#between calming bb down at the beginning and then the kitchen scene

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Something Held | Feeding Habits Update #8

Hi all!

Not me not realizing it’s been 3 months since I posted a Feeding Habits update hahahahahaha. Today let’s chat chapter nine, SOMETHING HELD. This also marks the last chapter in Harrison’s POV so prepare to say goodbye to this icon!  TW: body horror, mental illness, trauma

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Scene outline, excerpts & a little reflection on making difficult decisions that my not particularly benefit the book but benefit you as the writer under the cut because this update is GIGANTIC.

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed):

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting​, @aetherwrites​

Scene Breakdown

Scene A:

It has been two weeks since Lonan found Harrison at his shared apartment with Suzanna and things are getting strange. Lonan and Suz are getting closer, Harrison is getting more distant and slowly losing it. One morning, Harrison wakes hearing Lonan and Suz’s laughter, and crawls to the kitchen to investigate. When he reaches them, Suz is evening out Lonan’s hacked haircut and they’re both sobbing.

Scene B:

Shortly after this bizarre encounter, Suzanna steps out of the apartment for a breather because her son is sort of terrifying her! So Lonan and Harrison double-team to clean up Lonan’s hair shavings. Harrison begins eating the hair while Lonan stares and they have a conversation about the state of their friendship.

Scene Ba:

This scene is gross and confusing! More hair is ingested. My god.

Scene Bb:

After the above ordeal, both boys rinse off because they’ve been rolling?? around?? in??? hair?? but also?? things don’t stop being a little gross

Scene C:

An air of calm finally settles over the apartment. Lonan brews earl grey tea for him and Harrison to share and Harrison asks if he abandoned Lonan in the final chapter of Moth Work. Lonan doesn’t really answer this question so Harrison continues on his confused, but finally lucid (one-sided) conversation, admitting he understands he burdens his mother, who still has not returned. They circle back to the question of abandonment and Lonan answers Harrison the way he wants to be answered (yes), and this is a moment of freeing, where he feels some sort of responsibility in this irresponsible new life he’s led in NYC. They sort of agree to be friends again.

Scene D:

The boys head into the city to find Suzanna, heading to a bakery near the Hudson River. Lonan drives in his used car, a strange experience since Harrison has not seen him drive in years. Taking the opportunity, he searches through the car and finds a map in the glove compartment. The map is erratically scribbled over and it takes him to moment to realize this is Lonan’s map and the first indication that Lonan, who he has assumed is this stable, perfect person, is not as unscathed as he seems.

The boys pass the waterfront and Lonan nearly crashes the car into an oncoming truck. Harrison regains control of the vehicle tucking them into a side street. Shaken, Lonan apologizes for the mess he’s created both physically from his nosebleed and between Harrison and his mother, which gets Harrison a little antsy because he doesn’t like the suggestion that he’s going to leave. Lonan clarifies, stating he won’t if that’s what Harrison wants.

Scene E:

Later, everyone is back at home and Harrison wakes up to a Lonan-less bed. He gets up to investigate the strange dripping coming from the bathroom and opens the door to find Lonan precariously teetering over a sink filled with water. Harrison, concerned, moves him away and tries to ask why Lonan is presumably going underwater, but doesn’t push. They both stand on opposite sides of the bathroom until the sun rises.

My process:

Honestly, writing this chapter was a huge up and down. The first half of it came much easier to me, but the rest was a literal hellfire to get through. I think I was incredibly fatigued with writing in Harrison’s POV as I’d been writing it since June (I finished this chapter in either December or January). This book has been a pain in the ass to write despite me liking what it is, and I really think it being the only place I’ve physically “gone” since the pandemic makes it even harder to write. I felt claustrophobic in Harrison’s POV since I’ve been writing it for half a year, and in a lil ~breakdown~ my beautiful sister reminded me of something she’d previously told me, “it's not about what works, it's about what you want”.

Let’s chat about this for a sec! I think I was watching a Harmony Nice video on her “hard-to-swallow” self-care, and she basically outline (I’m paraphrasing here) that it’s critical we care for ourselves in ways that might not necessarily be easy to do. Honestly, leaving Harrison’s POV is one of those hard-to-swallow self-care things I literally had to do because my mental health was not happy with me! Y’all know my boys are very close to me, and I’m not picking favourites but Lonan is 2500 times easier for me to write with at the moment. I think Harrison’s situation and how he deals with it is much too similar to mine but in a way that is difficult to place (Lonan and I are unfortunately similar but in a way that is easier for me to understand about myself!). From the beginning of writing his POV I’ve been in Struggleville, but kept pushing through hoping the next chapter would be “the one”. Not to burst my own bubble but there is no such thing in the state of mind I was in! I was pushing myself to find something that doesn’t exist because my brain was really not equipped to do what I needed it to do. I really, really did not want to quit on Harrison’s POV, but I had to, not because I don’t like him (he’s my baby) but because I needed a moment to myself. I felt way too seen in ways I don’t really know how to address in myself, so writing him was horribly frustrating at all times (my fault, not his).

