The congratulations do not end, and all blur into one. Hux hangs on Rog's arm, her face numb from smiling after only a few minutes. Landa bustles up to them with even more sickly sweet tipple, his smile blinding and sincere. "I didn't know he was going to do that!" he tells Hux, clapping her on the back. "I really, truly did not."
Hux doesn't even raise her glass. "Oh, didn't you?"
"Don't be modest, Landa." Rog nods at him. "I nearly got cold feet. He talked me into doing it after all."
"I merely suggested that if he was serious about this whole marriage scheme, he ought to pop the question before it was too late."
"Too late for what?" Hux asks.
"Before some other guy swept you off your feet, of course." Rog puts his arm around Hux.
Despite herself, Hux relaxes against Rog's body. It's hard not to. "Please. Do you really think I'm the type to be 'swept off my feet' by anyone?"
"I was kind of hoping you'd make an exception for me." Rog kisses her on the cheek.
"You can do all the sweeping you'd like after Starkiller is safely finished and operational."
"That long, Boudi?"
"It's less than a year."
"I don't know if I can wait that long." Rog kisses her again, pressing his mouth to her neck.
"You'll have to. Starkiller can't be delayed. Our wedding can." The word feels strange in Hux's mouth. "Our wedding," she says again, trying to get used to the phrase.
"Er, General?"
Hux vaguely recognizes the officer who's trying to get her attention as one of Mitaka's junior officers. She doesn't think she cares to be congratulated by someone so subordinate. "It can wait."
"It can't--I'm so sorry--" The officer squeaks. "It's a KR situation, General. Room TVC-15." She must be new, Hux thinks. And spending too much time around the stormtroopers.
"Oh, for--" Hux pulls away from Rog and smoothes back her hair. A few strands of her copper coif seem to have gotten loose, and they're frizzing to life in the close, humid quarters. "I'll just be a moment, Rog." Two. Three. The rest of the party.
"Cadet." Anson detains her with the lightest touch of his metal hand as she's about to leave the lounge. "You aren't really going to leave your fee-ancy all on his lonesome in this crowd of old buzzards to go deal with some foofaraw, are you? That's what you've got lieutentants for."
"Duty first, Admiral," Hux says briefly, trying to step around him. "If Rog could hold off a swarm of Resistance fighters, he can certainly suffer another round of whiskey and claps on the back."
Anson's pointed eyebrows drew together. "Must be a big one, then. Need backup?"
"Thank you, no."
"I'm serious, Cadet. This old war boar's got some life in him. I won't have you running off to face mortal danger by yourself--come to think of it, if your man was any kind of man, he'd be right at your back."
Hux takes a deep breath. She knows it will sting when she says it, and she curls her hands into fists behind her back. "I am no longer your cadet, and right now I've put myself on duty. If I wanted backup, I'd get my own men. This matter needs to be dealt with by me, alone."
She expects Anson to chide her, even to detain her if he was bold enough. It's something she remembers from the sodden academy on Arkanis, the nights when she'd do her level best to slip out of the human womens' dorm, run through the rain and let Rog reward her with an offer to take her wet clothes, to dry her off with his body heat. Half the time, Anson would stop her at the door with a metal hand and an outstretched arm; half the time, he'd cough and look the other way. She pinches her hand to steel herself for the sting of his disapproval.
"Well." Anson puts his metal hand behind his back, formally, and gives her a two-fingered salute. "General, as you were." He turns on his heel and swings stiffly back into the lounge.
Hux breathes out and starts to walk, very quickly. Of course the idiot would be in the observation deck. She cannot have this on her ship. It's one thing to rub shoulders uncomfortably with an unpredictable masked man with extremely odd psychic powers--whatever "the Force" might be--but it's another thing to have him thinking he's got some kind of say in her personal life. That's a path to disaster.
She reaches TVC-15 and slams her hat onto her head. The door slides open to the sound of buzzing Dopplering from top to bottom. A few small explosions form and fade in her ears.
The durasteel bench is twisted, torn from its position, hovering in mid-air. Kylo Ren is taking vicious strikes at it with his lightsaber, his pale skin glowing in the spitting red light. Several slices out of it already glow red.
At least it's not something important, like an instrument console. Hux can probably mount this as a piece of neo-Imperial art, something about the brutalism of form. She'll put a damn sofa in here. Nearly nobody but her comes here, anyway. Kylo Ren's anger problems aren't her issue; it's when they interfere with the functioning of her ship that she has any reason to care.
After a few minutes, Ren's shoulders slump and his lightsaber lowers. Hux can see him panting, his chest heaving. There are beads of sweat on his chest. It's ridiculous and utterly dramatic, and she might as well leave him here alone until he tires himself out or throws himself out into space. Then perhaps she'll seal off this useless compartment forever.
