able to feel when Ren was attempting to gain access to his thoughts but with this girl –

“Stop it,” he says, suddenly.

And the girl jerks back almost imperceptibly, flushing angrily. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she snaps.

“Good,” he says and it comes out brittle and defensive, shows his fear, his weakness. Not as though it wasn’t plain as day in your face, boy, his father hisses and Hux shudders, closes his eyes a moment to rid himself of the memory. Something has softened in her gaze when he looks again, the clench of her jaw has loosened a fraction.

No, Hux wants to say, to snarl. No. You don’t get to look at me like that. So he strengthens his resolve, squares his shoulders, makes his gaze as hard as he possibly can and he’s had practise. Years of it. He has become well versed in making people quake in fear at the sight of him no matter what he has been on the receiving end of that month.

The girl, though, this insignificant little no one from nowhere isn’t cowed. Doesn’t even so much as flinch. Instead, she says, “BB8, wait upstairs.”

The droid protests, starts, But my Poe –

“Upstairs,” the girl repeats, firmly and the droid goes. When she looks back at him, there is indecision in her eyes. “Why aren’t you fighting?” she asks, plainly and Hux blinks, had been ready to bite back against whatever hatred she spewed at him, whatever threats, whatever careless insults but is unsure of how to respond to the open curiosity in her tone.

He lets his shoulders relax a fraction, reassess her posture, her tone. “You have me in a cage,” he says, eventually. “How would you like me to fight?”

She crosses her arms. “Finn said you’re vicious when you want to be.”

Hux honestly has no idea who Finn is but surmises from context that it’s probably the traitor. “Again, cell,” he says, sounds the words out slowly.

Her frown deepens. “So, you’re just going to sit here until we kill you?”

Hux sighs. Turns away from her to traipse back to his bed and sit down on it, shuffling backwards until his back is against the wall.

“The First Order think you’re dead, you know,” she carries on. “They won’t come looking for you.”

“I am aware,” Hux says and finds it remarkably easy to keep his tone level, even. Eyes the persistence of her frown. She is drumming her fingers against her arm as she studies him. Desperate, he thinks, to find some scheme, some last minute gambit, the dagger concealed up his sleeve. She wants him to be cowardly, he realises. They all do. So unshaken in their belief that theirs is correct path, the correct belief. It has not occurred to them that there are those they fight that share those sentiments.

“If that’s true,” she says, voice measured. “Why not talk and save your skin?”

He tilts his head. “So I can spend the rest of my days caged?”

For a moment, he thinks she might argue, might say it’s better than death, isn’t it? But she doesn’t. She drops her gaze, uncrosses her arms and lets them fall to her side, palms open and loose. I suppose not, her body language says. She looks back up at him, finality in her tone, “So you won’t talk?”

Hux shakes his head.

She leaves slowly, every step heavy and deliberate. Running back to Organa to say she tried probably. He wonders if she’ll sigh, if her shoulders will slump, if she’ll say, Finn the Traitor is right. He won’t talk. We might as well kill him. He wonders if Organa will sigh with regret or relief, if she’ll do it by her own hands. If they will make it quick or draw it out. If they might just let the medic do it in his sleep. He wouldn’t mind that, he thinks. Not now, not anymore.

Once, when death had been a constant fact in his life, an ever-present spectre breathing down his neck, he had wanted to go out bloody, to go out fighting, to take as many people with him as possible. Now he thinks he is simply tired of waiting.

Then he thinks of Dameron being in the room too, of how his bright eyes might dim, how his mouth might curl downwards, twitching as he tries to keep himself steady.

Hux closes his eyes against it, tells himself Dameron will most likely be relieved. Hux is, after all, a monster to all of them and monsters are meant to be slain. He draws his knees up to his chest, slides down the wall by inches until he is curled tightly on his side.

He can only hope they are quick with their justice.

-

When the medic comes that evening, she is not alone. Hux raises his head at the sound of her footsteps, spots the traitor traipsing into his cell behind her. He tenses but Kalonia does not react to the traitor’s presence, does not grimly inform him that this is the end, that they have chosen this man to end his life and the traitor doesn’t do anything but lean against the far wall and smirk at him.

“Sit up,” Kalonia says, tone brisk and professional. Hux does so slowly. His heart is hammering in his chest and Kalonia has the audacity to frown at him when she presses her stethoscope to his chest. “It’s a little faster than usual.”

The traitor looks faintly proud about that and Kalonia goes about her business, checks his leg, takes his temperature, listens to his lungs. When she’s done, she straightens, clips the little medkit she carries with her shut and says, “I think you’re good to stop the antibiotics now. I’ll leave you something for the pain. Make sure to eat first and tell someone if your cough comes back.”

When she’s gone the traitor pushes off the wall and retrieves the desk chair, dragging it into the centre of the room as Organa had done that first day. Hux eyes him warily, remains on the bed perfectly still. The traitor is bulkier than him, stronger, has been trained in several hand-to-hand fighting styles and Hux is still weak, is bereft of any blades.

If it comes down to it, it will be a very one-sided fight.

The traitor drops himself into the chair but there is no smile on his face now. No feigned levity.

“I suppose it’s your turn to try and get me to talk now, is it?” Hux says, trying to conceal his unease. “If you’re expecting me to offer you something to drink I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“Nice,” the traitor says. “Funny. Good to know this is all a joke to you.”

“Perhaps it’s just you that’s the joke.”

The traitor hums at that. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe.”

Hux feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end.

Abruptly the traitor stands and Hux draws in a sharp breath that makes him pause. “Don’t worry,” he says, unconvincingly. “I’m not here to hurt you. No matter how much I want to.”

And he starts to pace. Back and forth.

“You know, General Organa is up there right now trying to figure out what to do with you,” he says. “She keeps asking me to leave because she thinks I’m too close to this, she thinks I can’t be objective.” He comes to a halt in front of Hux. “She wants to see you tomorrow. The General, I mean.”

“I shall await her presence with bated breath,” Hux says. Snarls, really. Bares his teeth in an ugly grin because of all of them, he hates this man the most. This man who left it all behind so easily, who shed years of carefully perfected training and rhetoric as easily as one would shed a jacket.

The corner of the traitor’s mouth twitches upwards. A slight quirk of a smile, but not meant for him. “Poe must have loved you,” he says dryly. He shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. Then he turns, walks a little way away from Hux and then turns back.

“Look,” Hux says, keeping his tone bored and level. “If you were just here to tell me to look my best tomorrow, mission accomplished. You can go.” And he sneers around the words, “Dismissed, trooper.”

He braces himself, expecting the traitor to lunge at him, to react in some violently in some manner. To throw the chair, his fist. To draw some unseen weapon and do away with Hux once and for all but he doesn’t. He hardly even flinches, just stares at Hux darkly, mouth a thin line and says, “You really don’t think you’ve done anything wrong at all, do you?”

And Hux doesn’t know how best to respond to that so he settles for sitting up straighter, holding the traitors gaze and only allowing the barest twitch of his jaw when the traitor moves forwards suddenly and leans against the back of the chair, tilted close.

“You stole me,” the traitor says, the words slow, carefully formed. “You stole me and you stole thousands more like me. You took us from our homes, our families and you turned us into weapons to fight your war.”

“I did that?” Hux says. “Me, personally?”

The traitor exhales. “It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t you, personally. You were the one giving the orders.”

Hux glowers at him. “We didn’t steal children,” he says. “You were all given willingly by families left to starve while the New Republic’s senators grew fat and wealthy. You were fed, given a roof over your head, treated when you were sick, given a purpose. It is not my fault if you were too weak and selfish to see that.”

The traitor shakes his head slowly. “Wow. You really believe all that, don’t you?” He steps back from the chair. “I kind of get why Poe feels sorry for you now. I mean, I don’t, but I understand why. You really believe all that bullshit, don’t you? You’re just clinging to everything they taught you because you’ve got nothing else and that is sad. What would you even do if you won this war? What are you even fighting against?”

“We are fighting to – ” Hux starts, hotly but then he breaks off, growls. We, we. He has no friends amongst the Order left, he has no leader to serve, no troops to command, no ship, no anything but – “I do not need to defend myself to scum like you,” he spits.

The traitor snorts. “Nice.” He stands, “Please speak like that to General Organa. Or Rey. Or Rose. Just, please. I really want to see someone break your nose.”

And before Hux can compose himself enough to say anything back he’s gone, striding out of the cell and out of earshot.

Alone in his cell, Hux fumes. How dare he? How dare he. Stars, Hux wishes he was loose. Wishes he could stalk the halls of their dilapidated base with his dagger clenched in his fist. He leaves the pain pills where they are. He has no reason to believe they would poison him now, but he wants a clear head for tomorrow whatever the end result may be.

Chapter Text

He does not sleep well.

In his dreams, he stands in a wide dark corridor awaiting an audience not with General Organa but with the Supreme Leader, Imperial Majesty of all the Galaxy. He should be dizzy with their victory, giddy with revelry but he is not. The fear is thick in his throat, his hands are shaking, clammy. He keeps trying to wipe them dry on his trousers but it does him no good. The sweat starts to pool at the bottom of his back, icy and damp.

He is marched into Snoke’s audience room on the Finalizer. The Supreme Leader towers above him, face shadowed. Hux kneels, bows his head, stumbles over a greeting. The Leader’s voice is deep and distorted, sounds at once like Ren in his mask, like Snoke, like his father, like Organa. You may stand, General, they say but Hux’s legs shake too much to do so.

Are you frightened, General? Perhaps you should be. After all, we have won the war. What further use have I for a General?

Organa’s men come early – by Hux’s estimation at least. He does not recognise either of them. One of them is curt but polite, the other yanks his arms as Hux holds them out to be cuffed, puts them on tight enough to make the tips of his fingers ache, start to go numb. Hux holds his tongue.

In the back of his mind Dameron asks, should I be worried you’re being so well behaved?

He wonders as they make him stand, if he would be so obedient if they had plucked him from the Finalizer, from the wreckage of Starkiller or the Supremacy.

They shove a dark bag over his cell before he is marched out. Hux snorts as they do it. Even if he is allowed to live, he doubts he will ever be in a position to relay the details of their base to anyone, to say, the cells are here, the medbay here, their torture chamber at the far end of the leftmost building. Even if he did, he doubts anyone would care. Ren never had much patience for details, he does not need to know the layout of a base to obliterate it.

He is led to a dimly lit room, blinks hard when they yank off the bag. The room is small, occupied by a metal table, two chairs and a two-way mirror. The lights buzz and flicker, he walls and floor are tiled, all the better for cleaning up blood, his mind whispers. And that’s fine. Pain he can deal with. He’s had lots of practise.

Organa is sitting in one of the chairs, the scavenger girl lounges against the far wall. Hux eyes the two-way behind her as one of the men cuff him to the table, wonders who’s observing back there. The men leave once he’s seated and secured.

Organa is dressed more plainly this time, more militarily. “Apologies for having kept you waiting for so long,” she says. Her voice light, the sort of tone Hux imagines she’d use addressing the senate. Soft and genial on top, sharp like knives on the undercurrent. “I was advised by medbay to let you rest.”

Hux snorts. “Or you wanted to leave me to stew for a few days so I’d be nice and sleep deprived when you finally decided to question me.”

Organa’s smile is faint. “Is that what you would do in my position?”

Hux’s smile is broad. He leans forward, holds her gaze. “You know what I’d do in your position, General. Or have you forgotten? You could ask Dameron. Or your girl, there.”

Organa’s mouth twitches but the girl hardly reacts, stays where she is against the wall glaring at him. Slowly, Organa sets her hands down on the table before her. “I assume no one has filled you in on the general state of things since your disappearance?”

Hux sits back, uncertain for a moment whether she’s actually asking but eventually shakes his head, tightly.

Organa nods, looks ever so briefly down at her own hands. “After you disappeared there was some in fighting,” she says it delicately, as though she trying to work out the correct words to use, the amount of information to give him and the amount to hold back as she speaks. “From what we can tell it was nothing severe but we have no way of know what the new Supreme Leader has been able to conceal from us. A ship was destroyed along with a small moon.”

A ship?  Hux can hardly process what she’s saying. A ship was destroyed during an internal conflict? Part of him thinks he should be overjoyed, amused at the least at Ren’s failure, at Ren’s inability to keep things controlled but there’s only this slow, crawling anger. He should have been quicker on the Supremacy. He should have killed Ren when he had the chance.

“We think the moon was an accident, it was populated but not affiliated with the New Republic,” Organa is saying. “The weapon used – ”

“What ship?” Hux interrupts. “What ship was destroyed?”

“I believe it was called Ultimatum,” Organa says.

Hux closes his eyes. Ultimatum II, to give it it’s proper name. Sloane’s ship. But Organa is watching so he can’t process that right now. When he opens his eyes he finds her watching him closely, knows she’ll be noting this down for further investigation. It won’t do her any good, though. If Sloane is dead she’s dead. She’s no longer a pressure point.

Organa leans forwards. “Does that ship carry significance for you, General?”

General. She uses the word as a weapon. A method of reminding him of how far he’s fallen, how much he’s lost. You used to be someone, it says. You used to have power and now you are here at my mercy. Well she’s wrong. He still has power, it may be small, slight but he still holds all the cards here. He knows about the weapon, or can guess to which she refers, at least. Knows because he built it and knows to that that should not be Organa’s focus here.

“All Order ships carry significance for me,” he answers swiftly.

Organa arches a brow. A gesture he’s seen from her son. Odd how they share so many mannerisms. He wonders briefly if there are things he picked up from his father, odd quirks and gestures they shared. He picked up things from Sloane to be sure. It irked his father no end and the thought almost makes him smile but it comes with the memory of a stinging cheek, a split lip, the muffled laughter of a group of young officers.

Fascinating, his father had drawled over some ceremonial dinner or other aboard the Absolution, the ship used by his father for training. Before me stands my son yet when he speaks all I hear is that unbearable woman. Tell me, Armitage: if someone were to cut those strings that held you up would you even be able to stand by yourself?

Sloane had left by then, she must have, or else she hadn’t been in attendance. Brendol only had the guts to touch him when she wasn’t around to see.

“Our records indicate that the Ultimatum was under the command of a Grand Admiral Rae Sloane,” Organa is saying. Her gaze flickers ever so briefly to the two-way. “You know, she was an ally – however briefly – of one of our New Republic pilots during the final days of the Empire.”

“That’s a lie,” Hux snaps, hotly and he regrets immediately. He has shown his cards there and he cannot take them back.

The corner of Organa’s mouth twitches. “Not a story you’re familiar with then, General? I won’t bore you with the details but the short version is that Grand Admiral Sloane worked with our pilot because it was in the best interest of both the remnants of the Empire and the New Republic.”

“If that’s a hint it isn’t a very subtle one,” Hux says.

Organa smiles. “Oh, I think we’re well beyond subtlety now, don’t you?”

And Hux has nothing to say to that so he stays quiet, battens down the hatches and stares at her in stony silence. Eventually, Organa realises she has hit a dead end and back tracks with a soft exhale. “The weapon, then,” she says. “Do you know it? It is another planet-killer but smaller, we assume, anyway. When it was fired at the Ultimatum it created a singularity.”

That confirms it, then. He closes his eyes briefly. Ren, he thinks. You idiot.

It had been a Starkiller prototype, worked using anti-matter instead of being reliant on the mass amounts of energy contained within a star. It was smaller, sleeker. He had conceived it, overseen it’s design as a younger man but after their first test swallowed two planets more than was intended it was judged by the Supreme Leader and Council as too unstable, too unpredictable. At the time, he had been vexed but it had not taken long for him to see that they were right.

After all, there can be no galaxy to rule if the entire thing is swallowed up by darkness.

And Ren had been interested in it, hadn’t he? In those weeks before Hux’s ill-fated mission. Had demanded the blueprints, the test records, the whereabouts of the prototype.

“We think the moon was destroyed by accident,” Organa goes on. “It was inhabited. A small mining colony affiliated with the Order and, as far as we can tell anyway, there had been no rebellion.”

She pauses after that, as though expecting him to comment, to flesh out some details. When he remains tight-lipped she continues. “Two days ago the fleet approached the Coruscant system. They are threatening to use the weapon if the system does not swear fealty.” She clasps her hands before her on the table and sits up straighter in her chair. When she speaks next, something has shifted dramatically in her voice.

“Thirty years ago I watched as my home planet was shot out of the sky by the Empire. Last year, I watched as the entire Hosnian System was destroyed by your own hand.”

Hux curls his lip at that. The look of disgust in her eyes is worth it.

“And I will be damned if I’m going to allow that to happen to anyone else so you are going to help me stop them, General, whether you do it willingly or not.” The words fit so neatly in her mouth, laced with steel, with molten fury. She sits before him with her head held high, so sure of herself, of the justice she is bringing to the galaxy. They all are. All of her little rebellion. So certain it is they who will emerge victorious, it is they who are on the correct side of history.

“Is this supposed to frighten me, General?” Hux keeps his tone steady, carefully bored.

Organa smiles at him. “No. You’re above all that, aren’t you?” Her tone is steady too. She is certainly not bluffing and Hux feels a slight prickle of fear at the base of his spine. Vader’s daughter, he thinks. Yes, he sees it.

“I won’t tell you anything,” he says, almost automatically. The words taste ashy in his mouth. His father used to make his Cadets carry cyanide capsules in their mouths for situations like these. Hux worries at his teeth with his tongue, thinks how it would be to have one now.

As if you’d have the guts to use one, boy. You’ve always been too cowardly to do what it takes.

“You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

Hux swallows. The fear is murmur louder now, hissing in the back of his mind, clawing at his skin. He wonders what form his torture will take. Will there be blades? Fire? Electricity? There are no obvious implements in the room, no one but Organa and the girl. He wonders if they will do it by their own hand and wants to laugh. General Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, Hero of the Rebellion, who brought down the Empire and saved the galaxy from it’s so called tyranny sits before him now making promises of torture. He is not surprised by her hypocrisy, he only wishes the galaxy as a whole could see her now, blood-thirsty, baring her teeth beneath her carefully styled hair and manicured fingernails.

Everything the Order has ever whispered about her made true.

He sits back in his chair, as far as his chains will allow. Smiles. “If only the galaxy could see you now, Princess.”

She doesn’t bat an eyelid, doesn’t shift an inch. She keeps smiling, half in amusement, half-pity, looking at him as though he is a particularly bratty child who needs to be saved from himself, a rabid cur to be called to heel. It makes him bristle, makes him cold with fury. If that is how she sees him, how she sees the Order, it is no wonder they are on the losing side of things but no, she’s not that careless, not that blind. If she was, she would have never started this rebellion after all, would have probably died on with the rest of the New Republic on Hosnian Prime.

There is something here he isn’t seeing, there must be. He runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, digs his fingernails into his own palms to focus himself. Think, Hux, think.

“You could end this war tomorrow, you know,” he says, testing the waters. “Give yourself up to your son. That’s all he’s ever really wanted, you know. Your attention. Your validation. Run back to him and tell him mummy’s always loved him.”

That blow lands at least, earns him a small twitch of the mouth, something dark and raw flickering across her gaze. He tilts his head, “Does he frighten you?”

“Yes,” she answers, honestly and it stuns him momentarily. “He does not frighten you, though.”

Hux doesn’t need to answer. Organa unclasps her hands to lean forwards and steeple them under her chin. “No, pain is not something that frightens you anymore, is it, General? From what my medics have told me, you’ve experienced a great deal of it.” Her tone is icy now, no longer hot with anger.

He remembers Ren telling him once not to underestimate his mother.

There is still something he’s missing.

She sets her hands down, palms flat on the table. “You asked me if I had forgotten what you would do to your prisoners.”

Ah, Hux thinks. So that’s what it’s to be. Less blood and guts, more driving him to insanity within the confines of his own mind. His gaze flicks to the girl but she still has not moved, has not given an inch. He looks back to Organa. “If you think I haven’t learnt to defend myself against Force users in all the time I’ve spent with your deranged son then – ”

“Oh, I’m certain you have,” Organa interrupts. “But as I’m sure you’re aware, it is always more difficult to defend yourself on two fronts.” The girl steps forwards at that, comes to a rest at Organa’s side.

Hux glances at her, taking stock of them both. His breath is coming quickly now, he breathes deeply to try and hide it, long, slow steadying breaths. He is familiar with the dangers that come with this particular interrogation method, has seen the state of some of the prisoners Ren has pushed too hard on, has had too long. Even Dameron stammered and shook for hours after Ren saw him and Ren hardly spent anytime at all with him.

Organa does not look like she is taking any sort of pleasure from this. “I’m going to give you one last chance to do this the right way,” she says. “I would rather not hurt you, Armitage.”

Hux flinches at that. No one calls him that anymore. No one. “It’s just Hux,” he hisses.

“Alright,” Organa says. “Hux, then. Last chance to do this the easy way.”

Hux holds her gaze, sets his jaw.

She seems to understand his meaning and sighs. “Okay. This’ll go easier if you don’t fight.”

And Hux knows that but he also knows that he has never in his life learnt how not to fight.

Chapter Text

Hux still remembers Ren’s first clumsy attempts to pry secrets from his mind. They had been younger then, Hux still a Lieutenant, Ren even less controlled. It had felt like an incessant scrabbling, the claws of some beast against a door, the burrowing of insects beneath his skins. He had shrugged it off, forced Ren back time and time again until eventually, the man had retreated to lick his wounds and sulk.

Organa and the scavenger have nothing of Ren’s messiness, his heavy-handedness. The scavenger is untrained and uncoordinated but she is strong and she learns quickly. Organa is swift, precise, a blade from the shadows. They are not trying to hurt him, he realises quickly, though they could easily. They could set his nerves ablaze, force themselves into his minds and rend him in two from within but for all her talk about not dragging this out, Organa seems content to wear him down.

It is almost like a game, Hux thinks. He builds rooms in his mind to hold the Order’s secrets in, weaves doors and locks, shifts them between dreamt up fortresses and impregnable ships even as they hunt him on two fronts. He has closed his eyes in concentration, flinches this way and that as they attack. His forehead, his palms, are damp with sweat, he can feel it curl his hair, run down the sides of his face. His nose is bleeding, he grits his teeth, his breath is laboured.

He bites through his bottom lip to unsuccessfully keep back a gasp of exhaustion.

He can’t keep this up forever. He can’t – He can’t –

Of course you can’t boy. You’ve always been useless.

He hears a door open as though from a great distance.

“General, if you don’t stop now you’ll kill him,” someone says and just like that they are gone.

He slumps back his chair, panting, exhausting. He is cold suddenly, the sweat on his brow icy. He opens his eyes. The girl is panting to, gaze narrow and angry while Organa is looking at him with annoyance, disappointment and something Hux thinks might be begrudging respect. He holds her gaze though he wants to do nothing more than slip sideways, crumple to the floor and sleep.

The medic, Kalonia, comes to stand beside him. It was her voice earlier, he realises, feels a faint flash of something like disappointment.

Organa sighs. “Take him back to his cell.”

Someone hefts him up by the arm, it is all he can do to keep upright.

“We’ll reconvene in the morning, General,” Organa says.