My characters really do live in my head rent-free lol. They live in there! They take up space! They take up energy! They take up concentration, and resources I need for myself! Empathy is so integral to my process, that I give a little part of myself in everything I write. This is a blessing because I really get to dig my heels into the mind of another person, but a curse because I’m not a machine (and sometimes I forget that). It is a lot of emotional energy and labour to give everything you have to fictional people. I don’t think an artist needs to be tortured to create good art (this is not it!) but I never truly practiced this well? In my attempt to be empathetic, I was torturing myself a little bit, not going to lie!

So to combat this, I decided I needed a change. Hence, this chapter is imperfect and probably needs some stuff added to it, and while I’ve only written little of Lonan’s second POV, I’m feeling a lot better! It’s nice to get “outside” in a different place lmao this is so sad (pandemic writing things).

Excerpts:

I wrote the beginning of this in a livestream I hosted on my YouTube channel! There’s also a shoutout here to my dragon tree Lisa <3 miss u boo

Two weeks go by. Lonan sleeps on the couch. Harrison wakes up at dawn—no earlier, no later. Suzanna buys a plant: a Madagascar dragon tree she names Lisa. June grows into the collar. Lonan plays sudoku in the newspaper. Harrison learns to bake focaccia, gluten-free, whole wheat. Suzanna learns to palm read, tells Lonan he’s experienced great betrayal (they stop the reading immediately; Lonan goes back to the newspapers). Harrison begins burning incense at sunrise—frankincense. The dragon tree nearly dies (Lonan saves it). It rains every weekday that contains the letter T. Lonan shifts stacks of soggy newspapers onto the breakfast table, answers crosswords with the help of Suzanna (four across, nine letters, Something held). Harrison burns a baguette. Suzanna buys a hanging basket of pothos. The power goes out for two days and the icebox floods the kitchen tile (Lonan mops it with old newspapers, the ink running like jellyfish). June barks for the first time. Harrison eats a bundle of dried bay leaves. Suzanna waters the plants with rainwater, icewater, wrung into a coffee tin. Harrison leaves the stove on while sautéing shallots (he eats them whole). Lonan wakes up feverish and fills out four newspaper crosswords, then falls asleep on the coffee table. Suzanna moulds panna cotta in coffee mugs and shares the batch with Lonan when they won’t tip out. Lonan teaches her how to propagate the pothos and soon they have twenty empty cans of cuttings poking from the windowsills. They rearrange the furniture, the couch facing the kitchen instead of the TV, the dining table right outside the bathroom, then put it all back the next day. They birdwatch from the tiny window with binoculars and a magnifying glass. They sort coupons. Whittle soaps. Watch Norwegian films without the subtitles. Discuss cliff diving. Make matching anklets (blue beads, elastic string, the plastic clacking how Harrison knows they’re coming). All of this they do as Harrison lies on his bed for two weeks, counting the corners of his ceiling and trying to determine a way to multiply them telepathically.

This is the very next paragraph!

At first he assumes they’re laughing. The sun nearly rising between other high rises, blotting his room with dawn. This is not a surprise. They are probably making pancakes out of buckwheat and discussing the hilarity of whole grains. They are probably laughing at store-bought cherry preserves. Too sour. Their cheeks puckered. But then the laughs get louder, and the sun rises higher and it’s not laughing at all, but gasping.

Here’s Harrison crawling!! is this straight out of the exorcist probably!

Harrison’s instinct is to crawl. As if his smallness against the ground will stop anyone from hearing him, even before he unlocks his door. On hands and knees he shuffles from his bed to his doorframe, edges the door open with his shoulder. On hands and knees he hikes through the hallway, the gasping getting louder, shuffling until he sees them. Lonan sitting on one of the kitchen stools, a grocery bag wound around his throat. Suzanna clacking scissors in two hands so their blades ping in the sun. Her fingers loped around his hair, knuckle-deep, the blades snipping, the gasps growing, them both sobbing, the hair falling, the sun stalking, their bodies rocking. Harrison takes it in from his crawl. Experiences it all on his knees.

So this excerpt seems really you know, normal:

They clean up the hair. Harrison with the dustpan, Lonan with the broom. Harrison still kneels. Lonan still cries. The only thing that has changed since crawling into the kitchen is that Suzanna is taking a walk around the apartment complex. She needs air. Room. If she cries long enough, a cigarette. So Lonan sweeps. Harrison collects. This repeats.