Fill: Colder Than the Moon (9/?), Kylo/Fem!Hux, Hux/M!OC
Hux doesn't even raise her glass. "Oh, didn't you?"
"Don't be modest, Landa." Rog nods at him. "I nearly got cold feet. He talked me into doing it after all."
"I merely suggested that if he was serious about this whole marriage scheme, he ought to pop the question before it was too late."
"Too late for what?" Hux asks.
"Before some other guy swept you off your feet, of course." Rog puts his arm around Hux.
Despite herself, Hux relaxes against Rog's body. It's hard not to. "Please. Do you really think I'm the type to be 'swept off my feet' by anyone?"
"I was kind of hoping you'd make an exception for me." Rog kisses her on the cheek.
"You can do all the sweeping you'd like after Starkiller is safely finished and operational."
"That long, Boudi?"
"It's less than a year."
"I don't know if I can wait that long." Rog kisses her again, pressing his mouth to her neck.
"You'll have to. Starkiller can't be delayed. Our wedding can." The word feels strange in Hux's mouth. "Our wedding," she says again, trying to get used to the phrase.
"Er, General?"
Hux vaguely recognizes the officer who's trying to get her attention as one of Mitaka's junior officers. She doesn't think she cares to be congratulated by someone so subordinate. "It can wait."
"It can't--I'm so sorry--" The officer squeaks. "It's a KR situation, General. Room TVC-15." She must be new, Hux thinks. And spending too much time around the stormtroopers.
"Oh, for--" Hux pulls away from Rog and smoothes back her hair. A few strands of her copper coif seem to have gotten loose, and they're frizzing to life in the close, humid quarters. "I'll just be a moment, Rog." Two. Three. The rest of the party.
"Cadet." Anson detains her with the lightest touch of his metal hand as she's about to leave the lounge. "You aren't really going to leave your fee-ancy all on his lonesome in this crowd of old buzzards to go deal with some foofaraw, are you? That's what you've got lieutentants for."
"Duty first, Admiral," Hux says briefly, trying to step around him. "If Rog could hold off a swarm of Resistance fighters, he can certainly suffer another round of whiskey and claps on the back."
Anson's pointed eyebrows drew together. "Must be a big one, then. Need backup?"
"Thank you, no."
"I'm serious, Cadet. This old war boar's got some life in him. I won't have you running off to face mortal danger by yourself--come to think of it, if your man was any kind of man, he'd be right at your back."
Hux takes a deep breath. She knows it will sting when she says it, and she curls her hands into fists behind her back. "I am no longer your cadet, and right now I've put myself on duty. If I wanted backup, I'd get my own men. This matter needs to be dealt with by me, alone."
She expects Anson to chide her, even to detain her if he was bold enough. It's something she remembers from the sodden academy on Arkanis, the nights when she'd do her level best to slip out of the human womens' dorm, run through the rain and let Rog reward her with an offer to take her wet clothes, to dry her off with his body heat. Half the time, Anson would stop her at the door with a metal hand and an outstretched arm; half the time, he'd cough and look the other way. She pinches her hand to steel herself for the sting of his disapproval.
"Well." Anson puts his metal hand behind his back, formally, and gives her a two-fingered salute. "General, as you were." He turns on his heel and swings stiffly back into the lounge.
Hux breathes out and starts to walk, very quickly. Of course the idiot would be in the observation deck. She cannot have this on her ship. It's one thing to rub shoulders uncomfortably with an unpredictable masked man with extremely odd psychic powers--whatever "the Force" might be--but it's another thing to have him thinking he's got some kind of say in her personal life. That's a path to disaster.
She reaches TVC-15 and slams her hat onto her head. The door slides open to the sound of buzzing Dopplering from top to bottom. A few small explosions form and fade in her ears.
The durasteel bench is twisted, torn from its position, hovering in mid-air. Kylo Ren is taking vicious strikes at it with his lightsaber, his pale skin glowing in the spitting red light. Several slices out of it already glow red.
At least it's not something important, like an instrument console. Hux can probably mount this as a piece of neo-Imperial art, something about the brutalism of form. She'll put a damn sofa in here. Nearly nobody but her comes here, anyway. Kylo Ren's anger problems aren't her issue; it's when they interfere with the functioning of her ship that she has any reason to care.
After a few minutes, Ren's shoulders slump and his lightsaber lowers. Hux can see him panting, his chest heaving. There are beads of sweat on his chest. It's ridiculous and utterly dramatic, and she might as well leave him here alone until he tires himself out or throws himself out into space. Then perhaps she'll seal off this useless compartment forever.