Hux sways, it takes him a few moments to gets the words out. “I shall await it eagerly.” He says, snarls, lips pulled back from his teeth and he spits the worst of the blood that has trickled down to his mouth from his nose at her feet.

-

He does not remember being brought back to his cell, being dumped unceremoniously on his bed but he wakes there anyway, head pounding. He winces at the harsh lights, sits up too quickly and hardly makes it to the washroom before his stomach empties itself.

He falls back against the cool tile when he’s done, eyes closed. He allows himself to indulge, allows himself to feel the ghost of fingers running through his hair, the brush of lips on his forehead, gentling hands at his back.

-

The girl comes for him in the morning. He wakes on the floor of his washroom, with her standing over him. She looks just as fierce though there is a hint of uncertainty in her gaze that wasn’t there before. She hides it quickly as he lifts himself into a sitting position.

“Get up,” she says. “General Organa is waiting.”

This time when the medic stops them, he falls forwards against the table. Cannot even lift his head. The girl follows as he is dragged back to his cell, he cannot even keep his feet. The girl watches dispassionately as he is deposited on the bed, her arms crossed. Hux does not have the energy for words, he hopes a glare will do.

It does not. She scoffs and takes a step towards him. “I don’t understand why you keep fighting,” she says, her voice tight over an undercurrent of frustration. “You’ve lost and you know it. If you’re so desperate for us to kill you why not just let us in? Tell us what we need to know.”

Hux sighs, rolls over so that his back is to her.

“That’s mature,” she mutters. “People are dying. People are dying on both sides; don’t you want that to stop?”

“Didn’t you try to appeal to Ren’s better nature once,” Hux manages. “Didn’t that go poorly for you?”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, wonders if she thought that would be kept a secret. He smiles weakly. “That was different,” she says, her jaw tight. “And anyway, he sent you on that mission to die. Why are you still keeping his secrets?”

Hux sighs, closes his eyes briefly. Stars, the Resistance are so dense. He rolls back to face her, lifts himself on unsteady arms so that he is almost seated. “When will you morons understand?” he snaps. “I don’t give a damn about Kylo Ren. He is driving the Order to ruin and I hope his end is slow and messy but that does not mean I will be a turncoat for your little cause. You’ve lost, girl. Haven’t you realised? You’d be better off running home to Jakku.”

The girl stares at him, her eyes roaming his face. “My name is not girl.” She says, eventually. “It’s Rey.”

Rae, he thinks, distantly. Oh, she would be ashamed to see him now.

“Congratulations,” he grits out.

“You’re disgusting,” she tells him, and leaves.

-

He is given a reprieve the next day, wakes to the medic slipping an IV line into his wrist. “You haven’t been eating,” she says, when he looks at her.

“Yes,” Hux returns. “That would be the torture.”

To his surprise, she laughs. It is short and bitter. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” she tells him. “If I did I would have let you die in your sleep the first night here but I’ve seen too many good men and women die in this war to let a chance like this slip through our fingers.” She pats his cheek, moves so quickly he does not have a chance to react. “Eat up.”

-

He knows when they come for him the next day that something has happened, that his short break away from them was unintended. The scent of smoke clings to them and he thinks there is an undercurrent of copper – though perhaps that is just fanciful. They do not storm in, or stomp, or demand but he has been on the losing side of skirmishes before, he knows the look of barely tamped down anger, the restless unease, the frustration. 

He walks himself to their interrogation chamber, their little torture room. The girl is waiting for him, pacing impatiently. She is crawling out of her skin, Hux can see, her eyes bright and hard, her jaw clenched painfully tight. General Organa sits in her chair but she doesn’t look at him. She stares instead at the wall to the left of him, gaze distant, far away. One elbow rests on the table, hand propping up her chin. Her fingers half obscure her mouth.

She does not turn to him for a few moments after he is forced into his chair, cuffed to the table. The girl keeps pacing, has the look of a caged beast about her. Organa sets her hand down on the table. There is no force to the gesture, she does not slam her palm down, but as she does so the girl comes to a halt, her shoulders hunched, dark glare fixed on Hux.

“My patience is running thin, General,” Organa says and for a moment – just a moment, she sounds like Snoke and he remembers kneeling, the cool metal of his ship beneath him, head bowed, tongue thick with apologies, with platitudes – Supreme Leader, please if you would just – if you would allow me to – please –

He cannot stop the shudder that runs though him, disguises it as best he can with a roll of his shoulders.

She’s looking at him now. One of the bulbs above her head has flickered out, leaves her face in shadow. In the broad strokes he sees Ren but Ren would never have the imagination, the patience for this.

“Lost something, General?” Hux asks, keeps his tone steady, bored. He tilts his head to the side, “Someone?”

The General’s hand curls into a fist on the table before her and the girl moves, slams both her hands down on the table between them. Hux is expecting it but still, he flinches. Her fury is wordless, she breathes heavily, shakily.

“Rey,” Organa says, gently, does not shift her gaze.

The girl snatches her hands back, lurches around, looks up at the ceiling. “He’s – ”

“I know,” Organa says. “We’ll make him talk.”

The girl sighs and retreats, goes to lounge against the wall, untampered, still itching for his blood.

Organa’s gaze is heavy as she says, “I’m going to give you one last chance to do this the easy way.” There is something very final in her tone.

Whatever their loss last night, yesterday, it must have been great. Against the wall, the girl is digging at her nails, scraping dirt out from underneath them almost frantically. He thinks suddenly of Dameron. He hasn’t seen him – hasn’t heard him but then, he hasn’t seen him they arrived anyway. It doesn’t mean anything – anything – he tells himself.

Dameron was nothing. Is nothing.

What does it matter if he’s dead?

“I think you already know what I’m going to say to that, General.”

Organa nods slowly. “That’s a shame,” she says but there is something – something about her voice that is not quite – she stands suddenly and another bulb must have blown because she is suddenly in shadow, suddenly distorted – over her shoulder, he sees the girl has stilled.

When Organa speaks again it is not her own voice. “I want you to know I take no pleasure in this,” she says, in the clipped tones of his father’s Imperial accent.

He laughs at her, can’t help it, really. “You think I’m still afraid of him? Now, after all this time? I killed him, Organa. I watched him die and it was the most satisfying moment of my life.”

Organa laughs. Brendol laughs. “It doesn’t matter if you aren’t anymore. It matters that you were.” And –

And –

It is as though someone has simply pulled the floor out from beneath him, he feels his stomach bottom out as he plummets, can’t hold back the gasp. He is still in the room, still in the chair but no, all at once he is not. He is on Jakku during the battle, shaking as his father bellows his name, edging around a half-destroyed wall, bottom-lip caught between his teeth to keep it from shaking too obviously. Father doesn’t like that.

When he is back in his chair, back in the room solely, his whole body jerks, he gasps.

Organa watches, impassive and herself again as he struggles to regain his composure.

“What was that?” he spits.

“The hard way,” Organa says, shrugging evenly.

“If you can get in my head you can get what you need.”

Organa smiles. “And spend another day chasing you around while you build fortresses and vaults? I told you, we don’t have time for that.”

“So, stop playing with him then,” the girl snaps from her position by the wall.

Hux stares at her, momentarily struck. Organa sighs, “Rey,” she says, again.

“No,” the girl says. She strides forwards. “No. He doesn’t deserve your pity or your mercy. People are dying.”

And the General actually flinches.

“Ren has a weapon,” the girl says, turning to him. “We need to know how to stop it. Tell me or I’ll make you.” And she looks so pained, her eyes damp, her face open and honest. He wants to laugh at her but she doesn’t give him the chance.

Her fingers are pressed to his temples. Where Organa’s was elegant and precise as ever, the girl is clumsy, heavy-handed, she jerks him through memories so quickly they are mostly just bursts of colours, sounds –

Starkiller crumbling beneath him, alarms wailing, run ragged as he thinks no, no, no, no, please, no. This is all he has, all he’s ever worked towards, this is – this is –

The crack of his father’s belt, the white heat of his stinging skin – I’m sorry, he says, automatically, militarily. We wouldn’t want anyone accusing me of favouritism, would we, Armitage? –

Someone flinches back and he is back in the room, his eyes fly open, the lights are blinding.

“Tell me,” she says, she’s panting too.

“No,” he snarls.

Tell me.

He grits his teeth against it, steels his mind. He feels her frustration. Feels it reverberate through him, feels it grinding against him, bright and hot, like a heated blade struck against stone sparking out in all directions.

He is dragged through more memories – by turn his bones are broken, his skin is split, his father stands above him, Snoke laughs, Ren has thrown him against something mostly by accident in anger. She learns quickly that pain does not frighten him, is reaching through him for something deeper, something darker –

No, not that, he thinks, sharply.

Tell me, then.

Never.

- And he has always known it would end here, in that big house in the academy grounds on Arkanis, sheeting rain outside. He is in his room, a small space in the attic that is always damp and cold but has a skylight to make up for it and his mother is crying somewhere. He takes the hidden servants staircase down to the kitchen, bare foot because he has never known anything but the chill.

“Please don’t take him,” his mother is saying. “Please don’t – I won’t let you – ”

He does not think she’s seen him as he pushes the door open despite the creak it makes.

By this part, he has usually woken himself up but –

“Stop,” he says out loud, half-desperate.

Her grip on him has tightened, blunt nails digging in to his flesh. “Tell me,” she asks. Begs.

“No.” -

His mother has never been a brave woman, he has never hated her for it but he will one day. She has never stood up to him before, not when he has grabbed Armitage so hard by the arm it pops from the socket, not when he has stuck him across the face hard enough to loose a tooth, not when he has made him stand still for hours on end or run drills meant for boys much older or – or –

But she is being brave now, holding her head high, shouting though her voice trembles. It shines brighter against all the things she pretended not to see until much later, all the comfort she gave after his tears had run dry. Stupid, he thinks, blearily. Why now? Why tonight of all nights? She should have run. Or, if she truly loved him, she should have taken him from here years ago.

“The Empire needs children,” his father says, voice low against the rain raging against the window-panes, against the tiled roofs. Far from here there is fighting, he can hear the hum of engines, the echoed booms of bombs.

“Take me with you then, please.”

He should go to her but he doesn’t. He stays on the bottom step, the door inched open, watching through the small sliver of light. –

“Please,” he says. “Stop.”

The girl’s snarl sounds more like a sob. “Not until you tell me.”

Hux chokes off a whimper and hates himself for it.

Her grip on him is beginning to slip, her palms sweaty. She is pulling things from him that he does not think she means to, scattered things about his mother, things he has not thought of – has not allowed himself to think of since that night.

He is sitting in the kitchen and she hands him a spoon to lick clean, the cook tuts and reminds her that the Commandant will be upset if he finds his son with sticky hands. His mother rolls her eyes and she was so young, he always forgets that. She washes his hands for him later, has sneaked some floral soaps into the house that she keeps in a small box in their small room.

He is listening to her sing as she pets his hair, he is running through a field as she chases him, she is telling him stories before bed, is kissing him goodnight.

The girl is living them too, feeling them too and Hux is distantly aware of some other voice, some other voice telling her to stop but she says no, her voice thick and damp with tears and then there is –

In the end, it is so anticlimactic.

From the hallway comes a sound of frustration, “Hurry up, Hux,” someone says. “They are getting closer.”

His father has turned towards the voice, his mother takes a step forward. “Brendol – ” she says.

Even now there is part of him that thinks his father didn’t mean to do it –

He wants to scream. He wants to beat this girl until she is bloody and limp because it is all overlaying, it is roaring in his ears, his mother singing, his father snarling, the sound of the rain –

The blaster goes off, a quick flash in the dark of the room and his mother does not make a sound as she crumples.

It is like a play, he thinks. A production. Scripted, choreographed:

He falls forwards as she does, forgets about the door, forgets for a moment about his father. He lands against the heavy wood door and it gives, swings out across the kitchen floor. He catches himself before he falls, looks at his mother’s still form and his father standing in shadow and runs.

He makes it halfway up the stairs before his father reaches him, grabs him by the ankles and yanks him viciously down. His knees are scraped and bleeding, his chin split where it met the bare wood of a step.

He makes no noise, there is no one that will come anyway.

He is meek as he is carried. He does not struggle.

His mother has fallen face down. There is red pooling about her but in the dim light he does not know what is her hair and what is blood and he thinks suddenly that he can’t remember her face – he can’t – he can’t –

Someone is shouting, maybe a great many people are shouting.

The girl is pulled away from him and he slips sideways off the chair, feels it happen, can’t think to do anything to stop it. His shoulders jar as the cuffs pull taut. His mothers voice is still in his ears, the ghost of her fingers through his hair, blood pooling beneath on the kitchen floor.

He closes his eyes to it, mumbles, “Stop, stop, stop.”

Things are faint. Cutting in and out. Blurry, blurred. He cannot tell what is really happening, what has already happened.

Someone is touching him, someone warm and real. A hand on his back, an arm around his shoulder, easing him up.

“This is torture,” he hears, Dameron’s voice he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” the girl is saying and Hux can hardly hear her over the rain, over the sound of a ships engines, over the soft sound of a blaster. “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t, but we have to do something, Poe!”

“Not like this,” Dameron says.

Hux closes his eyes again.

His mother is singing. Singing.

Chapter Text

He comes back to himself slowly, gradually. His mind is still ablaze with the fragmented scenes the girl pulled from him, the bright sounds and colours, the fear thick in his throat, the rabbit-beat of his heart against his ribcage. He’s not asleep but something like it, lying on his cot in a stupor, head turning this way and that, mouth forming soundless words.

When he opens his eyes the world around him is dim, washed out on the edges. The lights are out.

Someone is sitting beside him but it takes him a long time to realise that that is real and not imagined.

“Dameron?” he rasps, his tongue heavy, his mouth dry.

It’s dark in his cell. They must have finally turned out the lights.

Dameron’s head is bowed, he is almost bent double, hands clasped together and pressed to his forehead. He looks up when Hux speaks and glances briefly over his shoulder. “Heya, Hugs. You look like I feel.”

Hux blinks at him a few times, half expecting him to melt away into the darkness. He’s not there, not really. He can’t be. Wouldn’t be unless –

“I really thought you were dead for a minute there,” Dameron is saying. “Doc Kalonia looked like she wanted to kill someone.”

Hux swallows. It takes a few tries to get the words out. “Did Organa send you? Did she think – Did she think – ”

Dameron sighs, rubs his forehead absently. “No. She didn’t send me. She doesn’t even – ” he breaks off with a scoff and a shake of his head. “You know what? I don’t even – ” he breaks off again, looks down at his hands.

Hux settles back against his pillow. “Shouldn’t you be off doing something heroic?”

He thinks Dameron smiles. “You know, I would love to be off doing something heroic but I’m grounded for some reason.” His voice is brittle, cracking.

Hux closes his eyes. “If you were under my command I would have had shot out of the airlock. Or have you taken for re-education dependant on how useful you were.”

This time Dameron definitely smiles, lets out a breathy little laugh. “Re-education,” he says, shaking his head. “Holy shit, Hugs.”

Hux ignores the trace of pity in his tone. He probably shouldn’t have said that, or he should have at least made a play at levity but he can hardly make sense of things right now. Everything is scattered, shifting. One second he’s on the cot, another he’s on Jakku. Once second it’s Dameron sat beside him in the dark, one second it’s his mother. They come fast and thick. He feels dizzy with it, digs his fingernails into the flesh of the knee on his wounded leg where it’s still slightly raw, still twinging as the bacta does it’s job.

“Should you even be here?” he asks and Dameron still isn’t looking at him.

“No, definitely not. But what can I say? I am a law unto myself.”

Hux takes a breath and then another. In the back of his mind Snoke is laughing at him, he feels the first tendrils of the Force around his throat. “Could you possibly go and do that somewhere else then?” He asks, voice strained.

Dameron twists to look at him. “Do you really want me to leave?” he asks.

Yes, Hux thinks. Go, please and don’t come back. But the words get stuck at the back of his throat, tangled in the thick fear rising like bile. If Dameron goes it’ll just be him and his nightmares. If Dameron goes they might swallow him whole.

Please don’t take him, his mother begs.

Hux shakes his head. Dameron gives a tight nod and turns away again. His hands are still clasped tightly together, clamped between his knees as though he doesn’t quite trust them to wander free. Hux is grateful, he feels fragile, cracked all over. He can still hear his mother distantly. Can hear her singing. Can hear her crying. Can her the muffled thud of her body hitting the floor. If Dameron touches him now, he’s certain he’ll break apart, shatter.

“Can I ask you something?” Dameron starts, his voice is soft, low but it still makes Hux jump. He hadn’t noticed how badly he was shaking before. He balls his fists into the sheets to try and still himself. “What do you think would have happened if your father hadn’t taken you?”

It gives him something to focus on, something to draw himself back from the murky swirl of the past. “You asked me that before,” he says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Hux agrees.

Dameron sighs and unfurls himself. One hand goes to the ring about his neck, the other back to support himself. He splays it out a hairsbreadth from Hux’s hip. There’s a scar there, at the back of his left hipbone that Dameron used to smooth over and over on that planet – and it feels like years ago, hazy and blurred at the edges, like a fever-dream.

It’s from a belt buckle, he had thought about saying every night. My father liked me to keep the scars from lessons he deemed important. But he was never sure whether Dameron would flinch away or pull him closer, that awful wounded look in his eyes, that stupid need to save everyone.

Dameron’s hand is warm even though they’re not touching. He must be cold, he thinks, maybe that’s why he’s shaking?

The nights were cold on Jakku, he remembers. Cold on Arkanis too, up in his little attic room where the wind howled and rattled the windowpanes. His mother would hold him close to keep the cold out. On Jakku there was no one, there was nothing. I want to go home, he finds himself thinking but there has never been a home to go to.

He lets out a shuddering breath that sounds more like a sob than he would like. Dameron’s hand moves to his hip, squeezes lightly, warm and steady. Hux wants to tell him to let go, wants to say, I’m fine, I’m fine. I don’t need your pity. Things are separating, fragmenting again, like all those things she showed him didn’t really happen – not to him anyway. Those things happened to a boy called Armitage. Not to him. Never to him.

He had no mother. Has no mother. He was meant for one thing and one thing only.

“I hate what you’ve done to me,” Dameron says, hardly more than a whisper and Hux laughs at the sheer stupidity of it all. What he did to Dameron? Who was it that pulled him from that shuttle? That saved his miserable life? Who was it that handed him willingly over to the Resistance? That offered his head up for the block with hardly a backward glance? But now that he’s started, he can’t stop and the laughter – that strained, bitter sound he’s making – peters off into something else. Something wet and sputtering and Dameron makes this sound, wrenched from his throat, heavy and hurt.

“Can I – ?” he asks, as though from a great distance.

Hux doesn’t reply, can’t reply, there’s too much going on, too much in his head, in his chest. He’s spilling, everything tumbling out of him and pressing against him in a clamour of raised voices and stern tones and boots on metal – his father, Snoke, Ren. His mother, Rae. He’s spinning out, spiralling downwards. He’s lost, he’s certain. He’s lost.

Then it all stops.

It all stops because Dameron is suddenly everywhere, pressed against him, holding him so tight it’s almost painful. His face is pressed to Hux’s hair, he murmurs nonsense, doesn’t rub soothing circles like he used to just holds on. Hux buries his face in Dameron’s shoulder, one hand finds the ring, squeezes it hard so that the blunt edges of the metal dig into his palm.

What happened to whoever used to wear this? He wants to ask but he doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.

“It’s alright,” Dameron says, even though it’s not. “I’m here, I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.”

Hux wants to laugh again but he’s still shaking too much.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Dameron says. “I’m sorry for what they did to you. I should have stopped them. I should have stopped them sooner but I – ”

“Yes,” Hux grits out. “You should have.”

The Empire needs children.

Stars, he feels sick.

“I’m sorry,” Dameron says again. “I’m sorry.”

Hux’s feels slightly damp. He squeezes the ring, breathes slow and deep. Focuses on Dameron’s warmth, his tight grip, the way he smells. His next breath comes easier.

“That’s it,” Dameron says, gently, smooths over his shoulder. “That’s it.”

Dameron doesn’t let go when his breathing has steadied, only shifts slightly to make their positions more comfortable, starts to wind his fingers through Hux’s hair and it’s nice, it’s soothing, it’s –

Pathetic, his father hisses, bright and vicious and terrifyingly close.

He breathes in sharply.

“Hey, hey,” Dameron soothes. “It’s not real. You’re safe.”

Hux nods, squeezes the ring. “Who did this belong to?” He blurts. The words are clumsy, running together.

Dameron is quiet for a moment, has started rubbing Hux’s back. Before he speaks, he takes a shaky breath. “My mom,” he says and Hux has this sudden image of a woman with Dameron’s olive skin and curly dark hair and kind eyes. The kind of woman who would never let someone beat their child, he thinks and he hates himself for it immediately. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t, it wasn’t.

“She died when I was a kid,” Dameron says, and then, “Say something, Hux. Let me know you’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Hux says, against his shoulder.

Dameron presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I know, I know.”

Hux takes another few shaky breaths. “Does – Does Organa know you’re here? Did she send you to pry information from me?”

Dameron shakes his head.

“Does she know?” Hux asks, meaning clear.

He feels Dameron smile. “No. I mean, maybe she’s guessed. But no.”

Hux doesn’t know how that makes him feel. Glad, mostly. He doesn’t think he could look Organa in the eye if she knew. Doesn’t think he could resist if she tried to use it against him. But there’s this twinge of anger, of bitterness. Worried about what they’ll say, Dameron? He wants to snap. Worried they’ll call you a traitor for crawling into bed with the enemy? With a mass-murderer?

“Can I ask who Rae Sloane is?” Dameron says. “I know I said I wasn’t here for information but – ”

“Don’t you know the story?” Hux snaps. “Organa seems to think everybody does.”

“I know a little,” Dameron says, ignores Hux’s harsh tone, keeps stroking his back, his hair. “One of our pilots – Snap, Snap Wexley, he told me a bit. After the Empire fell he and his mom met her, helped take down some guy called Rax or something. He’s dead now. Snap. He died trying to get to Crait.”

“So when you asked who Rae Sloane was you meant – ”

“To you, yeah.”

Hux huffs. He doesn’t know what Rae was to him and she’s certainly not anything now. “Well, she’s dead now too so it doesn’t matter.”

Dameron hums. “But she mattered once?”

“Yeah,” Hux mumbles, presses his eyes closed against the memory of her, knelling in front of him, bartering her safety for his. I won’t let him touch you, she had said and he’d believed her.

“Then I’m sorry,” Dameron says. “I’m sorry.” He’s shifted now, pressed their foreheads together, his breath warm on Hux’s face. “I’m s – ” Dameron starts but if he apologises one more time Hux is going throw up.

He grips Dameron’s jaw instead, kisses him fiercely.

For a moment, Dameron kisses him back, balls his fist into the back of Hux’s neck, grips his hip to pull them flush against one another but then he’s stopping, hands catching Hux’s wrist gently. “Hey, hey,” Dameron says. “I don’t – ”

But Hux needs not to feel this - needs to forget - so he says, “Please.”

