Chapter Text
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
"Sorry, no can do. ‘ve got a full cargo anyway,” The zabrak at the other end of the table sniffs, scratching a fingernail under her nose.
Hux can feel his patience thinning at an alarming rate. He grits his teeth and speaks slowly and irritably behind his ‘borrowed’ vocoder, leaning over the table, “Do you know of any alternatives.” He doesn’t even ask—he can’t. He’s spent way too much time trying to score a ride. He’s asked probably half of the canteen inhabitants so far.
She shrugs, grossly catching something with her fingernail from under her nose and flicking it away. “I mean y’ could sneak on someone’s shuttle,” She grabs a drink from the waiter walking by with a plateful, takes a sip, “ ‘S not a good idea, but it would work. Just gotta be careful and watch your back.”
Yes, well. As if he’s not already doing that. He can feel his eyebrow twitching. It’s a good thing he stole one of Ren’s extra voice modulators, or he would’ve been caught already. Either that or the locals on this godsforsaken planet don’t care enough to look into his Imperial accent. “Right.”
He gets up from the table, brushes off his pants, turns, then leaves.
“Y’know where the hangar is, right?!” She calls after him.
He doesn’t, but he knows what to look for. He doesn’t grace her with an answer.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
Hux turned the first corner he could reach in the hangar and snuck up the only ramp that was open on one of the docked shuttles, thanking the stars that he managed to find a cargo freighter this quickly instead of needing to resort to someone’s haughty passenger ship. He is, after all, trying to lay low.
He weaves through the many crates, trying to find a good spot to stay until the trip is over. The crates are unmarked; if he’s lucky enough, they could be ration crates and he’d have enough food to last him the rest of the trip. If he’s not, they’re full of weapons, and this is practically a one way ticket to his death.
He spots a dark head of hair leisurely walking through the crates, making sure they’re safely strapped in before moving on to the next one. They’re humming.
As he settles down behind one of the crates the person had surely checked before, he places his travel pack down next to him to give his shoulders a break, rubbing at them. The cargo area shakes as the ramp retracts with a rusty groan and he can feel the ship powering up, the engines rumbling just behind his hiding place. It’s a good thing his stay here on this planet was quick, or there’ll be a higher chance of him being found, as unpleasant as this old piece of shit is.
If his frankly thin string of luck decides to stay, the employees maintaining the cargo are just a bunch of lazy bastards and he remains unseen.
The humming changes as it comes closer; a new song. He holds his breath.
Just as everything else in his life, nothing good ever lasts. That is, at least, his last thought to himself when he felt a sharp smack of sheet metal across the back of his head and everything goes dark.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
The first thing that goes through his mind when he regains consciousness is that his head fucking hurts. He tries to blink his eyes open, but everything is still so blurry and distorted that he almost vomits from the vertigo.
The next thing he registers is that his hands are tied behind his back, someone’s holding on his arm. He swallows back the bile trying to push its way out of his throat. So much for laying low. He hears a door open.
“Yo, Asii’ar!” The unseen gap between someone’s teeth giving him a harsh lisp on his ‘s’ s, turning them to ‘th’ s. Great, his captors are annoying bastards. What luck.
He gets yanked around a doorframe by the eejit that he saw earlier and his companion, and forced to face a desk with a scarily large man sitting behind it, scrolling on his data pad. Compared to his hands, the little device looks like a data chip.
“Look-ee here what we caught rummaging around in the back. A redheaded scavenger,” The captor with a lisp gestures at him with a sneer, showing drastically crooked, yellow teeth and what appears to be a badly-healed broken nose. Hux wrinkles his own perfectly fine nose in hardly contained disgust. The one holding his arm grabs the hair at the back of his head and yanks his head back to the large man behind the desk, Hux almost bites the tip of his tongue off with the force of it.
