Well. Considering this is the first Pellakythrux thing that didn’t come together in a single sitting on the white heat of a joke… Hopefully it’s what you wanted, anon.
I’m still not 100% satisfied and there may be follow-up, but that ask has to have been in my phone for two weeks.
Political drama, featuring:
soft Spaceballs Reference, Hux jealousy, implied Ysalamari headache, “Don’t do anything rude-” (Hux does the rude thing anyway), Speciesism, trade negotiations, Daddy Issues, and “‘don’t let Thrawn’s politeness fool you’ for 200, Alex.”
Many thanks again to @sathinfection for letting me continue to smear her poor, perfect AU with a little more blue.
Scene references for Hux shamelessly hinted from her work “Of Idols and Dead Men”
And believe me, I’m not doing it justice because I highly recommend it.
(It can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6723853/chapters/15370816
I also post things from it under the tag “GODSPEED COMRADE”)
Sorry again, Mister Zahn.
You deserve better than this.
Hux honestly isn’t sure what what he expected when Senator Ren informed him that one of the secret powers behind the senate refused to be contacted by comm like a normal human being.
And that was after he got done sneering at Ren, with his ability to read surface thoughts, his private comm channel to contact his master, and his whispers about trust referring to anyone as a “secret power”.
Comm Outages, especially over inter-planetary distances weren’t uncommon, and yes, lines could occasionally be tapped and the scrambling broken, but a half-day journey around the equator of Hosnia with Ren at the wheel of a speeder would have been enough for anyone to ask a few questions about why a call wouldn’t have been better.
And Hux had quite a few questions. Very vocal ones. While traveling at high enough speed to break the stuff peak of his hair into whipping copper filaments.
Ren, however. refused to budge, nudging the open speeder a little harder into the eye-watering wind.
“One speaks to representative Thrawn in person, or one doesn’t speak to him at all,” was the only shrugged reply over the ludicrous howl of the wind, even though he settled a big, ringed hand on Hux’s knee.
That hand on his knee was the only thing that made sense out of any of it, really.
Everything Hux quickly looked up on Representative Thrawn through watering eyes on the jarring ride over led him to understand Thrawn was a cultural attaché, largely in charge of helping translate some of the more difficult Interspecies overtones of politics into smoothness.
He rarely appeared personally in the senate meetings, was usually little more than a footnote in some high society entry on who was who at what gala. Really, he was best known as a patron of, and generous donor to the arts.
Hux had never paid much attention to attachés. He was a human, dealing with another human. There wasn’t much in the way of a language or a cultural barrier with Ren except in terms of his military upbringing. And he didn’t care about art.
The cost of shuttle fuel, the sheer waste of it played heavy in his mind, calculated up in a pre-determined list of sins long before they made the line of the discrete floating habitation ring in the old quarter of the great, almost-unbroken planetary city that was Hosnia.
Even Hux had to admire the neatness of the ship, and the way it had been modified to dock seamlessly by the suite, probably buffering out some of the noise of the city. He would almost think the two were built together.
He expected, given the surprisingly tasteful decor, to be introduced to some waddling, aging politician done up in beads and gold. He’s surprised when Ren not only checks his thumb at the door, but also his breath, and even submits to an eye scan.
Representative Thrawn has a great deal of security for a cultural attaché, Hux notes.
His own sense of wary paranoia can’t help but approve a little. The entry doors are doubled, the space between the inner and outer ones rather cramped with someone as large as Ren. He thinks he sees a quirk to the painted mouth as though Ren can hear him.
“Just don’t be rude,” Ren murmurs.
There’s a strange, pungent reptile odor the moment the inner seal opens.
Ren grimaces as he steps in, and Hux wonders. It’s a bit over-dramatic he thinks. He’s smelled worse. Though he has to wonder if he’s being introduced to a Trandoshan.
“Admiral?” Ren calls out. His clear voice carries well in the room which is…
Filled with art, Hux notes. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Holographs and statues, and strange lumps of stone, geometric plays of light. Briefly he wonders if he’s intruded into some private gallery instead of an apartment. There’s no furniture, the room full of dim shadows and spotlighting.
The voice is clear, perfectly cultured, without the slightest trace of accent, which is part of what startles Hux so much when he looks up and sees a flash of blue, the approaching twin red glow that he instinctively grabs for his concealed weapon.
To his shock, Ren steps forward and embraces the man heartily, almost picking him up. He leaves a deep red lip-print kiss on one blue cheek, which the Chiss actually returns, dryly. It’s cover, Hux thinks, for his reaction, and he is, despite himself, grateful. Chiss don’t have a history of favorable response to threats.
