When Stars Collide
Chapter 14: Drinking Games
"I had hoped you would be more like me. Able to push your feelings aside in the name of duty." His father sniffs derisively. "But it appears you're far more like your mother."
Armitage listens carefully, not wanting this conversation to lead to the inevitable lesson his father always tries to teach him. How pain makes him stronger. He's had a difficult day training with his young child soldiers, and his father had come to observe. One of the troops had spoken out of turn, said something to him that was disrespectful. And his father had seen, seen how Armitage had lost his composure, yelled, and screamed at the soldier.
"Don't let your emotions control you, Armitage." Brendol continues, "They'll always lead you down the wrong path. It should always be logic over emotion."
That had been the talk his father had given him while he stared down at his hands. His bruised and battered hands. He was becoming more like his father every day. He was using those hands more and more with his troops as well. And he wasn't sure exactly how much was too much.
"Nothing good can come of you succumbing to your feelings," his father says, as he lays a rough hand on Armitage's shoulder. "You need to be strong in moments like that."
In a way, his father had been right. Whenever he gave in to his feelings, nothing good ever happened.
She tries to kick him again, but he moves, pulling her against his body tighter, arms flexing and muscle tensing as he shifts. He may be lean, but he's still strong, and she's no match for him without the Force. The water of the pool glides around them, over their arms and shoulders with each little movement.
"You need to learn some manners," he says. Perhaps that's just the whisky talking. But he would definitely like to teach her.
"I don't have to do anything you say," she gasps out, finally finding her breath. "I don't owe you anything."
Stars, he likes the feel of her body. Her firm backside pressing against his stomach as he holds her. He's having trouble remembering just why he can't strip her of her breast band and feel the rest of her skin.
"So," he says teasing. "I'll teach you some manners."
A stray hand hits him on the side of the face, and his grip loosens suddenly. She squirms away from him, but he manages to grab one of her feet and pull her back. The water swirls around them as he tugs her, and she spins back around careening into him face first.
He grabs her wrists with one hand, the other arm wraps around her back, and he draws her hair back, so she can look up at him.
"Are you prepared to take your punishment?" he asks, his voice low and husky, eyes roving over her face. His hands keeping her from moving, their bodies pressed skin to skin in the warm water.
She barely has a moment to suck in a breath and then they're under the water. Her face pressed against the smooth plane of his chest. She doesn't have much practice at holding her breath under the water, and the seconds tick by.
Just when she's beginning to feel her head pound and her throat burn, he pulls her up and out of the water. Then she's gasping against him, trying to suck in as much air as possible, her chest heaving.
He looks down at her, eyes wide, but unreadable. Mouth open and breathing labored. His arms around her tighten a fraction.
"Please," she starts.
"That's right," he says, voice hoarse. "Beg me."
She sets her jaw. Two can play at that game. She won't beg him for anything. When she doesn't speak, it's only a few seconds before he submerges them a second time.
Under the water she struggles against him, trying to push away, but he holds her steady. Until she can't move, then he pulls her up.
As she reaches the surface, she gasps, heaving again. She can't seem to get in enough air.
She's quivering against him, and he draws her to his chest, resting his chin on the top of her head. He can feel each tremulous little hitching gasp she makes as her lungs fill with oxygen again.
"It's alright," he says tenderly. "Just ask me nicely, and I'll let you go. Tell me you're sorry for getting my uniform wet."
"No," she croaks. "I won't ever yield to the First Order."
He chuckles, eyes dipping to her lips and then back up. Each shuddering breath she takes vibrates through him, and he's reveling in finally having some control, finally being in charge of this little annoyance.
Quickly, he takes in a breath and then dives under the water still holding her. This time, instead of fighting him she's clinging to him, and she wraps her legs over his hips, locking them behind his back. So, he moves an arm under her to support the weight and sinks to the bottom of the pool.
When his head starts to throb, he pushes up off the floor of the pool and breaks the surface of the water. They gasp in unison both desperate for air.
She looks up at him, out of breath and shaking. He's watching her with that intense look of his. His eyes boring into hers. His thick lips are still parted, and she can't help but gaze at them.
That's when she realizes they're just drifting in the middle of the pool staring at each other, holding onto each other, and it feels good. Better than good, it almost feels right?
She manages to wriggle one hand out of his iron grip and presses it to his chest. His eyes follow her fingers as she traces the pattern of scars dusting his clavicle.
