Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all the boys I've known, and I've known some
Until I first met you, I was lonesome
And when you came in sight, dear, my heart grew light
And this old world seemed new to me

“Bei Mir Bistu Shein"
Yiddish: To Me You’re Beautiful
The Andrews Sisters (1937)

Wartime promotions were usually handled without ceremony. As lives were lost, men moved through the ranks quickly and efficiently. Brief dispatches were sent in the field, informing a soldier of his new role, and he was expected to assume it as soon as possible. It was extraordinary, then, that Hux had been called to London to receive his.

The summons had come just after he had returned from a low-flying sweep over the Luftwaffe airfields along the French coastline. He had barely slid back the canopy of his aircraft when a harried sergeant had arrived with the typewritten message. The presence of Flight Lieutenant Armitage Hux was requested by Vice Air Marshal Leigh-Mallory at Fighter Command Group No. 11 headquarters, Uxbridge at 1600 hours the afternoon next.

“It’s high time you had your own squadron,” Pilot Officer Henley had said as he clapped Hux on the back. “You’ve bloody well earned it.”

Hux had watched him slouch back toward the barracks in his usual way, off to wash the cold sweat of combat from the back of his neck. Hux was chilled himself, standing in the misting rain under leaden skies, but as he looked down at the paper in his hand, he allowed himself a smile. A command of his own had been long-awaited, but expected after five years of exemplary service in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force.

He had boarded the train the following morning, turned out in his uniform with his regulation cap over his red hair. He had a rucksack of his few personal effects over his shoulder, knowing that he would be provided appropriate flight gear and other necessities when he arrived at his new post.

He spent the time in the cramped train carriage with the battered copy of Herodotus's Histories,  which he had carried with him since his days at Charterhouse School as a boy of fourteen. He had studied it again at Oxford and used it more than once to write exams. His teachers had told him to look beyond it, but he considered its examination of warring powers of slavery—the Persian Empire—and the free city-states of Greece to be fundamental to understanding modern conflict.

When the train came into the station in Uxbridge, Hux was met by a young officer who had brought a car. The journey to headquarters was a short one. Hillingdon House had been many things before the RAF had moved in, once a hunting lodge for a duke and then the home of a marchioness. It had had a brief stint as a golf club in the late nineteenth century, and then as a hospital during the Great War. It had been the headquarters of No. 11 Group since ‘36.

From the exterior it was an impressive edifice of brick and stone, partially stuccoed. Inside, as Hux discovered, it was still sumptuously furnished despite the bustling presence of RAF officers.

“You can leave your things here,” said the driver as Hux stepped out of the car. “I’ll be taking you back into town when you’re finished with the vice air marshal.”

Hux made a sound of acknowledgement and left his rucksack on the floorboard. At the side door they had pulled up to, an aide was waiting to receive him. Once inside, they went through a series of hallways to a formal sitting room.

“If you’ll wait here, sir,” said the aide, “the vice air marshal will see you shortly.”

Hux nodded, thanked him, and was left alone. Removing his cap and tucking it under his arm, he took in the furnishings. A few paintings of aristocrats he did not recognize hung on the walls. Their foppish clothes were colorful and their heads were piled high with white, powdered wigs that had been the fashion then.

Hux was glad to be spared the complications of dressing like that. As the son of a career army man, he had always been clothed smartly, and having attended public school and spent the past five years in the RAF, he was more at home in a uniform than anything else.

The clicking of a door opening drew Hux’s attention to the far side of the room. A slender woman stood at the threshold, her narrow-fingered right hand on the knob of the door.

“Flight Lieutenant Hux?” she asked in a prim city accent.

“Yes,” he said, crossing the plush carpet at the center of the room to stand in front of her.

“He will see you now.” Stepping to the side, she made way for Hux to pass into the next room.

“Thank you,” Hux said, but she had already disappeared, closing the door behind her.

“Flight Lieutenant, good afternoon.”

Vice Air Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory, gray-haired and mustached, stood up from behind his desk and gave Hux an informal salute.

Hux returned it, though with more precision. “Vice Air Marshal, sir.”

Leigh-Mallory gestured to the upholstered chair across from him. “Please sit, Flight Lieutenant.”