The Chiss’s face is perfectly calm, level, glowing red eyes unblinking as they take in Hux as calmly and politely as if he were a statue.
He wonders, not for the first time what Ren is thinking.
“You’ve brought a guest.”
“Yes. This is General Hux of the First Order.”
The alien makes no move to embrace Hux, nor does he hold out his hand in greeting.
They regard one another instead.
“Thrawn,” the alien supplies cooly.
“You’ve…humanized your name,” Hux supplies by way of conversation.
“The nuances and pitch intonations of Cheunh are often lost on non-native speakers. 'Thrawn’ is my center name, general, much as Senator Ren utilizes your Surname without diminishing or demeaning your sense of identity.”
His face doesn’t so much as flicker. Thrawn seems to be a very smooth customer.
He’s dressed all in creamy white, Hux notes. It seems to glow in the indirect light when Ren shifts away from him. A simple tunic with an imperial collar, and white jodhpurs similar to Hux’s own parade dress. It makes his blue skin look darker, more alien, his glowing, red, pupilless eyes more unnerving in the shadows. He could be looking at anything, Hux thinks, and nobody would know.
He’s only met the Chiss in territorial skirmish simulations, thinks back to that training now. To the warnings that Chiss as a rule don’t strike first, but that it’s wise to be very cautious in not provoking them, a summary of techniques for making your way unharmed through Chiss space involving everything from kidnapping to bald-faced lying.
Chiss do not trade.
Chiss do not allow themselves to be dominated.
And Ren, of all people, has brought him before one.
A barefoot one, Hux notices absurdly. Pale blue, neatly trimmed toenails on a six-toed foot. There are darker violet lines of what must be veins under the blue skin of his instep. He looks so very nearly human but for his coloring, and his eyes.
He’s holding what looks like a watering can.
Hux wonders suddenly if the slightly pungent smell in the home comes from Thrawn himself, if Ren held his breath when leaving a red stain on that long blue cheek.
He’s a striking enough individual once Hux can get over the shock of his inhumanity and simultaneously jarring passably-human shape. Thrawn seems to let him stare, the red eyes half-lidded to glowing slits of regard, revealing nothing.
He’s probably middle-aged if Hux had to guess by the few individual white hairs starting up in the black hair like spindly fingers in Thrawn’s combed-back black hair, by the gentle peak of recession to the line of his forehead, and the thought-lines in his brow. Trim, though. Medium build. He’s holding himself in military ease, Hux realizes abruptly, jerking back to Ren’s greeting.
Bile rises in his throat wondering if Ren has lured him into some sort of trap secret meeting with the Chiss elite.
He’s so busy staring at the alien that he doesn’t notice there’s another man in the room until Thrawn turns his head ever so slightly, “Senator Ren’s brought us a guest, Gilad.”
Hux whirls around, finds himself face-to face with a very-nearly elderly gentleman.
He’s amazed at his relief to find this one’s human. Almost dumpy. Pale-eyed and moustached, and glaring with the recognizable sternness of a man of his father’s generation.
“Hux, this is Captain Pellaeon. Captain Pellaeon, this is General Hux of the First Order.” Ren introduces, his hands tucked away in the deep, gold-silk-lined penguin sleeves of his robe. There’s a sort of playful amusement lacing Ren’s tone that Hux can’t quite make.
Hux can pinpoint the exact moment the older man’s expression sours.
“You don’t like the Order much, then?” He asks Captain Pellaeon.
“I’d think my husband is more focused on your youth and rank than on where you come from.” Thrawn supplies before Pellaeon can reply. The casual remark making Hux’s stomach do a twist.
Is this why Ren brought him here? To meet his friends, these…Xeno Perverts?
Hux salutes Pellaeon crisply anyway, catching himself.
Pellaeon seems to hear the thought anyway, because his face instantly goes stern and thunderous. He’s rather dumpy, Hux notices, almost on the side of squat, half a head shorter than Hux, which makes him realize Thrawn is almost of height with him.
Pellaeon has a thick middle, a gut, actually, and a mostly-gray moustache, somehow managing to remind Hux of a lot of slightly unpleasant military transactions of gratification he’s done in the Order with men his father’s age, any of which could be completely interchangeable with Pellaeon, down to the thick, flat, graying chest hair peeking out of the collar of his own drab tunic.
He’s suddenly extremely grateful for Ren and his ridiculously over-developed body, the smooth tightness of his skin, the mental replay of his long legs and absurdly short bathrobe.