Dameron searches his face and then kisses him again, flips their positions so that he’s mostly on top, slotting his legs between Hux’s. His hands run down Hux’s sides, across his chest, deftly undo the buttons of Hux’s shirt. When it falls open, Dameron lifts himself off a moment to pull off his vest and comes back down. Hux hisses as their bare skin meets, arches futher into him and Dameron starts mouthing down his jaw to his throat.

“Stars, I want to wreck you,” he mumbles into the hollow of Hux’s throat.

Hux cants his hips, closes his eyes. “Yes,” he hisses back.

Dameron laughs across his skin. Hux shudders, slides his hands down Dameron’s back to the waistband of his trousers. If he squeezes his eyes shut hard enough he can almost pretend this is all it is. Just this. Just them. No war spread between them, no bloodied hands. He pushes Dameron’s trousers down past his hips and Dameron laughs again, weak and breathy. “This is such a bad idea,” he says, shifting off Hux momentarily to push Hux’s trousers down too.

He’s never done this before. Never had this before. Before now, before this, it’s always been hurried, underhand. It’s always had an agenda. A power ploy. A means of screwing someone over. Getting dirt for later. It’s never just been –

Dameron kisses him again, draws him back to here, to now. The rough canvas of the cot, Dameron’s hand cupping his jaw, fingers stroking over his cheek. It’s slower, deeper this time. He presses Hux down onto the camp bed gently, raises his hips long enough to divest them both of their pants.

They’re pressed flushed together. Dameron shifts his hips and Hux has to swallow back his moan. Dameron moves slowly, rolls his hips, hands trailing everywhere. Hux keeps his arms looped around Dameron’s shoulders. When Dameron kisses down his throat again, Hux winds a hand through his curls and Dameron hisses and rolls his hips again, slower this time and Hux arches, moans into Dameron’s mouth. “Fuck,” Dameron whispers. “Fuck.”

He winds a hand though Hux’s hair to tilt his head back, mouths nonsense into Hux’s throat until they both finish in hot ropey spurts against their stomachs. Dameron unwinds his fingers slowly, mouths his way back up to Hux’s mouth. Next time,” Dameron promises, voice husky, “I’m going to fuck you.”

Hux shudders against him, whispers, “Yes.” 

He’s not sure which of them tangles their fingers together but they lie like that for a long while. Dameron kisses him sweetly, lazily, makes him sigh, makes him shake. Eventually, Dameron shifts. “Come on,” he says, gently. “We should clean up.”

Hux lets himself be pulled up, be half-carried on unsteady legs to the washroom. Under the spray, Dameron kisses him again, presses him against the wall and rocks their hips together. He presses his face to the crook of Hux’s neck, slicks his fingers with lotion and presses them inside him. Hux is too tired to do much more than tilt his head back against the wall and murmur nonsense. This is a plot, he keeps thinking, distantly. This was their plan all along. Break him and then sic Dameron on him. Sic Dameron on him to earn his trust and –

Dameron sucks a mark into his collarbone, chases the thought from his mind.

When they are done, Hux is boneless against him, mind blissfully blank, fighting off sleep as Dameron towels him down and dresses him in fresh clothes. “I can stay until you fall asleep if you want,” Dameron says, husky and warm back on the cot.

Hux can hardly muster the energy to speak, lies mostly on top of him. “Yes. Wouldn’t do to be caught abed with the prisoner, would it?”

Dameron sighs, strokes his hair. “Hux,” he says, gently.

It’ll be different in the morning, Hux thinks.

Chapter Text

Things are different in the morning. Feel different.

The lights are back on, the harsh buzz makes him feel sick. He feels cold without Dameron.

He opens his eyes to find the medic peering down at him. She looks surprised at first, then relieved. “Oh, good,” she says, straightening up. “I was beginning to think there’d been some permanent damage. How are you feeling?”

Hux glowers at her. His head aches, everything seems brighter, louder. “Fabulous,” he snarls.

Kalonia smiles vaguely at him, notes something down on her datapad. “Well, I see your sparkling personality remains in tact so there’s that, at least. I’ll need to run some tests to be sure though.”

Hux grumbles but acquiesces. Lets her scan his brain with an ancient medi-droid that makes frankly alarming rattling sounds as it works, lets her shine lights into his eyes and peer into them, lets her test his reflexes. When she’s done she settles back on her heels where she’s crouched before him and breathes a sigh of relief. “There seems to be no permanent damage. Physically, at least.”

Physically, she says. His mind still jangles brightly with the memories.

She stands, rummages through her medkit and pulls out three pill bottles and sets them down on the table. “This is for the headaches,” she says, lifting one. “This is to help you sleep. This is for anxiety, to keep you calm.”

“Anxiety,” Hux repeats.

“Yes,” she says, smoothly. “If you didn’t have an anxiety disorder before you arrived her you certainly have one now.”

Hux glowers at her.

“General Organa wanted to see you as soon as you were conscious,” she says. “But there have been some developments and she may not be able to.”

“I’m heartbroken,” Hux says.

Kalonia sighs at him, turns to go and pauses as she reaches the door. “I want you to know that regardless of my personal feelings towards you and what you’ve done, I counselled against this particular methodology and I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

Hux frowns at her. “Why?” What good does knowing that do him?

She shrugs. “I thought it might do you good to know that not everyone in the world wants you hurt. Well,” she back tracks, somewhat. “Not everyone in the world that wants you hurt will see it through.”

Hux stares at her for a few moments before he says, “Well, it is the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

She smiles faintly. “Stars, you and Dameron were just made for each other, weren’t you?”

And she probably means nothing by it but Hux’s cheeks grow warm all the same.

“Ah,” she says, turning back to the cell door as there are footsteps on the stairs and Dameron emerges. “Speak of the devil.”

Dameron freezes at the sight of Kalonia, looking for a brief moment like a small child caught with it’s hand in the cookie jar but he recovers quickly. “Oh,” he says, smiling. “I can come back if – ”

“No, no,” Kalonia says. “We’re all done here.” She steps out of the cell in one fluid motion, shuts the door behind her.

“How is he?” Dameron asks.

“Ask him yourself. But be warned, he’s a little snippy this morning.”

Dameron smiles at that, eyes meeting Hux’s for a brief moment over Kalonia’s shoulder. It’s the kind of smile that makes Hux feel warm and cold all at once. Makes him want to press his face to Dameron’s shoulder again and never let go and at the same time run, run as far and as fast as he can from all of this, from everything here. Blow this base and these people to smithereens and never look back.

“I think that’s just the way he is, actually,” Dameron says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Kalonia nods, “You’d know better than me. How’s that ankle?”

“All good.”

“Good,” Kalonia says. “Good. Well, I’ll leave you to it. But be gentle with him, Captain. I’ve spent enough time saving his life over the past week, I have other patients to tend to.”

Dameron is rocking on the balls of his feet. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to ask him a few questions.”

Kalonia seems satisfied, she says her goodbyes – smiling at Dameron, terse to Hux – and leaves. When she’s gone, Dameron edges closer to his cell and for a moment seems not to know how to stand, where to put his hands. He settles for leaning against the glass, arms crossed tightly against his chest. “Are you really okay?” He asks, voice low.

Hux is sitting on the bed, against the wall. He sighs, allows himself to slump a little more and nods, tiredly.

“Good,” Dameron says. “That’s good.” He looks away a moment, scrapes his teeth along his bottom lip. Hux can’t help but watch the gesture, swallow heavily. He closes his eyes. Stars, he’s lost. He’s lost. He exhales as he tilts his head back against the wall, turns it away from Dameron. He wants him to go. Go, go, go.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “What would your General say?”

Dameron sighs. “Come on, Hux. Don’t do this.”

Don’t do what? Hux wants to snap but it would only encourage him so he stays silent, head tipped back against he wall. He closes his eyes, ignores the press of memories still raw, waiting to hear the shuffle of footsteps as Dameron leaves. It doesn’t come. Dameron shifts, sighs again.

“Kylo Ren is moving on Coruscant, demanding they swear allegiance or some bullshit. He’s been attacking the smaller planets in the system as a show of force,” Dameron says. His voice is steady but Hux can hear how close it is to cracking. “Coruscant is fighting back for its people but – They’ll have no choice soon. They’re losing too many.”

“Then you’ve lost,” Hux says.

“We’re still fighting.” Dameron says, immediately. “We haven’t – We won’t lose.” Hux looks at him then, leant against the plexi-glass, hands curled into fists, eyes bright and fierce. “Help us,” he says. “Please.”

Hux looks away.

“Hux, please. I don’t – ” He breaks off a moment. “I don’t know what they’ll do if you don’t talk.” He sounds small, helpless.

Hux glares at him. “They,” he spits.

“Alright. We, Hux. We.” He runs a hand through his curls, lets out a sound of frustration. “Come on, Hux, please. You have to know that Kylo Ren ruling the galaxy – hell, ruling anything – isn’t going to do anyone any favours. Just tell me. Tell me something. Anything.”

“So you can kill me?”

“I won’t let them,” Dameron says firmly and he means it, Hux realises. It shocks Dameron too because he swallows, blinks.

Hux closes his eyes.

It’s a lot. A lot.

“It won’t do you any good,” Hux says, finally. “I can tell you how to disable the weapon, I can tell you the weak points of every ship in our fleet but what would be the point? You don’t have the firepower to defend Coruscant and even if you did there would always be officers that survived. There would always be officer’s children.”

Dameron exhales, breath fogging up the glass. He leans his arm against it, presses his forehead to it and drums his fingers slowly. “I’m going to ask you something again and I want you to answer, okay?” His gaze is steady. “What do you think would have happened if your father hadn’t taken you that day?”

Hux scoffs.

“Just answer, Hux,” Dameron says. “Please.”

And Hux sighs again, shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling and ignores the lump in his throat. “What do you want me to say, Dameron?” He asks. “What do you want to hear? Do you want me to say that I would have grown up safe and happy in your New Republic? That I would have grown up and joined your rebellion to get revenge on my daddy so you could fuck me openly?”

Dameron flinches.

“Is that it? You want me to say everything would have been alright? That I would have been good. That we could have – ” he breaks off, shakes his head, looks down at his hands in his lap. “You’re an idiot if you think any of that could have been true.”

Dameron has stepped back a fraction. He swallows. “Why?”

Hux looks up at him. He’s too tired to be angry, to tired to tell Poe – to tell Dameron how stupid he’s being. How blind. “My mother worked for an Imperial Officer,” he says. “She had his child. Do you think people under the New Republic would have been kind to her?”

“That wouldn’t have mattered,” Dameron says.

Hux snorts. “You people all think I’m blind to the failings of the Empire but you’ve never stopped to think about the darkside of your Republic, have you? People weren’t kind, even then. We would have starved. Or been forced into slavery.” He tilts his head. “Would you have preferred that, I wonder? Would that have been easier for you then this?”

“Alright, Hux,” Dameron says and there’s this sharp edge to his voice, something bright and hard in his gaze. “That’s enough.”

Something snaps, something deep inside of him. He’s been feeling it pulling tighter and tighter since Crait, since before then – been feeling it fraying, coming apart. When he was a child he used to get angry like this, used to find someone or something to hurt, to break, even if it was his own hands, his own fists pounding against the wall. It was Sloane who taught him to control that, to channel that hurt, that rage, into hunger, into ambition.

But she’s not here anymore. His cup runeth over.

He stands up, crosses to the plexi-glass. “No, tell me, Dameron. Would that have been easier? If I had been some downtrodden servant or pleasure slave that you could swoop in and rescue like the gallant hero you pretend to be?”

Dameron closes his eyes. “Hux, stop – ”

“Would you have been able to look your General in the eye then?”

“Hux,” his voice is low now, warning.

“Would you feel like less of traitor,” he hisses.

“Enough!” Dameron snaps, slams his fist against the glass. Hux jerks back so suddenly he almost stumbles, almost falls. He can’t help the cold terror that has seized him – he hears his father’s boots crunching over the sand on Jakku, the hardwood floors of the Academy.

“Shit,” Dameron says. “Shit, Hux, I’m sorry.” He looks like he’s about to move towards the cell door, to enter so Hux holds a hand out to stop him.

“Don’t,” he says, sharply. “Stay there.”

Dameron swallows and falls still.

It takes a few moments to shake off the memories, he breathes deeply, shoves away his father’s boots and pack of feral children.

Dameron has pressed his palms against the glass. He looks as though he is in agony. Let him, Hux thinks angrily. He did this to me. Dameron’s fingers are twitching.

They stare at each other for what feels like years.

The anger has fizzled out now - or been startled from him - and all that’s left is this huge, gaping void that saps him of strength. It’s all piling upon him now, all these things he’s tried to forget, all these things he’s tamped down tight beneath his skin and kept there by sheer force of will, by pouring himself into the Order, giving himself heart and soul. Good little soldier, Ren had hissed once. Moulded perfectly in your father’s image.

It’s free now, all of it. Crashes over him like a tidal wave.

He sinks down to his knees, slumps against the glass.

Dameron has crouched down with him. “Let me help you,” he says.

Hux shakes his head, unable to find the words but when he opens his mouth they come. “You’ve ruined me,” he says and it is incredible to watch the impact they have, the way the land one after another, the way Dameron’s eyes first go wide, raw, wounded, then close and open again, damp around his lashes. The way his jaw clenches tightly, the way he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “You too.”

He stays there a while, slumped against the glass with Hux, fingers playing across it. Hux lets himself imagine they’re sliding through his hair. Pathetic, he hears his father hiss. I always knew you were weak. I should have left you to die with her like the welp you always were.

He closes his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Dameron says. “Breathe. I’m here.”

And Hux hates him. Hates him.

“Won’t someone miss you?” he asks, eventually.

Dameron sighs. “I’ll be back, okay?”

Chapter Text

He’s dozing when he hears the footsteps. Things are still a little hazy, there’s still part of him a world away, part of him hearing the light steps as heavy boots. Once he’s realised they’re not a memory he lies still and listens to them traipse across the floor, down the stairway to the cells. It’s not Dameron. He knows that by the gait. Makes him feel slightly sick that he’s so certain.

He stays facing the wall until he hears his visitor come to a halt outside the cell, rolls over expecting to meet the medic’s bland smile.

Instead he finds General Organa, hands folded neatly behind her back, dressed in slate grey.

He almost lies straight back down, rolls over and faces the wall, stays like that stubbornly until she gives up. He’s expecting to feel anger wash over him, bright and hot. He’s expecting rage. He’s expecting a desire for bloodshed, for pain  but the anger that washes over him is mostly cold, mostly tired.

He just wants this to be over. He wants this to be done but he’s realised now he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t want to go back to before the crash, running himself ragged to keep the Order together even as Ren ripped it apart. Or before that as Snoke’s plaything, Snoke’s tamer dog, speak when spoken to, General and never above your station. And before that? Starched black collars, straight backs, daggers up sleeves. His father sneering when he still flinched at sixteen and twenty and twenty-five. The sands of Jakku. The hard wood of Arkanis.

He has only ever known how to serve, how to fight for an Empire that was doomed before he was even born. There is certainly nothing up ahead for him.

There is part of him that wants to slide from his cot and onto his knees, wants to bow his head and say, just get this over with, General. As it stands he sits up, doesn’t bother to smooth his rumpled hair or creased clothes.

“Good evening, General,” she says, her tone genial, light. As though they are two politicians, here for a reasonable discussion. “I thought perhaps we could talk.”

Hux glowers at her, tilts his head. “Did you now? It’s good of you to at least pretend to ask given that you and I both know you have ways of making me talk regardless of my feelings on the matter.” And he half wishes she would. Half wishes she would send that girl in and rend his mind apart.

The corner of Organa’s mouth twitches, her lips thin but she holds his gaze steady and there is no sympathy in those dark depths. “I actually came to apologise for that. In part, anyway.”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts,” he mutters.

Organa’s smile is faint. “Clever, General.”

There’s a chair behind her that wasn’t there before. She must have brought it down but he didn’t hear it scrape across the floors or knock against the walls. She sits down. “It’s good to keep a sense of humour about us, even in these dark times.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I want you to know I took no pleasure in what we did to you.”

Hux closes his eyes. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want her hollow apologies, her faux sympathy. Poor little Armie, someone had said to him once aboard his father’s training ship where they thought he was fair game because he was smaller than them. Is daddy mean to you?

Hux had cracked that boy’s skull against the floor and his father had almost smiled.

“Just get on with it,” he says, when he opens his eyes.

She sighs, looks down briefly at her hands as she smooths the creases from her trousers. “The First Order is moving on Coruscant.”

“I know,” Hux interrupts. “Dameron’s already told me that.”

Organa tilts her head, makes a good show of appearing surprised. “Captain Dameron has been to see you?”

Hux sighs. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, General. You’re not a very adept liar and quite frankly, I’m tired.” He wonders briefly just how much she knows, how much she’s seen, how much she’s determined not to. He decides he doesn’t care. Let her think what she wants, let her pretend. Let her gloat. Let her dangle it over his head if she wants. He’s already teetering.

“Alright,” she says, and she’s watching him closely. Something has shifted behind her eyes, something has grown softer, more settled. It doesn’t relax him, not in the slightest. Just because her claws are currently sheathed does not mean they are no longer present.

She folds her hands neatly in her lap. “Then you know we’re running out of time, General.”

“You’re running out of time,” Hux says. “I’ve already run out of time. I ran out of time the moment your son – ” He breaks off, takes a few deep, steadying breaths. “And I’ve told you not to call me that.”

Organa tuts. “What should I call you then? You won’t allow me to use your given name and having met your father I would rather not use his.”

“Why? Do you think I’m somehow better than him?”

“I have hopes,” Organa says.

Hux sighs. Tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

He hears Organa shift. “I know this is difficult for you,” she starts.

Hux doesn’t look up. “Don’t,” he says and it’s meant to be a warning but it doesn’t come out sounding that way.

Organa shifts again, sighs. When she speaks there is a new note of weariness in her voice, something bone-deep and fraying. “How old were you when the Empire fell?” she asks, as though she doesn’t have some file somewhere with his entire life neatly categorised. “You can’t have been that old, you’re not that much older than Ben. You must have been, what? Four? Five? You were on Jakku, weren’t you? Your father was extracted from Arkanis before we reclaimed it so I assume you were with him.”

The Empire needs children.

He tilts his head back down and looks at her, gaze stormy.

“You left Jakku with your father and Grand Admiral Rae Sloane, didn’t you? My sources tell me she was something of a mentor to you.”

Hux raises one hand to scrub across his face. “Did they now?”

Organa inclines her head. “They did. She was, I’m told, quite an extraordinary woman. There was a moment before the Empire fell when we thought there could truly be peace through her. She had a very different view for the Order once, did she not?”

Hux sighs. “I know what you’re doing.”

Organa smiles faintly. “Is it working?”

Hux tilts his head back again, lets himself slump against the wall. Get a blaster, he wants to say. Press it to my temple, take whatever you want and pull the trigger. Let this be over. Let this be done. But he doesn’t and Organa says nothing either, stays silent, waiting patiently for him to speak.

To talk is treason, his father hisses. You are not only betraying yourself and your cause but that of the entire Order. To talk is to commit the greatest sin in the galaxy. You will never talk, Armitage. You will never beg or plead or barter for your life. I have taught you too well for that, haven’t I?

He digs his nails in to the flesh above his knee, has not cut his nails for weeks and imagines they cut deep enough for the skin to split and blood to well up beneath them. He imagines it staining the thin clothes they have given him. He presses harder. If he talks – If he talks –

“I could tell you how to disable the weapon,” he says, eventually, the words strangled and halting. “You would lose most of your team and you might even put your son out of his misery. Coruscant would be saved but then what? We still have more than half a fleet out there. We still have bases. Kylo Ren’s cause is not the Order’s cause. It would continue without him. You would be snuffed out. Face it, General, either way you’d lose. Retreat now and you might spare the lives of most of your men.”

“Is that what you’d do?” she asks.

“You know what I’d do,” he grits out. He survived Starkiller, after all. He cut and ran with most of his men. “It would all be for nothing,” he snarls around the lump that has grown in his throat.

“It would all be for hope,” Organa says. “Rebellions are built on hope, after all.”

And Hux wants to laugh at her. Wants to howl with laughter. After all of this, after everything, after the Hosnian system, after Crait, she still stubbornly clings to it, her values, her dreams, her hopes and something –

Something snaps within him. Something deep and primal and feral rears it’s head, surges up within him. Someday soon, Gallius Rax had said to him when he was a small child and shivering before his father’s pack of orphans, your father will die and it had felt like a promise, like a prophecy. It had been something to hold on to just as Rae’s promise of protection had been and it had carried him, it had carried him. He remembers the day they left Arkanis, remembers his father knocking him into a wall, seething, telling him to stay down, telling him to just die like that, like his mother, look what you forced me to do, you little wretch  – he remembers Ren choking him, Snoke illustrating how easily he could snap every bone in his body –

He remembers Rae yanking him up the arm and handing him a handkerchief for his split lip. On your feet, soldier.

(He thinks about Dameron holding him tight.)

He has given his existence to the Order. His blood, his sweat.

This was only ever going to end one way but he can at least do this on his own terms. It is coming together now before his closed eyelids, tangled threads of razor-wire made smooth, made to lie flat, neatly. If he is clever he can do this.

He can do this for the Order. For his Order.

He sits up straighter, raises his head.

Organa hasn’t missed his sudden shift in mood. She is sitting almost imperceptibly forward, something light in her eyes. He glances down at his own hands in his lap, palms picked raw from the days they left him to stew. She probably planned this, planned all of this. Probably knew all of his pressure points, saw the best way to break him down that day he stepped off the Falcon. The best way to break him into tiny little pieces and reform him differently, reshape him with all the right chinks in his armour, all his cracks and scars bared for the world to see.

Is it too much to wonder whether Dameron was ignorant of all of it?

But he pushes that thought away. He needs a clear head for this.

“Whatever I give you,” he says, voice low, eyes downcast. “You’re still going to lose. You are aware of that?”

When he looks up, Organa is smiling again. Softly, encouragingly. “Perhaps I have a little more faith in the abilities of those around me.”

Hux swallows. If he does this, if he turns he’s betraying everything he’s ever known, everything he’s ever worked for, everything he’s ever built, ever had. Everyone. He thinks – better to fall at my hands, my own hands than Ren’s and then – Rae would be ashamed.

His father would expect no less of him. Snoke always taunted him about it.

It might be worth it to see the look on Ren’s face at the end, though.

He thinks of Dameron asking again and again how things could be different, begging him to say yes, I could have been a good man. Yes, for you. But that has never been on the cards for him. He has only ever known how to survive, by any means necessary. This, he thinks, is survival in a sense. This is not lying down meekly and waiting for them to take his head. This is not lying awake waiting for Dameron to crawl into his cot, waiting for Dameron to tire of him, waiting for Dameron to laugh in his face and tell him this was never real.

This is dying to protect everything he’s built. To stop it from becoming some twisted tool of childish revenge at Ren’s own hand.

He takes a deep breath.

I’m sorry, he thinks, somewhere deep within himself.

