Captain Phasma met him in the entry area for the exercise rooms. She was still in full armor, which was the normal state for infantry even aboard ship, but it was abnormal given the hour. Her armor was missing much of its usual luster indicating she'd been wearing continuously since the morning. She'd been involved in the ground action just as Ren, but either hadn't gotten quite so dirty, or had taken the time to clean up. Knowing her, Hux suspected the latter. Her armor was as much her uniform as Hux's was his, which he was how he was dressed.

"I'm aware of the time," he told her. Hidden in that was a 'thank you for coming' that he was sure she'd understand. This was well outside her duty obligations.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked.

"Something grueling that will keep my mind off things." He hadn't been able to sleep. If it had just been the stims, or the alcohol, or the lingering adrenaline from the day, he might have been able to cope. But he kept finding himself twitching at every suspicion that he wasn't mentally alone and there was nothing to be done about that.

Phasma cocked her head slightly at him. His nose was swollen and he had a goose egg over one brow. He wondered what she'd heard, if anything, about his conflict with Ren, although neither of these injuries had come from their confrontation on the bridge. She suggested, "Full contact grappling."

"No. Not that. Less contact." He gestured and they went inside to the changing area.

"Grueling," Phasma said. "But competitive?"

"Yes."

"Boxing?"

He considered it. "I had a bloody nose earlier. Does that matter?"

"No." She took off her helmet. "You'll be wearing headgear."

"Will you?" He didn't want to be coddled.

"Yes." She was taking off her armor, having found a bin that suited her to stow it in. Hux took one a few lengths away and started to disrobe as well. She asked him, "I heard you traded blows with Leader Snoke's apprentice, Lord Ren."

Ah, so she had heard after all. "Yes." He didn't comment on the speed of the news getting to her. Troopers were everywhere on the ship. What they saw and heard inevitably filtered back to her. It was probably the talk of the ship. While Hux had not experienced a complete victory, he'd drawn blood and walked away unscathed (aside from a bit of sideburn having lived up to its name).

"What kind of fighter is he?"

"Graceful. Quick. He has a serviceable field of vision in his helmet. The armor under those robes must be segmented." It was a stroke of luck that he'd managed to find a seam at all.

"The troopers speak well of him from the battlefield. He was direct and not given to excesses."

"Excesses? On the battlefield?"

"Sadism, trophy collection, distractions."

"Ah. Yes. Well, we can go over that in more detail tomorrow, in the after-action debrief." He pulled on his exercise clothes and wandered over to find boxing gloves. "I haven't boxed since I was in the academy. I seem to recall Sloane was quite the pugilist. I really ought to honor her memory by doing this more often." He missed her. If she'd still been around, he wouldn't be here, jarred to the core by the leader of the First Order and his arcane ox shit.

He fastened his gloves, then realized that with gloves on, he didn't have the dexterity he'd need for the headgear. But by then, Phasma was next to him. She picked up the framework helmet and settled it on his head, seeing to the straps efficiently.

"You must be tired," he said. When he'd commed her, she'd still been awake and on duty, although her shift should have ended hours ago. This planetary assault was her first time into the fray as a commander of the First Order as much as it was for the rest of them.

"And you. But you still called." She turned to select her own protective gear and fastened it on before pulling out a pair of gloves. She tossed them back and sorted for another, going through two more before getting a pair she was happy with. Hux couldn't tell what the basis of rejection was, nor did he ask.

They moved into one of the exercise rooms – large with padded walls and floor. The floor was marked with a central circle they'd use as their ring and other markings they didn't need. Phasma told him, "Stretch first," when he took a combative position near the middle. He nodded and moved offline, watching and then duplicating her stretches.

They started with fingers and hands, then wrists and forearms, then limbering the shoulders and working range of motion for the arms. He felt the stretch of muscle and pull of tendon. It put his awareness back in his body – moving it, manipulating it, regaining a sense of agency that had been taken from him. He was naturally flexible. It felt good to push that to its limits.

Next were feet, ankles, shin and calf, then hips and pelvis. Twist the back, stretch the core, arch the body. They went to the floor after that, stretching hamstrings and quadriceps, inner thigh and glutes. Then more stretches for core and back. Finally, the neck.

Phasma rose graceful and poised. He attempted to do likewise. "Maybe this was all I needed," he said. "I feel able to sleep already."

"I can help." There was a hint of snark in Phasma's voice.

He chuckled. "You propose to knock me out, hm? Let's see if you can." He raised his fists against her.

She was unimpressed and made no motion to fight him. "Warm up is second."

"Ah." He put his hands down. "What does that entail?"

She walked him through a shadowboxing routine – jab, jab, off-hand jab, hook. As he repeated it, she walked around him, adjusting his stance and talking him through how to shift his weight, flex his knees, and strike from the hips. Then she corrected the strikes themselves. Another routine – hook, hook, upper cut, off-hand jab – and more corrections.

They went through that twice more before she moved in front of him and settled at striking range with her mitts up. "Same. Strike my hands." She ran him through short drills for power, accuracy, sensitivity, and speed. The trainers he'd had at the academy were no slouches, but she was better. She watched his body language, his eyes, his expression; she listened to his breathing and grunts of exertion; she noticed his patterns and his tells. Then she pointed these out to him, prompting him to improve in ways he hadn't even known he was deficient.

"I have discovered your diabolical plan," he said as he panted at the end of the last speed drill. She cocked an inquiring brow at him, so he explained, "You're going to get me too exhausted to fight you."

She made the smallest shake of her head. "It's not me you're trying to fight, is it?"

She read him too easily, although then again, he'd told her as much when they'd started. He bared his teeth at her in silent answer, raising his fists. She gave him a toothy grin in return and finally faced off with him for real. Or, real enough.

By the time he returned to his quarters, he was bruised and sore all over. He'd trained with Phasma before, but never so physically, nor had she been so thorough. She'd given him what he needed – to get out of his head and back into his body. He slept well.

A/N: Yes, they did just get naked and redressed right next to each other. First Order prudishness centers on licentious contact, not the body itself.