Hux turns his gaze to Asii’ar, who’s staring at him with a narrow eye, the other side—the left side of his face—is practically burned off, with a caved in portion where an was eye poorly removed. The entire area of the eye socket looks like someone scrubbed it with sandpaper. Hux would wince if he wasn’t currently being presented as a possible prisoner to him. Instead he returns the scrutinizing look right back, making his displeasure undoubtedly clear in his eyes.
Asii’ar, who he assumes is in charge of this bunch, heaves a heavy sigh, and drags a pinky finger gently along the scar where his eye used to be; a tick, Hux assumes. “That is not a scavenger,” He says in a smooth, baritone voice; calm and eerily even. Hux could swear he felt the floorboards under his feet shake with the force of it.
He rises from his seat behind the desk to his full height, and Hux has a brief moment of regret of ever getting on this shuttle. But he did, and now he’s here, getting towered over by his new captor and really wishing he took a short break to the refresher before heading for the quickest escape from what the locals called Tarvis.
He could snap him in half.
Hux always knew that the holomeetings with Snoke didn’t reflect his real stature, always knew him to be a little old troll making himself bigger to ensure the fear in his underlings.
This was not that.
And, until now, Hux didn’t believe giants existed. This man looks to be just about two and a half standard meters tall.
Hux, despite the growing dread, stands his ground. His quick rise in power wasn’t only because he aced all his tests and bested all his peers—no, he looked down at all his opponents, no matter their size. Let them know just who passed them up and how much he didn’t care for them. None of them were this big, his mind unhelpfully informs him. He stays silent, his jaw throbbing with how hard he’s clenching his teeth together.
The gap-toothed human’s smile drops and he tilts his head. “What? How? He was trying to fetch a free ride behind one of the crates and he had a travel pack with him.” He gestures vaguely at the entirety of Hux, hand waving around offensively. “How is he not a scavenger?” Hux huffs a short breath out of his nose. Gods, the lisping is annoying.
The giant walks up to Hux and crouches down so he’s on Hux’s eye level. “ That—“ He reaches up and rips the vocoder from Hux’s face. Hux throws his head back with a gasp, not expecting the quick movement from such a large person. “— is a war criminal. The General of the First Order—
—The Runaway.”
Hux’s stomach sinks.
The one holding his arm, who he now realized was a Twi’lek, based on the deep green of her other arm holding his shoulder, snorts, “Mmh, I don’t see it.”
“Wait, hang on,” The human walks up next to the Twi’lek, making ‘L’s with his hands and framing Hux’s scowling face. “Pull his bangs back, I think I can see it.”
Hux jerks his head back when the green hand reaches up and fists his hair over his forehead.
“Ohhh, now I see it.”
“What? I don’t. Here—hold him. I wanna see.”
Hux gets jostled around as the Twi’lek passes him to the human, a deep scowl darkening his face. And, once again, gets his pomade-free hair pulled back from his forehead. The Twi’lek makes a tsk sound in recognition, nodding, “Ah, yeah. That’s him”
Their commander makes a sound in the back of his throat and the Twi’lek is quick to return to Hux’s side, her hand latching hard on Hux’s bicep.
“Armitage Hux,” He considers him, eyeing him up and down. No one’s supposed to know his first name. “A Runaway of the First Order. Your location sure is worth a lot. The Republic would love to have you in their possession. You’re worth enough credits to last us, at the very least, a decade.”
Hux drags what’s left of his courage in his system and spits on his face. Right on his scar. The crooked-toothed human squeaks in surprise.
“You sell me out to the Republic, I will find my way back to you and I will kill you,” He snarls, forgetting for a second that his vocoder isn’t there anymore.
The giant flinches back a little in disgust, and drags a couple fingers lightly over the scar, wiping it away. “Right.” He flicks the saliva to the side and turns back to Hux, his too-calm demeanor making Hux feel a strong sense of unease gnaw at the back of his mind. “Maker only knows why you still have your haughty General spitefulness, you don’t even deserve it,” He coos.
His face changes suddenly, a dark shadow roaming over his face like a switch was pulled, draws back slightly and slaps Hux across the face in one swift motion.