“The weapon must be disabled in two stages,” he says and something moves through Organa. Something like relief, something like joy but she keeps it inside, keeps it tamped down, keeps her gaze impassive. “It cannot be destroyed, the antimatter at it’s core is too unstable, to destroy it would create a singularity and Coruscant would be lost anyway. There are two sets of controls, one onboard the weapon itself, the other on it’s command module which – since your son is neither as dim-witted as he appears, nor suicidal – will most probably be aboard his flagship.”

“The Finalizer,” Organa says.

“Yes,” Hux says, tightly. “The Finalizer.”

Organa sighs, sits back in her chair and looks away from him. “So, to save the galaxy we’ll have to get onboard the Finalizer. Brilliant.”

“You’ll need a distraction,” Hux says.

Organa glances at him briefly. “Yes, I’m aware of that.” She looks away, then looks back him quickly. “You mean you.”

Hux swallows. “Perhaps.” He takes another deep breath. “Is the entirety of the fleet gathered around Coruscant?”

“No,” Organa says, studying him closely. “There are few stationed elsewhere about the galaxy. Ah. You’re suggesting we allow you to leave. Make contact with one of the other vessels and – what? What would your plan be then?”

“You said there had been insurrection. That Grand Admiral Sloane and her crew were destroyed because of it. Sloane was popular, respected. Ren wouldn’t have killed her unless she posed a real threat and that means there were others willing to join her against him.”

“If that’s true why hasn’t anyone made a move?”

“No one trusts anyone within the Order, not truly.” He says and finds himself sneering. “They will all be keeping their displeasure hidden from one another but if there is another leader…”

“You?” she guesses and sits back in her chair, gaze caught half-way between amused and impressed. “So, we agree to let you go, you tell us how to disable the weapon and you provide the opportunity to see it through by staging an armed coup against the Supreme Leader. It’s a very tidy little plan, General but reliant on several factors. Tell me, how do you know we have not already broadcast your capture to the wider galaxy?”

Hux shifts. He’s betting she hasn’t. It doesn’t seem her style. She’d be waiting to see which way the cards fell so he could either be publicly executed or announced as a defector. “Have you?” he asks.

She ignores his question. “More to the point,” she says, smoothly. “Why should we trust you? How do I know you won’t simply tell the Order everything you’ve just told me and provide them with directions to our base?”

Hux sighs. “General, I have no idea where I am. Blindfold me when you let me leave, drug me, leave me on some far away planet with access to a ship and no idea how to get back here. More to the point, if I told them I talked they would have me shot on sight as a traitor.”

“And you’d rather go out in a blaze of glory as the Order’s saviour. Leading a triumphant charge against Kylo Ren,” she finishes for him. She’s still smiling, the disbelief has mostly ebbed away. “And we get our spark.” She shakes her head, drums her fingers on her knee. “Of all the ways I thought this war would end, this is not one of them.”

“This won’t end the war,” Hux says. “If you think it will you’re an idiot.”

She smiles at him, standing. “It’s a start, though. It’s a start.” Then she frowns. “How do you know the Order won’t just shoot you anyway?”

“I don’t,” Hux answers. “In actuality, it’s a very likely scenario.”

Organa laughs. “So in actuality, General, you’re offering me a very slim chance of a distraction which might enable a few of my people to run a suicide mission which in turn might just possibly give us the chance of winning the war in exchange for your freedom?”

Hux scrubs at his eyes tiredly. “Got any better offers?”

Organa snorts at that. “No, I suppose not.” She stands slowly, give him one last, considering look. “I’ll have to think this over, discuss it with the others. Don’t go anywhere.”

When she’s gone the silence rings loud in his ears. His skin crawls, his stomach churns. Each thud of his heart seems to echo. Traitor, traitor, traitor. He squeezes his eyes shut, curls himself as tightly as he can and when that doesn’t work he springs up and paces. There’s a mirror in his washroom but it doesn’t break no matter how hard he pounds against it. His knuckles bruise and split, it brings relief in sharp stinging moments but he still feels fit to shake apart, to shatter into pieces.

You disgusting, weak little wretch, he hears and slides down, covers his ears.

-

Dameron doesn’t come.

Chapter Text

He wakes up on his cot to the distant murmur of voices. Someone is touching his hand, holding it in one of theirs and dabbing something cool and faintly stinging onto his knuckles.

“Stupid,” the medic mutters. “Doesn’t exactly bode well for us trusting him, does it?”

Someone else sighs. Hux can hear them pacing. “I dunno, might go well for his cover story, right?” Dameron says. “Fought off some slavers, stole their ship?”

Hux doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that Kalonia is giving Dameron a severe look. “He’s unstable, Poe. I mean, we’re asking him to betray everything he’s ever had beaten into him, it’s not going to go down easily.”

“Finn’s fine,” Dameron says.

Kalonia snorts. “Captain Dameron, I love you but, as I’m sure the entire base would agree, you’re hardly the brightest bulb in the rebellion.”

Dameron laughs weakly. “But you love me. That’s the important bit.”

Kalonia huffs, sets Hux’s hand down and reaches for his other one. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says, presumably to Dameron. “Finn’s conditioning would have been different. First of all, he was part of a group, secondly, he was treated as an object, not a person. For the officers, I’d imagine their conditioning was more involved. I don’t think this is going to end well.”

Dameron huffs. “What choice do we have?”

He’s standing close, somewhere beside his head. Hux shifts, hisses as Kalonia presses bacta to a particularly raw spot on his knuckles. “Oh good,” she says, when opens his eyes. “You’re awake.”

Dameron exhales. He has hands up, covering his mouth and nose. They slide back through his hair when Hux meets his gaze.

“General Organa asked me to come by and see whether you’re fit for active duty,” Kalonia says. “I did not expect to see you with fresh wounds.”

“Not even as unstable as I am?” Hux bites back.

Kalonia thins her lips and gives him a stern look. Then she stands, turns to cross the cell to wear her medkit sits on the chair. Dameron takes the opportunity to drop his hand and curl it through Hux’s hair. Hux half wants to flinch away but he closes his eyes instead. Dameron’s nails scrape gently against his scalp. He draws back his hand before Kalonia turns back to them.

“Come on,” she says. “Up with you. On your feet.”

Hux sits up. Dameron steps away. “Does this mean she’s agreed?” Hux asks, looking between the two of them.

“It means she’s considering,” Kalonia says before Dameron can answer. “Stand up.”

Hux does.

“I’ll go let the General know he’s awake,” Dameron announces, touches Hux lightly on the shoulder. “Catch you later, Hugs.”

Kalonia shakes her head at him as he leaves and turns back to Hux, arms folded. “Walk the length of the cell.”

She makes him walk back and forth across the cell a few times before telling him to stop and sit back down. “If we’re sending you back there and the story is that you managed to make your way off that planet unassisted, we’ll have to take the bacta cast off your leg.”

Hux nods. He knows that. Knows too that his leg is far from healed. It’ll add weight to his story though if he’s still limping, if he’s in pain. Kalonia looks at him one last time before she bends and starts to pull the cast off. The pain isn’t immediate, the bacta will take a little while to wear off.

“Stand,” she says, when she’s done and he does with minimal difficulty. “I can give you pain killers but not much more. I trust you have medbays on your ships?”

Hux frowns at her. “Of course we have medbays.”

Kalonia’s smile is light. “I don’t know. You seem more like the types to shoot a wounded man than care for him.”

Hux is going to say something further to her but the scavenger girl arrives. Rey. She edges into the room slowly, makes sure to meet his gaze, makes her movements slow, deliberate. She is trying not to spook him, he realises. Under one arm, she carries a bundle of clothes, held close to her chest. From her free hand, a pair of boots dangle. Scuffed, worn, caked in grime. His own, he realises. From before the crash.

Dameron’s droid is at her heels.

She pauses when she reaches the cell door, takes a deep heavy breath. “Can I come in?”

Something bitter rises up in his throat but he shoves it back down, tightens his jaw and nods.

She swallows before pushing in, lets the door shut gently behind her. She keeps to the far wall as she crosses to set the clothes and boots down on the table then stands there, arms loose at her sides, watching him carefully.

The droid shows no such restraint though, no such care. It jets in to the little cell and makes beeline for him, chirping it’s greetings, telling him how glad it is that he has decided to help them, to help Dameron.

Kalonia smiles at it as she stands, bacta cast in hand. “Well, I wouldn’t clear him for active field duty,” she says, turning to Rey. “But he should be more than capable of standing around barking orders.”

The girl’s smile is slightly absent, slightly forced, her eyes only settling on the medic briefly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Kalonia nods. “I suppose I should go let the General know then.” She gathers up her things and nods to Rey as she goes, pauses by the door to turn back to him as though she’s going to say something but thinks better of it. She smiles at him once more before she goes, leaving him alone with the girl.

She doesn’t make towards him, only eyes him cautiously, carefully. It reminds him forcibly of those early days with Dameron edging around him, treating him like some semi-feral creature that might bolt or lash out at the first show of aggression.

She is quiet for a long moment before she speaks, before she asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?” And it’s so unexpected that Hux lets out a short snort of laughter. Her cheeks start to colour, her brow furrows slightly. “I’ve seen what Kylo Ren did to you. I’ve seen what he’s capable of,” she says.

His side twinges in sympathy, ghost Force-fingers brush against his throat. They are getting duller now, further away as the girl’s intrusion fades. “You’ve seen what I’m capable of too,” he says and she looks up at him again, something harder in her gaze.

“Yes.”

“And I’ve seen what you’re capable of,” he says. And he had, hadn’t he? Because doors open two ways and Rey the Scavenger Girl hadn’t so much as thrown his wide open but blown the thing off it’s hinges, left it in shattered splinters across the floor. He hadn’t really paid attention to it at the time, the scattered images of a small girl running through the dunes, nights spent with her head tilted back watching the sky. It’s almost funny, he wants to say. We all started in some way from Jakku. After all, it’s there they captured Dameron for the first time, there he crashed with the traitor. Everything seems to tie back to that little dead planet where the Empire made its last stand.

But there were also flashes of a snowy forest, the bright shimmer of lightsabres. The throne room where she and Ren fought back to back, where she lost hope of saving him.

The girl looks away, something like shame rising in her eyes and Hux realises she thinks he’s talking about what she did to him. “I’m sorry for that,” she says, through gritted teeth. “I didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t have – ” Her hands curl into fists at her side, she lets out a sigh of frustration, meets his gaze again. “No one deserves that. Not even you.”

Hux looks away first. “And what about Ren?” he asks, out of curiosity more than anything. “What do you imagine he deserves?”

She frowns at him, crosses her arms. “I don’t know. I thought I could save him once but – Do you really think the Order will follow you against him?”

“He was never part of our Order,” Hux says, tightly. “He was only ever Snoke’s apprentice.”

The girl nods slowly. “You think he has to die?”

“I think a quick end for him would be the galaxy’s saving grace,” he says. Which is a lie, of course. If it were up to him Ren’s end would be long, drawn out. Then again, he has always suspected that in some way, Ren would welcome death. It would put an end to his inner-turmoil, at least. Perhaps it would be crueller to let him live.

Hux knows how feels on the matter, at least.

The girl is watching him curiously again. She doesn’t look surprised or disgusted. Complicated, Hux thinks would be the word for her dark gaze. He wonders if she knows about Dameron, if he told her or if she merely suspects. He wonders how she feels about it. Does it disgust her? Does it make her skin crawl? Does she think he is using some dark power to bewitch her friend? The Resistance’s Golden Boy? But no, she’s been in his head. If she saw anything of his feelings towards Dameron it was probably the same fear and bewilderment she herself would be feeling.

Eventually she looks away. “General Organa wants you to talk me through disabling the weapon.”

“So this means she’s accepting my proposal?”

The girl’s nod is tight. “You’ll brief me first and if I think you’re being genuine…” Her gaze flits about the cell. “If I think you’re being genuine we have a ship ready for you.” She pulls out a datapad from some pocket within her jacket. “Here, Poe brought these off the planet with him. Are there schematics for it on here?”

Hux reaches out for it. He had forgotten about these, that any had survived the shuttle crash. He remembers Dameron scouring them in the early days, desperate for something useful. The pad feels odd in his hands now. Strange how once not long ago it had kept his life in order for him, had been more a fifth limb than a small scrap of technology.

“Yes,” he says, switching on the device and unlocking it.

The girl frowns. “We hadn’t been able to find any.”

“I keep all the important things on a ghost-drive. I’m not surprised you weren’t able to find it.” He pulls up the schematics, pauses before he hands it back to her. “How do I know you won’t just take this and leave me here to rot?”

“You don’t.” She answers, simply.

But what choice do you have?

He holds out the datapad, lies it flat to bring up a holo of the weapon. It was built to function like a large fighter, room enough for a crew of three or four to get the canon into position, to make sure the unstable matter at it’s centre remained in a mostly safe state, to make sure the craft could get out of range of the black hole it created in good time. It was built to go unnoticed, to be overlooked as just another artillery craft until it was fired.

“The cockpit is here,” he says, pointing. The girl leans in close to see. “There’ll be a small crew, heavily armed. There’s a sequence of switches here, that will start a stabilising process for the payload. They have to be thrown at the same time in the control hub on the Finalizer.”

She studies the images a moment before nodding. “Can you upload them to BB8?”

Hux takes the cable she offers him and crouches down slowly. The droid opens a port without being asked, bleeps at him happily. He looks up at the girl as the schematics are being uploaded. “I take it you’ll be part of the boarding party?”

She nods. “I’ll be on the Finalizer.”

Hux snorts. “You don’t think Ren might have told the troopers to be on the look out for someone matching your description?”

She sets her hands on her hips. “It’s a bit late to be worrying about that, isn’t it?”

When the upload is done, Hux straightens up, ignoring the twinge of pain from his leg. It’ll only get worse from here, he better get used to it. He hands the datapad and cable back to her.

“Get dressed,” she says, indicating the pile of clothes she’s left for him. “I’ll be back. Come on, BB8.”

He dresses quickly. The clothes they have brought him are worn and ill-fitting, the kind of thing he would have been able to steal or barter for amongst the slavers and exiles of that backwater system. He has already begun piecing together his story, embellishing it with details though he doubts anyone will question him in any great depth. Either they will believe him or they will shoot him where he stands.

Hux fine with either eventuality. Either way, this will all be over soon.

He is lacing his boots when the girl reappears, accompanied this time by another girl that Hux vaguely recognises. She is looking at him with hatred and anger and barely contained disgust. “This is Rose,” Rey says. “She wants to ask you a few questions about the weapon.”

-

They drill him thoroughly, ask him question he himself had not even considered. When they are satisfied Rey tells him General Organa will brief him in an hour or so, that she will have food sent and he should eat.

The silence seems to ring in his ears when they are gone. He remembers reading something once, some account of one battle or another penned by an officer. He wrote often about that eerie feeling he had before a battle, the sick feeling in his stomach, the buzz of anticipation, the crawling sensation under his skin. Hux has never felt it before. Before this, he has never worried about whether he will succeed or not. He has never had the time or the space to feel the anxiety gnawing at the pit of his gut.

He sits on his bed, hands folded together to keep himself from worrying at his palms and waits.

He doesn’t know how long Dameron stands there before he notices him.

He looks uncertain, standing on the other side of the glass dressed in his flight gear. The top half of his orange flight suit is undone, tied by the sleeves around his waist. Underneath, he wears a plain white vest. “So, this is it, huh?” he says, haltingly.

Hux unfolds himself slowly and stands, taking slow steady steps across to the front of his cell. Dameron keeps his gaze firmly on Hux’s face. Hux swallows when he reaches him. Yes, he wants to say. Or maybe, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? But he finds he can’t say anything.

By the looks of it, Dameron has found himself similarly tongue-tied. “Thank you,” he says, eventually. “Just, really – thank you. I don’t know what – ” He breaks off, rocking back and forwards on his feet. “We’ve got a ship ready and waiting for you, Leia wants me to take you to it once you’ve finished hashing out the details of this plan so I’ll um – I’ll see you later, alright?”

He presses his hand against the glass lightly.

Hux looks down at it and nods.

Chapter Text

When Organa sends for him, he is brought to the Resistance’s war room. It is empty but for herself, Rey and the traitor. Before them is a holo of the galaxy, the positions of the First Order fleet plotted out. Organa gives him something like a smile, “Ah. At last,” she says. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

He selects the Absolution as his target. His father’s training ship. Once among the most important in the Order. It housed their youngest recruits, the first half of the stormtrooper training programme until a year ago, until the war began properly and it was decided that the bulk of the recruits should be kept somewhere safer. A base was constructed, well hidden. At least the Order will live on in some fashion. A new wave of troopers free of Snoke’s poison, of Ren’s tantrums.

The Absolution had taken damage when the Supremacy was destroyed and though repairs were well underway it was hardly in peak condition. It is being kept back from the front lines, lingering in dead space. It should be an easy target but with Coruscant at stake, it is being left well alone.

He knows the ranking officer well. Or, at least, he knew the ranking officer. There is no telling what Ren has done in his absence, who he has managed to bend to his will, who he has won over with promises and threats, who was on board the Ultimatum with Sloane.

Major Thaig Yersin was a good servant of the Order. Intelligent, principled. Too clean for Hux to have placed any real trust in but a man he knew to share his ire with Ren. His mother had been an Imperial Officer, one of the first leaders, loyal to Sloane, popular amongst the ranks. She had never flinched back from speaking her mind where the failings of their Supreme Leader had been concerned and it had brought her a swift end. Her son was more careful but still, Ren did not trust him, had assigned him to the Absolution for that very reason.

Hux can still recall with startling clarity the day Yersin and his mother arrived aboard the Eclipse, how he hated him. A handful of years older, well-spoken and straight-backed, already honed, polished. His mother’s firm hand on his shoulder, the pride bright in her face.

“And you’re sure this Major will hear you out?” Organa asks.

“Well, he’s more likely to listen than to shoot me on sight as a traitor.”

Organa purses her lips. “That’s not exactly a comfort, General. Finn,” she turns to him. “Anything you can tell us?”

The traitor shrugs, doesn’t take his gaze off of Hux. “I never met him. He didn’t like Kylo Ren, though. That much I can vouch for.”

“Alright,” Organa grumbles, turning back to Hux. “So you get on board and convince this Major to support your cause and then what?”

“I announce my presence to Ren. The Absolution is far enough away that if he wishes to attack he’ll have to leave Coruscant. Otherwise, we will go to him. Hopefully, others within the Order will follow.”

Organa nods. “Once that’s done you’ll send us a message. We’ll move on the weapon.”

They have hidden a device in the hilt of his dagger. Smooth, elegant. Easy enough to trigger without drawing attention to himself. Once the weapon has been neutralised, it can be destroyed.

From there, Hux has no idea. The Resistance have a plan, he thinks, but he is not privy to it.

Organa steps back from the holo, something bright and hopeful in her gaze. She looks to Rey, who has her arms crossed, less tense than she had been before, then across to the traitor, still glaring hatefully at Hux and then to him again. “I think we have a plan, General. Rey, Finn, go and get ready. I want this in motion as soon as possible.”

They nod as one. The traitor lingers, “Want me to take him back to his cell?”

“No, no,” Organa says. “There’s one more thing I’d like to discuss with the General.”

Hux looks up at that but Organa’s expression is as impregnable as ever, a faint smile, cool, steady gaze. He feels cold dread begin to ebb through his bones, intermingled with anticipation – not quite anxiety, for there is not enough in him to feel fear anymore – more impatience, a need for this to be over, for there to be no more piled on.

“There is,” she says, when they are alone. “One scenario that we have not yet discussed, General.”

Hux swallows, meets her gaze. “What would I gain from betraying you now? Ren has already tried to kill me once. Do you think he would not try again even if I gave up your location?”

“I think you wouldn’t care,” Organa says. “I think whatever you really intend to do when we let you go you don’t intend to survive it.”

It would be simpler, he wants to say and more, but he finds he can’t. His jaw is tight, clenched. The words stick in the back of his throat, to the roof of his mouth.

“And that’s the scenario I’d like to discuss with you. The possibility that you survive.”

Hux sighs. He keeps his tone clipped. “It’s unlikely.”

“But possible,” she insists.

No. If he is not killed baiting Ren, in the ensuing fight, he will be killed in the scramble for power that follows. A dagger in his back when all is said and done, or public execution as a traitor, as a rebel. As an enemy of the Order. If it were unfold like that, if he were to survive this and Ren to be killed, the position of Supreme Leader void –

Once it was all he wanted.

Now, his head hurts with it all. Pounds.

He could step up. Rebuild the Order as Rae Sloane once intended.

But no, no. That’s not him anymore.

Except -

“General?” Organa prompts.

“What are you asking, General Organa?”

“I think you know,” she says.

She is asking: if you live, if you take charge, will you be willing to barter for peace?

Hux shifts under the weight of it. “Shall we cross that bridge when we come to it, General?”

Organa looks him over. He cannot tell whether it’s disappointment in her gaze or something else.

“May I go?” he asks.

Organa nods. “I’ll take you back to your cell. Be ready to leave, General. Dameron will be with you as soon as we’re ready.”

-

He has an hour before Dameron comes for him. An hour’s rest, despite his protestation. He doesn’t want more time left to stew, to think, to wait. He wants this over with. He wants this done. He paces the length of his cell. An ache has set in to his leg now, dull and persistent. He swallowed down a handful of painkillers over the meal they gave him earlier but it has hardly taken the edge off.

Dameron clears his throat when he arrives, waves the dark bag he has in hand and smiles apologetically. “Sorry, Hugs. The General doesn’t want to take any chances with you seeing more of our base than you have to.”

Hux doesn’t have the energy to argue, only bows his head for Dameron to slide the bag on.

“It won’t be for long,” Dameron says, as he slips the bag on. His touch lingers on the nape of his neck. “I promise.”

His grip is gentle as he guides Hux through the base, a light pressure at the small of his back, a loose grip on his right forearm. “Almost there,” he keeps saying. “Almost there.” His voice soft, gentle.

It does nothing to chase away nerves, the knots his thoughts have tied themselves in.

The ship Dameron leads him to is a nondescript shuttle that he shoves Hux into the back of, makes sure all the doors and windows are shut and covered before he pulls off the bag. “You’ll have to stay back here until we’re in hyperspace, alight? I’m taking you to this little border moon near the Absolution. We’ve got a ship waiting for you there.”

Hux can only nod. Everything seems to be happening very slowly and yet very fast, all at once.

Dameron has a hand on his shoulder, he squeezes it lightly before he moves off, steps through into the cockpit and lets the door hiss shut behind him. Hux sits still in the half-light until he feels the familiar jerk of the ship entering hyperspace and Dameron calls, “Alright, you can come up here now!”

It’s tricky clambering through to the cockpit, the ache in his leg has set in in earnest. He tries to hide his discomfort as he settles into the co-pilot’s chair but Dameron isn’t looking at him. He keeps his gaze forwards, fixed on the blur of space and time around them, steals only small glances at Hux. “The moon isn’t far,” Dameron says. “We’ve got ten minutes, or so.”

Hux nods again, still does not quite trust himself to speak. He has no idea what he should say, if he should say anything at all.