Hux did, setting his hat on his lap. He watched as Leigh-Mallory lowered himself into his chair again, with just a hint of stiffness. He wasn’t an old man, but years in the small cockpits of airplanes were hard on a man of his height. He was only a few inches shorter than Hux, who was unusually tall for a pilot.

“I’m sure you’re wondering by now why you’ve been called away from your post,” Leigh-Mallory said.

“Yes, sir,” said Hux.

“Well, start by having a look at this.” Picking up a file folder, he slid it across the desk toward Hux. Hux hesitated for a moment, but then picked it up and flipped it open.

“This is my service record, sir,” he said, scanning the top page. There were neatly written notes from his superiors, all commendations for his performance.

“Indeed it is,” said Leigh-Mallory. “A damn impressive one, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Leigh-Mallory leaned forward as if to take Hux’s measure. “Ten confirmed kills during the Battle of Britain, more hours in the air than any other man in your squadron, and you’ve brought every one of your aircraft back in one piece. I doubt there’s anyone else who can boast that.”

Hux set his file back on the desk. “It’s my privilege to fight for king and country, sir.”

Leigh-Mallory chuckled. “And you have done so admirably, Flight Lieutenant. That’s why I’m assigning you a command.”

“Yes, sir,” Hux said. Despite his certainty from the outset, he was relieved to hear the words. It made the whole situation concrete.

“You expected this,” said Leigh-Mallory, leaning back in his chair with an amused quirk of his lips.

“I had hoped for it, sir,” Hux said in earnest. He had been waiting for this since he had joined up at twenty-one years old. There hadn’t been a war on then, of course, but it only meant that by the time it broke out, Hux was already a seasoned pilot. He had been ready when he faced his first dogfight.

Leigh-Mallory set one hand on his stomach, which was just beginning to go soft beneath the brass buttons of his jacket. “Good man. I wish I had twenty more like you. Experienced men are hard to come by these days.”

Hux knew that firsthand. They had lost more men during the hardest battles with the Germans than they could replace. The RAF was desperate for new pilots, but those they could find were fresh out of training and barely had enough hours in the air to fly solo. They had minimal understanding of basic combat maneuvers and some had even crashed their aircrafts on their first flights out.

“Tell me,” Leigh-Mallory continued, “what do you know of the Eagles?”

Hux took a moment to place the term. “You mean the Eagle Squadrons, sir?”

“Indeed I do,” he said. “Are you familiar with them?”

Hux was, though most of that was based on rumor and what he had read in the papers. The Eagles were three operational squadrons that flew for Fighter Command, but they were not composed of British pilots. They were Americans who had volunteered to come across the Atlantic to fight despite the fact that the United States staunchly refused to join the war.

The Eagles had gotten a fair amount of press since the first squadron, 71, had come into service in ‘39. Hux had read a number of stories about them, even seen a newsreel or two. The newsmen painted the Eagles as brave and capable flyers, but from what Hux had heard from other officers, their record was somewhat less impressive.

There were stories of mid-air collisions, pilots shooting down their own aircraft, and numerous tales of disorderly conduct and otherwise wild behavior that compromised the cohesion of the squadron. Hux was hesitant to buy into the assumption that all Americans were cowboys, but from what had been said of the Eagles, that was at least somewhat true.

“I’ve heard about them, sir,” Hux said, his concern about where this conversation was headed mounting.

“Most of us have by now,” said Leigh-Mallory. “The press loves them. It’s a good story, after all. A few brave Yanks coming over to risk their lives to help us while their country buries its head in the sand.”

“Yes, sir. It’s admirable.”

“And needed. That’s why we’re bringing up a fourth squadron.” Leigh-Mallory pointed a blunt-tipped finger at Hux. “And I want you to lead them.”

Hux set his face, determined not to betray his disappointment. It bordered on dismay. He had seen himself in command of a squadron of reliable men with combat experience, not a pack of fresh-faced Americans.

“I see, sir,” he said. “Have they had training?”

“They’ve been with the training unit at Abingdon for the past six weeks,” said Leigh-Mallory. “And before that they spent some time in civilian flight schools in the States.”

Hux’s hopes sank further. Civilian flying was hardly enough to bring a pilot up to snuff when it came to facing Messerschmitts over the Channel. Their operational training unit would teach them the rudiments, but it was far from the months of instrument time and tandem flying that Hux had done in the Oxford Air Squadron and then at his first RAF posting.