The kitchen smells of nutmeg. Freshly grated from a whole club over espresso, Harrison imagines. He smells this as he tracks Lonan with the dustpan, hovering its open belly for clippings of hair. And Lonan is so compliant, brushes cuttings of himself onto the plastic surface so Harrison can trash it. As Harrison looks on from his knees, Lonan diffuses in sunlight, the window illuminating only his edges. A body so familiar Harrison knows exactly where it flares with light or absorbs it. A body with skin like mulberry silk. A body he could recreate in charcoal with his eyes closed. His archangel translucent and luminescing.

Skip this excerpt if you don’t want to read about Harrison eating hair!! i’m sorry!

Harrison picks a bundle of fallen hair from the dustpan. It’s airy from being recently shampooed, smells faintly of pear, maybe even ginger. This hair, touched by a woman, or a few women, and cut by one, or a few, in different contexts. Eliza’s hands deveining the roots, and then Suzanna’s, trying to fix them. So Harrison eats it. That bundle like a toothpicked cube of cheese. He puts it in his mouth and swallows.

Lonan watches like he’s unconcerned. He watches this feral animal—Harrison must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. Chewing mouthfuls of hair like that will quell of him of what is missing, if there even is anything missing, something unidentifiable in this bland circuit of New York City, this time-loop of sonhood, this fresh start a dousing of flatness. As Harrison eats, he understands he consumes that something like it’s holy communion, reuniting with that something by absorbing it. And still, that hunger moves him, from finishing the dustpan of hair, and closer to Lonan.

“Do you think I’m a bad friend?” Harrison asks, wringing the corner of his lips clean from loose hairs. From this perspective, Harrison on his knees collecting hair, Lonan’s eyes look bluer. Maybe their saturation has nothing to do with the angle, but Harrison feels this is true; his eyes are so crystalline, they are temptingly edible. Like two plump blueberries. Or a matching set of clear glass marbles. Harrison swallows. He repeats, “Do you think I’m a bad friend?”

Lonan swallows, adjusts his grip on the broom. “We’d have to be friends for me to answer that.”

“Aren’t we?”

And here’s the rest of this scene!

“You’re my mother’s friend,” Harrison says. “She trusts you.” He crawls closer to Lonan. “You’ve got secrets. Rituals. Tell me her favourite finger-food and who she wants to marry.”

“I don’t know your mother that well.”

Harrison wraps a handle around Lonan’s ankle. A muscle there jumps like a dolphin breaching the water. He’s memorized this plane of skin, could rebuild it from single grains of sand while blindfolded. He furls his hands across its surface, unfurls.

“You garden with her,” Harrison says. “You share a plate for dessert.”

“She’s kind to me.”

“You cook her breakfast.” Harrison tugs on Lonan’s ankle, knowing it won’t raze him, knowing he’ll come down anyway. “You know the exact temperature she drinks her coffee down to the last digit.”

“I’m trying to be hospitable.”

“You’re trying to be a son.”

Lonan kneels. Crouching so they’re huddled over each other, so it’s nearly impossible to distinguish one body from the other, which one sinks, which one rises.

“My mother’s only got one son to live with,” Harrison says, his voice thin from a clogged throat. He reaches for Lonan’s scalp, scrapes a line down the centre, now an even plane of cropped hair. “And it isn’t me.”

“You’re unstable,” Lonan says, burrowing his face either into a cabinet or Harrison’s shoulder—neither can tell. “You won’t let yourself have friends.”

Farther, toward the tile they go, a pile of hair scattering. “My mother wants me to forgive you by replacing me with you.”

“She’s grieving,” Lonan says.

Harrison loses his hands. He doesn’t know where they disappear to, if he touches skin or tile. “I haven’t died,” he says. Skin or tile. Skin or tile.

Here’s an excerpt from scene C ft. this memoir bit from the time I was shocked that this university I visited had real FANCY teabags:

Lonan brews tea. Earl grey, from a tin. Harrison doesn’t know why he expects it to come from a bag. An individual paper sachet, or if he’s lucky, one of those fancy ones woven from nylon. But it’s from a tin. Two teaspoons into the bottom of a single mug they pass back and forth, wordless at the kitchen table. Strung in the bathroom, Harrison’s t-shirt hang-dries, nearly figure-like, an unfilled phantom. He tugs a throw around his shoulders and stares at his hands. Each crest of cuticle. Each bulb of knuckle. Each maze of fingerprints.

He is material. This is fact. Not just outlines. He’s got skin that goes pinkish when pinched, a pulse that juts from his wrist, two eyes that burn at the scent of lavender, ten fingers. But as he holds his hands up, studying them in the faint moonlight, it is difficult to believe his tangibility. In the city, he has lived as a haze. Fogging over grocery stores, eateries, nondescript. Fresh start has always implied an air of zest, a zing that should have fueled him to plant roots in this restart. But Harrison is rotten, aphid infected, overwatered, underwatered, then not watered at all. He flexes his fingers. He pops the joints. He tries to press his pinkie to the back of his hand. But none of this brings him back to himself. His hands continue feeling like someone else’s. His body invisibly marred in some way he can’t reverse, disconnected in retaliation.

