Chapter Text
After weeks of scramble, affairs finally seemed to have returned to something akin to normalcy aboard the Finalizer. Hux was striding around again with his usual domineering aura, biting fewer people’s heads off now that he’d gotten more than four hours of sleep for once and no longer needed painkillers twice a day. Normal, at least, except for the burningly possessive stares Ren found himself receiving from the General whenever they crossed paths in the companionways.
Which meant, of course, it was time for the galaxy to throw another wrench into the works of Ren’s life.
That wrench was politics.
And so here he was, on the most dismal planet he’d ever seen, in the midst of a torrential rainstorm. This conference had been scheduled for months, a periodic soiree for influential First Order political supporters and other elites to mingle with the upper echelons of the military hierarchy. Real business very often did get done, but never at the expense of a multitude of socially-obligated receptions and dances and late-night revelries. He’d been spared from making more than a cursory appearance at prior iterations of the conference, but he wasn’t so lucky this time.
Technically, Ren attended to display the veracity of the Order’s powerful relationship with the Knights. Not so technically, he was acting as protection detail. After the treason in the Prindaar system, Hux had become far more cautious about personal security while in the company of those he did not know well. The arrangement chafed at Ren somewhat—he would never be subordinate to Hux—but his capture and subsequent rescue were ordeals that neither he nor Ren wished to repeat.
This first evening’s reception held at least half as many beings again as Ren had ever seen previously, arriving in from revitalized Old Empire territories and sympathetic coalitions on freshly conquered worlds. They milled about the wide stone floor of the planetary capitol’s assembly tower, pounding rain shut out by massive floor-to-ceiling windows embedded in the monumental architecture. Most attendees wore military uniform or strictly formal civilian clothes, sampling appetizers and mingling between conversation clusters in the warm light. The real business started tomorrow; this was only the initial meet and greet.
Ren could see Hux from where he leaned somberly against a thin sliver of wall between two great panes of glass, exuding enough intimidating energy to keep most people from approaching him. If anyone displayed more than passing interest, both his glower and the glistening saber hilt at his hip usually deterred them from approaching. It hung from his belt over a long black tunic in the military style, accented by a sharp-cut shoulder sash. Hux had sent a tailor to his quarters last week to measure him for the outfit with a message about how his present wardrobe was unacceptable for society functions. Ren had nearly choked the man out.
The General himself wore full dress, a far fancier version of his utilitarian everyday uniform. His greatcoat had been swapped for a silver-lined cape, beneath which shiny pins held down his collar and a double-layered sash crossed his waist. His fiery hair, as neat as ever, rested tucked up underneath a fancily angular cap. A series of medals and ribbons adorned his breast, a rare sight, as he never had reason to rely on overt insignia to be recognized for who he was. Unfortunately, to Ren’s mind, he hadn’t kept the beard. It really would have looked good on him, after a wash to get the blood out and a trim.
Hux nodded and smiled politely at something Ren couldn’t hear over the soft background music, half-turned into a small circle of diplomats and rich socialites. Because he had nothing else to do, Ren felt out with the Force until his mind settled comfortably in the back of Hux’s.
I must remember to meet with the ambassador from Derra IV about the coalition propaganda. Baskan Nar, as well, before the contractor meeting tomorrow. I’ll have Unamo send him a message. Hell, I wish I could throttle the Titus-Haleron company representative, wipe that pitying look off his face. Then: Am I boring you, Ren? Certainly you have other ways to entertain yourself.
I hate parties, he shot back, and broke the connection.
The General graciously excused himself from the cluster, gaze cutting past several swathes of attendees to fix Ren with an icy glare before he turned and swept back towards a table of hors d’oeuvres.
Ren sighed.
“Lord Ren,” Phasma’s voice came, lighter without her chromium helmet to filter through. She sauntered up to him through the hall’s periphery, her platinum hair cropped short above her white formal uniform. “I see you have found the best place to be at the party.”
“He really is offensively good at social pandering, isn’t he,” he grumbled, accepting one of the tiny glasses of Bakuran wine she offered, his second of the night. Phasma glanced at where his gaze lingered on Hux’s back.