“They’re green,” Leigh-Mallory said, “but if anyone can whip them into fighting form, Hux, it’s you.”

“I understand, sir.” Hux’s jaw tightened, but he added, “I appreciate the opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m certain you won’t.” Leigh-Mallory produced a slip of paper and held it out to Hux. “You’re expected to join the convoy going out to Norfolk in the morning. They’ll take you to the Wolcastle airfield, where you’ll rendezvous with the wing commander and take over 363 Squadron, the fourth Eagles.”

Hux took the page, forcing himself not the scowl at it. Norfolk was under No. 12 Group, which flew over a part of the country that saw far less action than No. 11, which guarded London and its environs. That would mean better sleep and more time to service their aircraft, but Hux wasn’t in this for hours of cards and reading while he waited for his next mission.

However, if he was going to have to deal with a squadron of unseasoned pilots, perhaps a quieter posting would be a boon. It would give him more time to educate them rather than throwing them into the heat of battle out of the gate. Still, it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to lament the loss of his place in No. 11 Group.

Folding the dispatch and tucking it into his jacket pocket, Hux said, “Thank you, sir.”

He got to his feet as Leigh-Mallory did and saluted. The vice air marshal held out his hand, and Hux shook it.

“Best of luck, Squadron Leader Hux,” Leigh-Mallory said by way of parting. “Mary should be waiting outside. She’ll show you out.”

Hux nodded and headed for the door. The same young woman, Mary, was standing outside in the sitting room.

“If you’ll come this way, sir,” she said, gesturing to the hallway.

Hux followed her through the estate again, until they arrived at the door through which he had entered. The boy with the car was waiting again, and he turned the engine over as Hux slid into the passenger seat.

The streets they drove down had been cleared of the worst of the debris from the last bombing, however recent that may have been, but the buildings were still marked with black smudges from explosions, the façades of some broken or crumbling. Despite the bombs that continued to fall in the city during the night, life had continued on. There were all manner of people out along the pavement.

“Is there somewhere in particular you’d like to go, sir?” the driver asked. “There are a few theaters about.”

“A pub will do,” Hux said. He found himself in immediate need of a drink, if there was one to be had.

They drove for a few more minutes before pulling up beside a small establishment with narrow, grimy windows and a sign above the door that read: The Glove and Falcon. Its shabbiness would serve Hux’s purposes well.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Hux, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder.

“You’re welcome, sir. Good day to you.”

The car rumbled as it rolled down the cobblestone lane before disappearing around the corner in a trail of exhaust.

When Hux entered the pub, he found it dark inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. There were a few patrons scattered about small, round tables, their conversations quiet. More than one pair of eyes turned to Hux as he strode across the room.

“Good afternoon,” he said to the barkeep, a small but broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a square jaw. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, baring sinewy forearms.

“Get you something?” he asked.

“Beer?” said Hux.

The barman shook his head. “Haven’t got any. Rationing’s got the brewers in a mess.”

Hux wasn’t altogether surprised. “A cup of tea, then?”

“Haven’t got any sugar.”

“I don’t need it,” Hux said, eyeing one of the tables in the corner. “Can you bring it there?”

“As you like,” said the barman.

The chair he sat in was hard and low-backed, a stark change from the soft seat he had occupied in Leigh-Mallory’s office. He scooted it in close to the table and set his palms down on the worn wood. He breathed in steadily, pausing for the first time since he had walked into Hillingdon House to let the reality of his situation set in.

He had his command at last, but it was far from what he had expected or desired. The journey to Norfolk would take three or four hours, most of which would likely be spent in the back of a lorry transporting some manner of supplies to the airfield at Wolcastle. Hux didn’t know much about that base, or who the wing commander was. He might have asked Leigh-Mallory, but it had slipped his mind at the time. He had enough to consider when it came to the Americans he was about to be saddled with.

For once he wished he had paid more attention to the news about the Eagle Squadrons. When he had first heard of them, they had been all but sensationalized, making Hux bristle. There were far more impressive squadrons among the British that deserved the press more than the Eagles did.