Dameron looks at him again, his gaze lingering this time. “You should know, we’ve been given orders to destroy the Finalizer once the weapon is disabled so I, uh, hope you weren’t planning on reclaiming it.”

Hux half wants to laugh at Dameron’s brashness, Dameron’s conviction. Even now, it still amuses him. He does not doubt they will be able sneak aboard, disable the singularity gun at its source but to destroy the Finalizer with a handful of X-Wings and a scavenger girl? That would be a feat.

He snorts. Dameron smiles.

“What?” he says and his gaze is so warm, so bright, so gentle that Hux wants to flinch away. “You don’t think we can do it, huh?” He settles back in his seat, sets his feet up on the dashboard. “General Organa thinks we could end the war tonight.”

“She’s a fool,” Hux says. He means it. End his part in the war, yes and Ren’s too if he has any say in the matter, but the Order will survive. The Resistance might get an easy win, might get a rush of new recruits, of supporters, but even if the Finalizer, even if Hux drives the Absolution to destruction in his quest, there will be more ships.

“I don’t know,” Dameron says, voice low and playful. “The First Order’s pretty banged up at this point. It’s already fractured. All it’ll need is one good kick and poof.”

Poof.

Hux hears it shatter in his mind. Jagged shards of everything he’s ever been taught, everything he’s ever worked for, all his father, all Rae Sloane, all every Imperial officer that fled believing they could build something better, something that would not fall to corruption, that would not come under the thumb of some deranged force-user. Everything he and countless others were shaped to protect, honed into weapons meant only to defend, to further their cause. Everything his mother died for.

Everything he has ever known.

He’s nothing without it. Nothing.

At some point, Dameron has taken his hand, his thumb stroking over and over Hux’s knuckles. He has leant forwards, attentively. “Come on, Hugs, don’t freak out on me now.”

No, he tells himself. No. Without Ren, there’s a chance. The Order can survive and be stronger for it.  

Dameron’s tongue sweeps out to wet his lips and he catches his bottom one between his teeth. Hux watches as he chews and then stops, opens his mouth to say something or ask and Hux is leaning forwards before he can stop himself.

Dameron makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob when their mouths meet, brings up a hand to cradle Hux’s jaw and the other to curl around the back of his neck, to tug him closer. Hux’s hands go first to Dameron’s shoulders, the he slides his arms around Dameron’s back, wants to press against him until there’s nothing left to separate them.

It’s awkward until Dameron scrapes his teeth along Hux’s bottom lip and pulls back to hiss, “Sit back,” into his mouth. Hux does and Dameron moves with him, clambers out of his of his chair and settles himself in Hux’s lap to kiss him again. There’s the damp of tears on his cheek, the barest hint of salt. He doesn’t know who they belong to, doesn’t much care. Dameron is kissing him like he doesn’t quite know how to stop, his hands everywhere – in Hux’s hair, playing against his jaw, slipping up under his shirt.

With his eyes squeezed shut, Hux can almost pretend this is it. There’s nothing else, nothing beyond - but then the ship bleeps to let them know they’re nearing their destination. They break apart, breathing heavily. Dameron presses their foreheads together, brushes over Hux’s mouth with his thumb.

“Guess we’re almost there then,” he says. His eyes are shut, Hux realises when he opens his, like he wants to pretend this is all there is as well.

Dameron’s eyes open slowly.

“I should probably get off you and land this thing so we don’t crash.”

Don’t, Hux thinks but he nods anyway and reluctantly, Dameron shifts off of him, clambers back into the pilot’s seat.

-

The border moon is one of those odd little worlds that lives in a perpetual twilight. It’s chilly on the surface, populated mostly by little mining villages and lit by long strings of glowing lanterns. Dameron brings the shuttle down a fair distance from anywhere populated and wastes no time in pushing out.

“Come on, Hux,” he says. “The ship’s this way.”

The soil beneath their feet is loose and gritty, an odd purple-grey. The world around them is quiet, the air smells faintly acrid, faintly burnt. The ship ahead of them is dark and bulky. It’s a chimera, Hux realises as they get closer, a patchwork monstrosity of bits and pieces from other ships. There’s the sleek black of a TIE fighter, the grey of an Alliance shuttle.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly the prettiest ship around,” Dameron says, coming to a halt a few feet ahead of him. “But it’ll get you were you need to be.”

He turns when Hux reaches him. “You can figure out how to fly this, right? I gotta get back. I’m supposed to be boarding your little doomsday device.”

Hux probably should have known Dameron would be involved – why wouldn’t he be? In something this big, General Organa probably couldn’t do without him but he can’t help the cold ebb of fear that starts to crawl down his spine. If something goes wrong – he wants to say but Dameron knows. Dameron’s always known. And signed up for this anyway.

He should say something probably but Dameron beats him to it, nudges Hux’s arm with his. “Maybe we should just leave. How far d’you reckon we could get before the galaxy gets swallowed up?”

“You wouldn’t,” Hux says.

“Yeah,” Dameron agrees. “But, you know, it’s a thought. You’re absolutely no fun.” He breaks off, looks down at the ground. “You’re not planning on coming back are you?” he asks, eyes downcast. “Leia – General Organa says you think this is a one way mission.”

And what can Hux say to that? He swallows, tightens his jaw, waits for Dameron to look up at him.

Dameron sighs when he does so, nods his head a little, turns his gaze skywards. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, okay.”

Dameron reaches up and kisses him then. It’s slower than in the shuttle - gentle, careful and Hux can feel himself shaking slightly as he kisses back, tries to press all the words he’s thought about saying and doesn’t really have any idea how to into Dameron’s mouth. Dameron’s hand slide down his arms to curl around one of his and press something into his palm.

He pulls away and Hux looks down, uncurls his fingers and stares at the little object Dameron left for him.

“I can’t take this,” he says.

He looks up to find Dameron already walking back to the shuttle, he turns, walks a few steps backwards while he says, “I’m not asking.” And he’s smiling faintly. “And I’m gonna need it back, so.”

Hux holds his gaze. “You know who I am, Dameron. You know what I’ve done.”

Dameron nods. “Yeah. It’s kind of hard to miss, actually.”

Hux swallows, can’t quite find the words for what he wants to say next, what he wants to ask. Dameron understands anyway, drops his gaze briefly, blinking hard. “Yeah. I know,” he says. “But I – Just keep it, Hux, alright? Please.”

Hux looks down, curls his fingers around the ring.

When he looks up, Dameron has started walking again, his flight suit bright against the inky twilight. The metal is cool against his palm. He cannot wear this onto the Absolution, he cannot risk anyone seeing it but he lifts it by the fraying leather chord Dameron keeps it on and slips it around his neck.

It hangs heavy.

He turns, makes his way over to the ship. He thinks, as he lays his hand on the door, that he could just as easily leave. He could flee, tuck himself away in some dark corner of the galaxy and trust the Resistance are too otherwise occupied to track him down. Ren would go on believing him dead.

But what would be the point? He has had enough of cowering, of skulking in the shadows waiting for his turn, his opportunity. Better to end it here. Better to end it quickly.

He pulls open the ship’s door and steps into the cockpit.

Chapter Text

He thinks he should probably find it more difficult to slip back into his old skin, to roll his shoulders, crick his neck and settle into the pilot’s seat. To pack away all the things Dameron and the girl and General Organa have pulled to the surface and shut them up tightly under lock and key, stow them somewhere dark and unknown.

In their absence there is only the slow simmering rage, the burn of determination. It feels good. It feels easier. It feels right.

He hails the Absolution as soon as he is in range, first uses a frequency reserved only for himself. He is faintly surprised when it is answered, thinks it is probably due laxness over hope of his survival that it remains active. The holo-screen on his mangled craft is cracked and dingy, it takes a few taps for the image to flicker on at all.

His transmission is received by a young cadet who blinks openly at his appearance, mouth going slack for a moment. “General Hux, sir!” she squeals. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Hux sighs. Since Phasma, the standards amongst recruits has been slipping. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, sir! No,” she says, hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to – ”

“Just put me through to the ranking officer, Cadet,” Hux snaps, winces as the cadet squeaks her assent. The screen flickers out for a moment and Hux concentrates on the pain in his leg to push away the niggling fears about Ren’s meddling. If anyone but Yersin answers, this could all be over –

Major Yersin’s face flickers onto the screen. “Armitage,” he greets, looking faintly surprised. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“So I’ve heard,” Hux grumbles.

Yersin is quiet, studying Hux closely.

Hux rolls his eyes. “Looking for the label that says this is a Resistance decoy?”

Yersin’s smile is humourless. “You have been gone a long while.”

Hux’s smile is all sharp edges. “You think so little of me?”

“Not at all,” Yersin says. “Only…”

And Hux sighs. “If you’re going to test me, Major, please do so quickly.”

“When we were children,” Yersin starts and it’s an interesting choice. They have call and response codes, signs and countersigns, but Yersin has gone straight to something vaguely personal. “What did you say to me the first day we met?”

“Nothing,” Hux says swiftly. “In fact, as I recall, we did not speak for at least a month.”

“You mean you did not speak,” Yersin says lightly. He looks almost relieved, then. Stars, if Thaig Yersin looks honestly relieved to see him things must be truly dire.

“Yes, Major. However you wish to spin it. Now are you going to let me aboard or do I have to return later for your head?”

“I’ll have the hangar doors open for you, sir.” Yersin says.

Hux smiles again. “Thank you, Major. Oh,” he adds, before Yersin signs off. “And I think it might be best to keep this between ourselves for the time being, Major. Wouldn’t you agree?”

There is a moment then when he thinks Yersin might falter, when he thinks he has perhaps misjudged, made a mistake but then Yersin nods tightly. “As you say, General.”

Hux breathes out.

-

He feels calm as he glides into the Absolution and brings his little vessel in to land. The hanger is empty, notably so. Either Yersin is truly willing to keep things from Ren or he means to have Hux executed quickly and quietly to earn Ren’s trust or perhaps because he has already earnt it. 

He has not been able to bring himself to take Dameron’s ring from where it hangs. It’s a mistake, he knows, but it is cool against his skin, a reminder. Something to hold him steady.

Yersin meets him, two troopers standing at attention at his back. “Nice ship,” he says, casting his gaze about it.

Hux fixes him with a glare, makes his meagre outfit as straight and presentable as possible. “And yet, it still looks better than yours. Tell me, Major, have you not been afforded enough funds and resources to make this ship even remotely presentable?”

The corner of Yersin’s mouth quirks upwards. “It’s truly strange to say I’ve missed you, Armitage. I hope the Order will be far better for it,” he leans forwards, claps Hux on the shoulder. He is a little too strong or perhaps Hux is still weak, either way he stumbles a little, hisses as his leg is jostled.

Yersin frowns. “You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing,” Hux grumbles. “Though perhaps you might fill me in on all I’ve missed on the way to the medical bay.”

“Of course,” Yersin says.

Hux lets him lead the way. He sets a slow pace, tells Hux that most knew – or at least suspected – Ren had a hand in Hux’s disappearance, in his convenient death, how his actions have only grown more erratic, that there was talk of a coup until Ren put a stop to it. He hesitates before telling Hux of Sloane, follows it up by sighing heavily and saying, “I’m sorry, Armitage, I know she was – ”

Hux stops. They have almost reached the medical bay. “Yes, well that hardly matters now,” he snaps. He keeps his voice low, low enough to only be shared with Yersin. “This has gone on long enough. We should never have allowed the Order to fall in to Ren’s childish hands. I should have taken my shot at him on the Supremacy.”

Yersin frowns at him, then glances at the troopers trailing behind them. “I quite agree, General,” he says, in a voice equally as quiet. “But what are we to do?”

Hux sets his jaw and walks on. Yersin follows him into the medical bay, dismisses the troopers with a nod. It must be the night cycle; the bay is operated only by droids. Under the harsh lights, surrounded by the comforting hum of the ships, Hux becomes painfully aware of how quickly time is slipping by. How long has it been since he proposed this to the Resistance? How long since he left?

“You should sit,” Yersin says and Hux does, lifting himself onto an examination table so one of the medi-droids can scan him. He curls his fingers around the cool edge of the table. Yersin lingers, looking more than a little uncertain.

“After Ren executed the Grand Admiral,” Hux starts. “What was the sentiment amongst the leadership?”

Yersin grimaces. After eyeing the droids he turns from Hux slightly so that Hux has difficulty making out the undercurrent to his words. “After that, there were not many sentiments shared. You know how the Order works, Armitage. Everything of importance is concocted and conducting in shadow. There may be plots, alliances but if there are, I am not privy to them.”

Hux nods absently. He has found himself thinking against everything of Captain Cardinal, so noble in his intentions, true in his beliefs. So blind to the darker side of the Order, to the scheming, the underhandedness. Perhaps then, they were always doomed to fail, regardless of Snoke, of Ren. After all, what stability and Order can be built on such foundations?

“What I can say,” Yersin continues. “Is that Supreme Leader Ren made himself no shortage of enemies that day. Resentments were already growing and though there were many who disagreed with the Grand Admiral’s vision she represented the Order’s origins. Even Snoke knew better than to move against her.”

“And now?” Hux asks.

“Now Ren threatens Coruscant with your singularity gun. He has already used it on several less important planets and demands Coruscant bends willingly or be destroyed.” The contempt is evident in Yersin’s voice and Hux takes that as his cue to glance up, exhale angrily.

“Coruscant was once the seat of the Empire and shall be again,” he says, hotly.

“Yes,” Yersin says. “Unless Supreme Leader Ren destroys it.”

Hux shakes his head. “He will destroy us all, Major. He will drive the Order to ruin.”

Yersin is quiet then, has turned back to him more fully. There is still a chance, Hux thinks, that this is all a clever rouse, that Yersin has asked some covert droid to record all that is being sent and has every intention of handing him over to Ren in return for more power, for a better ship, a better position. But Hux hopes, Hux hopes.

“If someone were to make a stand against Ren do you think others would follow?” he asks.

Yersin does not respond right away and there is turmoil in his dark eyes. He looks Hux over, slower this time and Hux tries to hold himself as steady and upright as possible. He can guess the several strands of thought running parallel in Yersin’s mind. That he is unwell, traumatised, raw from his recent brush with death, that he has probably not slept well or eaten decently in weeks and it is affecting him. That he has been sent by someone to bring their downfall. That this, possibly, will all end poorly for the both of them.

“I think you had better tell me exactly what it is that happened to you, Armitage.” Yersin says.

Hux sneers at him. “Still don’t believe I wasn’t sent here by the Resistance?”

“No, I don’t think that,” Yersin says and Hux believes him. “But I do think this might not be coming from the right place.”

Hux lets the words hit, absorbs them slowly. He lets his sneer burn off into a scowl. “And what place is that, Major?” He snaps. “The place where our Supreme Leader sent myself and a handful of our best and brightest off to die because we disagreed with him? The place where he destroyed the founder of our Order because she didn’t like him? Or the place where he now stands ready to destroy everything we have worked for, everything we have fought for, everything we have been raised to believe?”

Yersin swallows thickly. He still looks unsure but after casting one last heavy look at Hux he says, “I suppose you have a plan?”

Hux smiles. “The beginnings of one, Major.”

And now Yersin smiles. “Admiral,” he says, with no trace of uncertainty left in his gaze. “I think Admiral would be a better fit, don’t you?”

-

Once the medi-droids are finished with him, they bring Hux a freshly laundered uniform. He dresses slowly, slides the smooth black shirt on and buttons it over Dameron’s ring, laces a new pair of boots up with deft precision, affixes his General’s arm band and glances at himself in the mirror of the small changing room. He looks almost as he had done that last day on the shuttle. A little gaunter, a little paler, his hair a little longer but hardly noticeable once he had slicked it back.

It is eerie. Unsettling.

You look so like your father, Snoke had said once. Let us hope you that is not all you share.

Hux swallows hard. Pushes all thoughts away and strides from the medbay to the bridge. He does not know what Yersin has told his crew, if he has made some sort of ship-wide announcement or is keeping Hux’s secret on a need to know basis but when he enters he is met by the crew standing, saluting.

“General,” Yersin greets wearing self-confident smirk. “You look a lot more at ease.”

Truly, Hux has not felt more at ease since long before the shuttle crash. He returns Yersin’s smile, strides out to stand beside him. “Thank you, Major.”

“The bridge-crew have been informed of our intentions,” Yersin says. “They will follow. We await your orders, General.”

“Excellent,” Hux smiles. “Today, we reclaim our Order.” He turns to the comms officer, ensures he looks towards Yersin for assent before he gives his command. “Open a direct line with the Finalizer.”

The comms officer glances towards Yersin too before she bows her head and complies. Yersin lays a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asks. “All that will do is provoke him. I would advise caution,” his voice is low, intended only for Hux.

“We don’t have time for caution,” Hux reminds him. “Ren must be stopped.”

Yersin removes his hand slowly. There is perhaps regret in his eyes, perhaps the realisation that he has bitten off more than he can chew and Hux knows with sudden clarity that Yersin will put through the back of his head before this is over. If Hux oversteps. When all is said and done and the Finalizer is in ruins. He thinks Hux is unstable but he is not above using Hux to further his own ambitions.

It is followed by another realisation: everyone on the bridge, onboard the Absolution will probably die today.

“General, the Finalizer,” the comms officer says and whatever reservations Yersin might have vanish from his expression as they turn to greet Kylo Ren.

“Major Yersin this had better be a matter of grave importance,” Ren opens with. He looks awful, worn, exhausted. Having met his mother Hux wonders now how he ever found the boy frightening in the least.

“Hello, Supreme Leader,” Hux says and Ren’s eyes go wide. For a fraction there is the panic Hux had expected, had hoped for but then something else takes hold, something terrifyingly calm and Hux thinks there is a chance that Ren has only ever wanted this to end too.

“General Hux,” Ren says. “You’re looking well.”

“Better than you, I fear. I hear things haven’t been going so well in your new position.”

Something dark and angry flits across Ren’s gaze and he smiles slowly. “That’s almost treasonous, General.”

Hux feels the Force ripple over him, fingers just brushing his throat, gusting through him. A calculated threat. Hux doesn’t flinch. “No, Ren. Treason was what you did to the Supreme Leader.”

“I did nothing but serve,” Ren snaps hotly.

“Yes,” Hux says. “And an untrained scavenger girl managed to best both you and the entire guard and cut Snoke down.”

On the bridge, there is silence. Hux knows he is not the only within the Order who suspects.

Ren has reigned his anger in now, the Force presses closer, tightens around his throat. Ren increases the pressure in increments as he speaks, “A lofty accusation, General. One founded on what, I wonder, and supported by whom?”

Hux feels himself being lifted, a vice-like grip about his throat.

Major Yersin steps forward. “By all on this ship and more besides.” He says and his voice doesn’t falter.

Ren drops him. Laughs. “Is that so?”

As he rights himself, Hux presses the little device hidden in his dagger. The message goes out.

“I wonder what it is that has given rise to your sudden change of heart, General,” Ren says. “Strange that it comes after a long absence.”

“What are you implying?”

“I think you know very well what I imply, General,” Ren hisses. “And we are all aware that you will do just about anything to further your own goal.”

“And yet it is not I that has inspired such ill-confidence I am forced to destroy large swathes of the Order by the ship-full.” He stands shoulder to shoulder with Major Yersin, head held high. A traitor. A traitor leading a ship full of good men and women to their death for the cause, for the Order, for the stupid ring around his throat, heavy as a collar, as a chain. “What will you do, Ren? Do you truly think no one else will join us in opposing you?”

Ren sneers, fuming. “You death will not be swift,” he promises before the screen flickers to black.

“Sir,” someone calls. “The Finalizer is on the move.”

Hux closes his eyes.

“So he comes here then,” Yersin says, his voice a jumble of adrenaline and fear. “Does he bring the gun?”

“Not sure, sir,” someone else answers.

“Then find out,” Hux barks. “If he has, we stay close to the Finalizer. He won’t risk destroying himself along with us.”

“You hope,” Yersin says.

Hux tightens his jaw. “Either way, we do this for the Order.” He turns to the comms officer. “Open the comms to all ships in the fleet.”

He takes a breath before he speaks, pulls together every last scrap of everything within him, everything he has ever held true, has ever believed in, all the hatred, the anger, the rage. He may have come here to die but if nothing else, he will ensure the Order is free from Ren.

“This is General Armitage Hux, formerly of the Finalizer, currently of the Absolution,” he starts.

“It may have come to your attention that currently the Supreme Leader and the Finalizer move against us. Against me. That is because we stand against him. When our forbearers were driven into exile by the so-called New Republic, they had in their minds a vision for the galaxy. A vision that would put an end to chaos, to crime, to corruption, that would stamp out the weakness of the Republic. A vision built on the strengths of the Empire, that would surpass it’s failings, that would avoid the mistakes that led to it’s downfall and build a system free of the chaos of the rebellion, free of the uncaring gluttony of the Republic.

“This is the vision that was held by my father, by Grand Admiral Sloane, by myself and by many of you. This is the vision that we have worked for, that we have toiled for, that we have fought and bled and, in some cases, laid down our lives for and I would see it through to fruition. I would stand against this child, this product of the New Republic, this representation of all of their failings who does not fight for us, who does not share our vision. Who would drive our Order to destruction out of his infantile need for revenge against those he feels have wronged him.

“We have all seen how he operates. We have all seen his flaws, his weaknesses. We have all seen the means by which he seeks to bend our Order to his will, to shape our vision into one better befitting his own. I have seen. Grand Admiral Sloane has seen. Some would even say, Supreme Leader Snoke had seen. And I say: no more.

“We have allowed this child to hold sway over us too long. We have allowed the weakness that is Kylo Ren – that is Ben Solo - to poison our Order for too long. We have allowed him to sully our cause, to deplete our resources through his petty agenda too long. Today we must reclaim it, today we must sever him from us as we would do a gangrenous limb and I would ask that you stand with me. That you stand with us. That you would uphold the vision our leaders once had for us before these Force users infected us with their corruption. That you stand today for the beliefs of the Order, the beliefs we all hold true, that we know to be correct. That you fight for them. That you help us reclaim our Order and restore it to everything it once was, everything it should be. That you further our goal and retake those steps necessary for us to take our rightful position as the most powerful, the ruling organisation within the galaxy.”

The nods for the comms to be cut off. The silence that follows is deafening.

Yersin sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir, the Finalizer has arrived,” someone says. “The Singularity too.”

Yersin’s grip tightens. “To war, then.” He says.

Hux’s nod is tight.

Chapter Text

All night I streched my arms across

him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing

with all my skin and bone ''Please keep him safe.

Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be

like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed

to pieces.'' Makes a cathedral, him pressing against

me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe

his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.

-

The day Poe dragged himself back to the Resistance, Hux in tow and about an inch thick of grime on his skin, Leia told him to call his dad. After she’d sent him to medbay of course, while he was still trying to get her to debrief him. She’d sat by his bed and pursed her lips, patted him on the cheek and said, “Anyway, Captain Dameron, you’re grounded for the meantime so our current status won’t be of any use to you. Now, if you’re insistent on not resting you could at least do us all a favour and call your father, tell him you’re not dead.”