Harrison reflecting on his relationship with his mother:

Suzanna has never left him alone this long, and to her detriment. He imagines her now, living the life she always should’ve lived, the life she lived before he crosscut his way to her most important thing. She’s probably at a salon, having her hair twirled with a round brush, making dinner reservations at some place always too expensive for two (extra points if it has a French name, more if she has to wait a half hour before getting a table). When she talks to her stylist, she doesn’t mention a son, but plans to travel up the west coast, all the way into Canada if she’s feeling adventurous. She’ll buy crime novels she’ll never read at duty-free, reapply a lipstick that cost her a paycheck in the reflection of a hand-dryer. After the salon, she’ll meet a woman at a wine bar, converse about children, and still not mention a son. Suzanna’s singleness will be a celebration.

The boys finally trucing it out <3

When Harrison finally opens his eyes, Lonan is staring at him. His eyes two reels of the Pacific. They cycle in blue. So much of him has changed, and yet he is still the same. Beyond the haircut, Lonan isn’t that much different. He can’t be much different. But as Harrison searches, splaying his palm on the wet table, he knows this is untrue. Lonan is hollower than he was last summer. A little more haunted. They have this in common, then.

“Can we be friends?” Harrison asks. With his pinkie, he finds himself writing against the damp table just as he did Lonan’s scalp not too long ago. Lonan’s gaze follows each loop of each letter, Harrison’s steady left hand.

Lonan is consumed studying what Harrison has written, where each letter connects in near-cursive scrawl. After a moment, he nods, once, twice, and then reverts to staring at the table’s new inscription. On its surface are two words: something held.

The boys in the car like old times <3

Lonan drives. This is strange because Harrison has not seen Lonan drive a car in over a year. Usually, Harrison takes the wheel, but tonight he guides them through the city, in search of Suzanna. His car is clean. This isn’t unexpected. A cherry-coloured hatchback that rattles whenever he makes a left turn. It smells vaguely of cotton air-freshener and the undercurrent of cigarettes.

“You still smoke?” Harrison pokes at the plastic nob for the radio, and it crackles to life. Synth and electric guitar pulse in 4/4 time.

“I bought it used.”

They’ve agreed to get to know one another while they search for Suzanna. Another restart, some attempt at an honest hour. As Lonan changes lanes, Harrison pokes open the car’s glove compartment. A tin of nicotine gum falls on the mat. A hot pink feather pokes from underneath the driver’s manual. Harrison hauls out both, runs the feather along the gum tin, then the back of his hand, and then Lonan’s cheek. When that rouses nothing, he unlocks the tin and removes a slit of gum. Right as he’s about to pop it in his mouth, Lonan says, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

“Why?” Harrison asks. “Did you lace it?”

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

Harrison puts the gum back, and then the feather. He sticks his hand farther into the glove compartment, feels around until he drags out a map of the state, bilgy and half torn. He unfolds it, careful to avoid the rips, and flattens it against the dashboard. Almost immediately, it wilts against the cold, faded from time in the sun. It’s been marked up. Half with pencil, half with a red ballpoint pen. After a few minutes, Harrison understands the previous owner’s route. Or at least he does at first. Following the red pen arrows, they started at Long Island, then reached Manhattan. Then a much longer arrow takes him from Manhattan to Geneva, and then Buffalo. And then the red pen circles, once, twice, three times, four times, and what is in the centre doesn’t even have a city name. What it does say is HELP, in all-caps, each letter then melting into an illegible scrawl. Harrison sees bits of words: Luke, woe, hands, clay, guard, stray, each wobbly and disappearing into the other, becoming cities of their own, destroying others. He tries to understand the route, but the farther he pours over the map, recircling each line with his finger, the more lost he gets in the ink.

“Is this your map?” Harrison asks. There is no proof that it is. Even the handwriting is all wrong. Ragged. Confused. Desperate. Not like Lonan’s careful, hesitant print.

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

“But is it your map?” Harrison asks again. Gently, he creases the paper and then slots it back into the glove compartment. Outside, they pass three convenience stores in a row, a flock of couples emerging from a bowling alley, tipsy and cradling leftover deep dish pizzas and mozzarella sticks. They pass two more convenience stores before Lonan finally answers.

“I was confused,” he says.

“This is more than confused,” Harrison says. “It’s disturbed.”

“I’m not disturbed.”

“But something is wrong with you.”

Lonan slows at a crosswalk. A group of teenaged girls whisk by in glitter and lip gloss.

“Yes,” he says.

This is Harrison trying to stop Lonan’s nosebleed after their bizarre swerve which I think is kind of <3 tendy <3

Harrison reaches for him. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other reared toward the red stream. His touch is tactful, so faint his fingerprints wouldn’t even be left behind, but still, the dabbing with his jacket’s hem is enough to redirect the blood’s flow from Lonan’s upper lip to the cuff of leather. The radio is still on, garbled like an unmassing of crepe paper lanterns.

