Chapter Text
Despite living through the collapse of Starkiller Base and the destruction of half the First Order fleet, Dopheld Mitaka had never heard a sound as loud as General Hux’s body hitting the deck.
He’d barely even registered the blaster shot—his focus had been on the screen in front of him, not the chatter of the command crew behind him—so it took all his focus not to cry out as his Omeg—as the General fell. As casually as Pryde had handed the blaster back to its owner, Dopheld wasn’t stupid enough to think that any show of loyalty to a dead officer wouldn’t be punished in exactly the same way.
He bit his lip, forced his eyes back his terminal, and tried to will away the tears that were threatening to give him away. There was nothing he could do, and nothing he could have done. Diving in front of the blaster in the middle of a crowded bridge would have only led to both of them getting shot. Besides, whoever Allegiant General Pryde really was, he had the ear of Kylo Ren.
Who would ever have predicted that the First Order’s fortunes would go from bad to worse to Supreme-Leader-Kylo-Ren ? Everyone knew he had been Snoke’s apprentice but no one had actually expected that unstable lunatic to take over—Hux had at least been able to keep his temper. Hux wouldn’t have immediately wandered off with a gang of odd-smelling warriors in a ship that badly needed an engine tuning. Hux wouldn’t have left the day-to-day operations of the fleet in the hands of an officer no one had ever seen before. Then again, that was probably why he was lying dead on the deck right now.
Dopheld wondered if he was going into shock. He couldn’t quite seem to get his brain around that last idea. Hux was dead. His body was cooling only three metres away from him. His Hux. Dead on the deck in a rumpled heap.
Part of him wanted to turn and look, wanted to reach out and touch him, just to be sure. It was that same stupid little voice that occasionally made him sass his superiors, and had baited Kylo Ren into choking him with the Force over an ill-timed joke.
The voice that had given him the courage to buy Hux a drink that time in the officers’ lounge, all those years ago.
He’d loved Hux once.
In the long night cycles alone in his bunk Dopheld might occasionally admit to himself that he still loved him, even after Hux had ended their arrangement in the name of ‘propriety’. Even after the rumours started that Hux smelled like an unknown Alpha. Even after the fall of Starkiller, the loss of half the fleet, the death of Supreme Leader Snoke, the rise of Kylo Ren—Hux had always been the last thing on Dopheld's mind when he fell asleep and the first when he woke.
Dopheld was sure that wouldn’t change any time soon, even if Hux was dead on the deck behind him.
He needed to concentrate. This line of thought wasn’t helping.
Pryde had turned his back before the corpse had even slid to a complete stop. Almost instantly the rest of the crew followed his lead. More attention would have been paid to a spilled glass of water than to the remains of the former General.
He had no idea how long he’d been blankly staring at his screen. Someone would notice if he didn’t pull himself together soon.
“Dispose of that.”
It took Dopheld longer than it should have to realise he was being addressed directly. The officer to his left was staring at him, his head twisted at an odd angle, as if he’d rather strain his neck than let the sight of the body into his peripheral vision.
“Sir?” Dopheld had registered words, but not their meaning.
“Now, Lieutenant Mitaka.” The officer gestured sharply to the shape on the deck. “Dispose of it.” He repeated, clearly enunciating every syllable.
Bile rose in his throat when he realised what the officer meant, but he stepped forward anyway. He’d never been one to refuse an order, and he wouldn’t now.
As he bent down Dopheld half expected Pryde to shoot him too, as if the Allegiant General would be able to sense the details of their former relationship from the way he approached the corpse.
To his relief Pryde paid him no mind.
To his disappointment neither did anyone else.
Hux might have been an Omega but he’d been unusually tall for his designation, and that made his body unwieldy for a single person to move. Dopheld wondered if he’d been selected for the task specifically because it would be difficult for him—during basic training the officers had delighted in giving the ‘Tiny Alpha’ all the toughest jobs.
He wondered if they were secretly laughing at him.
Probably not. No doubt they’d realised that it could be their own bodies on the floor next, and it just wouldn’t do for any of them to handle the corpse.