Likely it was just another attempt to drum up support in the States for them to join the war. Churchill had been after Roosevelt since the fighting had started, but to no avail. The Americans were still decidedly neutral, even enacting laws that made it a punishable offense to enter the service of one of the countries involved in the conflict. The Eagles were technically in violation of those statutes, but once they were safely out of the country there wasn’t much to be done but to let them fly in England.

Hux wasn’t entirely certain how exactly they went about getting overseas, but he knew it couldn’t have been simple, considering the restrictions. He couldn’t help but wonder why they would go to such lengths to do so, either. They were putting their lives at great risk for a country that was not their own.

Perhaps they had ties to England, though, or maybe they hated the Nazis and what they represented just as much as the rest of Europe. It wouldn’t have been the first time idealism drove men into battle. Hundreds of thousands of them had joined during the Great War, only to go to their deaths in the trenches.

Hux’s father had been a cavalryman, the last of his kind. Horses and bayonets were useless against the new weapons of war: machine guns and mustard gas. Brendol Hux had been lucky to come out alive, as so many others had not.

He had expected his son to take his commission in the army as well, but Hux had chosen the air corps instead. He had never flown before he joined the Oxford University Air Squadron, but as soon as he got into his first cockpit, he knew there was nothing else he would be satisfied in doing.

Maybe the men of the Eagle Squadrons were like him; they just wanted to fly and were willing to go great lengths to get into an airplane.

“Here you are then,” said the barman as he came up to Hux’s table. He set a ceramic tea service down. The inside of the cup was stained from years of use, but it looked clean enough.

Hux thanked him, waiting until he had gone away to pour himself a cup of the tea. He would have preferred a slice of lemon to put in it, but produce suffered from the same shortages and rationing as sugar. Fortunately, when he sipped it, he found the flavor strong, but not too bitter. There were a pair of stale biscuits on a plate next to his cup, and he ate them out of habit.

Hux watched out the window beside him, looking at the people in grays and browns bustling along as rain began to fall. It would have been a fine day to be in the air despite that. He wondered in passing who had taken over his aircraft. It was a Supermarine Spitfire, the fastest, most agile plane in the service. It had taken a few bullets over the course of the summer, but Hux’s ground crewmen had always had it back in working order within a day or so. He was remiss to let them go, though the hoped the crew at Wolcastle would be as capable.

Reaching down to his rucksack where it sat at his feet, he opened it and pulled out the Histories again. He opened to the third book and the discussion of rise of Darius the First of Persia. His reign would mark a period of great turmoil for the Greeks, many of whom would die fighting his legions.

Hux wondered what Herodotus might have made of aerial warfare, how he would have recorded the way a bomber’s engine began to smoke after taking a hail of bullets from a fighter, or how a plane went down in a trail of flame until it exploded on the ground below. It was both terrible and beautiful to see it happen, as Hux had many times.

Losing squadmates and friends was inevitable. The first man Hux had ever watched go down was one of the boys he had been with at Oxford, a lad named Bextby, who had been at All Souls while Hux was at Jesus. He had always been quick to laugh and turned red in the face as soon as he got a few pints in him. He had taken fire from a German fighter over the Channel and crashed into the water before he could bail out.

When Hux had landed, he had kept his wits about him, said good things about Bextby, and gotten ready for another flight, but that evening at dinner in the mess, he had looked down at his half-empty plate and seen droplets of wet on it. He had glanced up at the roof in search of a leak, but, finding none, went to rub his eyes. They were damp with tears that he had not noticed.

The man next to him had offered him a handkerchief without comment. Hux had dried his face and finished his meal. The next morning he was in the air again and another man went down, but he didn’t cry for him or any of the others that came after.

As Hux read and drank his tea, the afternoon passed into early evening. The barman came by more than once to refill the hot water, though with each new pot the tea grew weaker. Leaves were too scarce to use only once. By the time Hux finished his last cup, it was barely brown at all.

He brought the tray back to the counter and set it down. The barman gave a grunt, which he presumed was thanks.

“I’m looking for a room for the night,” Hux said. “Do you know of a hotel?”

“There’s one just two streets over. The Takodana. Ask for Maz.”

Hux nodded, paid for the tea, and made his way out of the pub. True to the barman’s word, the hotel was nearby. The building was relatively untouched by the bombings, the placard out front swinging slightly in the breeze that had come up.

