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Sadness has always been, for Hux, the defining characteristic of his father’s house. Sadness and fear in the shadow of Brendol’s perpetual, easily triggered ire. This time, however, when he dutifully goes back for the holiday, the mourning atmosphere is very literal.
His father informed him beforehand, as stiff and emotionless as ever, via holocall. From his early childhood, Hux had had to become so intimately acquainted with the tiny tells that gave away his father’s potentially dangerous moods, that he saw, despite the crackling connection and his rigid façade, how upset the old man was. Consumed by grief.
And then there was the chatter swirling in the servants’ quarters as he took up his bed down there. Maratelle, his father’s young wife – the latest one, only a few years older than Hux – had only barely survived, but the damage had been permanent. She wouldn’t be able to carry a child again.
He is so detached, by now, from his father and from all familial links that he is unable to feel anything about the dead child, either way – he feels no loss of a sibling, or relief that there will be no legitimate heir to oust him from his inheritance, after all. He pities Maratelle, though, the patrician, blonde slip of a girl whom his father married for her family connections, who, despite the pregnancy, now somehow looks even skinnier than before, pale and drawn, with huge dark circles beneath her eyes, as if the life has been sucked out of her. Which, in a way, it has, supposes Hux. The prospect of children was probably the only thing that made being married to Brendol bearable.
Maratelle still deliberately ignores and snubs him, though, as she has since their marriage. Hux can’t blame her. The sight of him must be particularly painful to her now – her husband’s bastard, living and breathing, while her own stillborn son rots in a grave in the Hux family vault, with no more to come.
They maintain all the proper formalities, of course – Maratelle was exquisitely brought up by her aristocratic family. And because Director Krennic is visiting too, to discuss First Order matters with Brendol, his father is also, at least outwardly, almost polite to him.
His daily meetings with the Director have had to be interrupted while they are both in the Hux household, of course. But just seeing the calmly severe Director around the house, during meals, talking with his father, is enough to keep Hux steady and grounded. Hux hardly ever takes part in any conversations other than by listening, and the Director has not addressed him directly, here. But the mere thought that the Director is sleeping under the same roof, two floors above him, is enough to make him feel safe at night in a way that he hasn’t experienced since he slept, as a little boy, curled up in the warmth of his mother’s kitchen.
And it won’t be long, he keeps reminding himself, until he is able to leave that house of grief and death and go back to the Academy, back to the Director’s warm office. Back to kneeling at his feet.
***
Dinner that night follows the usual dynamics: Brendol and Director Krennic discuss shifting politics and alliances as the as-yet secret First Order gathers momentum for what increasingly seems to be the inevitable clash with the Republic. Maratelle and him eat in silence, he listening to their conversation, Maratelle staring at nothing, very obviously lost in her own sorrow.
They are talking about the difficult logistics of procuring TIE fighters without alerting the Republic to the fact that the Order is well on its way to having aircraft carrying vessels, when Brendol mentions – as he often does – that, even though his military career later took a different route, he excelled at piloting in the Academy.
And then he suddenly looks up at Hux. “Not like that one,” he snarls, his voice so full of utter, venomous loathing that even Maratelle is jolted out of her sorrowful reverie. “He couldn’t fly a fighter straight if his life depended on it.”
Krennic glances at the shocked Hux, who, despite being used to this sort of thing, feels the blood draining from his face.
“That is not true, Brendol,” Krennic replies to his father in his cool, collected voice. “Armitage’s scores in the flight simulator have been consistently excellent.”
“A fucking simulator,” hisses his father. He sounds drunk, although he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol. Drunk with grief and anger. “Never been in an actual fighter in his life. Bet he would piss himself the minute he sat in one. Fucking bastard. Fucking little shit.”
The Director glances at Hux again and doesn’t reply. No point. He smoothly changes the topic. “Negotiations with the Geonossians are going quite smoothly, though. We will probably be able to reach an agreement quite soon…”
Hux looks down at his soup, feeling the heat of shame bloom on his cheeks. And remains silent, unable to take another bite for the rest of the evening.