To him, slapping Hux must’ve felt like slapping away a fly.
To Hux, it felt like getting hit with a hot iron. The entire right side of his face burns. He seethes, blood seeping through a cut in his lip.
Hux spits on the ground. “Even you should know better than to even think of selling me.” He racks his brain for some kind of palatable excuse to use. “The First Order will hunt you down if they know you’re connected to my disappearance. They’d kill you once they’d got what they needed from you.”
Asii’ar leans in and grabs his chin with a steel grip, the aggressive switch turned off and his good eye stares a cold calm into Hux’s. Hux almost whimpers; he grinds his teeth instead, tasting more blood. “No, you’re right,” He says softly, as if trying to ease Hux. “I won’t sell you. That’d be a waste.” His face turns thoughtful, “You’re too valuable to throw away just yet. Think of it as...gaining interest.”
Hux seethes. “So you plan to hold me hostage?”
Asii’ar tilts Hux’s head this way and that, shaking his own head. “The First Order isn’t even looking for you.”
His stomach drops. He’s lucky he locked his jaw, or his dread would’ve been obvious on his face. They’ve already given up on him?
“Ohh, yeah!” The annoying one piped up with a snap of his fingers next to Hux, “They sent out a mass PSA to anyone who bothered to listen. ‘Armitage Hux is not in our custody anymore, something-something shoot him on sight’, something like that.”
A drop of blood falls from his chin, leaving a heavy red trail around Asii'ar's wrist until it drips to the floor; in the quiet of the cabin, the impact could've been audible. He snarls, turning from the human's back to Asii’ar despite the lingering feeling of dread, but says nothing. Hux is afraid of what Asii’ar would do if he let his tongue run any more than it already has.
He shouldnt’ve run. He should’ve stayed and endured Snoke. Snoke only smacked him around. The look in Asii’ar’s eye promises so much more.
His mother warned him—his mother warned him to never back down no matter how scary things got and he didn’t listen.
They’re going to kill him.
Asii’ar lips twitch in an almost-smile, pats his cheek belittledly, and turns to go plop back down in his seat behind the desk, scrolling again through the little data pad. Hux’s gaze never leaves him, fear constricting his throat and making it hard to breathe.
Asii’ar huffs and waves them away. “Take him to my quarters. I’ll start working on him next cycle, after our delivery.” He sets aside the pad and clasps his hands in front of him, leans down against them, and raises his eyebrows at Hux. “I look forward to working with you.”
His eye looks at the crooked-nosed human in a gesture, and the kid seems to understand. A cloth gets shoved up to his face smelling sharply of sweet-smelling chemicals, and he’s ushered out of the cabin.
The next thing he knows, the Galaxy grows dark again.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
When Hux wakes again, he still feels the sense of vertigo, and he lets himself pant open-mouthed, saliva dripping out of his mouth and to the floor in front of him. He’s sitting, hunched over himself and leaning forwards from the wall, where the entirety of his forearms are cuffed near the bottom, his legs sprawled out in front of him. He slows his breathing, and swallows the metal-tasting spit collecting behind his teeth. When he looks up and around the room, he appears alone.
He brushes his temple on his shoulder to try to get rid of the sweat that collected at his hairline, and tests the shackles his forearms are bound in. Sturdy, leaving it very unlikely that he’d be able to break out of them. They feel brand new, no rusty corners or grinding hinges. There’s a little chain that connects them to the wall, giving him a slightly larger range of motion than he expected.
He huffs and leans back against the wall, finally taking in his surroundings. He appears to be in some sort of living quarters, a similar structure to the one he had on the Finalizer. Just less...luxurious. And more personalized.
There’s an empty coat rack by the entrance, with a strange-looking dark sword balanced against the wall right next to it. A couple paintings were strewn around the room, some looking fairly rare and expensive. Stolen, surely. A gray, slightly stained couch with a table in front of it, an old-fashioned holoprojector placed in the middle of it. The six-sided rug centering the room looked well-loved, a few of its corners frayed. There’s a two-seated table by the duraplast panes to his left and a door on each side of the room.