The interior was remarkably well-appointed, decorated in red and gold, but it was not without the signs of use. Some of the curtains were faded, the carpets threadbare. Approaching the desk, Hux adjusted the bag on his shoulder. At first he saw no one and nearly rang the small bell, but leaning in slightly, he spotted the gray-haired head of a woman. She was crouched down going through a cabinet, speaking to herself in quiet mumbles.

“Good evening,” said Hux.

“Hm?” the woman said, turning to look up and over her shoulder. She wore a pair of spectacles, ones with thick lenses, on her nose.

“I’m looking for a room. Do you have any available?”

The woman rose and turned, but even standing she was still only half Hux’s height. She brushed her hands over her skirt to straighten it before stepping up onto a stool behind the desk.

“More than a few,” she said, looking him over. “Especially for a handsome soldier.”

Hux offered an indulgent, closed-lipped smile. “I was told to ask for Maz.”

“You’ve found her.” She leaned against the counter, grinning. “So tell me, love, what’s your name?”

“Armitage Hux, madam,” he said.

“Now there’s a gentleman’s title if ever I’ve heard one. Very well, Armitage Hux, let me get you a key and you can go right up to your room.” She reached under the desk and produced a brass key with a tag on it that read 10. “It’s on the third floor. Last door on the right. Will you be needing something to eat?”

“Please,” Hux said. The two biscuits at the pub had long since gone, leaving his stomach rumbling.

“There’s stew and bread in the dining room in half an hour’s time, if that will suit you,” said Maz.

“It will, thank you.”

Maz winked. “If you need anything else, love, you just have to ask. We treat our boys right, here.”

At the top of a narrow set of stairs beyond the desk was an equally narrow hallway. As promised, room ten was on the right-hand side. The key stuck a little in the lock, but Hux managed to get it open. The room was small, with a single, metal-framed bed standing at the center. There was a wash basin next to it, which Hux could fill with water in the lavatory down the way. Some might have disliked a shared lavatory, but it was no trouble for Hux; he was used to far rougher accommodations.

When he had arrived at his first wartime airfield, they had not yet completed the officers’ barracks, and he and his fellows had slept in tents near their aircraft. It had been a good arrangement when it came to reacting quickly to attacks and getting into the air fast enough to counter them. But ever since the Battle of Britain had ended, there were fewer German fighters flying over England. Instead, it was the British on the offensive, doing their best to destroy the enemy airfields in occupied France.

Dropping his bag, Hux unbuttoned his uniform coat and shrugged it over his shoulders. He took the tin pitcher and filled it with water in the lavatory. It was lukewarm, which was somewhat of a disappointment, but far better than what he would have gotten at the airfield. He took off his shirt and bathed his chest and underarms, face and neck before dressing again. He was hungry, and stew—whether or not it contained actual meat—sounded delicious.

Maz herself served him in the dining room, setting the shallow bowl in front of him and dropping a large piece of bread beside it. “I got you a little extra, love. Fighting men need their strength.”

As Hux started in on the meal, he expected her to leave, but instead she sat in the chair across from him. She had nothing to eat or drink, and sat watching Hux as he spooned the stew up and chewed.

“The carrots are from my own garden,” she said. “I’d never grown anything before, but with the rationing…”

The government had long been insisting that the best way to combat the food shortages was to have the Crown’s citizens grow their own vegetables. The men of Hux’s squadron had even had their own garden. Hux had learned quite a bit about cabbage, potatoes, and carrots since they had begun tending it in shifts.

“It’s very good,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. The stew was far more flavorful than standard rations.

Maz smiled. “That’s good. So, Armitage Hux, you an army lad?”

“RAF,” he said, tapping his forefinger against the winged emblem on his jacket, over his heart.

“A flyboy, then,” said Maz, lifting her chin. “You have one of those little monsters for shooting down other planes or a big bomber?”

“A fighter.”

“Hmph,” Maz muttered. “Takes some stones to get into one of those contraptions and zip around the sky. I don’t even have an automobile. What’s it like up there?”

“Exhilarating,” Hux said. “There’s nothing I’ve ever experienced like it.”

“Is it true you can fly upside down?”

“It is. It’s not particularly comfortable, but it can be done.”