***
Later, Maratelle excuses herself and retires to her bedroom, while the Director and his father move into the drawing room to continue their discussion over after-dinner drinks. Brendol need not say anything for Hux to know that he is dismissed for the night – as always, he nods mutely and leaves, his farewell acknowledged only by the Director’s gaze following him for a second.
As he passes the kitchens on his way to his room, he is stopped by one of the cooks, holding a bottle in her hands. Who explains that his father has called for it, and asks whether Hux would mind taking it to him.
Hux has half a mind to tell the cook that he’s not a servant in this household – but the fact is that he’s not treated as a family member, either, and he doesn’t want to antagonise the servants, who he knows, from experience, can make life very difficult for him during the time he’s forced to stay here. Also, he can see how busy they are in the kitchens right now, and this cook has always been kind to him. And he doesn’t want to be the sort of snob who thinks he’s above mucking in now and then, like his father does. So he takes the bottle, and climbs the stairs again, back to the drawing room.
The echoes of the conversation between Brendol and the Director drift down the corridor, within his hearing, as he approaches the half-closed door.
He stands next to the door, hesitating. They seem to be discussing the dead child. What went wrong. It sounds like his father is blaming the doctor.
“These things sometimes happen,” comes the Director’s voice, calm, rational, making Hux ache for his presence, for his relief. “You can’t blame him like that. It’s not fair.”
“I know. But I keep feeling that… it was an exchange, somehow,” says his father. “A life for a life. That if only he hadn’t failed, then the child…”
The Director’s voice is now harsh, sharply rebuking. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are a rational man, Brendol. That’s not how things work.”
Worried that the conversation may be getting heated, Hux slips into the room, unnoticed. Hoping to leave the wine there and withdraw quickly.
“I know. But it’s hard, Orson. It’s hard to swallow that the child I wanted is dead and he’s still alive.”
And then both men realise that he’s in the room. And stare at him where he stands, rooted to the spot. Deathly pale. Speechless.
He places the bottle on the nearest surface and leaves in a hurry.
***
My father would rather I were dead.
Nobody comes. He hadn’t expected it, not realistically.
The Director is in the house, just a couple of floors above him, and yet he might as well be on another planet.
He’s alone. He’s known this all along, but now it hits him bodily, like running into an unseen force field. He’s completely alone, and his father would prefer it if he were dead.
He lies on his narrow bed, in foetal position, tracing the long scars along his forearms. If only he hadn’t failed.
He thinks of his mother, suddenly filled with overwhelming longing for what he never had. For the warm corner in which he used to fall asleep in her kitchen, lost so long ago.
He could open them again. Go back to sleep.
But the Director is here. And his words are still in his mind, as alive and strong and that evening when he first told him. I am claiming you, Armitage Hux. From now on, you belong to the First Order. And he, Director Orson Krennic, is the First Order for Hux.
Your body and your mind, your entire self, are the property of the First Order now. You will not harm yourself again.
He grasps his left wrist with his right hand, gripping tight, tight, until his fingers leave red marks on his white skin. The closest he is allowed, now.
***
He returns to the Academy, finally, a couple of days after the Director leaves. During his first class after the holiday, the Director holds Hux’s gaze for a couple of seconds too long, and Hux knows that he’s expected in his office again that evening.
Everything is still there, still the same: the warm room, the lit fire, the dark, solid furniture and deep carpets. Director Krennic’s silent, authoritative presence.
The only thing that is wrong is him.
As always, he kneels naked where he is told – this time, facing one of the book-lined walls. This is usually when he empties his mind, quieting into stillness, content to just wait to be commanded by the Director. But it’s not working, not this time. His thoughts keep turning and turning, a maelstrom of confusion and pain and self-loathing. He has hardly been able to sleep, since that evening, and he’s exhausted.
He stays in this position, trying to force his mind to shut up and failing, until the Director calls to him.
“Come.”
He crawls around the huge dark desk until he is kneeling next to the Director’s legs. He usually tells Hux to lay his head on his thigh, but this time is different: he looks at Hux intently for a long time, scrutinising him as he stares down at the carpet, consumed by an unknown shame.
Then two fingers tilting his chin up. Forcing Hux to look into those cool slate-grey eyes.