Dopheld gripped the General’s wrists and rolled him onto his back. It wasn’t a dignified position, but the satin of his uniform might make him easier to drag this way. He felt sick to be treating his body so poorly, before it was even cold yet.
How long did a corpse take to cool?
Through the synthleather of his gloves, the late General's slim wrists positively radiated heat.
Heat.
And a pulse.
Dopheld bit his bottom lip so hard that the taste of blood filled his mouth.
He wasn’t stupid enough to reaction to that revelation, not here in the middle of the bridge. Announcing that Hux might still be alive would just earn them both a blaster bolt through the head. If he was alive Dopheld wanted to keep him that way.
Keeping his head down so his cap would cover his eyes, he dragged the body roughly towards the double doors.
Someone to his right tutted quietly—probably Dex, the navigation officer who’d always had a soft spot for Hux—but they didn’t say anything. He didn’t risk looking up.
The path between the bridge and the first bank of turbolifts had never seemed so long.
He should have gone to the gym more often. He should have done weight training instead of sticking to cardio. He should have accepted the offer of artificial Alpha hormones that time the creepy kid from the hanger bay had offered to hook him up.
It felt like it took him hours to drag Hux out of there, fretting with every step that Hux would wake up and doom them both, or that the pulse hammering under his palm would finally stop.
At least the turbolift was waiting and blessedly empty when he arrived at its doors.
Unfortunately the floor space inside was narrower than the length of the General’s legs.
The automatic door tried repeatedly to shut on them as Dopheld shuffled him inside, but the ‘body’ didn’t flinch. Nor was there any reaction when Dopheld began to manhandle his legs into the tight space.
Had Dopheld just imagined that pulse? Was it a false hope created by an Alpha mind that couldn’t accept the death of its Omega? Hux wouldn’t have appreciated him thinking that way, so he did his best to stop and concentrate on the scene around him.
There was a bandage wrapped around Hux’s thigh over his uniform, a vivid circle of red blood soaking through the white fabric like a deliberate call for pity.
Dopheld wondered where he had found white bandages. Then he felt guilty for questioning that before he’d even thought to ask how Hux had first been hurt.
He really hadn’t been paying attention on the bridge. He had no idea why Pryde had tried to kill Hux. Pryde wasn’t exactly the sort of man who needed a reason, and besides Hux’s days had been numbered ever since Kylo Ren took control—the tension there had almost been a physical entity. Perhaps Kylo had ordered Pryde to do it for him.
Who else would have lashed out at Hux without making sure he was dead? Unless Hux had killed them before they could finish the job. That sounded likely, Dopheld knew he was still carrying his forearm knives—he’d felt them under his uniform as he dragged him away.
There were thousands for crew members onboard. It could have been anyone. The First Order wasn’t exactly the healthiest of societies these days.
But Hux wasn’t the sort to field dress a wound so that anyone would notice, certainly not without even a bacta patch to heal the damage. He didn’t show weakness, unless he needed to…
None of these questions would help them now. Once he had Hux out of there, that would be the time to be asking about the finer details of the situation.
After what felt like hours, he finally got the General’s left ankle into a position where the door could shut. The lift hummed into life. Dopheld wasn’t sure he’d selected a floor for it.
The body at his feet made a noise that could have been a sigh. He hoped it wasn’t just air escaping.
“We’re alone, Sir,” Dopheld murmured as quietly as he could. They might be alone, but that didn’t guarantee their safety.
The answering moan was barely more than the previous exhalation, but it was something.
“Thank the stars.” The relief that washed over Dopheld was so strong he almost staggered. He wanted to drop to his knees and hug Hux, something he hadn’t done in years. He didn’t, of course—the doors could open at any moment if someone summoned the lift—but he imagined the action so vividly it was almost real.
Without opening his eyes Hux said, “take... my cylinders… my quarters.”
He sounded as if breathing was causing him pain, which was understandable given the blaster burns across the chest of his uniform. Even with excellent body armour there might be broken ribs under there, and Hux wasn’t known for wearing that kind of body armour.