He lolls his head against the wall, the cold of outer space cooling the durasteel aiding in keeping a headache at bay. He pauses when he looks up, a security camera pointed right at him, the little red light next to it pulsing. He’s being watched. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes for him.
He closes his eyes again and drifts off. Better to get sleep now than to wait to go through whatever Asii’ar wants to put him through.
He doesn’t dream.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
He wakes with a jolt when he feels the freighter descend into a planet’s atmosphere, the entire ship shaking as it slows its decline. He holds his breath, feeling the telltale ache in his ears of a change in atmosphere until he feels the ship land. His ears pop with a ring.
His mouth feels dry, and he tries to smack his lips together to provoke saliva production, but finds a scarf tied around his head and in his mouth, the cloth cutting into the corners of it. He bites into the cloth with a squeak, but all it does is hurt his teeth, he can’t even feel them click together. His jaw hurts. His boots—the only thing he kept from his usual attire on the Finalizer—are also gone. Possibly sold already. The First Order General’s Boots, probably sold for a good 13,000 credits. It’s a wonder people haven’t gone on the freighter looking for him.
He tongues at his bottom lip where it split, tasting a metallic note of blood. He leans back against the wall and stares directly into the lens of the security camera, wishing to just get whatever they want to do to him done and over with.
Maybe he shouldn’t wish. He should wish that somehow he had a way out of here, but he knows that’s not possible. Ren doesn’t give less than two shits about him, and he’s really the only person who could discreetly find him, with his magic powers and such. Snoke wanted him gone. He wanted a reason to get rid of him, and Hux couldn’t take his scrutiny any longer, so he fulfilled his wish. Phasma; may her soul rest in peace. Hux curses FN-2187 again for probably the dozenth time. A defect killed his only safeguard. Hux had placed a tracker in the skin in the little divot at the base of his skull and gave her the frequency it was at, but had it removed in lieu of her passing. If Hux thought this more through, he probably would’ve repeated that and given Mitaka information about his leaving, a frequency to tune into. Mitaka would’ve been that someone he could trust to bring him back to safety, to take him from Asii’ar and his crew.
But he can’t. It’s too late, they’re not even looking for him. Even if they were, it would be very degrading—crying out for help like that. His father was wrong. And will forever be. He blows out a sharp breath from his nose and collapses against the wall. And waits.
Hours, he waits. His shoulders ache.
He closes his eyes and apologizes to his mother.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
He startles awake again at the sound of a hatch opening, but clenches all his muscles to keep from showing he’s awake. There’s footsteps, not heavy enough to be Asii’ar’s, and too light and dainty-sounding to be the human’s.
“Oh, silly, I know you’re awake. Open your eyes, darling.” He feels a pat on his cheek, and he scrunches up his nose in disgust and turns away. “Mmm, there we go. Awake at last. That was some trip, wasn’t it?” He feels a hand pet his hair and jolts away.
The Twi’lek tuts, pinching his cheek gently and turning him to look at her face. “Asii’ar’s giving you an easy route. He could've sold you to the New Republic, even given you to the traders on Tatooine, but he didn’t.” She smiles passive-aggressively and pokes her nail into his cheek sharply, and he swears the skin breaks. He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth. “You need to say something, sweetie. I need to know if your vocal cords still work.”
He bares his teeth behind the scarf and sneers cruely at her. Promising a dreadful demise in his eyes. She only smiles more.
She punches him sharply in the stomach, and he coughs out an ‘oomf’. She pulls out her fingernail and claps her hands together twice in quick succession, Hux still wheezing from her blow. There’s blood on her nail. “Great! Your vocal chords do work. I was really worried the chem-cloth damaged them because we didn’t hear any yelling. It was, after all, our first time needing to do that.” She smiles sweetly, and brushes a hand over her lekku. “Well! Our next freight is probably ready, and Goshr’r has been antsy all afternoon to get going. I’ll let them know you’re awake.”
