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He’s twelve years old and shaking in his cadet’s uniform and his hand rests poised before the entry chime for Admiral Brooks’ quarters. His father’s words creep along the buzzing nerves in his fingertips, send a tremble down through his wrist and further still—each stinging jolt, each remembered syllable, spreading like electricity through a body that will soon become foreign to him.
It is this moment Armitage will come to consider his last few seconds of innocence. Before, when his father had laid out in sickening detail what was expected of him to gain the Admiral’s favour, he had been too shocked for the words to sink in, too shocked to do anything but watch from a distance as his head nodded acquiescence like a puppet under a loosening string. He wanted to serve, did he not? Wanted what was best for the Order? Well then.
Now, as he forces himself to press down on the button, it is all too real.
Later, when Brooks offers him a drink of something oily and sour, he will remember dropping to his knees in his father’s room last year, ready to lick up the spilt liquid from around the shattered tumbler at Brooks’ command, and he will think, it tastes like there’s still glass in this .
He swallows it all down anyway. lets the older man bend him over the side of the bed, grits his teeth against the slick probing of his fingers and the pain that comes after. When it’s done his face is wet with saliva and tears.
Later still, years later, he will tell himself firmly that his childhood was already over by the time he stepped over the threshold. When he lets himself remember it at all.
He’s fourteen and stiff-jawed when he presents himself to Snoke. A gift , his father had said, and Armitage had silently corrected; a sacrifice . This man, this being, is powerful. It is vitally important to have him on side, and so Armitage must try to anticipate what he wants. He has enough experience to know what his superiors find pleasing by now, doesn’t he?
Admiral Brooks had asked for him again, more than once, under the pretence of teaching him; had been keen to correct him when he fell short of his lessons, with floggers and gags and, once, the sharp jolt of a modified sidearm. He hadn’t known it was on its lowest setting when Brooks forced it between his lips. His throat had ached for weeks afterwards. He still bears lash-marks over his back.
If Snoke wants an innocent, Armitage is the wrong boy to send. But he’ll do what he can. He wants to serve, doesn’t he? Wants the Order to grow strong, gather allies, conquer the galaxy?
Besides, he’d rather not face his father’s whip.
He is sixteen and dull-eyed when one of his father’s peers puts a hand on his thigh under the dining-table and says, what Brendol doesn’t know can’t hurt him . Armitage doesn’t tell him that Brendol knows exactly what’s going to happen in these quarters. He lets the General draw him to the bed, opens his mouth lifelessly when the man’s tongue seeks entry; wonders whether he might be able to enjoy this if he tried.
His hands no longer tremble when he unbuttons his own uniform. He lets his breathing deepen, darts out his tongue to wet his own lips. At least this one is human , he thinks. He still has nightmares about what Snoke did to his body, about the acidic sting of what the Supreme Leader forced inside him, the way it moved . He allows his hands to wander over the General’s chest, reassuring himself with its human smoothness, its lack of exposed sinew. The older man takes this as a sign of Armitage’s approval, and Armitage does not bother to correct him, although he fails entirely to get hard.
Not that it seems to matter to the General. He stretches Hux out on his front, and runs his fingers over the old whip-scars down his spine as he eases inside him. “Someone’s been a naughty boy,” he murmurs. “Would you let me do this to you, too? I’d take good care of you afterwards.”
“Maybe next time,” Armitage breathes. This, at least, is satisfying to him. There won’t be a next time, not after Armitage slips the poison into his post-coital drink.
“You’ve done well,” Brendol says, later, after the man is dead.
“Thank you, General,” he replies. Silently adds, you’re next .
Hux is thirty-five when he finds the young boy in Kylo Ren’s quarters. Brooks and Brendol are long dead. He’s risen to the heights of command, and he rarely if ever thinks about what he needed to do to get there. Still, a cold seeps into him when he steps inside.
The boy is twelve years old, trembling in his cadet’s uniform. His hair is blonde with a hint of red. Kylo is sitting before him, mask off. He looks at Hux, and, as usual, dispenses of any kind of greeting.
“This is Micah. He’s force-sensitive,” he comments, instead. “Strong enough to hide it from our tests until now. I’ve decided to train him.”
Before he can think—before he’s even aware he’s doing it—Hux steps between Kylo and the boy.
“No,” he says. “Absolutely not.”
Kylo narrows his eyes. His legs shift as if preparing to stand. “Excuse me?”
“I believe you heard me, Supreme Leader.” Hux feels the base of his jaw trembling, feels the sour twist of fear in the pit of his stomach, but he stands firm, and his hand ekes toward the blaster inside his coat. He will go down fighting if need be.
Kylo’s voice darkens. “I wasn’t asking for your approval.” He rises to his feet. Hux flinches when he ignites his lightsaber, and he hears the boy make a small, terrified noise.
He draws the blaster, but his arm freezes in place. Kylo stretches out a hand as Hux strains against the invisible hold. His features are twisted with anger—and confusion.
“Why this foolish defiance, General?” he intones. “What is this boy to you?”
Something is pressing into him, into his mind. The old wounds on his back tingle; a memory wraps itself around his throat—
When he comes to again, he’s sitting down in Kylo Ren’s quarters, and breathing hard. The boy is gone. The Supreme Leader is sitting opposite him. There’s a look in his eyes that Armitage has never seen before and cannot quite identify.
“Hux,” he’s saying. “Take a breath.”
“What?” Hux trembles out. He blinks rapidly, and wonders if he’s about to die.
“The only useful thing Skywalker ever taught me. Take. A breath.”
“Are you—going to kill me?”
“No.” Kylo reaches over, and takes him by the wrist. Armitage feels his fingers being wrapped around something cool and foreign. It’s a glass of water. Coming from the Supreme Leader, this calm gesture of servitude is confusing and bizarre, like watching a Rathtar doing intricate needlework.
Hux can’t speak. The liquid trembles when he lifts the cup to his lips. Kylo holds his gaze, waits for him to take a sip.
“Hux.” he says. “Look at me. I don’t want to fuck a twelve-year-old.”
He knows. The General feels shame wash over him head to foot. Having one’s memories rifled through is never pleasant; knowing that his immediate superior has now seen him crying in Admiral Brooks’ bed even less so. Hux closes his eyes.
“I did wonder why you were so… odd, about sleeping with me,” Kylo carries on. “I thought at first you felt like you were obligated, but your thoughts said otherwise.” He narrows his eyes. There’s a strange touch of worry in them. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Hux says, weakly. “It was a pleasant distraction. It was—”
“Different from all the other men?” Kylo cuts in frankly. When Hux says nothing, he carries on. “You don’t like me touching you from behind. You don’t like my weight on top of you. I suspected there was something .”
Hux stares at him, paralyzed.
“They’re all dead, yes?” Kylo asks. “Those men. If any of them still breathe, tell me now. I’ll want their heads by the beginning of the next shift rotation.”
“They’re all dead,” Hux repeats. He feels a tear slipping down his cheek. Something inside him is slowly uncoiling.
The Supreme Leader reaches for his hand; holds it, for the first time. An ancient tension in Hux’s chest is slowly loosening. The savage whispering of his nerves is finally fading to a quiet.
“Take a breath,” Kylo says. “I’m here.”