A wince, that's it, and he looks away. Now his jaw is set, and eyes narrowed as her fingers run the length of his shoulders, touching each and every small round scar. And each one she touches she can feel it, the pain, the memory, how his father had put out the glowing embers of his cigarette on Hux's skin.
Surprisingly he doesn't halt her. She expects him to. She assumes that he will pull her hand away and tell her to stop. That he'll be angry or fearful or both. And that he'll push her away for even attempting something like this.
Instead, he holds very still until she touches the last scar. He shudders, eyes meeting hers again. It's almost like being inside his mind a little. Though the actual sensation is very different. Each scar she touches feels like ice, cold and hard and electrifying. And then the flash of memory, the pain, his father's face and then there's only him. Only Hux and his bright green eyes and his beautiful face looking down at her intently.
It's intensely strange, the feeling she has, of knowing someone, without really knowing them at all. But she can read it in his gaze, see it in the green depths of his eyes how he's suffered. Like her, he was forged amidst pain and loneliness.
Very still, he tells himself. He has to hold very very still. She runs her fingers along his collarbone, tracing a line of fire across his skin. He licks his lips, heart thrumming in his chest as he watches her.
When she finishes, she looks back up at him, and he's locked under her hazel scrutiny. She's stunningly beautiful, the way the water pools her hair around her, the way it makes her glisten.
"I'm sorry," she says slowly. "For getting your uniform wet."
She hasn't moved her hand from his chest, and he's almost afraid to breathe. He'd adjusted his arm under her backside to hold her up, and he can feel the squeeze of her thighs around his hips. So much for not touching her.
He's still out of breath too, it was a struggle to keep hold of her, she's tougher than she appears. And she's wild when she fights. If he hadn't been stronger and trained in military self-defense techniques, she would've had him easily.
She reaches a hand up and cards her fingers through his hair, brushing against his scalp. He has to hold himself steady because he aches to lean into the touch, to close his eyes, and groan at the feel of it.
Instead, he pulls back, "stop that."
"Why?" She asks. "I like your hair. It's so—."
"Orange?" He mutters bitterly.
"Oh," she says. "I hadn't thought about it like that. I was going to say it's so bright. It reminds me of a Jakku sunrise. The way the sun makes the sand look like it's on fire."
A fire. A raging fire. That's exactly how he feels right now, looking at her. She's setting all of him ablaze. And he's thankful she's wrapped around his stomach because if she was lower, she might feel how excited he's become.
Her dimpled smile makes his throat tight. So, he does the only sensible thing he can do. He lifts her up and tosses her away from him. He must get some space, even just a little.
She gives a surprised shriek and hits the water with a splash, the spray cascading over him.
When she rises back to the surface, he's already on the other side of the pool. As far away from her as he could possibly be.
"You did yield," he teases from his spot.
"I simply apologized," she argues. "I didn't beg you to let me go."
He leans forward, wetting his hair in the water and then slicking it back. Even though he's shirtless, he looks more like the angry General now. She doesn't like it very much. She wants to mess his hair up again, so she dives after him.
Trying to keep away from her, he floats back, waves rippling about the pool. It's better for both of them if he keeps his distance, at least until his excitement has died down.
With a sharp slap of her hands, she launches another wave of water in his direction, but he leans away and instead of getting hit by it just floats over it on his back.
Rey watches, stunned. "H—how do you do that?!"
"Do what?" He asks leaning forward again till he's upright.
"How do you lay on the water on your back like that?" She asks.
"Oh," he replies. "It's quite easy."
"Can you teach me?" She asks excitedly. Apparently, she's lost all interest in splashing him which he isn't upset about in the least.
He hesitates, only because showing her would mean touching her again and he can't help feeling as if his touches are numbered. Because the fact that Ren could manifest at any moment is always hanging in the recesses of his mind.
"I'll show you," he says carefully, and she lets him.
He's not sure how long they swim, but soon their skin is wrinkled and it's beginning to get cold. And he tries not to watch her while she towels herself off, decides not to think about how Ren might show up, might see her like this. And he finds he doesn't like the idea of Ren witnessing what he sees, he wants it to be just his. Only his.
They don't want to dress because their underthings are still wet, so they wrap themselves in their small towels and hike back, Hux carrying his bag with his datapad and other provisions he'd brought.
Rey seems in excellent spirits and is already making plans to revisit their swimming hole. She talks excitedly the whole hike back, and Hux finds himself humming and nodding along without really thinking.