“Of course. It’s only expected of a man of his stature.”
“I’ll never understand people who enjoy things like this. They’re such a pain.”
“I would also prefer to be working back aboard the Finalizer. But events such as these are for the good of the Order, and thus worthwhile.”
“To worthwhile pains, then.” He clinked glasses with Phasma and drank, glad to have at least one person here who he didn’t want to throttle, wish out of existence, or ignore completely. He wouldn’t call Phasma a friend—he didn’t keep friends—but he often appreciated the woman’s company despite her rigidly structured personality. Hux, on the other hand, still fell into the “throttle” category more often than not, but Ren wouldn’t have it any other way. Another worthwhile pain to toast to, he supposed wryly.
Two women came strolling by him and Phasma, both dressed finely and one tittering intimately on the arm of the other. Their eyes stuck on the tall pair where they loomed against the wall, raking over Ren’s visage before disappearing back into the throng. He wished yet again that he hadn’t been disallowed his mask, the slash of a scar on his face borne clear with his hair tied back and drawing an unwelcome number of curious whispers throughout the evening.
“I think I might need another one of these,” he grimaced, holding his now-empty crystal flute up to the light. “They’re child-sized.”
“By all means, Lord Ren. I don’t believe it’s even alcoholic,” Phasma replied. She still had half her wine left.
Ren snorted.
Hux moved to join another hub of officers and diplomats across the room, so the Knight stalked several windows down to keep lateral pace with him. He deposited the empty wine glass on the tray of a passing waiter as he went, tripping him several strides later out of petty boredom with a gentle nudge of Force. The resulting crash was only moderately satisfying. He began to run through combat katas in his head, biding the hours as the party blurred into one mind-numbing flow. He let a thread of his awareness hover near Hux, not enough for him to notice or transfer any real thoughts through, but enough that Ren felt comfortable to slip into slight inattention as he resignedly awaited the end of the reception.
A roiling burst of anger, the long-brewing kind, knocked Ren back to full responsiveness. He pushed off the wall and hesitated, unsure whether to approach the General. Anger didn’t necessarily mean danger, and he hadn’t sensed anything from the rest of the attendees. Hux answered that question for him, emerging blank faced and hard eyed from where the crowd flightily stepped out of his way. The glint of the low lights cast his uniform and facial angles into striking relief, rendering him absolutely predatory. It made Ren’s heart skip into his throat.
“We’re leaving,” Hux announced, striding past the Knight with an imposing billow of his cape. Ren fell silently in behind him. Something had set the man off, cold frustration bristling just beneath the surface. They swept out of the assembly hall to the turbolift, leaving the chatter and music behind for coolly lit halls where several guards scrambled to attention as they passed. As soon as they were alone in the lift, Hux’s composed expression broke into one of anger.
“Who offended you this time?”
The General punched their floor number viciously and whirled to face him. His heart sank.
“No one offended me, Ren. It’s all just bloody disrespectful,” he snarled, seething. “They think I don’t notice their morbid interest or care about the inane comments! They treat me as though I’m some sort of cracked glass, like I’ll either shatter into pieces or cut their fingers when they pick me up and they don’t know which they’re more afraid of.”
“You’ll cut them no matter what they do,” Ren growled as the lift dropped floor after floor, fingers clenching on the rail against which he leaned. “You are not a man who breaks. You proved that.”
“Would you believe that one of them said he wished it’d been him instead of me? Just to spit in Organa’s face?” He was roaring now, face red. “No one kriffing wishes for torture, Ren! Of all the damnable things!”
Hux’s return to the Finalizer had been discrete and quiet, a hushed flurry of medical droids and doctors and him running them through an obsessively organized self-assessment of his condition. Ren had just stood and watched from the shuttle’s ramp as they rushed him out of sight, a sigh of relief breathed silently to no one. After that he hadn’t had time to get more than a sideways word in with Hux, both of them were so busy, let alone a moment alone with the man.