Dopheld didn’t have time to investigate the extent of his injuries right now, though he encountered no fresh blood in the awkward process of freeing the code cylinders Hux always kept in his belt.
Checking he had them all, Dopheld used his own to priority redirect the lift to the correct deck. Hopefully no one had deactivated Hux’s clearance yet. They’d need it if they were going to get off the ship.
He had no plan and no time to ask Hux if he had anything in mind as the lift whirred to a stop.
Most officers opted for quarters near the lounge, or the gym, one of the other recreational amenities—Hux had always preferred to sleep as close to the bridge as possible.
The rest of the crew would have guessed that habit came from some imperious need to always be in control, but Dopheld had woken enough times in his bed to know it was more about an inability to get up at the start of a shift. The fewer steps it took to get onto the bridge the longer Hux could ignore his alarm.
Right now the proximity of the turbolift to his quarters made it much easier for Dopheld to avoid any passing patrols as they staggered together towards the door, which opened before they were even halfway across the corridor.
If he hadn’t been propelled forward by Hux’s weight slung across his shoulder Dopheld would have pulled back in fear.
Hux’s quarters smelled so strongly of Alpha and Kylo Ren that the scents seemed to roll out like a physical force—it was hard to believe that the antichamber was empty.
“He’s not here,” Hux mumbled darkly, slapping the door control as soon as they were past the threshold.
“What?” Dopheld hadn’t entirely registered the words—he was too busy looking around for the Supreme Leader. Instead he found Hux’s quarters in such a state of disarray that he had to assume Hux had been burgled.
“Ren is not here,” Hux repeated. He shuffled awkwardly towards a desk and began fishing around for something behind the drawer compartment. “He won’t be back any time soon. I doubt he’ll step foot in these rooms once Pryde tells him I’m dead. A cleaning crew will loot the place eventually.”
“Are you sure they didn’t already?”
The look Hux gave him was one of bone-deep weariness.
“Honestly, I wished they would.”
There were personal items strewn around every room, apparently abandoned wherever Ren had let them fall. There were leggings in the shower cubicle, plastered to the glass with moisture. The bedsheets bore stains that made Dopheld blush to his ears with embarrassment, jealousy, and a little guilt.
Even Hux’s collection of alcoholic spirits had been raided and half the bottles smashed, though whether Hux or Ren was responsible for that Dopheld had no way to tell.
More to distract himself than anything else, Dopheld asked, “what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Hux gave an oddly manic laugh that turned into a coughing fit and a groan. “I don’t have a plan! I have no idea why I’m not dead. I’m not all that convinced I’m alive. It doesn’t matter. You should leave, there’s no point in getting you court-martialed too.”
“You mean executed.”
Hux shrugged and turned to dragging something out of his wardrobe.
“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” He said without looking up.
“No.”
“Your career…”
“Doesn’t matter, Sir.” Dopheld said, knowing he was being insubordinate but no longer caring. “I won’t serve under Pryde now. I won’t follow an officer who thinks he has killed my Ome—my General.”
The answering sigh from Hux held rather more frustration that a single noise had any right to contain. What it didn’t contain, was any kind of objection.
“Do you still have that stormtrooper armour, Sir?” Dopheld asked when the silence had dragged on for longer than they had time to waste.
Hux pointed under the bed.
He’d had the armour made over a decade ago, as a junior officer and at great cost in terms of bribes to relevant individuals. The serial number was a ‘real’ one, that linked to a believable combat record. Somehow Hux had set it up to periodically update with details of minor missions that always involved enough troopers that this fictional person could have been there unnoticed.
Allegedly Hux had planned to use it to better get to know the people under his command, but by the time Dopheld first encountered it he was using it to travel anonymously around the ship.
For most of their clandestine relationship the low level officers living near Dopheld’s quarters had assumed he was dating a trooper. That hadn’t helped his reputation. Given their difference in build a rumour had spread that Dopheld was in an Alpha/Alpha relationship, which had helped even less.