And with that, she left with a wink.
Now that he’s actually gotten a good look at her face, he’s pretty sure he talked to her in the canteen.
Not enough room, my arse.
Hux grinds his teeth on the cloth, feeling blood drip down his cheek and soak into the scarf. He shifts around. They changed his position. He’s kneeling now, and his calves are starting to smart from the hard floor. He used to be more flexible, able to do the splits and touch his feet to the back of his head, but all the years standing stiff at the bridge, the constant tensing of his shoulders, he’s lost all that. His knees hurt when he tries to get them back in front of himself. Instead, he resolves to just shifting so his legs are spread, his calves sitting at a different angle instead of dead-on. It helps ease the pain, but he knows he’ll only be able to sit like this for a good 15 minutes, if even.
He looks back at the entrance when the doors make a ‘ whssk ’ kind of noise. His heart stops.
It’s Asii’ar.
“Took you a while,” He grunts, shucking his heavy jacket off and hanging it on the little coat hanger; they must be on a colder planet. He runs a hand through his hair to disperse the flurries of snow, a few grays showing through dark hair; the start of a salt-and-pepper coloring. “Glad to see you’ve finally decided to join us.” Asii’ar goes through a few pockets in his jacket until he takes out a small silver cylinder shape and inspects it. Hux grits his teeth around the scarf.
His stomach growls. He didn’t eat yet, he didn’t bother getting something from the canteen, practically everything on their menu was not human-safe. He ignores it.
Asii’ar slightly turns back to him with a raised eyebrow. “Not talking still?” Asii’ar sniffs, placing the cylinder into one of his pockets. “I was honestly hoping that you’d start throwing insults at me. The quiet, I’ll admit, isn’t unappreciated.” He walks over to where Hux is bound to the wall and squats down.
Hux snarls. Never back down from a fight. “You and your lowlife clan are nothing to me but a few obstacles,” He growls behind the scarf, just to spite him. It just comes out as a few muffled sounds.
Asii’ar stares into Hux’s eyes, his own eye flicking between the two. He huffs again. “You sure have a mean bark sometimes, Runaway, let’s see if you have any bite.”
And with that, Asii’ar unwraps the scarf and simply pokes a pointer finger to Hux’s teeth with a sharp eyebrow raised.
This could go one of two ways: it’s a test. If Hux were to bite the tip of Asii’ar’s finger off, he would probably be shoved out of an airlock, get his neck snapped, or at the very least taken to Tatooine. If not that, then it’s Asii’ar’s own respect he’s offering.
If he doesn’t bite, it looks like he’s resigned—given up. It makes him submissive. It makes Asii’ar the winner.
It proves his father right.
You’re just some weak little cells that managed to take hold of my genes. Now stand up straight and give me the necklace.
Before he could make a decision, Asii’ar takes his hand away and huffs, like he’s won. And that makes up Hux’s mind. He stares darkly at Asii’ar.
Asii’ar simply hums, gets up and leaves to go into a room to his left. All the tension in Hux’s muscles drains in his confusion, and he slumps forward from the durasteel wall, curling more into himself when his stomach reminds him again that he needs to eat.
After some time, the entrance to the quarters open again, Goshr’r (supposedly, that’s the human's name) tumbles in with two saran wrapped plates in his hands.
Hux raises an eyebrow in question. Goshr’r only shows his crooked teeth in a sneer (or a smile?) and plops the plates in front of him.
“Boss told me you need food. So! I made my special.” He lisps, unwrapping the first of the plates, and the smell hits Hux like a gut punch. It’s awful. He backs up to the wall behind him and gives Goshr’r his hardest stare. He’s had grown men a few decades older than him piss their pants from it.