It's strange because he would usually tire of hearing so much chatter, but for some reason, he's not bothered by her endless talk. Perhaps it's the sound of her voice he likes so much, but more than likely it's just that he doesn't want to think too much. Especially about how it felt to hold her in the pool, or about how nice it felt when she clung to him.
Back at the ship, they change into fresh clothing. Then Hux and Rey take turns replacing each other's bacta patches and checking on wounds. Hux is feeling less embarrassed by the amount of skin showing now, though the sight of her still brings up lewd ideas that he must push aside. Besides, it wouldn't do to linger on what could never be.
After they've changed and ensured that wounds were treated, they prepare dinner and set themselves at the table to eat.
"I want to try the wine," Rey says happily diving into the food. "Do you think we could?"
"If you'd like," he replies.
He's all too happy to oblige and finds her the most expensive bottle of wine in the smuggler's den to bring out and set before her on the table. It's a slightly bitter bottle of pinot grigio, and she likes that it isn't sweet but almost a dry sour flavor.
She enjoys a full glass during dinner and proclaims that she'd like to have another. But Hux reminds her to pace herself, she's never had it before, and she doesn't know how it will affect her. And he doesn't want to think about what might happen if she does get drunk.
But Rey is determined to have another glass, so she makes a suggestion.
"I know! There was this thing they would play at Niima outpost sometimes," she says excitedly. "It's a game! You say something you've never done, and if the other person has done it, then they drink."
"I don't need a game to drink. I drink when I want too," he says annoyed.
"Come on it'll be fun!" She says, dragging him into the lounge. She sits down on one of the heavy cushioned lounge chairs and sets her glass on the table.
He's not convinced, but he sits anyway on the opposite cushioned chair. It's solid and comfortable, and he kicks his boots off onto the floor of the ship. He knows this game, he's watched foolish young cadets play it. But he's never played it himself. He's never wanted to before now.
"Alright, would you like to go first?" She asks.
He shakes his head. "No, you go first. I have to think of something I've never done."
She gives him a funny look, surely there are many things he hasn't done? It's a large galaxy. And he's not that old.
"Alright then," she replies slyly. "Never have I ever owned a pet."
She studies his expression, face hard and eyes glaring. He cocks his head to the side as if he's trying to figure out how she might know about his cat.
"Why do I get the distinct impression that you're cheating?" He says with frustration. "Are you using the Force?"
She smiles but says, "no, I'm not. You just seem like you'd have a pet."
Scowling he takes a sip of his whisky.
"What kind of pet?" She asks eagerly.
"A cat."
"Does it have a name?" She inquires.
"Millicent," he replies with a huff. "My turn. Never have I ever fought with a lightsaber."
"Cheap!" She replies as she laughs and takes a drink.
"Well, then never have I ever had a credit account," she says smirking.
"Just as cheap as what I said about the lightsaber," he responds tersely. But he drinks all the same.
She likes this, sitting here and joking with him. He seems to, for the most part, just go along with her ideas. And although he complains, he still manages to make her laugh and enjoy herself. It's lovely, and she's astonished to realize she likes being with him just as much as Finn or Rose. But also, it's more exciting being with him too. In a way that's different and almost. . . better? Finn would hate to hear that. She knows he openly loathes the General. But right here and now, it doesn't feel like he's part of the First Order. And she doesn't feel the stifling pressure to be Rey the Jedi or Rey of the Resistance. She can just be Rey, and he can just be Hux.
He leans forward suddenly, holding onto his bottle and bracing himself on his knees. Studying her with those beautiful eyes of his.
"Hmmm," he mumbles.
"What?"
"I'm thinking."
"Hurry up," she says giggling.
"Never have I ever used the Force," he says wryly, then he's smirking, and she can't help but think it's cute. Is it the wine or does his face always light up like that when he's almost smiling? And how had she not seen the creases before, the ones near his mouth when he smiles? They're soft, accentuating the fullness of his lips and his straight teeth. He looks so handsome, even with his headwound, even with his sunburn.
"Really cheap," she says taking a sip of her drink. "It took you that long to think of that? Well then, never have I ever flown a TIE fighter."
At that he leans back, eyes narrowing. He seems wary again, apprehensive of her.
"If you think you're going to use this game to get information about the First Order," he barks. 'Then think again. I'm won't be so easily manipulated."