This is the final excerpt for this update that takes us to the very end of the chapter! Harrison has just found Lonan supposedly head-first in the sink and though he asks at first why he is doing that, takes an alternate approach as the chapter closes:

Harrison gets up, his knees popping like gnawed bubble gum. He decides he will handle Lonan at a distance, if he chooses to handle him at all. Like a timid pet owner trying to tame their suddenly-rabid yorkie. Like a friend not trying to tip the full glass. To let its contents film at its surface, but never spill.

Somewhere in the apartment, Suzanna probably listens to them. If Harrison didn’t know her better, he’d imagine her pressed neatly against the door, waiting to hear the shuffle of their bodies or the tang of an argument. Instead, he imagines her at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water for so long, half of it evaporates.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Harrison says, stepping back until his spine hits the counter’s lip. He curls his fingers under the granite. Looks toward the window, now a faint periwinkle. Lonan heaves. His fingers caging his face, an animal restrained. They stand there until the sun rises.

So that’s it for this gigantic update! I have like four short stories to update you on so I hope to be back soon!

—Rachel

[nymphl]

Lie to Me - Hux x Reader - Ch. 6 - Friends & Foes

A/N - And here I come with chapter 6. I very much enjoy these first chapters of Lie to Me. In fact, my fav part of writing a story is the very beginning, the building relationship and so on. This chapter is just one big scene (not that big if compared to the chapters of BB and ITGB), focused on the aftermath of last chapter events. As always, I hope you enjoy it xD

Summary: Falling for the enemy… That’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Letting him live… for he should be dead. And you should’ve been the one to kill him. You had him, right there… and you let it escape through yours fingers. He lived. And now only the time could tell if you made the right decision — more likely wrong — by saving the amnesiac General of the First Order and telling him he was your husband. [Hux x Reader - Hux x You]

Warnings for the entire story: Will contain at times; graphic violence, sex, drugs and manipulation, coarse language and OOCness.

AO3 Tags: from enemies to lovers; eventual romance; memory loss; fake marriage; fake marriage becomes real marriage; rebellion; married couple; canon divergence; slow burn romance; politics; rebel alliance; resistance; first order; OOCness; eventual smut; eventual sex; power play; power dynamics; syndicate; lies; you lie; Hux lies; Hux backstory; manipulation; political alliances; political betrayals; secret organizations.

Wordcount: 3920

PREVIOUS CHAPTER *** NEXT CHAPTER

YOU WERE SPEECHLESS FOR A FEW MINUTES — THE IMPRESSION WAS THAT HOURS HAD GONE BY  — AFTER WHAT HE HAD JUST SAID. 

Confessed?

Was that a confession?

You were not sure and was afraid of finding out.

Thankfully, as soon as he said those words, he left you alone in the bedroom. He did not say where he was headed to and as a matter of fact you were not interested.

A tired sigh left you as you removed your head from your hands. You ran your fingers through your hair, taking a moment to get yourself situated.

The corpse.

Right.

He did kill the member of the Resistance. He did put a hole in his head. He did it in spite of the fact you did not want him to.

Still sitting on the bed, you brought your legs closer to your chest. Chin resting on your knees, you took a few deep breaths to calm yourself. It would not do to lose it now.

But that was so kriffing difficult!

Part of you tried to see reason behind his actions. You lifted your head and started lowering your fingers one by one, as you began to number his possible motives.

One, the man would kill you. Two, the man would have killed him. Perhaps not him. He proved capable of defending himself — and you, a small voice nagged in the back of your head. By killing the man, he saved your life as well. He did not need to. He could have let you die, but he did not.

That makes you my greatest weakness.

If that was indeed the truth — and he had no reason to lie; he himself believed he chose you because of something… love… perhaps? More like possession, even though he did not recall it thoroughly — you had to somehow exploit it, right?

You gulped.

That left you with only one reason.

A nagging voice in the back of your mind said that perhaps he killed the man because he wanted to. Because it was fun. Because he… you did not know… belonged to an Order whose main objective was to enslave everyone and kill those who disagreed?

You shook your head. If you stayed in the bed forever, your unstoppable and guilty mind would come up with hundreds of reasons why he should not be trusted and why you should have killed him — left him for dead — and right now you needed him to trust you. You had to… exploit the fact he did not have his memories and use it for… good? Whatever good and bad could entail… You had to figure out how far he would go to bring his plans to fruition — whatever they may be.

And there was still a body waiting to be buried.

Errrr…

You were glad your stomach was empty; otherwise, you would be emptying it real quickly.

Ah, for the maker!

There was some part of you that doubted you would be able to eat for a few days.

You left the bedroom and walked to the kitchen — where he was not present at the given moment — and the hall, where there was no dead body.

“What in the kriffing hell?”