Ren’s positively twinkling like he can hear him thinking it. He’s as gaudy as some of the statues when Hux shoots a look at him.
“Imperial Navy, Rebellion, or Freelance?” Hux asks, turning back to Pellaeon.
The look the captain gives him is sharp.
“Don’t, I only wanted to thank you for your service.” Hux finishes quickly.
“You’re what, all of twenty-five?” Pellaeon asks. He has an unsurprisingly gruff voice.
“You’re moving up.” He says to Ren, even though the sour, slightly hostile look hasn’t left him.
Ren seems to decipher whatever that has to mean effortlessly, because he smiles.
“Inexperience is only intoxicating for so long. What did you say…” Ren folds his hands into his drooping silk sleeves, “'An error only becomes a mistake when you refuse to correct it?’”
“Is that what you said?” Thrawn murmurs in an undertone to the captain.
For some reason the back of the man’s pouchy neck flushes. Hux can see the red of his scalp start up through his thinning hair.
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here,” Ren continues.
“Oh no, please go on. Make another speech about my lack of character to your senate friends.” Hux interrupts acidly, “At least I’m here for this one.”
He has the sudden and unpleasant certainty that Ren has slept with Thrawn.
And watching the way Pelleaon avoids looking altogether at the exposed contour of Ren’s bared sternum and the swell of his pectorals, either he’s slept with Ren too or he wants to. Badly. It spurs a second comment from Hux.
“It was my upbringing last time, perhaps this time you’d like to talk about my appearance? I’m sure the dazzle’s worn off your blinding outfit after the twelve hour speeder trip we took to get here, so I’ll actually be able to focus on it, unlike the press.”
Pellaeon’s look gets blacker. Thrawn doesn’t even seem to have heard.
Ren blinks, looking completely shocked, almost hurt for a moment, frowning ever so slightly with his hands folded into his sleeves. And Hux is thinking he should have never agreed to meet with the man on Rattatak, should never have kissed Ren in the opera box where anyone could see, should never have gotten tangled up with senator Ren in the first place.
He hopes the man can read it all over him.
If he can, Ren recovers quickly–like the oiled young politician he is, Hux notes bitterly.
“Thrawn is something of an underworld figure in the Unknown regions. Now that the trade sanctions have been lifted, Republic aid is only a matter of time, but Resistance sympathizers within the senate can still delay those shipments,” Ren says slowly.
“I wasn’t aware the Chiss military was authorized to make under-the-table bargains with the First Order,” Hux snaps.
The glow of Thrawn’s red eyes flickers briefly to Ren, before sliding back.
“My rank, when I carried it, wasn’t granted by the Chiss Military. Senator Ren forgets himself.”
“Forgive me, Thrawn. It was a long journey.” Ren demurs, smiling under his paint. He does look a little tired under his paint, Hux notes, resisting the urge to slide his thumb along the soft skin just beneath Ren’s eye, of Ren leaning into his touch… ('It’s been weeks’ something in him whispers.)
Hux’s nails bite into his palms thinking instead of Ren tugging a set of tags around that pale blue throat.
Thrawn too regards Ren for a moment, managing to convey an awful lot of disapproval for someone so non-emotive, before just as swiftly, he seems to relent, turning his head to Hux.
“This would be a strictly humanitarian effort.”
His red eyes fix again, inscrutably on Ren, or have to, because Ren’s looking at him, and his lips slightly into a smile. Between that, and the fact Ren apparently can tell when he’s being looked at by that sub-human, Hux’s blood boils.
“Funny. Is it still a humanitarian effort if the participants are non-human?”
Ren’s eyes snap to him immediately, and yes, good. Ren should be looking at him, even if it’s with barely contained outrage-
…Since when did what Ren looked at matter to him in the slightest?
What does he think he’s doing? He can’t afford to make an enemy of Senator Ren.
“General,” Ren begins, his voice soft and dangerous.
“It’s alright, senator. A peculiar quirk of your language, and quite an interesting one,” Thrawn doesn’t miss a step, doesn’t appear remotely shaken from his calm.
“The very vocabulary of Basic presumes human generosity and egalitarian motivation as central to the character of its speakers. Your language itself provides an ideal of what a human strives to be, as well as your perceived limitations,” the red eyes seem to burn for a moment, despite the calm of Thrawn’s voice.
“We may discuss the linguistic and sociological implications of humanity at great length while your people starve, if that is what you wish, General.”