Maz shook her head. “I think you’re crazy. But someone’s got to do it, right? Or we’ll never have this war over and done with.”

“Indeed,” said Hux, tearing off a hunk of bread and mopping up the rest of the stew from his bowl.

“Do you want that?” Maz asked.

Hux paused. “Want what, madam?”

“For the war to end. It doesn’t mean you’re out of a job, I’d imagine, but I’d bet you love fighting it out up there.”

“I do,” said Hux, “but a war can’t last forever. As long as Hitler is still around, though, I plan to fight.”

Maz reached out and patted Hux’s arm. “You’re a good sort, love. Brave. I hope you stay safe in the sky.”

“As do I,” said Hux.

When he was finished with his dinner, he returned to his room and stripped out of his uniform. The mattress on the bed was lumpy, but the sheets were soft. Lying on his back, Hux folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes.

In the morning, Maz fed him once again. She gave him toast with jam—quite an indulgence—and a big pot of tea.

“Come back and see me sometime, love,” she said, squeezing Hux’s hand in her small, liver-spotted one.

He said he would try.

It was only a short walk to the staging area for the convoy Hux had been ordered to meet, and it was easy enough to find Sergeant McMillan, who was in charge of the operation. He was a tall man with an easy smile, who saluted Hux and welcomed him.

“You’ll be in the lead lorry with me, sir,” he said. “If that’s all right by you.”

It was, of course. Hux pulled himself up in the side seat and allowed McMillan to drive them out of London and toward the east coast.

“Where do you hail from, sir?” the sergeant asked as they bounced over a rough stretch of road.

“Surrey,” Hux replied.

“Fine part of the country, that. You have family there?”

“My mother and father.”

“Nice to have both of ‘em living,” said McMillan. “My own mum died when I was just three. Took my baby sister with her.”

“I’m sorry,” Hux said. He had never known a sibling, having been an only son. He had never asked his mother why she had not had others, but he imagined that after one time in Brendol Hux’s bed, she had not returned to it. They had lived in separate rooms for as long as Hux remembered, and while they tolerated each other, there was no particular affection between them.

“It’s all right,” said McMillan, steering around a sizable hole in the road. “My dad did a fair job raising the rest of us.” He shot Hux a wide smile. “How about a sweetheart? Have you got one back home?”

“I haven’t.”

McMillan stuck two thick fingers into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a folded slip of paper. He held it out to Hux. “Have a look here.”

It was a creased photograph of a young woman. She was fairly plain, with a strong jaw and hair that looked to be an unremarkable shade of brown. Her eyes, though, were striking; dark and intelligent.

“That’s my Annie,” McMillan said.

“She’s lovely,” said Hux, handing the photograph back to the sergeant.

He kissed it and tucked it back into his pocket. “Next leave she’s going to marry me.”

“Congratulations.”

“I never fancied myself the marrying kind,” McMillan said, “but Annie, she changed my mind. I’d do just about anything if she asked it of me. You ever felt that way?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t yet been so fortunate,” said Hux.

There had been dalliances over the years, but they had been brief and, out of necessity, clandestine. It had started with fumbling explorations with the boy with whom he had shared a dormitory room at Charterhouse. That wasn’t altogether unusual in a small school full of pubescent boys; however, most outgrew it. Hux never had.

He had been careful at Oxford, taking care to spend time with the young women his friends knew—he had even gone to bed with one or two of them—but his preference had remained the same. Arthur, a lad from Cornwall who had been in one of Hux’s classical Greek recitations, had been the first he found that shared it. It had been a tentative courtship, both of them fearful that they might have been mistaken in the other, but one that culminated in several weeks of fevered touches that eventually led them to Hux’s bed. When the recitation ended, though, they had parted ways.

Over the next three years, Hux had found others to take Arthur’s place, but none of those liaisons had lasted much longer than a few months. He had come to care for each of his lovers in his way, but they knew all too well that what they had was temporary and kept their hearts out of it. That served Hux well enough. After all, he knew that when he left school and entered the RAF, the opportunities he was afforded as a student would be gone. Any relations between airmen or enlisted were punishable by court martial and time in military prison, and it was unlikely he would be able to find a civilian who was amenable in the short time he was on leave in one of the small towns near the airfields where he would be posted. If solitude was the price of a career in the air, though, he was willing to pay it.