The armour was a little battered, but no more than most stormtroopers these days. Between the war and Phasma’s death, the shine had gone out of much of the corps. Literally and figuratively.
Dopheld half smiled at his own joke as he dragged the helmet out of its hiding place. The reflection in the visor looked like a man laughing on the way to his own gallows.
Something orange and furry dashed out from the space behind the helmet before vanishing under a pale blue couch that had seen better days.
“Damn it, Millie,” Hux grumbled. He seemed to be finished with the process of shoving items into a small nondescript bag.
From his place across the room Dopheld couldn’t make out what he’d chosen to keep.
“So…” Hux began, then stopped when he failed to get back to his feet. He waved a hand as if rejecting help that Dopheld hadn’t offered yet, and twisted awkwardly to haul himself upright using the wardrobe door for support.
“We both know that armour won’t fit you, you’re too short in the limbs—the joints will lock up.” Hux said these words casually as if he wasn’t panting from the effort of standing.
“Of course not, and I don’t need to hide my face. You do.” Dopheld stepped forward with the first pieces ready in his hands. “We get you in this. We travel at normal speed down to the incinerators. At least if my code cylinders are recorded as going that way it should put off any suspicion for a little while.”
Hux nodded. “I might be able to reprogram the droids so they believe my body was delivered and destroyed.”
“Then we get… some kind of ship out of here. I’m not privy to our current complement so I can’t comment on that. Anything that will get us away. Assuming you don’t want to lead a coup?”
The manic laugh returned. So did the coughing. “I don’t care anymore, Lieutenant. This isn’t my First Order. I was expecting to die here, I have no preference for what I do next.”
“We still might.” Dopheld said as he helped Hux to remove his tunic. The padded second layer was also burned and similarly discarded, but Hux kept his long sleeve black undershirt on since it was functionally the same as a Stormtrooper’s base layer.
“What?”
“We might still die. And I’m not a Lieutenant any more. Not after this.”
“You are as long as we’re on this ship—standards might have slipped but no one is going to trust a stormtrooper addressing a Lieutenant by his first name.” Hux unfastened his jodhpurs, then dropped inelegantly onto the sofa to kick off his boots. There was blaster wound half way up his left thigh. It looked angry. “There should be leggings in my size in that cabinet.”
Dopheld had already reached for the correct drawer, Hux was a man of habit. He tried not to see the selection of sex toys shoved under the clothes. He’d never had any personal interest in them, but he recognised an Omega chastity belt when he saw one.
Getting Hux into his armour took less time than he would have expected. Despite the limitations of his wounds, they still had the easy familiarity of long association on their side—if in his younger days Dopheld could get Hux out of this armour in the dark, he could get him into it in an emergency.
“Is there anything you need from your quarters?” Hux asked as he fastened the last few clasps.
His first thought was to say ‘no’ simply so they could leave sooner, but they’d taken the time to pack Hux’s things. If Dopheld was leaving everything behind…
“Yes,” he said, “not much. My quarters aren’t far from the incinerators anyway.”
“Good, take these,” Hux handed him yet more cylinders. They were matt black rather than standard silver.
“Whose are these?”
“Ren’s. He doesn’t take his personal shuttle anywhere anymore—he’s always with those Knights of his—so it’s just sitting in the hangar, fueled and ready. We can make it look like he sent it out. Not even Pryde will question that, provided Ren isn’t on the bridge at the time. He rarely bothers these days.”
“I thought you didn’t have a plan?”
Hux gave him a close approximation of a smile before he pulled the stormtrooper helmet down over his face. “I always scored highest in high-pressure simulations.”
An old image of Dopheld with his parents before their deaths, the contraband casualwear Hux had gifted him years ago that he’d never felt brave enough to wear, several knives, and a small bag of mixed currency.
That was all he had to show for thirty two years of life.
It felt like a metaphor somehow, but he hadn’t the time to think it through.
Hux had easily convinced the droids that they had disposed of his corpse, and even with trembling hands he’d managed to spoof the request for Ren’s shuttle.
Something was going on in the other hangar.