Goshr’r only looks offended. “Hey, I learned this recipe from my ma.” Hux only stares at him. Goshr’r lets out a reserved sigh, “I know you’re not happy, but I need to feed you, or you’ll starve. Asii’ar wants you alive and well, he’s not that bad of a captor.” The food looks like Goshr’r puréed everything they had in their cafeteria. Hux wrinkles his nose in distaste. “But he does like to show off his pretty things,” He winks. Hux freezes and glances back to Goshr’r warily.
Goshr’r blinks back at him, snorts, then goes back to his ‘special’, grabbing a fork and making to scoop up a glob, then decides against it. “Nah, I’m kidding. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he sorta took us in in a similar way that you are now, just not so ‘handcuffy’.” Goshr’r lisps. Hux wants to punch his teeth in. “He just had to make sure we were trustworthy before he took us under his wing. Guess since you’re a war criminal and all, he’s gotta be more careful.”
Hux still stares at him, nostrils flaring, trying to keep his cool. This is all a ploy, a way to get his trust so they can hurt him and get rid of him easier. Hux knows this, there were whole classes at the academy on this.
He just needs to play his cards right.
“Alright,” Goshr’r lisps, “Open up! Gotta help keep you alive!” He goes to bring a glob of that very salty smelling food to Hux’s mouth, but Hux keeps his jaw locked shut.
Goshr’r’s gross food-hand follows his head to the wall, and Hux can feel his shoulders rising, the cold of the durasteel against the back of his neck, pimpling it. Goshr’r uses his other hand to grab Hux’s jaw, prying into the joint to unhinge it—
And Hux gets an idea.
It all went so slow, to Hux. He reared back slightly, out of Goshr’r’s reach, and rushed forward to latch onto Goshr’r’s fingers, and bit down—hard. With a scream, Goshr’r rips his hand away and leaps backwards, holding his hand to his chest, wrapping his shirt around his hand to prevent it from bleeding everywhere.
Hux spits the tip of the middle finger and shreds of the flesh of his other fingers out onto the floor, along with the little bit of food-goop Goshr’r managed to get in. He looks up at Goshr’r and sneers, blood surely colouring his teeth.
Goshr’r scrambles to the door, punches the door function and runs out, holding his hand to his chest.
Success.
That’s one less problem to deal with.
Hux spits out more of Goshr’r’s blood onto the floor, grimacing at the metallic taste. His stomach growls again. He warily looks back to the plates in front of him.
The goop.
He's still hungry.
He bites his lip, thinking.
Hux could lean down and eat it, but he’s not desperate enough to stoop down that far. His stomach growls again, as if disagreeing. His lip resumes its bleeding, and he tongues at it, still thinking.
It could be drugged, but if it was, Goshr’r wouldn't've fed him with his fingers. Judging by the fact that he bit off the finger without the plasticy residue of a glove around it, there were none. And the slight bit of food that Goshr’r had managed to get in his mouth hadn’t had any effect on him yet. Not drugged.
There’s really no reason to not eat it, aside from how bad it smells.
“Bitch.” He whispers to himself. He’s had enough blood in his mouth, something else might be better.
He leans down, shifting his shoulders so he can reach for the plates better, and he strains, gods he strains, but he can’t reach it, at least the open one he can’t reach. He relents, dragging himself back up and leaning against the wall for a second, catching his breath. He leans down to reach for the wrapped one, mouth open and ready to drag it back towards himself, when the door to his left opens again, Asii’ar walking out, and Hux freezes, mouth clamping shut with a click.
Asii’ar looks at him with the same cold, hard stare, and despite his horrible posture, with his hands in his front pockets and slightly slouched shoulders, Hux is hit with another wave of unease. Hux slowly retreats back to the wall, keeping his gaze hard on Asii’ar.
There’s a few moments with them like that, staring at each other, daring the other to move.
It’s Asii’ar who moves first.
“You bit the kid’s finger off,” He says, while grabbing a nearby chair by one of the duraplast panes and places it in front of Hux and sits down. He gestures to the fingertip next to Hux. Hux’s gaze quickly flickers to it then back to Asii’ar.