He hasn’t seen his father since before they destroyed the Hosnian system, hadn’t even thought of him until that moment, too caught up in finding Luke Skywalker and Kylo Ren shoving his way into his mind and Finn pulling him out of hell. And it wasn’t because he didn’t care it was because his father had always been there as this steady presence, this calm and understanding constant. To think it might ever be otherwise was, well. He knows it’s childish, knows that after his mother he should understand better, should understand how fleeting everything is, how quickly things can change but –

He called after Crait when he couldn’t stop shaking. He hasn’t called since.

Oh, he’s thought about it. Thought about it over and over and over as he sat in his bunk on the base worrying about a man he would have happily put to death a handful of weeks ago. He’s rehearsed what he’d say, how he’d say it but he’s never managed to go through with it.

Hey, dad! Yeah, I know, I’m not dead. Great, right? Well, listen, listen, here’s the thing; I was stranded with this First Order General – yeah, the one that blew up an entire system, that one. But he’s got really pretty hair –

Or later: I stopped them from torturing him for information. I might have really fucked up.

And now: I kind of gave him mom’s ring. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t come back.

He’s ended up in a TIE fighter, the weapon long gone, long disabled. Connix is in his ear, relaying First Order ship movements but he’s only half listening. They followed the Finalizer in to chaos, dropped out of warp in the middle of a dogfight, TIE fighters scrambled, the Finalizer and the Absolution firing upon each other. “When he promised a distraction…” Poe had said. Hux, you moron, Poe had thought.

He has a tracking device around his neck where his mother’s ring usually sits. A fail safe.

Their mission is complete, he’s set the charges on the weapon, sent Rose and the rest of his small boarding party back to the base. Finn and Rey are still aboard the Finalizer. “I’m not leaving them, General,” he says to Leia, over the comms.

The General doesn’t argue and he can picture her there, waiting in their war room, watching the First Order fall apart in front of them. It’s what they need. It’s all they need. All she needs. However this plays out, in a few hours this will be broadcast as a victory for the Resistance, a rallying cry for the galaxy to rise up, push the Order back and stamp them out once and for all.

Behind him, BB8 whistles. Tells him to pay attention, that they’re not on some leisurely cruise.

“Sorry, buddy,” Poe says, swings them under a TIE fighter going down then back around to fire on the two on their tail.

“More coming, Captain,” Connix says. “The Conqueror has just gone to hyperspace.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Poe says. “Any idea who they’re coming to support?”

“None, Captain,” Connix answers. “Could be they’re just going to hang around and see who comes out on top.”

“Sounds about right,” Poe says. “Finn, Rey, you need to set your charges and get out of there, there’s another destroyer on the way.”

Finn’s reply is instantaneous. “We’ve set them, Poe but Rey’s gone – she’s gone for Kylo Ren.”

Poe closes his eyes. “You hear that, General?”

“I heard,” Leia says and Poe doesn’t have the time to unpick the undercurrents in her tones. “Don’t do anything stupid, Captain. I’ll see about getting you some back up.”

He steers towards the Finalizer but it’s locked down tight and as he gets closer two fighters are scrambled, chase him until he can shake them off. “Rey, Rey,” he says as he does so. “Rey, come on, Rey, don’t do this.”

“If I can save him I’m going to,” Rey replies. “Whether he likes it or not.”

“Captain, the Conqueror has arrived,” Connix says.

Left, BB8 bleeps. Left!

Poe closes his eyes a moment. Just a moment.

There’s a small transmitter on the tracking device he wears. The sound is tinny, keeps cutting out. He should be grateful it works at all given how small the receiver had to be.

Sirs, someone is saying. That last blast took out half our engines, if we don’t jump away right now we’ll – we won’t be able to –

Say what you mean, Lieutenant. And that’s Hux. Brisk, calm, as though his ship doesn’t currently have three gaping holes in it.

The damage is too great, sir. We –

We’re going down, Hux finishes.

Unless we go to hyperspace. It’s slim but there’s a chance if we manage to make repairs –

And where would you suggest we make repairs, Lieutenant?

BB8’s beeps become insistent. Poe opens his eyes, weaves around the fighters firing on them, takes them down.

Do you not see the Conqueror there? Even if the Finalizer is too damaged to give chase, the Conqueror will.

They might support our cause, General, another voice, the Major. You did give that pretty speech earlier.

That’s not a risk we can afford to take with the Finalizer still operational, Hux says grimly.

Then what do you – The Major begins but he falters. Armitage, no.

If you have to leave, Major, then leave. Take your crew, man the escape pods, hope the Conqueror has been swayed by my pretty speech. I will not run. Not while Kylo Ren still has a hold over the Order.

There’s silence then and Poe thinks for a moment the transmitter has cut out again or failed but the Major’s voice comes again, lower this time, urgent. You don’t have to stay.

Someone has to pilot the ship, Hux says back. To ensure it remains on course. A pause and then, Now go, Major. That is an order.

The transmitter cuts out with a soft hiss.

Poe shoots down another three fighters.

“The Absolution is going down,” he says. “They’re piloting it into the Finalizer.”

“Then why are you heading towards it, Captain?” Connix asks.

“Finn and Rey are still onboard, if I can slow down the Absolution it’ll give them more of a chance of getting out. I have to try.”

“Godspeed, Captain,” Connix says.

-

At some point, someone on the Finalizer must figure out Hux’s plan because they start up with a barrage of canon fire, trying to blow the Absolution to pieces. It makes it easier at least for Poe to find a way in, to find a place to moor his TIE fighter and an airlock to punch Hux’s override key into. Inside, smoke hangs thick in the air. Sirens blare. A pre-recorded announcement loops advising all on board to evacuate unless otherwise instructed.

“I’m on the Absolution,” he says over the comms to the Finn and Rey. “I’m going to try and buy you guys some time.”

But there’s no response, hasn’t been for a while and he lets out a snarl of frustration. “Stay here,” he says, to BB8 even though he knows the droid won’t listen.

“Be careful, Poe,” Connix says but her voice is faint, the comms are crackling, fizzing out.

Another blast strikes the ship, throws him off balance.

Careful, BB8 warns.

Poe stands, pulls out the tracking device and follows it to the bridge.

The doors are locked tight. An alert tells him the bridge is damaged, the hull breached. An artificial airlock has been deployed but it will not last.

He could be dead already.

“Connix,” he says, as BB8 sets about hacking the door. “I’m at the bridge. Anything from the Finalizer?”

The comms crackle. He gets no reply.

“Dammit.”

The doors hiss open. Ten minutes, he’s told until the hull fails and the bridge will become inhospitable.

He thinks about Leia drifting out there in the endless black, ice spreading across her skin.

He tries the comms again. “Finn, Rey, I’m on the Absolution. I hope one of you can hear me. It’s headed straight for you, I’m gonna try and slow it down, alright?”

Still nothing.

He presses on, steps out into the mess of bent metal and fraying connections that is the bridge of the Absolution. He already knows it would be useless to try and stay its course. If the navigation systems are in any way functional he’s pretty sure he’d get a nasty shock for trying to use them.

The Absolution is going to crash into the Finalizer. Both ships will be destroyed until the Finalizer jumps.

“Find him quickly, BB8,” he says.

-

Hux laughs when Poe finds him, crumpled under some fallen debris. There’s blood in his mouth and soot in his hair again and a wet sound when he breathes but he’s alive. He’s alive.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Poe says.

Hux’s eyes flutter. “You were supposed to let me die.”

“Nah. I told you I’d be needing my ring back.”

Hux sighs. “You put a tracker in it.”

Poe manages a smile. “’Course. Now you gonna help me out here or do we both have to die on your little suicide mission?”

And Hux looks at him a moment before he raises his arms to shove weakly at the debris piled upon him.

Hux leans heavily against him when he’s up, has no qualms about it anymore, head lolling against Poe’s shoulder. “BB8, guide us out of here!” he shouts.

The doors to the bridge slide shut behind them. The smoke burns at his eyes, makes him squint.

“Stay with me, Hux,” he says, as they walk, as they stumble.

-

The way to his TIE fighter is blocked.

They have to try the hangar.

It is miraculously, not completely destroyed. Poe loads Hux and BB8 into a shuttle, flies them clear.

Hux doesn’t shake off Poe’s grip when he takes one of his hands. “Don’t you die,” he says and they’re watching the Absolution crash into the Finalizer, metal bending, glass shattering, a bright flash.

Poe closes his eyes. He thinks Hux squeezes his hand.

“Connix,” Poe says. “We’re clear. Please tell me you’ve got Rey and Finn.”

The comms hiss.

Poe opens his eyes to see their X-Wings arrive above the destroyers to take care of the remaining fighters.

“Connix, come on,” he says.

“Dameron – ” Hux starts and Poe’s mother’s ring sits atop the rumpled First Order shirt he’s wearing, black with soot.

“Connix,” Poe says into the comms. “General, come on, anyone, please.”

The Finalizer and the Absolution are coming apart. Great shards of dark metal and cool white and steel drifting out across the stars.

The comms fizzle to life. “I’ve got you, Captain. Sorry about that. We took some fire, comms were out for a bit there. Finn and Rey made it off the Finalizer. We’re all accounted for.”

Poe feels suddenly boneless, sucks in a great trembling breath.

“General Organa wants you to report back to base, Captain.”

“Yeah,” Poe says and he can’t really believe it, can’t stop the laugh the bubbles up in his chest. They’re all here. They’re all accounted for.

This could be it.

They might have won.

“On my way.”

Chapter Text

The corridors of the old senate building on Coruscant weren’t really the place Poe had imagined seeing out the last few days of the war. There were still battles to be led, to be fought, to be won and Poe had done his fair share of that and would do more but for now, Leia wanted him here and as much as it made Poe skin crawl to stand around here, surrounded by plush carpets and expensive artwork and twiddle his thumbs, if Leia wanted him here he would be here.

It’s been redecorated since the days of the Empire, softer now, not dominated by harsh blacks and shiny chrome. They aren’t meeting in the Grand Senate Rotunda, but a small council chamber.

“Try not to fidget so much, Commander,” Leia scolds, voice low and fond. “I know you’re just impatient but to anyone else you look nervous.”

Poe huffs, folds his arms tightly across his chest. “I am impatient. We should be out there doing something. Not waiting around for a bunch of politicians to give us the go ahead.”

The Core Worlds have sent emissaries, representatives. They’ll be forming a new senate, he supposes and yes, he always knew this was coming but he didn’t think it would be this soon. He didn’t think they’d start rebuilding the Republic before the war was even won and he certainly didn’t think he’d be involved. Maybe that was naïve of him but he’s never been a politician. He’s always been a pilot. Just a pilot. Before all this he just followed orders, went where the Republic told him to, did this, did that. Never really thought all that much about it until seeing the Order’s danger first hand.

After the destruction of the Hosnian system, the Core Worlds split, tensions high. Focussed their efforts on defending their own borders or hammering out their own deals with Order. Poe wants to hate them for it but he finds he can’t. He has his troops to command now, the base, their base. Things are shifting, changing. Nothing feels solely black and white anymore.

Leia’s smile is warm. “Unfortunately, Poe, this the way the galaxy works.”

Poe scuffs his boots against the carpets. “It wasn’t when you started the Resistance and if you hadn’t done that we’d probably all be dead.”

Leia can’t hide the pride in her expression. “Well, yes. I’m hoping these new Councillors see it that way, as well.”

She looks about to say something further but the heavy wood doors they’re hovering outside of suddenly open and a Coruscant aide leans out. “They’re ready for you now, General, Commander.”

Leia smiles and thanks them, grasps Poe by the shoulder before they step in. “I hope you have readied yourself, Commander,” she says. “You might think combat is frightening but it has nothing on politics. Trust me.”

-

The First Order’s forces are fractured, thrown into chaos. So far, they’ve had a few willing surrenders but by and large the Order is still dangerous. There are two main factions now;

One, under the new Trooper Captain who has taken the stance that if the Order must go down they will take as much of the former Republic with them as possible. They undertake raids on border planets, take resources, weapons, children. Their tactic is chaos, destruction. Suicide runs and kamikaze attacks.

The second is under a small group of the old First Order elite. They have gone to ground, biding their time.

The new Council questions them on all they know about the two, discusses strategies. Everyone is agreed that while faction two is a threat, they must deal with faction one first, as a priority. They leave with the promise of troops and resources, with the promise of equipment and medics. The Council will reconvene in a few more days to discuss matters further, to discuss what must be done with faction two.

All throughout, Poe can feel the tension in the room, the Councillors bristling at one another, at General Organa and she’s right, he thinks, combat has nothing on this. In combat at least you have a pretty go idea of who your enemy is, of what they’re about to do to you. In here, surrounded by neatly dressed politicians with their clean hands and polished smiles, he has no idea which direction the knife will be coming from.

“That went better than I had hoped,” Leia says quietly as traipse down the steps outside of the building and towards their shuttle.

Poe frowns at her. “You didn’t think they’d be willing to help?”

“No, I knew they’d help,” Leia says and she’s frowning slightly too, looking troubled, deep in thought. “I just didn’t think it would go over so easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Commander, that in politics it’s very rare to be given something without first promising something in return.” Leia answers. She speeds up her pace, nodding to the handful of guards stationed about their shuttle.

“I mean, we’re going to save the galaxy for them,” Poe points out. “That’s a pretty big give.”

“Yes,” Leia agrees. “But they are allowing us to save the galaxy for them, Commander. Don’t you think that’s strange? Wouldn’t they want to install their own command? Share in some of the glory?”

And Poe pauses, considering.

Leia smiles at him, reaches up to pat him on the cheek. “You see? That’s how politicians think, Commander. Don’t go thinking there’s any honour in this.”

As they’re about to board the aide from earlier runs up to them, calling after them. She’s young, pale, hair dyed a soft grey-blue and falling about her face. “General Organa,” she calls and Leia pauses on the boarding ramp of the shuttle to turn back to her.

“Nila, isn’t it?” she asks, smiling kindly.

Poe hadn’t even thought to ask the aide’s name, can’t remember being given it.

The aide’s cheeks are flushed slightly when she reaches them, whether from running down the senate steps or meeting the famed General Organa, he has no idea. “Yes, General,” she says and inclines her head in small hurried bow rather awkwardly. “I wanted to ask – ” she starts but then breaks off and ducks her head. “Only, there’s rumours about how you and the Resistance got aboard the Finalizer during the final battle to disable the weapon.”

“Rumours?” Leia repeats calmly. Poe’s chest starts to constrict.

The aide nods, bites her bottom lip. “Some of the Councillors – ” she breaks off again but this time, raises her head to meet General Organa’s gaze. “It’s well known that Kylo Ren, former Supreme Leader, was recovered alive from the Finalizer but there are rumours that even before then there were high ranking Order officials on your side.” She glances at Poe, licks her lips before saying, “One in particular, General.”

Something in Leia’s body language starts to shift, starts to close off. Gone is the openness and warmth, in it’s place is something cold and stiff and foreboding. The aide trembles. “I see,” Leia says.

“I only – ” The aide squeaks. “That is to say, I only mean –“ she swallow, steadies herself. “I only mean to say, General, that I and many like myself, do not care how you won the war. The Order had to be stopped and no one else was doing a thing but there are those who want to use these rumours against you, General. Who will use these rumours against you.”

Leia seems to relax a fraction.

“I’m sorry, General Organa,” the aide says. “Only, I thought you should know before you return.”

Leia smiles at her warmly. “Don’t apologise, Nila. I’m glad you told me.” She touches the aide on the shoulder gently.

The aide smiles, cheeks flushing all over again. “Thank you, General. I – I hope it helps.”

“It does,” Leia assures her. “It does. Take care of yourself, Nila. And keep an eye on things here for me, would you?”

Once they’re safely on board and Poe has settled into the pilot’s chair with Leia beside him he looks across at her. “So you wanna tell me what any of that means?”

“It means that there are probably people on the Council who hope our involvement in the way the galaxy is run after this ends when the First Order officially surrenders.”

“But why?” Poe asks. “That makes no sense. We won the war. You started the Resistance while they ran and hid.”

“Exactly.” Leia says. “And how will that make them look to their people when this is all over? But if they can make us look bad…”

“It’ll be a more even playing field,” Poe finishes. He rubs at his eyes as they enter hyperspace. His head is starting to hurt. “You’re right, General. Give me a full-scale battle, any day.”

-

The sun’s getting low when they get back to base and the hangar is full, fuller than Poe’s seen it since their base on D’Qar. Even before today they’d had an influx of new recruits, fighters from various Core World defence forces, veterans from the Rebellion, fighters from planets formerly under First Order control free at long last. He’s glad for it but he still can’t help the bitter tang that rises in his throat when he thinks – if we had half of this on Crait –

“Get some rest, Poe,” Leia tells him with a gentle touch to his shoulder when they disembark. “I have a feeling it’ll be an early start tomorrow. I’ll go brief Connix and the rest on the new arrivals to expect.”

Poe smiles, promises he will but when she’s stepped out in the direction of the war room Poe doesn’t turn towards the bunks or the mess hall, he heads to the medbay instead.

Doc Kalonia is in Hux’s room when he gets there, eyes him with the sort of weary fondness everyone seems to wear with Poe these days. She’s never asked why he spends so much time in Hux’s room but Poe suspects she knows. Most people in the medbay know and because of that, most people on the base probably know but so far, no one’s taken him to task for it. No one has demanded an explanation for why Commander Poe Dameron, hero of the Resistance and General Leia Organa’s right hand man spends so much time with Armitage Hux, former General of the First Order, of Starkiller base, who destroyed an entire system and feels not one shred of guilt.

Maybe they know the answer already. Maybe they suspect. Maybe they honestly don’t care. Either way, Poe’s glad there’s this seemingly silent agreement not to raise it with him. It won’t last, however and he knows that.

“There’s been no change,” Kalonia says, looking back to her data-pad. “But he’s fine. Still stable, still healing.” The former First Order medi-droid she’s snagged beeps that it’s finished it’s scans and she glances up at the results, smiles absently.

“Shouldn’t be too long now,” she says and steps towards the door. She pauses before she leaves though, fixes him with a stern look. “And if I or any of my medics catch you rocking back in your chair again Commander or no I will have you banned.”

Poe raises his hand in a mock-salute, beams his best and brightest smile and says, “You know me, Doc.  I would never disobey a direct order. Especially not from someone I respect as much as you.”

Kalonia sighs at him and leaves.

Poe gives it precisely five minutes before he puts his feet up against the side of Hux’s bed and pushes his chair back onto two legs. “So, today was fun,” he says, conversationally.

Hux doesn’t respond, Poe’s not expecting him to. He’s been put into a medically induced coma since the Absolution, since he had half of the bridge ceiling dropped on him. But he’ll be fine, there’s no lasting damage. Kalonia had announced that much to the war room that first day, careful to direct her words to General Organa while Poe gripped the edge of the holo-displayer. She’d only looked at Poe afterwards, when she’d finished.

In retrospect, she probably could have directed the whole thing towards him and no one would have blinked. By that point, he’d already risked his life to drag Hux off the ship. It certainly hadn’t been part of the plan to rescue him. He’d told them he couldn’t just leave him to die and he was on the Absolution anyway, trying to buy time for Rey and Finn.

He doesn’t know if any of them found it odd. Probably not, though.

“I don’t think I’m a fan of politics,” he continues. “If Leia’s under the impression I’ll be some sort of political aide or whatever when this all over she’s got another thing coming.”

Maybe he’ll just go home if that’s the plan, if he can’t join whatever defence force they put together after this. Maybe he’ll teach kids on Yavin how to fly. His dad’d like that, he thinks. If he came home.

Poe called him the first free moment he got after the Finalizer went down. It was day or so after, Poe was dizzy and shaking from lack of sleep, hadn’t been able to get many words out then but he’s called a lot since then. His dad keeps saying how proud his mother would be.

Hux still has her ring around his neck. Kalonia hasn’t mentioned it.

He rocks himself back and forth, drums his fingers on his knees. “I think some of the Councillors know about you though. We haven’t announced it or anything and Leia thinks they might use it against us, or something.” He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t get politics. I really don’t. We’ve just fought a war and they’re already thinking about ways to divide us all again. I bet you’d love it all though. All that cloak and dagger, smile while I’m actively stabbing you in the chest kind of thing.”

He sighs, lets his chair fall gently back onto four legs.

“You know, I spend an awful lot of time waiting around for you to wake up, Hux. It makes this whole thing feel very one-sided. Would it kill you to put some effort in?”

As expected, Hux says nothing.

-

The sun is still when he leaves the medbay, flooding their base with warm orange light that still makes Poe think of that cave, of Hux’s stupid hair. He’s angry in this distant, absent way. Angry with himself, angry with Hux. It’s not fair that he feels this for that man. That man who killed so many. That man who saved his life. That man who ended the war.

He stops by the canteen to grab some food to take back to his room. Finn is there with Rose and a few other members of Poe’s squadron. They ask Poe to join them but he’s tired, promises he’ll make it up to them. He’s got an early start tomorrow probably, after all, General’s words not his. Finn wears an expression that says he’ll definitely be at Poe for this later but he lets him go and Poe trudges out towards the bunks and into his empty room.

BB8 is off with Rey today, their charging station vacant.

Poe sits on his bed to eat, chews and swallows slowly and carefully.

When he lies down to sleep he dreams of the plush carpets and high, doomed ceiling of the Senate building. He dreams of them all being brought before a small group of politicians, of cowards and tried as war criminals, as traitors. He dreams of Kylo Ren, of Hux being dragged out to testify against them.

Yes, Hux says, and in Poe’s dreams he is chained, there is blood in his mouth but he still sneers. They tortured me. They forced me to comply.

Yes, Kylo Ren says. She is my mother. She should have protected me. She failed. If she had, none of this would have happened.

He wakes with a start to his holo beeping. A small group of First Order ships are attacking Jakku. Poe’s squadron is being scrambled. He runs into Finn on his way to the hangar.

“Why is it always Jakku?” Finn asks him. “Just, seriously. Why there? Why not – I don’t know – anywhere else in the entire galaxy! What is even there? Nothing!”

Poe smiles, claps him on the shoulder.

Chapter Text

Hux wakes up a few days later. Poe has been by his bedside an hour or so, still wired and jittery from a mission, rocking back and forth on his chair with one foot up against the mattress.

Hux sighs as Poe switches legs, jostles the bed. “Must you do that?” He asks, eyes still closed.

It startles Poe so badly he jerks back and his chair falls onto four legs with a loud thunk. Poe winces at the sound but Hux is smirking and when no furious medic appears to scold him he lets out a relieved breath, shuffles his chair closer to Hux and smiles. “I mean, yeah, kind of. Don’t get me wrong, Hugs, you’re pretty and everything but watching you sleep for days on end is getting kind of dull.”

Hux opens his eyes, a small smile playing across his mouth.

Everything seems lighter, somehow and Poe leans forwards, presses his lips to Hux’s, runs a hand through his hair. “How’re you feeling?”

Hux doesn’t answer as he settles back against the pillows. Poe takes one of his hands, rubs his thumb across the knuckles and back. “So I take it you won, then?” Hux asks, eventually.