Stormtroopers were streaming in that direction, and didn’t even glance at a mere Lieutenant walking with purpose against the tide. Dopheld did his best to keep his face straight despite the warring feelings of concern and relief that a problem was clearing their path. It felt like there was a sign above his head, telling everyone that he was running away.
Fortunately, Hux was right about the readiness of Ren’s shuttle so there was no one but droids around it as they approached. The ramp began retracting as soon as Dopheld passed the threshold, which must have been triggered by the presence of the code cylinders in his pocket.
As soon as they were inside Hux was already trying to open a panel that by all logic should not have opened. Dopheld had to help him, simply getting this far seemed to have burned away what little energy he had.
The panel concealed a smuggler’s compartment with shielding that was clearly meant to hide any evidence of the lifeforms inside. It was a feature that had absolutely no place inside a First Order vessel, but something had always been off about Kylo Ren. At least the shuttle didn’t smell as badly of that Alpha as Hux’s quarters had done.
Sitting there in the dark as the autopilot silently took them into hyperspace might have been the single most terrifying thing Dopheld had ever done. They could be discovered at any moment and they wouldn’t know until the ship was hit.
Beside him Hux was audibly shaking in his armour, but whether that was through fear or exhaustion Dopheld wouldn’t want to guess. Every so often a fit of coughing shook him more violently than before, the sound weirdly distorted by the helmet.
Hours seemed to pass before Hux finally signalled that it was safe to emerge. According to the chronometer in the cockpit it been closer to eight minutes. The chronometer had to be lying.
When Hux removed his helmet to reveal a grey face and hair dripping with sweat Dopheld wanted to insist that he get some rest, but they both knew there wasn’t time for that.
Instead Dopheld stood nervously by, handing Hux tools and holding objects in place, while the ship was stripped of every system that could remotely redirect it or give away its identity to other ships. Some of those parts were kept for trade, some were smashed, and two were thrown out of the airlock.
Of course, they would still have to dump the ship itself somewhere—the Upsilon class was far too recognisable—but they’d gained a little breathing room.
“Will it be enough?” Dopheld asked quietly when Hux dropped into the jump seat, barely able to sit upright.
“Who knows.”
“Do we have a heading?”
“Jakku.”
That wasn’t the answer Dopheld was expecting. Sadly he couldn’t question it further because Hux had already fallen asleep.
Since Jakku wasn’t an official First Order holding, it seemed like a sensible idea to disguise themselves before they landed on the planet.
Feeling a little guilty for invading Hux’s personal space while he slept, Dopheld had stripped off the white panels of his armour to leave him in the more inconspicuous black of his undershirt and leggings. There were a few scorch marks across his chest, but no actual holes in the fabric. It was strange. A blaster bolt strong enough to toss a grown man across a room should not have behaved like that.
Once he’d made sure Hux was unremarkable, Dopheld changed his own clothes for the dark blue/green set of casualwear that he’d picked up from his quarters. The fit was loose enough to make him seem bigger than he really was, as well as hiding the various weapons he’d kept on his person.
He might be giving up the uniform but there was no way he’d give up the blaster.
He borrowed a needle from the medical kit stowed by the door. On second thoughts he took the whole kit and placed it into the side pocket of Hux’s bag. They would probably need it.
Taking his place in the pilot’s seat—more out of a feeling of unease over the autopilot than out of any sort of competency at flying—he set to tearing his tunic apart to make head coverings.
There weren’t many redheads in the galaxy and they didn’t have time to dye Hux’s hair.
If concentrating on sewing meant he didn’t have a reason to stare at the sleeping form next to him, well that was just a bonus.
They’d let the Upsilon shuttle suffer what Hux called a ‘controlled fuck-up’ into the sand a few miles from Niima Outpost, having first thrown the majority of their identifying belongings out of an airlock just before they broke atmosphere.
The ship was badly damaged enough that it wouldn’t fly immediately, while still being an attractive prospect to the local scavengers. Someone would eat well off that particular find. Or they’d get killed for it.