Apparently, he doesn't feel the same way she does. He is still reminded of his loyalties, still clinging to the power of the First Order. She shakes her head.
Blinking at him she replies sadly, "it's a game Hux, calm down. Besides, I don't really want information on the First Order."
Is she telling the truth? Well, he'll just be cautious then. There's a moment of hesitation, and then he takes a sip.
"This is getting boring," he declares. "Have neither of us ever done anything interesting?"
Her eyes dance around the room, searching for ideas. Then they settle back on his face, dipping momentarily to his lips and then back up. "Well, never have I ever kissed anyone."
The skin of his cheeks feels hot and red, and he asks, "like a real kiss or a peck?"
It's almost as if he hit something, her eyes widen. "You kissed someone? You?" And then she's giggling into her drink. "Who was it?"
The tips of his ears are throbbing as he takes a small sip of his drink. Then he's gruffly replying, "I don't want to talk about it. It was a long time ago." Does she really think its funny that someone might've wanted to kiss him?
"Oh, come on," she goads. "Tell me."
He shakes his head; some things are just better left unsaid. At first, he's afraid she will press him, but then the look she gives him is understanding.
"Never have I ever," he pauses, unsure of where to go from here. "Never have I ever read a real paper book."
She practically jumps up at that.
"We're going to fix that right this minute!" She pronounces as she runs to the bedroom and he's calling after her, reminding her to take a drink.
When she returns, she's holding a stack of old leather-bound relics, and she places them on the table between them. Then she takes a long drink and sets her glass down again.
"Have a look," she urges, and he doesn't need any encouragement. He picks one up immediately, placing his bottle on the table next to the stack and opening the book.
The cracking sound they make as he opens them causes him to smile, for some reason they even sound good. Making him think of what it would be like to hold the weight of one of these instead of a datapad. They're so substantial, in a way that makes him wish there were more of them in the galaxy. But paper is a rare thing these days.
And what's even more intriguing is that they're beautifully illustrated along with a calligraphy script that seems ancient and perfect for the Jedi texts. He touches them gently; almost afraid they might break apart under his fingers.
"These are stunning," he says breathlessly.
"Aren't they?" She agrees, beaming at him. She seems so proud to share them, and he feels another wave of guilt for what he's done.
"Do you know how old these are?" He asks curiously. They must be hundreds of years old, if not more.
She gives a little shake of her head and then moves from the chair to sit on the table, closer to him. Her knee pressing against his thigh as they look over the books. He pretends not to notice the contact. He clears his throat.
"You can read this?" He asks quietly. He's not sure what language they're written in.
"Yes," she says smiling. "I'm really good with languages. I speak quite a few. So, learning to read this wasn't too difficult."
He's impressed, she's so smart, and he's momentarily at a loss to describe how wholly inadequate he feels in her presence.
"Perhaps," he says with tempered excitement. "You might be willing to read them to me?"
She's delighted by the idea if only to repay him for the favor of the previous night. But right now, she's feeling giddy and restless. The wine has made her energetic, and all she wants to do is dance. She's bursting with all sorts of emotions and she needs to move before they all come cascading out of her.
"Of course," she replies with a smile. "But right now, could we listen to music? Something fast and exhilarating?"
He shrugs, then fishes through his bag to pull out his datapad. He'd set it on the floor in the lounge when they'd returned from swimming, leaning it against the chair. Only a few seconds before he finds something upbeat and catchy. Then he's leaning back in his seat, slowly thumbing through the Jedi texts while she sways and moves to the music. And he's thankful she's forgotten about the game, he doesn't like games.
She is distracting, and obviously a little drunk. He's trying not to look, trying to focus on the books, but she has a way of drawing his attention as she flits about the room. He finds he's half hoping that Ren might appear just so he can be reminded of all the reasons he can't have her.
She's a rebel, a Jedi at that. He's a General of the First Order. And much too old for her. And he knows it would be folly to even entertain the idea of being with her. Doomed, like his father and mother. It's a foolish notion as well. The idea that she might even want him. He's thin and pale and far too orange, and she's a work of art all by herself.
Besides, he only has room for one foolhardy aspiration in his always working brain. He's of singular mind and focus. Or he ought to be.
With a huff he sinks into the cushions of the lounge chair and lifts the book up, so he can't see her. It's better if he just pushes all these things away. If he holds on to that always burning desire to rule the galaxy. The girl or the galaxy. It would seem only one of those is plausible, and really only one of those is truly within his grasp.