Poe grins. “Yeah, we did. The Finalizer went down, the Absolution with it. The rest of the Order is running scared.”

Hux’s jaw is tight, he swallows thickly, closes his eyes. This still hurts him, Poe realises. It still hurts him that he’s brought down the Order. Poe doesn’t get it, not really but he tries for a moment to understand, tries to imagine himself in Hux’s position. Even so, he’d been raised in the New Republic, had been raised with their ideas, their beliefs, their morals. He’d been raised to fight for their cause, to defend their laws, their way of life and when he realised they were wrong he’d hardly felt conflicted at all about leaving, about joining the Resistance in their place.

It’s not the same, he knows but it’s similar.

“We couldn’t have done this without you,” he tells Hux and Hux opens his eyes, fixes him with a very heavy gaze.

“No one will thank me for this, you know,” he says.

Poe raises Hux’s hand to his mouth, kisses the back of it gently.

“I will. General Organa will. The whole of the Resistance will,” he says, lowering Hux’s hand back down to the bed. “We all know what you did, what you sacrificed for us.”

Hux looks at him like he’s just said something stupid but before Poe can ask he’s shifting on the mattress, asking, “What about Ren?”

Poe curls his other hand around Hux’s too, cradles it there. He feels Hux tense. “He’s alive,” he says, gently. “Rey got him out. We have him here, in the cells.”

Hux closes his eyes again, lets out a short, bitter little laugh. “Are you starting a collection, Dameron?”

Poe sighs. “Hux,” he says, gently.

Hux turns his head away from Poe. “I’m tired,” he says shortly but he doesn’t pull his hand away from Poe’s grasp.

“Okay,” Poe says. “Sleep then, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Hux turns back to look at him, sweeps his gaze across Poe’s face. Then he gives a tight nod, squeezes Poe’s hand and lets his eyes flutter shut.

-

On his way out of the medbay, he gets a holo summoning him to the war room to meet with General Organa. He doesn’t think much of it until he gets there and the room is empty but for her.

“General?” he asks, with a frown.

The holo-projector is still and dark. Leia’s half-perched on the edge of the war table, arms folded across her chest, lips thinned. The index finger on her left hand taps against her own arm, it’s something she does when she’s thinking, when she’s about to broach something difficult.

Poe swallows as he steps more fully into the room, lets the door swing shut behind him. He stands at attention until Leia tuts at him and says, “At ease, Commander. You’ve never bothered observing such niceties before, why start now?”

Poe smiles weakly. “Because you had me summoned to the war room alone without much prior warning?”

Leia sighs at him. “Someday all your luck and charm is going to run dry, kid,” she says. “And I hope I’m around to see it.” She pushes off of the table, takes a few steps towards him, meeting his gaze all the while. “Now, I think it’s high time we had a conversation about General Hux,” she says and Poe’s stomach sinks.

He knew this was coming. He knew, he knew but he’d hoped he’d have more time.

Something must show on his face because Leia softens her gaze, offers him a small, wry smile. “Don’t worry, Dameron,” she says. “I’m not about to announce his execution or suggest we hand him over to the new Council.”

Poe breathes out, lets his shoulders slump forwards with relief. He’d known Leia wouldn’t do that, he’d known but still there had been fear gnawing at him, vicious little thoughts hissing in his ears. “No, General,” he says, weakly and Leia clucks her tongue at him, goes back to lean against the table, shakes her head, sighs.

“I had hoped for your sake,” she says delicately, gaze warm. “That this – ” she pauses, casts around for the correct word. “Bond,” she settles on, “between the two of you would have dissipated once you were rescued.”

Poe scrubs at his face, runs a hand through his curls. “Yeah,” he says, honestly. “Me too.” And he had, hadn’t he? Those first few hours aboard the Falcon as the cold realisation sat in of just how far he’d fallen set in. How fast. But it had still been there after, even surrounded by Finn and Rey and Rose and the Resistance. Even back and busy, even while fighting a war, during teary holo-calls to the families and friends of the pilots he led to their deaths.

“So it hasn’t?” Leia asks.

“No,” Poe confirms. His voice sounds weak, unsteady, even to his own ears.

Leia nods. She’s quiet then, not looking at him but down at her own feet and Poe suddenly feels sick with it, sick with terror that she’s about to send him packing for no longer being trustworthy, for no longer being impartial. Imperial sympathiser, people used to hiss to each other before the war, behind other’s backs, exchanging knowing looks, rude gestures. You know what that means.

And he’s sick with shame too, with the desire to throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness. Tell her he didn’t mean for this, didn’t ask for this, didn’t want for this. That if he could undo it he would but no, that’s a lie, isn’t it? Tastes bitter even on his own tongue, trapped behind his teeth unspoken. And that makes him feel ashamed all over again. He should want this gone. He should wish this had never happened.

Stars knows Hux probably does.

Leia looks like she’s about to look back up at him, to say something and Poe realises that is she looks up at him, if she looks up and wears the same look she has for her monstrous son, the one that is full of I’m sorry but you disgust me, how could you? How could you? He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stay standing.

“Do you think I’m – ” he blurts out, realises he has no idea how to finish it. Disgusting. Monstrous. Broken. He blinks, passes a hand across his eyes. Shakes his head tired. “There must be something wrong with me,” he finishes, quietly.

He looks up to find Leia watching him, eyes aching with sympathy. “Oh, Poe, of course I don’t.” She crosses to him then, raises a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, can’t not. “I think you’re a moron,” she says and Poe laughs wetly. “But there’s nothing wrong with you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. You know who that man is, what he’s done but you still see something in him worth saving. I can’t even manage that with my own son.”

She steps away then, drops her hand.

“General – ” Poe starts but she shakes her head.

“There will be time to discuss Kylo Ren but that time is not now,” she says, her tone final. “General Hux, though.” She folds her hands neatly behind her back and raises her gaze back to his. “I intend to tell the Council about his role in our mission when we meet them next. He’ll stay under our protection afterwards, we can tell them he’s still necessary. There’s more he can tell us, at any rate and he may prove useful in negotiating with the larger remnant faction. Do you think he’ll be willing?”

It takes a moment for Poe to realise she’s asking him because she actually wants to know rather than as a formality. He knows there are ways they can make Hux comply if he’s unwilling just as he knows Leia will be willing to do so if it benefits them. He nods slowly. “I think he will. It depends on what it is but I think he’d be willing.”

“Good,” Leia smiles and Poe thinks about what Hux said, about no one thanking him, about everything that came before.

“And once we have peace, what’ll happen to him then?”

Leia’s smile fades. She spreads her hands, “That I can’t tell you. What I can say is that I will do everything in my power to keep him under our protection but you know what he did, how many he killed. That day, he gave the order and he has laid claim to that publicly. We can’t hide that. We can’t pretend he wasn’t the man who destroyed the New Republic and there will be people, many people, who want to see him tried and executed regardless of the help he’s given us.”

Poe swallows around the lump that’s formed in his throat, blinks away the stinging in his eyes. “We could just say he died,” he suggests. “We could say he helped us and died when the Absolution went down.”

“We could,” Leia agrees. “He would have to go into hiding, live that way for the rest of his life and you would have to hope that no one on this base thinks that’s unfair or gets loosed lipped in some cantina somewhere down the line and no one stumbles upon him by chance, though, but we could.” She sighs then, looks at him for a long considering moment. “And I don’t know that there is no one on this base that thinks he should at least stand trial for his crimes in honour of everyone we lost that day.”

The words land heavily. Poe thinks of everyone he knew who died that day, of everyone he has come to know of through the stories their relatives told.

They deserve justice. He knows that.

“But if that is truly what you want and he agrees to it,” Leia continues. “We can discuss it further.”

“I shouldn’t want that,” Poe says. “I shouldn’t.”

Leia smiles again, full of sad wisdom. “But you’re in love with him, Commander Dameron. Of course you want that.”

Poe closes his eyes, squeezes them shut. No, he tells himself but yes. Yes.

“Anyway, there was a third route I thought we might try,” Leia says. Poe opens his eyes.

“When I tell the Council about him I’m going to float the idea of de-programming, use him as an example of what people can do when we give them a chance, when we free them from the First Order. Finn, too.”

“De-programming?” Poe echoes and Leia nods.

“There are countless thousands of First Order officers out there, First Order stormtroopers. We can’t possibly hope to arrest them all and letting them limp off to lick their wounds certainly didn’t work last time so I’m going to propose the way forwards is de-programming. Saving these people from their conditioning, helping them, putting them to use rather than execution or imprisonment.”

“That’s good,” Poe says and he’s found himself nodding. “That’s good. That’ll work. I mean, do you think it’ll work?”

“I hope so,” Leia says. “We’ll give it a shot, at least.”

“Thank you,” Poe hears himself say.

Leia laughs at him. “You’re welcome, Commander. Do try and remember though, I’m not only doing this for you.”

“I know,” Poe says but he beams at her anyway.

Leia is still half-laughing, shakes her head. “You’re dismissed, Commander. You look like you could use a lie down. We’ll finish this discussion later.”

Poe ducks his head and thanks while he tries to remember how to move his feet.

“Thank you, General,” he says, before he goes and she’s still smiling at him, still shaking her head.

-

He doesn’t go back to his room or to the medbay, steps outside instead hoping the cool night air will help calm him down. He climbs up onto the wing of his new X-Wing and lies back to stare up at the stars. There’s a chance then, he thinks. A chance.

He’s not left alone for long. Rey calls up before she climbs up to sit alongside him, one leg curled beneath her, one swinging out over the edge of the wing. She peers down at him, a curious expression on her face and sets a dumpling on his chest. “I brought you something,” she says. “Connix says Leia called you to the war room alone.”

“She did,” Poe confirms. “She wanted to talk about Hux.”

Rey studies him thoughtfully and though they’ve never spoken about Poe’s always been convinced she knows a lot more than she’s letting on about him and Hux. “What did she say?” she asks, eventually, watching him closely.

Poe sits up and Rey leans back to let him.

“She’s going to tell the Council that he’s alive, that he helped us.” Poe says, taking the dumpling Rey gave him and picking at it. “She wants to use him and Finn as evidence that de-programming can work. That we don’t just have to kill First Order prisoners or lock them up forever.”

Rey is quiet for a long moment, draws her knees up to her chest and rests her arms atop them. “Do you think he deserves that?” she asks, eventually.

Poe sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, he helped us but he only did that because he thought it was a way out for him. You’ve been in his head, what do you think?”

Rey flinches at that. She still feels guilty about the interrogation, worries about losing control like that again. She steadies herself. “That’s different. I didn’t see everything, I only saw a little. I saw what made him like that and I - ” She sighs. “I don’t know. I mean they all had a choice, right? Finn had a choice and he chose not to fight but if you hadn’t been there to help him escape, then – I suppose fight or die isn’t exactly much of a choice.”

She huffs, rests her chin atop her arms. “I don’t know. I think he deserves a chance and besides, he didn’t just do it because he thought it would be a way out,” she turns her head towards him. “He at least part did it to protect you.”

Poe stares at her, feels his cheeks start to heat up.

Rey gives him a weak smile. “I might not have seen everything but I saw how he feels about you. Even if he hasn’t quite figured that part out for himself.”

Poe struggles to find something to say to that but finds he can’t and Rey’s smile fades slowly. “I’m not angry, you know,” she says quietly. “And Finn won’t be either. Neither will Kaydel or Rose or anyone, really. I mean, it might take a while but – ”

“See, you say that,” Poe cuts her off, voice soft. “But you were mad enough when you thought General Organa was protecting him by being too soft.”

Rey sighs softly.

Chapter Text

“He should be fine to be released in a day or so,” Kalonia tells him the next day in the corridor outside of Hux’s room. “Hopefully it’s in a day rather than or so because I and several of my medics are coming perilously close to strangling him.”

“Ah, he grows on you,” Poe promises, smiling.

“I sincerely hope not, Commander Dameron,” Kalonia says. “Anyway, you can tell General Organa he’s strong enough for her to talk to now provided she’s gentle.”

“I’ll pass that on.”

Kalonia nods and lowers her datapad, tucking it under her arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to see to our other high-profile guest,” she says flatly and before Poe can say anything else she’s gone, striding off towards the cells. Poe stares after a moment before he steps into Hux’s room.

“So, I hear you’re terrorising the medics,” he opens with and Hux scowls at him from the bed. “You do realise they’re the ones who bring you food and things, right?”

Hux doesn’t argue, doesn’t apologise, just huffs dramatically and throws himself back against the pillows.

“Bored?” Poe guesses. “I’m sure if you’d asked someone would have found something for you to do. Crosswords, maybe? Colouring books?”

“You’re not being funny, Dameron,” Hux snaps.

Poe folds his arms. “No, I’m being deadly serious, Hugs. If you’re bored I will go and find you a colouring book.”

Hux closes his eyes like he’s in pain, slides further down his pillows. Poe smiles, presses a kiss to his forehead that makes Hux swat at him and sits down in the chair beside his bed. When he’s here, when he’s with Hux, it’s easy to pretend there’s just this. There’s nothing else, nothing bigger than them.

Until today, he guesses.

“General Organa wants to talk to you,” he says and Hux raises his head a little.

“What about?” he asks, frowning at Poe. “Has she finally decided what she’s going to do with me?”

Poe ignores his question. “There are still things you can tell us,” he says, instead. “The war’s not over yet.”

Hux pushes himself into a more upright position and frowns at him. “If there are things you still want to know why haven’t you asked?”

Poe shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Hux is still frowning at him, tilts his head, brow furrowed.

“I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to,” he says and Hux flinches back like he’s been burnt, like he’s been stung, blinking hard. He looks up at Poe again and Poe see can see the gears turning behind his eyes, the pieces falling into place. Poe smiles, shakes his head, reaches out a hand slowly to cup his cheek. “You still think this is some kind of good cop, bad cop routine, don’t you? Well, it’s not and I can’t think of anyway to prove it to you but if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I’ll still be here.”

Hux looks at him a long while before he tilts his head towards Poe’s touch. “If she wants to make me talk you won’t be able to stop her,” he says quietly.

“No,” Poe agrees. “But I could give it a good shot.”

Hux snorts, “You’re an idiot, Dameron.”

“Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot recently.” He lowers his hand to curl around one of Hux’s.

Hux looks down at their hands. “What does she want to know?” he asks, after a moment.

“The stormtrooper recruits, the training base,” Poe starts with. “We know it used to be the Absolution but it’s moved, right?”

Hux nods slowly. “We thought a planet-base would be safer when the war started.” His voice is quiet, distant. Poe shifts from his chair to the edge of Hux’s bed.

“Can you tell me where it is?” he asks, slipping an arm around Hux’s shoulder.

Hux doesn’t look up at him, doesn’t meet his eyes. He tilts his head down so his hair falls into his eyes. “If I tell you the Order will have no future.”

“If you tell me, we can give all those kids the chance you were never given,” Poe says.

“We – ” Hux starts. We gave them a chance, he’s going to say. We gave them a home, we gave them a purpose, because he still clings to it, all of it. Poe started reading up on de-programming after his talk with Leia, he knows this’ll take a while but they’ll get there.

“Hux,” he says, gently. “You know things’ll be better for them if you let us save them.”

Hux shudders against him, closes his eyes. Relents. “I’ll show you where it is,” he says, tightly. “What else?”

Poe leans against him, shuffles as close as he can. “The First Order has split into two factions. We can deal with one easily but the other is more organised, it’s being led by some of the officers. Major Yersin is one. Would you be able to help us negotiate a surrender?”

Hux shrugs at that one. “I don’t know. I’d need to know who else was involved but Yersin is a good man. He’ll do what’s best for his troops if he’s allowed. I suppose it will depend on the terms you give.”

Poe nods, rubs Hux’s arm.

Hux sighs. “Anything else?”

“One more thing,” Poe says. “Leia wants to tell the Council you helped us. She wants to use you and Finn to prove that given the choice, we can help you. De-programming can work.”

Hux goes very still against him. “De-programming?” he echoes. Then he laughs. “So that’s what you think of me?” he shoves Poe hard. Hard enough that Poe goes over the edge of the bed, hits the ground.

“Shit,” he says hurriedly, as he scrambles up. “Shit, Hux, come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think – ”

Hux is glaring at him, eyes bright and damp. “You think I’m some wayward little boy who likes to break thinks because his daddy was mean to him? You think I didn’t have choices? That I just obeyed blindly? That I had no freewill or agency of my own?”

“Hux,” Poe says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean – ”

“You did,” Hux snarls. He balls his fists up in the sheets, looks like he would very much like to break something right now.

“Hux,” Poe tries again.

“Get. Out.” Hux snaps, tone icy.

Poe reaches for him. Hux jerks away.

“Now, Dameron,” he says.

And reluctantly, Poe goes. He lingers outside in the hallway, hears this muffled thudding sound like Hux is throwing himself against his pillows over and over and over. He’s not even entirely sure what happened there, replays the conversation in his mind again and again until the room falls silent.

“Fuck,” he whispers, quietly to himself.

“You think his tantrums are bad,” Kalonia says, having appeared at some point just behind him.

Poe startles, thuds against the door. “Holy – ” He starts. “Doc. Hi.”

Kalonia smiles at him tiredly. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Poe answers. “It was all fine but then I mentioned de-programming and he – ” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. He just lost it.”

Kalonia rubs his arm, clucks her tongue. “Well, no one likes to hear everything they’ve been brought up to believe in is a lie.”

“Yeah, I should have figured that,” Poe mutters.

Kalonia nods her agreement then rubs his shoulder. “It’ll take time, Commander. And it won’t be a straight shot. But still, at least he can’t break things with his mind when he’s angry.”

Poe winces at that. He’s hardly thought of Kylo Ren down there and brooding in the cells. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kalonia says. “Trust me, I know how to handle that boy.”

Poe raises an eyebrow, remembers that Kalonia has been a friend of Leia’s for years. “How is he?” he asks after a moment.

Kalonia sighs. “Angry. He’s always been angry though. Might help if his mother stopped by to see him.”

Poe frowns. “She hasn’t?”

“Not since that first day.” Kalonia shakes her head. “I understand that she’s afraid of what she’ll do when she sees him but… That boy has always been looking for reassurance of some kind. That’s what got us all into this mess.”

Poe swallows. Doesn’t think he’s really in the best position to comment. He hadn’t met Kylo Ren before, when he was Ben. There’d been a handful of occasions when he was supposed to though, when they were both kids and their parents were meeting each other but Kylo had never turned up. He was always ill or not allowed out for poor behaviour.

He looks back to the door of Hux’s room instead. “Do you think I should go back in?”

Kalonia shrugs. “I don’t know what you said to him. Might not hurt to try, though. Make sure he knows he hasn’t chased you off for good. People need that.”

Poe nods slowly. “If he throws something at me and I get hurt, just so you know I’m blaming you.”

Kalonia smiles. “We’ll see.”

And Poe takes a breath before pushing back into the room.

Hux doesn’t look up, only sighs when Poe says, “If I come in are you going to throw me off of something again?”

“That depends on whether you say anything stupid,” Hux says eventually. He sounds miserable. He sounds tired.

Poe shuffles into the room, pauses by the bed. “Define stupid.”

Hux groans. “Maybe just don’t talk at all, Dameron.”

“Okay,” Poe says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, I can do that. I can be quiet. We can just sit here in silence. Not talking. Not saying anything. Just sitting.”

“Dameron,” Hux says.

“Alright, alright,” Poe says and shuffles up to sit against the pillows beside Hux, slips an arm around him when he’s not immediately shoved away. He rests his head against Hux’s, presses a kiss to his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

-

Hux gives them the coordinates for the new stormtrooper academy, tells them to expect resistance, even from their youngest recruits. He wasn’t wrong, Poe thinks, as Kalonia closes a nasty cut above his eye with bacta. “I heard from Rey that child who did this barely came up to your knee, Commander,” she says, lightly.

“Hey, he was vicious, alright?” Poe offers up in defence. They got most of the kids out alive, most of the adults out in cuffs. There’s a centre on Coruscant that’s been set up for the kids until they can start the de-programming process, figure out where if anywhere they belong and who with and set about letting them rebuild their lives.

Kalonia hums like she doesn’t quite believe him. “All done,” she says, eventually. Poe thanks her and pushes himself off of the bed. “Oh,” she adds. “And Hux can go. General Organa said I was to release him into your care.”

-

Hux is sat on the bed when Poe steps into his room. He stands when he sees Poe, takes a step towards him and then frowns when he notices the bruises on Poe’s face. His arm twitches. For a moment, Poe thinks he’s going to reach out but he must catch himself because instead, his hand curls into a fist at his side. “What happened?”

“We moved on the academy today,” Poe says. “We got the kids out alive. Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

Hux’s mouth twists.

“I’m fine,” Poe says, smiling as he steps closer. “Really. And you’re fine. Doctor Kalonia told me you could leave.”

“Yes, she told me too,” Hux says and he tenses a little, his words stiff.

Poe holds out a hand. “Well? Come on. I would have thought you’d be dying to get out of here.”

Hux eyes Poe’s hand warily. “Are you taking me back to the cell?”

Poe snorts, shakes his head. “Come on, Hugs. I’m not taking you back to the cell, I’m taking you to my room. I mean – uh, if you want to that is. I’m sure I can find you your own room if you’d prefer – ”

His hand is still outstretched, his cheeks are probably just as flushed as Hux’s as he trails off. Hux blinks hard. “No, I – ” he mumbles but then he stops and reaches out to take Poe’s hand. “I’d stay with you. If that’s – ”

“That’s fine,” Poe says quickly. Too quickly.

-

The base is quiet tonight, it’s corridors empty. A handful of their personnel has been sent to stay with the rescued troopers, Finn and Rey and Rose and BB8 amongst them, another have accompanied Leia back to Coruscant. The rest are probably already in bed or at their stations for the nightshift.

They run into no one.

Hux is quiet as they walk and for once, Poe stays quiet too. He could talk Hux through the base, give him a tour but he feels like something unseen has settled around them, something quiet, something easily disturbed. Better not risk it.

When they reach his room, Poe’s mouth feels dry.

“So, this is it,” he says, keying in the code and dragging Hux inside. “Probably kind of small compared to your quarters, right? I bet the Order spent no expense on kitting you guys out…” he trails off. Hux stands looking lost in the middle of his room.

Poe swallows once, twice, three times. “I –” he starts. Breaks off. Shakes his head. “I really just want to kiss you right now.”

And Hux nods.

Poe kisses him slowly, kisses him gently, puts a hand up to cup his jaw, uses the other to pull Hux flush against him. Hux’s arms curl around his back, slide down to the hem of Poe’s t-shirt. Poe laughs, breaks the kiss. Is going to say something but thinks better of it, just raises his arms so Hux can pull off his t-shirt and goes back to kissing him.

He pushes them both towards the bed. Hux pulls Poe down on top of him when the back of his knees hit the mattress and folds down on top of it. At this new angle it’s easy for Poe to slide his fingers between the buttons of Hux’s shirt, rest them against the warm skin below. Hux shudders and Poe slides his fingers out, sets about undoing the buttons instead, sliding the shirt off of Hux’s shoulders.