Jakku was a cutthroat world when it needed to be, and the local junk trader was no exception. After the First Order’s airstrike on the outpost the ship trade had become a seller’s market—few ships had survived intact enough to fly. Unkar Plutt knew he could charge whatever he liked for trash that was hardly even space worthy.
Hux had been exhausted by the circuitous walk from the crash site. A life-long occupant of climate controlled ships he would have struggled in the desert sands even without his injuries, but in his current state Dopheld had almost been forced to carry him at times.
Still, he’d managed to stay alert long enough to assess the various ships on offer, establish which would be best suited to them, and work out what extras they would need to get it off the ground.
Dopheld hadn’t understood about forty percent of the things Hux muttered under his breath. He hoped it wasn’t important. Especially since Hux was too tired by that point, so he was the one stuck doing the ‘negotiating’.
Not that what he did could really be called a negotiation. It was more like being very slowly robbed by a repellent alien who seemed to be able to smell both desperation and wealth.
They’d paid almost ninety thousand credits for a HWK-290 light freighter and parts. Hux had said the ship was worth barely fifty, but he’d handed Dopheld his valuables like he didn’t care.
First Order personnel received very little income since they were fed and housed by the Order—Dopheld had never even thought to imagine that much money in one person’s hands. The fact that it was in his hands made his knees weak. Unkar had to pull on the bag to get it away from him.
“Hmmm... Correllian…” was the only comment as he counted out the metallic chips, though Correllian what Dopheld couldn’t see. Hux only shrugged.
If the trader had seemed disinterested in the money, the ship parts from the Upsilon shuttle got little more than a raised eyebrow. How much First Order wreckage passed through here these days?
It didn’t matter. They had a ship that wouldn’t draw any attention now, other than the occasional look of disgust, or possibly pity.
The ship had to be at least sixty years old, and it seemed like someone had left the vents open for much of that time because it was full of sand. Everything on Jakku was full of sand, including Dopheld’s underwear.
Jakku was a miserable place, that he hoped never to have to go back to ever again.
“Out of all the worlds in the galaxy, why did you bring us here?” He muttered half to himself as he looked around the main compartment in that hope that there might be a broom hidden somewhere onboard.
“Because if Ren gets it into his thick skull to look for me, he won’t think to look here.” Hux sighed. He was leaning against one of the sand-covered bunks with his leg held out at an awkward angle. “The ships here are overpriced and awful. This thing is sixty years old, at least. He’s only seen me in the fleet, with our polished floors and the newest of everything because Snoke insisted. If he looks for me, he’ll seek out our existing contacts and trade partners first. He’ll expect me to want luxury. He won’t expect this.”
“And will he? Look for you, I mean?” Dopheld kept his eyes turned firmly away as he asked this, unable to force himself to ask the things he really wanted to know. Like what Hux and Ren had been to each other? Whether they’d actually mated or if it was just a fling? If he’d have to fight another Alpha for his Omega?
He really had to stop thinking like that. He thought he’d grown out of it. They’d been so many years apart, but put them in an enclosed space for a few hours and he was already falling back into his old habits.
“My death probably won’t bother him, but running away? I don’t think he’d let that slide if he knew.” After a moment of silence Hux clapped his hands together. “Right, we have work to do. I have a plan for getting the sand out of here but it involves getting anything that’s not bolted down secured, and then making sure the cockpit is airtight.”
Dopheld snorted. “You’re going to open all the doors in low orbit aren’t you?”
“This is why I’ve always liked you, Pheld, you can read my mind.” Hux said with a smile that clearly wasn’t comfortable on his face.
“No, I’m remembering that incident in the academy, with the TIE cockpit full of popcorn,” He replied, trying not to blush or grin like an idiot at hearing Hux use his old nickname.
Hux laughed, and this time the pleasure was genuine. “It wasn’t popcorn, it was packing material that I sold to Rodinon as popcorn.”
“He ate it all the same.” Dopheld said, finally relaxing enough to laugh himself.
Less than a day ago he’d thought he was going to be disposing of this man’s body, now they might both be getting a second chance.
A second chance at what exactly he wasn’t sure.
Anything was better than nothing.