The door was opened, and you could see — a mere shadow — the General with a bottle in his hands — you did not need to look at the cupboard to know the Tihaar was missing — looking at a pile of ashes.

You even thought about going after him, but you were not sure you were ready for the conversation that was to follow. Or to see that corpse again without feeling the worst of monsters.

Turning around, you looked for some herbs to make tea, and this time you were relieved to know he did not cook.

Considering that he took care of the body, you were glad to be left with dinner, even if you had no stomach to think about food right now.

He needs to eat, you told yourself. He was still recovering, going a night by without dinner would not do.

And you yourself had to eat; getting sick when you had so many lives to take care of would be just reckless of you. Imprudent. The hospital needed as many healers as possible right now. And you stayed away for far too long nursing him.

You were so afraid he would die on you, you took some days off and even forgot to eat while taking care of him.

Taping on the water, you washed your hands and set the necessary items to make a tritacale pie on the counter. Triticale pie was not the most your favorite recipe, but you thought that eating something more consistent would do him some good.  

He was already on the threshold, leaning against it. You looked at him over your shoulders and bit your bottom lip. He did not seem keen of initiating a conversation — and whenever he did, he left you more nervous than you could deal right now —, so you did it yourself.   

“Please… Don’t do that anymore.”

He folded his arms at his chest and arched his eyebrows, as if saying you should continue.

You drew in a sharp breath. Looking at him was not helping, so you shifted your attention to the vegetables and started chopping them.   

“You know what I am talking about.”

He remained silent.

For the maker!

He was going to make it difficult for you.

You opened your mouth to continue, but he cut you short, “I make no idle promises.”

Realizing you were gaping, you closed your mouth. You were grimacing at the vegetables. Your heart was not in it, if he did think your cooking abilities were not that good before — you thought he did and again why did it matter? —, he would be sure now. 

“At least don’t do that while I am around.”

He did not give you any reply.

No idle promises.

Right.

He was insufferable!

Unable to take more of his silence and his intense blue eyes focused on your back, you trailed off, “The corpse…”

“Taken care of.”

“But—

“It has already been taken care of.” His voice was firmer this time, from the straight and harsh line of his lips, you knew that he was not pleased about the topic at hand. “Nothing you should concern yourself about.”

“I just…

“Mrs. Syndulla, let’s change topics, shall we?”

His whispered voice — so threatening, so low and so devoid of any amiable emotion — had you sweating.

There we go.

I’m doomed.

“Mrs. Hux,” you corrected, and the words felt bitter in your tongue. Now you wished you had a bit of Jawa Juice at hand. Tihaar would simply not do. Too strong and too bitter to your liking.

“It’s not the first time a member of the Resistance drops by to a short visit.”

It was definitely not a question.

You wetted your lips.

What to do? What to kriffing do?

You decided to go for the truth.

“No.”

Looking down, you washed your hands once again and dried it in a dishcloth. They were trembling slightly. You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your nerves.

“But it’s been some time since they last came by.”

He moved from the threshold, placed the bottle of Tihaar on the table, and walked to you. His steps forced you to back against the sink.

Oh, for the maker!

Would he just stop doing that?

By the way the words left his mouth, you were sure they tasted like ashes, “I find it hard to believe.”

You swallowed.

Yeap.

He was going to definitely make it hard for you.

“It’s the truth,” you whispered, walking to him. You stopped right in front of him, giving him no opportunity to corner you. Go for the truth, a voice in the back of your head whispered. Well… At least you could go for the partial truth. “I know I’ve not been telling you everything…” You touched his face, taking your sweet time with his sharp cheekbones and five o’clock shadow. You did like him like that — even if he disagreed —, it made him less alike your husband and the more differences you could find between them, the better for your own sanity. “But that’s because I worry for your health, if I told you everything… What I mean is, I am responsible for your health and I would not jeopardize it for the sake of some old memories.”

He placed one of his hands over yours, keeping them in place; the other moved to your waist, pulling you against him. He surely was a man who enjoyed getting physical with you.

“That…” He was focused on your eyes as he continued; his hand was inside your shirt, caressing the small of your back. You gasped, if for the words or the contact of his warm fingers against your skin, you did not know, “or you are afraid of what I may recall.”

Eyes widened, you partially forgot how to breathe for a moment.

You opened your mouth, ready to explain yourself — even if you had no idea how to do it —, but he placed a finger on your lips, silencing you for good.

“That does not require an answer.”

He brushed your bottom lip. Your heart was beating madly against your ribcages. You had no idea how to react. Your hands left his face and moved to his shoulders. You did not dare step away, not when he still had his hand inside your shirt, keeping you close.

“Let’s make a deal, Mrs. Hux,” he started; eyes intense and unreadable. You simply hated how easily he could read you and how difficult it was for you to do the same with him. “You tell me the truth for the next few questions and I promise to trust you in the future.”

