A/N: This is set a few months after Brendol Hux was assassinated by the combined efforts of Armitage, Phasma, and a beetle. In this story, Armitage Hux is 22, asexual, a virgin, drunk, and entirely oblivious. I include this in the Grey Order series because it's background material, but it's also a stand-alone. While I keep many aspects of the Phasma novel in my writings (including probable Brendol/Phasma), I do not use the part about Phasma never removing her helmet in the sight of others. She's in off-duty wear here.
"I suppose I shouldn't drink so much," he told Phasma late one night. She was sprawled on his couch in his quarters on the Absolution. It was an odd position, legs spread and an arm curled upward with one hand tucked behind her head. He was sitting at his new table, looking at his nearly empty glass of liquor. It was the last of his father's stores of the stuff. "We had such a wonderful conversation about the future of the training programs. I hope I remember it in the morning."
"Hm," she said musingly. "I could remind you."
"Yes, I suppose you could."
She shifted her hips, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. She was as drunk as he was. "I'm lonely."
"Aren't we all?" He supposed it was a fact of life. They'd both had odd upbringings and it wasn't like they were functional human beings even now. When he talked to the people from before, from the imperial days, it was like talking to aliens. The cultural frame of reference was simply too different for him to grasp. Phasma seemed to be much the same.
"I need company tonight," Phasma said.
Blearily, Hux smiled over at her. "I can't see how, given how crowded the barracks are."
She responded hotly, "What are you trying to say?"
He chortled. "Oh, there's a whole room of them, aren't there? Like the bunk halls at the academy? It's a long room with stacked beds, forty, fifty, maybe a hundred people? I don't know how you manage to sleep there, with everyone snoring and being flatulent. I have too many nightmares. I think I'd wake up in a fright every time someone rolled over in bed." But on the other hand, maybe she had a private room. Her rank accorded it. He finished off his drink. It wasn't like he'd ever been to her quarters to find out. Nor was he curious enough to ask now.
She staggered to her feet with her brows pulled together and a frown on her face. "I was going to sleep with you!"
He looked at her blankly, not understanding the emotional intensity she put into that. "Why are you standing up then? There's the couch. You're not getting my bed. I don't care how tall you are. Besides, I don't fit on the couch, either."
"Tall?"
"Yes," he answered. "You're taller than I am. Don't complain to me if the couch isn't long enough. You have your own bed if you care."
She stared at him, then laughed richly and headed to the door. "I suppose that's my answer," she told him.
"Well …" He wondered if he was missing something. Had there been a question? He didn't think so, but he was very inebriated. "I suppose it is."
"My own bed, then. I'll see you at work."
"Good-night." He raised his empty glass in mock toast as she left.