He pauses when they’re both shirtless. Hux has splayed his legs so Poe can slot between them, has one hand on the back of Poe’s neck, keeping their foreheads pressed together. His eyes are squeezed shut. He breathes hard.

Poe feels fit to burst in that moment. “Hux – ” he starts.

Hux opens his eyes, “Dameron, don’t ruin this.”

Poe laughs. “I wasn’t going to. I – ”

But Hux rolls his eyes, silences him by pressing their mouths back together. He lets out a shaky breath when Poe grinds his hips downwards, curls a knee about Poe’s thighs to keep him there, to press for more. Poe licks into his mouth, rolls his hips over and over, slides his hands down to start easing Hux’s pants off of his hips.

“I want,” he breathes against Hux’s mouth. “I want – ”

Hux curls a hand through Poe’s hair, hisses, “Yes, yes.”

Poe grins, “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“You said you weren’t going to ruin this,” Hux reminds him.

Poe kisses him on the jaw and sits up, “Are you sure?” he asks, smirking.

Hux flops down against the pillows, heaves a sigh.

And Poe laughs, slides Hux’s pants all the way off him and says, “I’m just teasing, Hugs.” He reaches for the lube in his top drawer.

Hux shudders when he presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, arches and hisses when Poe starts to work him open, says things like get on with it, Dameron, come on and then finally, finally, finally when Poe presses in. Poe wants to laugh at him again, wants to tell him that if he was that desperate, he should have asked, should have said something but their bodies are sliding together and Hux is tilting his head back and gripping Poe’s hips hard enough to bruise and raising his hips to meet Poe’s every thrust, moaning, fuck, Dameron, please, and between all that Poe can’t quite get the words out.

“You know,” he says, afterwards, when Hux is half-asleep against him and the sweat is cooling on their skins. “I really think we should be on first name basis by now.”

Hux huffs. “Poe is a silly name.”

Poe snorts. “Okay, Armitage.”

Chapter Text

In the morning, Poe lies watching the sunlight play across Hux’s skin, bouncing bright off of his hair. Poe runs his fingers through it, trails them lightly across Hux’s cheek, along his jaw. Hux sighs, his eyes flutter, he watches Poe right back but his hands are still, both under the pillow, folded his head.

“What happens now?” he asks, eventually and Poe knows exactly what he’s asking, exactly what he means.

He exhales, slides the hand he has brushing through Hux’s hair down to rest at his hip. “You mean right now?”

Hux huffs. “You know what I mean, Dameron.”

“Yeah,” Poe says quietly. “Yeah.”

It’s quiet in the room, the sounds of the base waking up around them are muffled. At some point, they’ll have to get up. Go back out there. At some point he’ll have to come up with a firm answer for Hux but he doesn’t want to. He wants to stay here. Wants this to be it. Hux is starting to get nervous, to tense up. Poe starts to rub soothing circles into his hip.

“What do you want to happen?” he asks.

Hux blinks at him. “I – ” he starts but breaks off, looking away. Poe can imagine what he’s thinking. I’d like for this to have never happened. I didn’t want this. But he doesn’t say it and that’s gotta count for something. With his free hand, Poe reaches for the his mother’s ring, still around Hux’s neck. He slips a finger through it, presses his palm to Hux’s chest the way Hux used to do back in the cave.

Hux jerks at the touch, looks down. “Oh,” he says and there’s a flush in his cheeks. “You should – You should take this back.”

He starts to move, starts to raise his hands to slip the ring off of his neck. Poe stops him, shakes his head, “Hey, no. You keep it. It suits you.”

Hux swallows hard. He meets Poe’s gaze as Poe lays a hand against his cheek.

“Hux,” he says, gently. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

Hux breathes in sharply. “And when this is all over and they want to see me tried and executed for my – for everything I did?” His voice shakes, his eyes are hard.

Poe drops his gaze a moment. He still feels that curl of disgust, that rage but each time it’s duller, further away. You’re not that man anymore, he wants to say but he has a feeling that those words will only shut Hux off, make him turn away. When he looks back up, he smiles as reassuringly as he can. “We’ll run away.”

Hux laughs at that. A short, breathy little sound.

“Really,” Poe says. “I’m serious. We’ll steal a ship, go on the run.”

“You’d hate that,” Hux says. He’s still smiling slightly and Poe leans forwards to kiss him.

“General Organa hasn’t told anyone you’ve been helping us yet,” Poe says, when they break apart. He has his hands curled around Hux’s shoulders. Hux has one hand cupping his jaw. “As far as the galaxy is concerned, you’re still dead and you can stay that way if you want to. I trust the people here. They’ll keep your secret.”

Hux’s gaze is on Poe’s lips, his expression pensive.

“Or you could help us out some more,” Poe finishes. “But whichever you choose, I’ll be here, okay?”

Hux closes his eyes and leans forwards, presses his forehead into the crook of Poe’s neck. Poe winds a hand through his hair, holds him close. “What do you think I should do?” Hux asks. His voice is small, muffled.

Poe breathes out, strokes a hand up and down Hux’s spine. “I think,” he says, hesitantly, mind full of images of a bright red bolt of light, of dust floating out amongst the stars, of people he’d known and people he’d come to know. Of Finn, of the children from the academy, of every white-clad stormtrooper he’s had to fight, had to kill. “I think there’s a lot of people out there you hurt who deserve an apology and an explanation.”

He tightens his grip, expecting Hux to go stiff against him or push him away but he doesn’t. He stays lying against him, pushing closer if anything, letting out a soft noise against Poe’s shoulder. Not quite grief or guilt or anything of that nature, more fear. Distress. It makes Poe feel cold all over but he doesn’t let Hux go. Doesn’t ask whether Hux thinks they deserve that, whether he thinks he should atone.

He’s been reading up on deprogramming and there’ll be time for that later. There’ll be a day, he thinks, he hopes, when Hux will feel that guilt, when it’ll crash down on top of him and he’ll realise how much he’s taken from people and then, how much he’s given by helping the Resistance.

Poe only hopes he’ll be strong enough to keep them both standing.

“But,” he continues, “You’ve done a lot of good lately, even if it wasn’t for the best reasons and there’s a lot of good you can still do. There’s a lot you can still help us with.”

Hux breathes out shakily. The ring is pressed between them and Poe thinks absently about what his mother would think of this, of them. He hasn’t told his father about Hux, not about all of it at any rate and maybe he knows, maybe he knew the moment Poe phoned him after the Absolution, after the Finalizer. Leia knew, Rey knew.

But you’re in love with him, Commander Dameron, Leia had said, like it was simple. Like it was obvious.

If he tells Hux that now he wonders if it’ll make a difference. If Hux will fall apart or go hard again. If Hux will ever say it back.

Even if he hasn’t quite figured out that part for himself, Rey had said.

He lies there for a long while, stroking Hux’s back, running fingers through his hair. “I have to get up sometime, you know,” he says eventually. “General Organa is still on Coruscant. That means I’m in charge, so.”

Hux sighs and pulls away slightly, moving back so Poe can slide out from under the covers. Poe lingers a moment, presses a soft kiss to his mouth. “You gonna get up with me?”

Hux looks uncertain at that. “I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he says after a long moment.

Poe swallows, tries to imagine marching around the base, checking in with Connix and their intelligence division, with Kalonia at the medbay, radioing out to their field operatives, to Rey and Finn, all the while with Hux standing stiffly, awkwardly at his side, eyes darting about for threats. He thinks of the smiles that would fade when gazes landed on Hux, the cold looks, the whispers.

This is what he’s signing up for, he realises. This is what he’s what he’s committing himself to.

He feels like there should be more doubt in his mind but there isn’t, there’s none. Not in anyway that makes him hesitate, anyway.

He sits up and stretches, twists back round to look at Hux still curled on his side on the mattress.

“Alright,” he says, gently. “You can stay here, if you want. I’ll stop by with some breakfast and here,” he sets a comm-link on the bedside table. “You call me if you need anything, alright? Anything. Even if you’re just getting lonely.” He smiles as brightly as he can manage, lays a hand on Hux’s cheek.

He already knows that Hux won’t call, Hux will just lie here while his mind runs itself in circles. While he goes over and over his options. While he thinks how much easier this would be if Poe had just left him to die on the Absolution like he’d planned and maybe it would have been easier. Maybe Poe should have left him. Maybe they could have just gone to the Council in Coruscant and said yes, he helped and yes, he died and he died doing something heroic and it doesn’t make up for his crimes but it’s something to be remembered.

But Poe would have had to live with that. Poe would have had to lie awake at night and think but what if –

Maybe this will still end badly. Maybe it will still end bloody. Maybe Poe will still be left alone to wonder but for now he stands up and gets dressed and pauses to smooth back Hux’s hair and press a kiss to his forehead before he leaves for the day, resolves to call every hour or so, to drop back for lunch, to ask Rey and Finn to send BB8 back early so Hux can have some company.

-

Hux is asleep when Poe gets back to his room. Still and undisturbed for once, curled tightly in on himself. Poe watches his chest rise and fall steadily, watches the ring shift with it before he steps back outside to call his dad. It’s late on Yavin 4, not as late as it is here but his dad picks up, greets him brightly.

Poe sits on the corridor floor outside, leans up against the door to his room. He keeps his voice low but the walls are thin.

“I’ve got something I should tell you,” he says, in a rush. “I think you might hate me for it. I don’t really know what to do.”

His father laughs gently and Poe can picture him, sat alone in their snug little house, lit dimly by the branches of the Force tree outside. “Come on, Poe,” he says, voice low and affectionate. “There’s a lot I might not agree with about the way you do things but I’d never hate you. You could up and join the Order and I’d still not hate you. Now, come on, it can’t be that bad.”

Poe laughs weakly. “It’s pretty bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, kid. Have out with it.”

Poe breath hitches as he tells him and he starts at the beginning, with the crash, with saving Hux, with Hux saving him, with everything after. “And now I don’t know what to do,” he finishes. “I don’t want to lose him but I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with it if he just gets to go free. He should stand trial for Starkiller, shouldn’t he? And if – And if that means execution, then – ” he breaks off, breathing hard.

His father his quiet on the other end of the line but Poe can hear him breathing, can hear him chewing on his nails. His mother used to hate that, used to say Kes, if you’re hungry there’s food in the fridge and it’ll taste a damn sight better than your grubby hands.

“Dad?” he prompts.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Poe,” his dad says eventually. “Yes, he deserves to stand trial. But if he’s done all the things you say he has and if you feel that strongly about him then I don’t know,” He sighs. “There must be some good in there somewhere.”

Poe nods, bites his lip.

“Do you want me to come see you?” his dad asks.

“No, no,” Poe says. “You should stay there. Where it’s safe. Until this is all over, at least.”

His dad sighs again. “Alright, son. You call if you need to, okay?”

Poe promises he will, signs off.

Back in the room, Hux is awake, rolls over when Poe steps in, expression unreadable in the dark. “You hear all that?” Poe asks.

Hux shifts against the sheets. “Bits and pieces.”

Poe ducks his head as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He starts unlacing his boots, feels Hux’s eyes still on him. Hux stays silent as Poe pulls his boots off and tosses them across the room, as Poe slides his shirt off and tosses that into a different corner of the room. He’s silent still as Poe settles down on the mattress, sets his commlink down on the table. As Poe rolls to face him.

“I don’t think,” Hux starts, hesitantly before he swallows. “I don’t think I want to run.”

Poe reaches out to grasp one of his wrists, feels the pulse there thrumming steadily. “You sure?” he asks.

Hux sets his jaw and nods. “In the Order, it was – You were always on the look out. Someone could poison your food, slip a dagger in your back as you passed them in the corridor – ”

“Send you on a suicide mission to a nowhere planet,” Poe adds.

Hux’s mouth twitches. “Yes.” He looks down at Poe’s hand on his wrist. “I don’t want to live like that anymore. If we – If I run, if you lie and say I’m dead that’s all it’ll ever be and I’m too – ” He closes his eyes. “I’m too tired for that, Dameron.”

Poe smiles, slides his hand up Hux’s wrist to tangle their fingers together. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

-

“He’s willing to talk to you about deprogramming,” he says to Leia later, as she disembarks the shuttle from Coruscant. She blinks at him before she smiles, exhaustion drawn plain across her features. Poe probably shouldn’t have led with that, good afternoon would have been more appropriate or how was politics? but he’s left Hux in his rooms while he’s had command of the base and it’s hard not to want to rush back. He rocks forwards on the balls of his feet.

“Good,” Leia says. “That’s good.”

She steps out onto the runway and Poe falls into step beside her. “They’re already gearing up to eat us alive, might as well give them something meaty to sink their teeth into.” She mutters. She doesn’t sound bitter, just tired.

Poe winces in sympathy. “Not going well then?”

“Not really going anywhere at all,” Leia says, with a sigh. “And it’ll probably stay that way until the Order surrenders properly. But this will help, I think. All the more if we can get him to see that this is the best option for everyone.”

Poe nods. It’s late but the night is still pleasantly warm, the comforting chittering of bugs and a heady floral scent hangs in the air, it reminds him of home here, all sticky and sweet and alive. He has a hand in his pocket, curled around a commlink. “If we tell the Council he’s alive what do you think his chances are, really?”

Leia pauses. “That I can’t tell you,” she says. “But it’s the right thing to do. For everyone.” She sets a hand on his shoulder. “And I hope you can help him see that.”

Poe swallows, a tight knot in his chest. “I said I’d stand by him no matter what he chose,” he admits quietly.

Leia shakes her head, smiles at him like he’s breaking her heart, like she wants to save him from something, from himself. “Of course you did,” she says, cupping his cheek.

She stands for a moment like that before she moves off and Poe stares after her, waits until she’s almost at the base before he calls, “When you tell the Council I want to be there.”

And Leia nods.

Chapter Text

Back on Coruscant, Poe tries not to fidget too much.

They’re in the Rotunda this time, he and Leia and Rey and Finn, standing on a small plinth before this new Council, this small handful of representatives who eye them warily. At their head is Sabina Adeline, former General of Coruscant’s military defence corps, acting First Chancellor. Poe knew her from his days as a New Republic pilot, knows her to be a fair and reasonable woman.

In the past few days, Hux has agreed to help them contact the remnants of the First Order, thinks he’ll be able to convince them surrender if the correct terms are negotiated for. He might not be overjoyed about it but he at least agrees with Leia that they cannot be allowed to slink off like the Empire once did. Nothing good will come of that.

Now they just have to get the Council’s support.

Leia stands ahead of them, head held high, back straight as she addresses the Councillors and Poe decides once and for all that he finds her far more intimidating as a politician than he ever did as a General.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Council,” Leia starts. “I suppose the vast majority of you already know at least part of what I’m here to say.”

She takes a breath, glances around at the Council. “First off, I’m going to confirm something I know has been whispered about for long before this war. Yes, my son, Ben Solo, who until recently I believed had died along with the other Jedi students and the former Supreme Leader Kylo Ren are one and the same.”

A flurry of whispers travels through the crowd and Leia waits until they have trailed off to say, “And yes, we have captured him alive.”

This time the whispers are louder and First Chancellor Adeline calls for quiet in a sharp voice. “Before you continue, General,” she says, when the room is silent once more. “There are rumours that Kylo Ren is not the only prominent prisoner of war in your care. Is this true?”

Poe holds his breath.

“In a manner of speaking,” Leia says.

Adeline frowns. “How so?”

“The other former First Order officer we hold is not currently a prisoner of war but a defector. General Armitage Hux, son of a man I’m sure some of you will recall: Commandant Brendol Hux of Arkanis Academy.”

More whispers. Adeline narrows her gaze, “Our intelligence suggested Armitage Hux had died sometime ago on a mission.”

“Your intelligence was wrong,” Leia says, simply. “He’s been working with us. In fact, he was instrumental in the attack on the Finalizer that saved Coruscant, First Chancellor, and in the liberation of the stormtrooper academy and more besides.”

“That man is a war criminal!” Someone calls. “He deserves no less than execution!”

Leia hardens her gaze.

“Quiet!” Adeline barks before turning her attentions back to Leia. “Though he has a point, General. Armitage Hux was the architect of Starkiller base. He destroyed an entire system and laid claim to it publicly. Announcing that you’re harbouring him is hardly going to win you any favours.”

Leia smiles faintly. “Well, if you will, First Chancellor, I’m getting to that.”

Adeline is still frowning but she gestures for her to continue.

“Now, it’s true, Hux’s actions under the Order were vile, disgusting and probably account for the greatest loss of life we have ever known in the galaxy and yet, in only a few short weeks we were able to gain his trust and his support in ending the war.”

Adeline drums her fingers on the plinth before her, looking thoughtful. “I think I can see where this is going, General,” she says, voice stern. “You realise how this looks given that your son is among we would see tried.”

Leia inclines her head. “I do. But I also know that I have lived through this before, First Chancellor. I’ve already fought and won this war, I’ve already seen these trials, I’ve already seen these sentences carried out. I know how this ends and so do many of you.

“We failed last time. When the Empire fell. We failed. We executed those we could and exiled those we couldn’t hoping they would become someone else’s problem or fade away into obscurity. We did nothing while out there, in some dark corner of the galaxy, the men and women who made so many lives a misery under the Empire moulded a new generation of children in their own image, carrying their hatred, their wounds. We allowed it to grow, to fester and it almost killed us. I can’t be alone in thinking that if we want to break this cycle, we must make some major changes to the way we operate.”

“And you would suggest what,” another Councillor says. “Lenience? That we allow these war criminals to go free simply because they saw fit to save their own skins by switching to the winning side?”

“Not quite,” Leia answers. “But our time with Hux has shown us just how deep the First Order conditioning runs amongst not only the troops but the officers. Now, there may be those amongst the officers for whom this was solely an action of freewill but there will be more like Hux and we already have more like Finn. Think of how much good we could do by helping these people. Not condemning them, driving them out but helping them, showing them that the First Order’s teachings are wrong by teaching them why, by teaching them how things can be different. By giving them a chance, an opportunity the Order would never have provided them.

“I am not saying that we shouldn’t punish them but that we should help them too. We need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Adeline hums. “And I’m assuming your son and the former General Hux would be amongst those you’d ask us to offer a chance to rather than a prisoner cell?”

“Hux, yes,” Leia says, almost immediately. “He’s also made it part of his conditions for helping us contact the remnants of the First Order.”

Adeline sighs. “You might have led with that.” She shakes her head when Leia shrugs and says, “And your son?”

And Leia drops her gaze. “That remains to be seen.”

-

Poe’s out of the shuttle and across the base to his room before the landing ramp is even fully deployed. Hux looks like he’s been pacing, stops still when Poe throws open the door. BB8 at his feet makes a sound of surprise.

“What happened?” Hux asks hurriedly. He’s picking at his palms, blunt nails of his left hand scratching against his right palm. Poe crosses the room to hold them still.

“It went well,” Poe says, beaming. “I mean, nothing’s set in stone yet and they’re talking about making their own assessments because they think we might be biased for some reason but it went well. It went well.”

Hux stares at him, uncomprehending. “Dameron are you saying they might actually let me go?”

“I’m saying it’s on the table, yeah,” Poe says. He’s still beaming, squeezing Hux’s hands but Hux doesn’t look happy at all. He pales, looks unsteady suddenly and Poe slides his grip up from Hux’s hands to his upper arms, guides him across to the bed.

“Hey,” he says when they’ve settled. “Hey, it’s okay, Hux.” He has one arm around Hux’s shoulders, his other hand curled tightly around one of Hux’s, keeping it still, keeping it steady. “This is good news,” he says, gently but firmly.

“For you maybe,” Hux snaps, the words a sharp, angry rush. He closes his eyes, his hand shakes, his breathing is slow and deep like he’s trying to keep himself calm.

“What’s wrong?” Poe asks, leaning forwards to try and meet Hux’s gaze but Hux keeps ducking his head, looking away. “Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“I don’t – ” Hux says, eventually. “I don’t know who I am without – ”

Without the Order, Poe finishes for him and Poe gets it. He does. He’s not all that sure who he’ll be after all this, if he’ll carry on as a pilot under the New New Republic, or whatever. If he’ll quit but then what? At least he’s got a home. A family. Friends. All Hux has, as far as Poe can tell, is in this small room.

He lets go of Hux’s hands to tilt Hux’s face towards his, holds him there gently. “Hey, we’ll figure that out, okay? We’ll figure that out together.”

Hux doesn’t look away, doesn’t drop his gaze. “You might not like it,” he warns.

“Well,” Poe says, smiling weakly. “I’ve made it this far, so.”

Hux lets out a small breathy laugh and closes his eyes. “I don’t understand you,” he says quietly. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

Poe smiles again, strokes his fingers along Hux’s jaw. “Yeah you do, Hugs.”

Hux opens his eyes. “Don’t say it,” he says, voice tight.

“Why not?” Poe leans forwards to kiss him. Chaste at first, light. “Why not?” he asks again when he breaks away, doesn’t let Hux answer before kissing him again, deeper this time.

“You don’t mean it,” Hux says, when they break apart again. “You can’t. You can’t.”

Poe laughs, presses their foreheads together, his hands framing Hux’s face. Hux’s fingers are curled around his wrists. “I do, though,” Poe says and without looking around he calls, “BB8, you should go find Finn or Rey or something, okay? Lock the door behind you.”

BB8 sounds slightly put out but they leave anyway and Poe kisses Hux again, slow and languid.

“You don’t mean it,” Hux says, over and over between kisses, as Poe presses him down against the mattress, as Poe divests them of their clothes. “You don’t, you don’t. You can’t. Not to me. Not for me.”

“I do,” Poe insists. “I do.” And then, laughing against Hux’s throat he says it, says, “I love you, I love you.”

Hux breaks. Makes a sound that’s more a sob than anything else and pulls Poe back up to kiss him. Hux’s cheeks are damp, his kisses are messy, desperate. “Dameron,” he says, voice ragged. “I – ”

“It’s okay,” Poe says, soothingly. “I love you, I love you. It’s okay, we’ll be okay.”

-

It’s raining when he wakes up and the bed is still warm. He lies for a few moments, still in some hazy dream, listening to the pitter-patter against the roof and windowpane, the distant rumble of thunder.

His chest seizes when he realises the bed is empty.

He opens his eyes to find Hux standing in front of the window, forehead pressed against the glass. It’s still dark out but there’s the hint of something bright at the edges, something that might be dawn but might be lightening and Poe lies still, watches as Hux raises a hand, presses it palm open against the glass.

“Who do you think you’d be,” Poe asks after long while. “If your father hadn’t taken you from Arkanis?”

Hux doesn’t flinch or jump, just turns to look at him and there’s something in his gaze that makes Poe’s chest ache.

“C’mere,” Poe says and Hux does, settles back against Poe, skin cool.

“Thinking of home?” Poe asks.

Hux shakes his head, drawing patterns with his fingers across Poe’s bare chest. “Arkanis,” he answers slowly. “The cave.” He looks up at Poe. “This.”

Poe catches Hux’s hand in his. “Good thoughts?” he asks.

Hux’s shrug is even. “We’ll see,” he says.