The General spent his three watch cycles of post-surgical bedrest immersed in reports and strategic briefings and officer’s conferences, the medical suite transforming into a makeshift office complete with holoscreens and scurrying staff. So much of war consisted of unfortunate paperwork, apparently. His message queue became so long that he conscripted Unamo as his personal assistant to manage it, otherwise items would keep appearing faster than Hux could dismiss them. As soon as Medical cleared him he relocated the operation to his office deep within the Finalizer’s hull, located strategically equidistant between the CIC and the bridge.
Even considering the General’s usual neurotic fixation with work, it seemed unhealthy.
At least Lieutenant General Yatsuho hadn’t completely botched the extremely stressful job of being thrown unwarned into temporary command of the First Order’s entire galactic fleet. The news of Hux’s capture had spread from system to system like a fiery contagion, sparking flares of insurgency throughout regions both conquered and currently contested, forcing the Order’s resources back from the Inner Rim as they suddenly had to re-suppress prior claims. Ren had kept busy striking fear back into the hearts of their enemies, deploying three times with the Knights to particularly stubborn planets before reclaiming Hux from that dusty backwater of a bunker, and had continued after their return.
By the stars, just thinking about that day made him furious. He'd been just as livid as he'd been on Starkiller when the Resistance hauled Hux across the docking bay into their ship, the girl and her pet traitor fighting lethally to prevent him from helping him before turning tail. They'd been called back by Organa when it became clear that capturing the corvette and escaping with Hux alive had diverged into mutually exclusive objectives. She'd chosen the higher return option.
The strategic delays offered enough challenge, even without the stormtrooper problem. That, thanks almost entirely to Captain Phasma, seemed well in hand now. She’d traced the treason’s source to several radicalized cells within the Corps that had self-organized over the course of months and covertly contacted the Resistance for support. They were limited to operating on the Finalizer and a handful of other warships between which troop transfers had occurred after Starkiller’s destruction, apparently inspired by FN-2187’s defection. Ultimately, the number she’d been forced to purge hadn’t significantly affected operational capacity. Hux had remarked to Phasma that it could have been worse, which it absolutely, most certainly could have been, but Ren knew that for him personally the damage had already been done.
He could feel the anxiety festering under Hux’s skin in the week leading up to Snoke’s summons, splintering off of him like tiny slivers of glass. He had probed, once, catching Hux as he wondered if he had a chance in hell of retaining his rank or hide after failing the Supreme Leader a second time. The General had wheeled on him as soon as he’d felt the intrusion, pinning him up against the wall of his office with violence in his eyes.
“I am not an open file for you to read whenever you please, Lord Ren,” he’d snarled.
Ren sneered back, but he failed to really put any bite behind it. All he could focus on were the carefully concealed circles beneath Hux’s clear eyes, obvious in such close proximity. The man eventually released him, the smattering of other officers in the room and the insistent beeping of his datapad keeping the interaction from escalating. It was almost disappointing, but not for the typical reasons. Ren didn’t really want to clash with Hux when he was like this, preoccupied and strangely un-Huxlike, defensive and acting as though nothing had happened between them in that canyon.
When the day came, the General left Snoke’s audience far more confidently than he’d entered it, new purpose in his step as he marched to where Ren waited at the chamber doors. He’d pressed him with a wordless, vicious kiss in the deserted companionway, leaving him breathing hard and hot. It had gone well, then.
Hux went immediately to the CIC to record a speech and broadcast it as far as signal could ricochet between the stars. It was a vehement, barbed thing, the verbal equivalent of an obscene gesture at Organa, her cronies, and the New Republic that backed them. It was see me, hear me, you cannot keep me down and I’m all the deadlier for your efforts. I am coming for you.
The old Hux had returned replete with all his self-assured arrogance and righteous wrath, he’d believed, watching the holo from his quarters and savoring the rawness of his lip. But now, standing in the lift with him shouting in his face, his body arcing off so much indignance and pain that Ren could feel it almost physically, his heart sank.
This was not the Hux he wanted.