You bit your bottom lip.

That was an interesting deal, but trust was not really something concrete. He could say he trusted you while mistrusting you.

And he was far better at pretending than you.

“And I promise to only touch you when you ask for it.”

As if you ever would.

You bit your bottom lip.

That was a certainly better — and fitting — proposition. He stepped away from you, as if to show you he would hold to his words.

“That’s no idle promise,” he continued and took a seat at the dining table. You joined him, unsure of yourself. That was a dangerous game, this one you were playing, but it was like that from the start. “I am perfectly aware you fear physical intimacy with me.”

You kept your mouth shut.

What else could you say?

He looked at you as if expecting an answer, but you merely bit your bottom lip.

“That was not a question, my Lord. You said I only had to answer your questions.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but you could see that he was if not proud of your quick rebuttal; he was at least amused at your courage.

“Very well.” He poured some Tihaar for him in a glass and looked at you. You nodded.

Both of you drank it at the same time.

Kriffs! How you wanted some Jawa Juice right now!

“You never told anyone Aquilla Syndulla died.” He had his eyes completely focused on you as he continued, “why?”     

You shook your head.

Only a few people knew it. And certainly no one you worked with. After your husband disappeared, you left your home and everything you knew. You came back to a place you had lived before with Aquilla, in the beginning of your marriage; before he became a living legend across the galaxy.

You stopped using his name and everyone called you a healer now. It was mostly improbable someone of the Resistance — or someone who tried to use their name to gain some advantage over hopeful and poor people — would find you and call you by your husband’s name in this remote area.

To think they would know you were housing a member of the First Order was not only surprising, but actually shocking.

“No one even knows who I am,” you finally found your voice. Still looking down, you stared at your feet as if your toes were the most interesting things in the galaxy. “Only a few people… but mind their own businesses.”

There was silence for a moment, as if he contemplated your words and thought about a reply. He was a man who always knew what he said, you noticed, and this time was no different.

However, when he did speak, it was a surprise. You lifted your head and furrowed your brows at his statement.

“No one knows you are my wife.”

“Does it matter?” Before you could control yourself, the words just spilled your mouth. You brought your hands over your lips and thought how screwed you were.

Kriffs!

Now you had said it, you had to give him a decent explanation. 

“You are not with the First Order anymore, but—" You stopped yourself. You had to play this right, or he would never believe you. “They never—

“Let any of their assets go that easily.”  

You sighed in relief. He was finally starting to see reason.

“Your reasoning has some merit.” He looked away, hands interlaced over the table; you knew he was in deep thinking. “I do wonder, however, why I would leave the First Order.”

He rose from his chair and approached the windows. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought of someone coming for the man who died earlier. However, he was far too relaxed for that. At least, as relaxed as possible for him. He had his hands behind his back, his shoulders squared.

“They’ve tried to kill you?” You spoke as if that was obvious. You even approached him, but when he looked at you over his shoulder, you stopped right where you were. “I thought we were past that…” You mused quietly.

He looked at you over his shoulders, his eyes narrowed.

“I am aware of that. However, there always have been threats against my life.”

You looked down. If that was to work out, you had to crush this romantic notion he had about the First Order.

“This time they almost succeeded. And they would have, if I didn’t reach you in time.”

Your answer felt like a slap to his face; the way he looked at you said that much.

“You may not remember it, but they betra—

“I know it.”

You could swear behind his cold intonation there was some hurt. Subconsciously, you walked to him, reached for his hand, but he walked away before you could touch him.

Great!

Just great!

The silence was so thick there was a huge bantha in the room.

“Listen…” you started, not really sure where this might lead you. This time you were the one to lean against the threshold, arms folded on your chest; you were almost hugging yourself. “I… I… We are not with the Resistance. I mean… We are not with the First Order either and I am not sure we can trust any of them. The rebels would not have you and clearly the First Order descart—

“Enough.”

His voice and the way he turned on his heels to face you made it clear that speaking of the First Order was off topic. His next question, however, was what had you furrowing your brows and doubting his sanity.

“And why are we not with the Resistance?”

“I…I…” You reached for his forehead, sure he was feverish or something like that. He was not making any sense. He intercepted your hand, holding it between his. “I told you, they would not have you. They would possibly kill you or hand you back to the First Order.”

“Not General Organa.”

You bit your bottom lip.

He was right.

At least, partially right.

General Organa would never kill him. She did not use the same means as the First Order or the Empire in the old days.

She was different.

She was better.

But she did not rule alone. It was no Empire with a single Empress ruling above all. You were not sure she would go against the entire Alliance because of a single man. A single life. An enemy none the less.  

She didn’t in the past.

Not for your husband.

Not for you.

“There is no sovereignty in the Resistance. She will listen to her Council and do their bidding.” These words brought back some memories you did not want to recall. You looked down and remained with your eyes glued to the floor.