Asii’ar leans forward in the seat and comes face to face with Hux, his face steeling. “You bit. His finger. Off.”
Hux seethes quietly.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” He breathes. “Usually the pompous ones like you are too afraid to get your hands dirty.” He drags his hand along Hux’s jawline and slides his fingers into the hair on the side of Hux’s head, thumb brushing Hux’s cheekbone. Hux makes to move after it.
He fists his hand into Hux’s hair and yanks his head backwards before his teeth can latch on, the back of it cracking into the duraplast, and once again, Hux tastes blood, his tongue throbbing in pain.
Asii’ar leans in close again, his nose almost brushing Hux’s ear and whispers sharply, “That is the only mistake you will make on my ship.” He leans back again, just enough that Hux can feel the warmth of his breath ghost over his face. “If you want to stay in one piece, I suggest you refrain from violence, and we will do the same. You bite off my thumb, I’ll bite yours off, understood?.”
Hux whimpers slightly.
He sits back down in his chair with a nod and picks up the plate of goop and the fork Goshr’r left behind, scoops a glob, and inspects it. “I don’t think you even deserve to eat.” His eye flicks back to Hux. “All I told him to do was to feed you, and you repaid him by biting his finger off.”
Hux turns his eyes down, still plastered to the wall, and thinks. He’s hungry, really hungry and he’d do just about anything for that bite of food. He closes his eyes and thinks back to his father, how he’d demand Hux to apologize for something he hasn’t even done. He thinks back to how he perfected the act of sincerity.
He opens his eyes and looks up at Asii’ar from under his eyelashes, surely looking as pitiful and sincere as he can, but reserved enough to not be suspicious. “I’m sorry,” He says, harsh enough to be in character, soft enough to be believable. Gods, please believe me.
The quiet stretches on.
He sees a hand reach down and pick up the still-wrapped plate out of his peripheral and whips his head up. Asii’ar turns it around in his large hand. “No, you’re not.”
Oh no.
“And you’re apologizing to the wrong person,” Asii’ar looks back at him. “What you did tonight cost you something. And you still have yet to pay us for your stay here.”
No, nononono—
“The food will have to wait until tomorrow,” He continues, ignoring Hux’s face of horror, “And you’ll have to pay your due.”
“I’m sorry!” He accidentally yells, his voice coming out high. Might as well go through with it. He thrashes against the wall, leaning forward in faux submission while simultaneously reaching for the unwrapped plate without success. Asii’ar kicks it away. “No! I’m sorry! I’ll be good, I swear, just give me a bite, that’s all I ask.” His head hangs forward, panting. “ I’m sorry,” He whispers, over and over. Please be enticed.
A hand runs itself through his hair, and he thinks yes! He fell for it.
“I accept your apology.” Yes! “But that doesn’t change what you did.” Godsdamnit, no!
The hand continues to thread through his hair, his head still hanging down. “I’ll think about it,” Asii’ar hums.
Then the hand leaves, as does Asii’ar, and with him, the two plates of food.
Hux brings his head back up and sags against the wall, steadfastly trying to ignore his growling stomach and the wetness of tears cooling on his cheeks.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
Asii’ar comes back hours later with only the one plate, but keeps his distance. Hux is as curled into himself as he possibly could be, swallowing every three seconds. He timed it to the blinking of the red light to keep himself both distracted and from throwing up from the cramps of hunger.
Blink, swallow.
Blink, swallow.
Blink, swallow.
When he risks a glance at Asii’ar, the man looks pleased, like reducing what was once a well-respected weaponry genius to this writhing, starving husk of a man is just what he wants to do with his life.
Hux can feel how grimey this hair is, how gross he feels. He’s scared of what he looks like. He lets out a weak groan.
Asii’ar ‘mmm’s, a slight pleased crinkle in his eye like his mouth is physically incapable of breaking a smile, grabs a forkful of the glob-food and holds it out to Hux. “Good, now, eat.”