“Thrawn,” Pellaeon’s voice is far less gruff than it was, something turbulent and troubled in his gray features, “Those are Imperial Refugees.”
“Second generation refugees,” Thrawn replies, cooly, “It’s been thirty years, Gilad, I think it would be far more appropriate to call them Settlers. The General is far too young to have much memory of the Empire.”
“And I suppose a Chiss Admiral would do better?” He snaps back.
“That Chiss Admiral, BOY,” Pellaeon barks, “Is Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Imperial Navy. He was commanding the frontier fleet remnants when you were in training not to shit your pants.”
Hux gives a scoffing laugh before he can stop himself, notes suddenly that Ren isn’t laughing back, but is pinching instead at the large bridge of his nose, his full mouth drawn into a line.
Hux reflects that he really doesn’t look well.
Don’t be rude, Ren had said.
“I… Apologize. I’d never heard of a non-human making rank in the Navy,” Hux amends, biting back his pride and trying to look appropriately chastened and boy-like.
If what Ren says is true, this man could stop the famine on three worlds, could bring bacta to the fronts…
“I’m familiar with the First Order’s Propaganda machine. As you are,” Thrawn replies, still level, “Human history tends to highlight its own accomplishments.”
Pellaeon hisses at him, “But nothing at all-”
“The General can’t help the way he was raised, Gilad.” Thrawn cuts him off, waving two fingers, “Especially as a Hux.”
He stares into those glowing red eyes and lets the heat of his anger fill him.
“I will walk out of your home and let billions die if the next phrase out of your mouth is an insult to the memory of my father.”
The only noise in the room for a few moments is the tense, slow upslide of the fabric of Ren’s robe against the floor.
“What the Admiral says about his own rank is true, Hux,” Ren says quietly, the knot still in his brows.
“Then it must have been quite the defeat for you to have been erased so completely from the annals of history,” Hux replies, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice.
Pellaeon swells like an angry balloon.
“On the contrary. I consider my marriage my greatest victory,” Thrawn replies.
“Marriage. Nearly twenty-four years, isn’t it?” Ren inquires.
“Twenty-five,” Pellaeon still seems a little stiff, glancing at Ren’s chest distractedly in little sneaking glimpses.
“Congratulations,” Ren’s smile looks a little green around the edges. Hux shoots him a look. The senator shakes his head ever so slightly as if to say it’s nothing.
Hux folds his hands, trying to digest, to control himself.
For the good of the First Order.
“I was under the impression the Empire had fairly relaxed standards of marriage. That homosexual alliances were permitted.”
The bitter, burning taste of soap echoes on Hux’s tongue, rebellion, fingers held tight behind his back, gripping his own elbows.
“I don’t know what your Order looks like, son, but in the Empire, fraternization between two officers of unequal rank got you iced,” Pellaeon grates.
Hux’s eyes darted to the Captain, startled, before he controlled himself, gritted his teeth, realized he was being led on a rabbit trail, being coached to think of these two men as like him, and like Ren.
The forbidden Imperial romance…
He wonders, briefly, why he let Ren slip the special comm into his pocket, why he let him join him at Rattatak, and barely slept before he did.
He is not this eager, never this eager.
“What?” Pellaeon barks, “Speak up, son.”
Hux bristles. It’s one thing to be led around by a dangerous alien, and another to be hupped at by an ex-captain who think because he’s young that he’s nothing, that he got where he is on his father’s name. A toothless figurehead.
“Cadets are spaced in the Order, not iced,” he pauses, realizes he has something to steer with, cocking his head slightly, “Although I suppose in the event of being spaced, the cadet achieves a state of icing.”
He ignores the use of 'son’ again, even though the condescension makes him violently want to crack the butt of his smuggled blaster across the older man’s jaw.
He calms himself and tries not to think of the crust of this whole, wretched planet burning. Not with Ren nearby.
(And where will Ren be when…?)
The men are silent, but Hux thinks he sees Ren start to relax, give the start of a smile.
He bolsters into a proper parade stance, trusting in his greatcoat to add the illusion of bulk.
“Admiral, I believe I’m here to negotiate a humanitarian effort, not comment on the state of your Union.”
His jaw hurts just saying it, just bowing his head slightly, as though in contrition to a non-human Admiral. An Imperial sham. He juts his chin up instead, thinks he sees a flicker of something like interest in the inscrutable blue face, the unblinking eyes that are burning green afterimages onto his eyelids.
He breathes in the strange lizard-odor.
“Very well. I’m listening. Commence Negotiations.”