There was a moment of silence. You thought hours had gone by before you finally looked up and found him staring back at you with curiosity in his eyes.

“You resent the Resistance,” he stated, his eyebrow arched lightly. As if knowing you would not answer him, unless he made you a direct question, he added, “why?”

This time, you mimicked him and took your moment to reply. When you did, it was neither what the two of you had in mind.

“Why are you so interested in them?”

You surprised yourself with your boldness. Just like the day in which you demanded him to kiss you, you did not know where this bold attitude came from. You unfolded your arms and sighed.

“You just never cogitated the option of joining the Resistance…” You cast a glance at him. From his arched eyebrows, you already knew what to say next, “You still don’t. I see…”

Realization sunk on you…

…leaving you disappointed. No matter how much he felt betrayed and abandoned by the First Order, he still did not think of the Resistance as a viable option.

That was… frustrating.

And delayed your plans a bit.

Part of you wanted to take him to General Organa and see how she would act this time, face to face with a past enemy that could help destroy her biggest enemy and an entire organization… Part of you feared her reaction, feared she would let the past repeat itself in a gruesome fashion.

“You did not answer my question.”

His tone was low, and very close to you. You looked up and found him inches away. He was practically invading your personal space.

You would have sighed if his breath was not mixed with yours.

There was no need for him to say anything else. You knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Yes… I feel conflicted about them.”

You took a step towards him and this time he did not prevent you by walking away. He did say he would not touch you if you replied to his questions with the truth. And you did. All of them were answered with the absolute truth so far. He seemed surprised when you sought him out and this time invaded his personal space by yourself. You just stood there, in front of him, not quite touching him, but not far from his grasp either.

That was not a topic you felt comfortable talking about, but you realized that doing it would do you no harm either.

“We needed them in the past…” You took a deep breath. “Aquilla needed their help and they didn’t come…” You looked down, at your feet; you really expected him to not force you to face him. You could not take it right now. He did not. “And when there was word General Organa sent someone to help Emissary Syndulla it was too late.”

He kept silent.

And you never welcomed his silent nature more than in that moment. You did not know if you could take any word from him. There was no need for a comfort gesture — and why would he comfort you after all? If you were now with him, it was solely because Aquilla had… vanished in thin air.

“He never asked for help,” you trailed off. “I did… I did ask for their help, for him. He always thought he could handle everything himself.” You snorted. Eyes still cast on the floor, you watched how closer your feet were placed together. “Turns out he couldn’t.”

There was no answer or any commentary from him. Not that you expected it either. But his silence somehow bothered you this time. His lack of response — and from everyone who knew this story — made you believe they felt sorry for you. They pitied you. The young healer who lost everyone she held dear, including her husband.

“You still love him.”

His whispered words came out of the blue. And even if that was not a question, this time you found yourself answering.

“I do.”

The silence that followed made you look up — look at him. Instead of anger, disappointment or any hard feeling, you found understanding in his eyes. As if suddenly, everything made sense to him.

“I see…”

Realizing that maybe — just maybe — your confession had screwed everything, you reached for him, but he retreated, putting some space between you. You covered your face with both hands, feeling very tired.

Tired of lying.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of trying to guess what he was thinking, feeling or planning.

It was all so exhausting.

“He was my friend… My best friend.” You walked to the bedroom, completely forgetting about dinner. He followed you closely. “How could I not love him?”

You could say that you loved him as well, that you cared for him, but tonight was about telling him the truth and you simply could not say you loved your late husband in one minute and in the next say you loved him.

The fact he did not force you to say anything or asked for any more explanations made you sigh in relief. It spoke volumes about him. In fact, it spoke more about him than yourself.

You knew very little about the almighty General Amirtage Hux, but what you did, made it plainly clear he would never be someone to beg for anything — and certainly not for your love. You admired that about him. Most men — Aquilla included — would question you about your feelings for him, but the General kept his composure.

Making the bed, you looked at him over your shoulder.   

“I am sorry… I am tired. I…” You gestured towards the bed, “I think I will just sleep now.”

He nodded.

Still no answer.

That made you slightly worried, but you were so tired right now — emotionally tired —, drained even, that you shook your head and climbed under the blankets. He stood by the door of the bedroom and turned off the lights as soon as you adjusted the pillow under your head.

You would have said goodnight, but you decided to mimic him and keep your words to yourself. He was probably already gone. You closed your eyes and hummed to yourself — it was either that or end up crying again and even if you were sure he was not in the room anymore, you did not want to risk getting caught moping pathetically once more.

Once — twice, thrice and many other times — was enough.   

He did spoke, however. And what left the General’s mouth would probably hunt you for the rest of your life.

“Thank you…” he whispered, and your eyes shot open, in alarm. He was still in the room. “Thank you for your honesty today. Good night, (Y/N).”

A/N - And that’s all for today! Next chapter will be posted on May 10.