Hux, still leaning hard into the wall behind him, looks from the fork in his hand and back to his face, swallowing back the bile. He’s breathing hard, and it’s getting harder to slow it. His stomach growls again.
Asii’ar pushes the fork forward a little. “Go on.”
Hux hesitantly leans forward and gingerly takes a bite from the fork.
It’s like biting into a rainbow.
His eyes roll back and he almost groans at the feeling of food hitting his tongue. He’s starving, and at this point he doesn’t care how the food smells and looks.
Asii’ar makes a low rumble in his chest, what Hux assumes to be a chuckle, and he scoops another forkful of food into Hux’s waiting mouth. “See, you just needed a little talking-to.” Another scoop. His other hand slides into his hair on the other side of Hux’s head, and he damn-near leans into it. “And a little taking care of,” he hums.
Hux eats the rest of the plateful of food, and rests his chin in Asii’ar’s hand, which is still holding his head.
Hux is in bliss. He’s never felt this sated.
Asii’ar puts the fork down and reaches behind Hux, and he hears a sort of ‘click’ , and suddenly the pressure on his shoulders ease. Asii’ar hums again, and he helps Hux up to his feet; the hand on his face moving to his back to push him into Asii’ar’s chest, the other under his armpit to haul him up. Hux’s body feels like jelly.
He lets Asii’ar lead him to wherever they’re going, a left, a right and a sudden left, and right again. Hux opens his eyes when they stop. “Wuh...?”
A low rumble comes from Asii’ar again, and he pats gently at Hux’s hip. “You need a bath. Pants off?”
Hux still feels drowsy, and everything feels fuzzy and warm, a nice weight in his belly and a tingling sensation working its way up his legs. And he goes to nod—
Wait. This isn’t right.
Hux never feels good.
Hux always hurts, in one way or the other. His shoulders ache from his constant stiff stance, his eyes hurt from staying awake for so long, his head constantly hurts from the utter imbeciles around him at all times.
Hands brush the sides of his face to cradle it and his knees almost give out, and he’s...what was he thinking of again?
A bath, that’s right.
He nods.
His pants drop, and his briefs go.
He’s ushered to step over a curved lip and cross his legs, and he goes. The shackles ‘click’ again, and his shoulders relax completely. His borrowed shirt goes, and so does the undershirt. Then he hears static.
Or...no. Rain. No, a waterfall. A faucet. There’s water lapping at his legs, it’s a pleasant almost-too-hot. Water gets poured over his head, a hand cupping his forehead to prevent water from going into his eyes. There’s hands in his hair, massaging his scalp. It smells good—soap? The water stops, and there’s quiet breathing behind him. He grabs the little purple pendant hanging from his necklace. He feels little again, with his mother.
[.-- .-. --- -. --.]
It’s a too late night for six-year-old Armitage, he’s tired, a long day chasing the other village kids. He’s dirty, he slipped and fell into one of the many mud piles, and instead of getting up and washing it off, he rolls around in it, ushering the other kids to join. There’s laughing, squealing and shrieking; excited exclamations from happy children.
A little boy chases after a little girl's braids. A girl throws a glob of mud at another. Suddenly hands are lifting him up from under his armpits and the soft voice of his mother in his ear. “It’s late, sweetie. And you’re all full of dirt,” She laughs, and pokes at a dollop of mud stuck to his nose. He fists her hair and brings her in, nuzzling against the side of her face. “Okay, momma.”
They’re in the tub together, Armitage sitting in his mother’s lap and playing with the tub toys he got for his birthday last year. A gush of water gets thrown over his head and he gasps, laughing after at the startled sound his mother makes in return.
He hunches over and lets the feeling of her lathering soap into his bright hair lull him, the soft scratch of her fingernails soothing.
She’s humming.
Not any song Armitage recognizes, but it soothes him even more, and he sighs, trying to hum along and guessing each next note.