“Go and lie down.”
So he’s going to get fucked. Hux isn’t surprised: it’s been a long time, and the Director must want his release. He crawls to the chaiselongue that stretches along the opposite wall and lies down on his back, as the Director prefers. As always, he has thoroughly prepared himself beforehand.
He closes his eyes, willing himself to breathe deeper, to relax. But he’s on edge, he’s on edge all the time now – and he sees, in his mind’s eye, the sharp edge of a blade, and feels almost blasphemous thinking about that forbidden thing, here.
He hears the Director’s steps as he stands up and comes to the chaiselongue. Then feels his weight next to him as he sits down. He opens his eyes, looks up. The Director is gazing down at him, just as intently as before, only now he seems to be scanning the full length of his body where he lies stretched out.
Gently, he takes Hux’s wrist, raises it. Examines it, then the other one. Looks down his body again, as if checking.
“Have you harmed yourself?” he asks, quietly.
Hux shakes his head. “It’s not mine to harm, sir.”
The Director smiles, a small, pleased smile. “Good boy.” And, for the first time in weeks, Hux feels good.
“Come here.” The Director makes Hux sit up, then settles more comfortably on the long seat, holding Hux in his arms, so that he is sitting on the Director’s lap, legs outstretched down the chaiselongue, head against the headrest, the Director’s left hand holding his nape.
“You’re a good boy,” he repeats. And gently caresses his body with his right hand as he speaks. “Such a good boy. You’re an asset to the First Order. You’re valuable, Armitage. So valuable.”
Hux closes his eyes again, terrified by the sudden tears that threaten to spill. He has cried before Director Krennic before, in sheer relief at his touch, but this is different. He’s afraid that if he cries now, he won’t be able to stop.
“No… please. Please, sir… No…” Weakly he tries, for the first time, to refuse the Director, to push him away. He should not be here. He doesn’t deserve this. It’s wrong. He is wrong.
“Armitage.” The Director’s voice, stern again. But somehow not harsh, not rebuking. “Look at me.”
He obeys instantly.
“To whom do you belong, Armitage?”
“To the First Order, sir.” He gulps, swallowing tears. “To you.”
The Director nods. “To me. You are mine.” He leans forward, and smooths a stray lock of hair from Hux’s forehead. “You don’t have a say in this.” And his hand drifts down to Hux’s penis, which is already standing at half-mast. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and Hux brings up his wrist to muffle a moan.
Which is gently removed by the Director. “No. Today you are letting it all out, boy.”
Hux stares at the Director, who holds his gaze, kind and firm. “But sir, I… I want to… You…” This is not what I'm for. Let me please you.
“You have no say in this,” repeats the Director. “Just obey.” Then takes out a small vial out of his pocket, lubes his hand, and starts stroking Hux’s penis.
Hux groans helplessly, at first trying to contain himself, then unable to as the Director’s hand brings him closer and closer to the edge. A different edge, he thinks, and leans against it, hard, nails biting into the palm of his hand as he rides it.
And meanwhile, the Director keeps whispering in his ear: “I’m so proud of you. You’re so good, such a good boy. You make me so happy.” A constant flow of praise, which Hux would find ridiculous, intolerable, had he not been ordered to withstand it. To accept it.
He’s so close, so close now. He shuts his eyes, and sees bright stars in the darkness there, like flares lighting up in the night, fireworks in his brain, sharp, so sharp and bright –
“Look at me.” He turns. The Director’s eyes piercing him. “You belong to the First Order. You belong to me. We have claimed you and named you, Armitage Hux of the First Order. This is your lineage. Everything else is meaningless.” He strokes harder, and Hux is teetering now, so, so close, he isn’t going to be able to hold it anymore, he’s close, so close to the edge…
“I give you your name,” says the Director. “Armitage Hux. Come.”
The Director holds him, holds his head against his chest, as he falls over the edge and the cry bursts out of him.
“Daddy!”
***
The word never crosses his lips with the Director again, and neither of them ever mention it. But even though he still addresses Brendol formally as Father, he stops thinking of him as such.
And he never feels illegitimate again.