“Well, I’m sure your time will come, sir,” said McMillan.

“Indeed,” Hux said. As he looked out over the road ahead of them, rain began to patter down on the windscreen. The clouds were hanging low; the ceiling had to be less than five thousand feet, making it difficult to navigate the skies. If he had been up, he would have had to rely on instruments to get through the mess.

Young pilots were notorious for struggling with instrument flying when they first got in the cockpit, despite hours spent in the Link trainer, which simulated flying from the ground. If his new squadron was fresh out of training, there was no doubt they would be limping up into the air on days like this. Flying in English weather was a feat in itself. Even French pilots complained of it, so there was no telling how difficult it would be for Americans to contend with.

Hux allowed himself a sigh, knowing it would be inaudible in the racket of the bumping lorry. And yet he could hear his father’s voice in his head chiding him for it.

“A good commander makes the best of the men he’s given,” Brendol had told Hux. “They gave me boys for my regiment who could hardly sit a horse, but I had them riding in drills until their legs muscled up and they could hold themselves in the saddle. They were good lads in the end, fought hard, and if they died, they did it with honor.”

“As you say, Father,” Hux said quietly.

“What’s that, sir?” McMillan asked. “Did you say something?”

Hux sat up in his seat and turned to looked at the sergeant. “Nothing of consequence. Will you tell me more about your family? Perhaps your sweetheart. We’ve a long ride ahead of us yet.”

McMillan grinned. “Certainly, sir.”

The watch Hux wore read 11:24 by the time they turned off the main road from the village of Wolcastle and went down the narrow track that would take them to the airfield. It bore the same name as the village, though it was two miles outside of it. It had been established after the war had already broken out and, from what Hux knew, still had a grass runway. That wasn’t uncommon among the new fields, but at least this one had decent accommodations.

As they drove closer, Hux could see a large building that he assumed was the main barracks. A smaller brick building was beside it, likely the mess. There were several blister hangars across the field, sheet metal-covered structures curved at the top and open at both ends, that housed out-of-service aircraft. The majority of the planes were outside, though, ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

It took only a matter of minutes for orders to come from the main operations room at Fighter Command Bentley Priory, London to No. 12 Group headquarters at RAF Watnall and then on to the telephone operators at Wolcastle. The pilots would be in the air shortly after, ready to counter German fighters or bombers. That was if Wolcastle’s squadrons were ever called upon to run interceptions. In all likelihood, they would be doing routine escorts where combat was much less common.

The lorry came to a shuddering halt outside of a squat brick building that looked to be the main air control center for the field. The telephone and radio operators would be inside, along with the wing commander and intelligence officers.

“Well,” said McMillan, shutting the engine off, “here we are, sir.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hux said. “It’s been a pleasure riding with you, Sergeant.”

He held out his hand and McMillan shook it tightly, almost too much so. Hux forced a smile before stepping out onto the damp grass. Swinging his rucksack over his shoulder, he made his way to the door of the control room and turned the knob.

Three women were standing beside a broad, circular table at the center of the room, its top laid out with a map of the sector, the Channel, and the area just beyond the French coastline. They were arranging several square chips across it, indicating the aircraft in the area. Hux could see that there was a bomber run being made into France, three heavy bombers escorted by a fighter squadron from Wolcastle.

“May we direct you, sir?” one of the women—one with dark brown hair and a pert nose—asked.

“Yes, if you will,” Hux replied. “I’m Squadron Leader Hux, reporting to the wing commander.”

“Of course, sir,” she said. Handing off the wooden stick she had been using to move the units on the map to the woman beside her, she gestured to the door at the far side of the room. “His office is through here.”

Hux followed her, waiting outside as she knocked and opened the door.

“Sir,” she said, poking her head into the room beyond, “the new squadron leader is here to see you.”

“Let him in, then, Rey.”

She turned and smiled at Hux. “There you are, sir. And welcome to Wolcastle.”

He nodded as he went into the office and closed the door.

The man seated behind the desk was uniformed, as was expected, and was chewing on the ragged end of an unlit cigar. As he looked up, Hux saw the extensive scarring on his face and bare head. It made one cheek hollower than the other, and the flesh around his mouth was knotted with thick, white tissue.

Hux was familiar with burns—he had seen cockpits go up and nearly consume their pilots—but few survived. Wing Commander Snoke, it seemed, had.

“Sir,” said Hux, saluting.

“Good morning,” Snoke said, his voice craggy and worn, as if he had been yelling. “Hux, is it?”

“Armitage Hux, sir.”

Snoke didn’t get up, instead looking Hux up and down in open appraisal. “Well, you look fit enough. I hear you aren’t green.”

“No,” said Hux. “I’ve been in for five years. Flew at Manston, then West Malling, Biggin Hill—”

Snoke waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. I can read your record if I need a full detail of your postings. What concerns me is that you’ve got some experience. We don’t need some fool boy out there trying to lead this already fool squadron.” He plucked the cigar out of his mouth and stubbed it into a tin dish. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into, Hux?”

“I have an inkling, sir,” he said. “But I’m aware it’s not going to be simple.”

Snoke gave a raspy laugh. “No, it’s not. These Americans are more trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me, and I have no interest in having them here, but we’re stuck with them, you and I.”

“Ah, yes, sir,” said Hux. He had had a faint hope that Snoke might have a fair opinion of 363 Squadron, but that did not seem to be the case. It boded ill, if things could get any worse.

“You’ll have to make do with them,” said Snoke. “Turn them into something of an operational squadron. I won’t have them getting in the way of the others. Not that they can be bothered with the other officers.”

Apparently things could get worse. “They don’t get along with the pilots from the other squadrons?” Hux asked.

“They keep to themselves,” Snoke replied. “Or at least they have since they got here yesterday. But it’s customary to introduce yourself to your comrades. They didn’t.”

“I shall have to see that they do.”

Snoke tipped his head to the side in acknowledgement. “Yes, I’d imagine that would be best. I don’t want any discord at my field. 129 and 222 have good men and they’ve been operating well together these past four months. Seeing 184 go was a loss for them. They were the last squadron here before yours, you see.”

“I do, sir,” said Hux. “And I will see to it that the 363 is on its best behavior.”

The scars around Snoke’s mouth twitched. “I trust that you will, Hux.” He pressed his hands to the surface of his desk and pushed himself to his feet. “I imagine you’d like to meet them. I’ll send someone to round them up. In the meantime, I’ll show you around a bit.”

“There’s no need to trouble yourself, sir,” said Hux. “I’m sure I can orientate myself.”

“This is my field, Squadron Leader. I’ll show it to you.”

Hux stood up at attention. “Lead the way, sir.”

“Rey,” said Snoke when they reentered the main part of the command center. “Go and fetch Sergeant Mitaka. Have him gather the 363 in the mess hall.”

“Yes, sir,” she said smartly before ducking out into the rain.

Snoke, and Hux behind him, followed the same path, though at a more leisurely pace. He walked with a slight limp in his right leg, though his posture didn’t suffer for it. Hux couldn’t help but speculate how much of his body was scarred beneath his clothing, and what had actually happened to him. The wounds were old, likely earned during the Great War rather than in any more recent conflict. It was remarkable that he hadn’t retired, or been forced into it, after being so severely burned. Hux had to admire that kind of dedication.

“We’ve two hundred and forty-one souls at this field, including you,” Snoke said as they walked. “Most of that’s ground crew, as you well know. You’ve got sixty-eight men for your airplanes, and they operate out of Hangar Three.” He pointed to the farthest hangar, across the field on the opposite side of the runway.

“How many kites do we have, sir?” Hux said, forgetting himself and using the informal term for the planes.

“Fifteen,” said Snoke. “There are the two out for repairs right now, but the rest are airworthy. They’re over here.” They went onto the dirt track that ringed in the field, starting the long walk toward the hangar. When they arrived, Hux saw thirteen aircraft were lined up wing-to-wing. “You’ve flown Hurricanes before, haven’t you?”

“I have,” said Hux, looking over the planes, “though not in some time. We were equipped with Spits at Biggin Hill.”

Snoke huffed. “Well, I suppose that’s only to be expected. No. 11 gets the best airplanes, the sharpest pilots. But don’t discount our boys here. We’ve some damned good flyers and these machines have served us well.”

“I’ve no doubt, sir,” said Hux as they stopped beside one of the Hurricanes. He touched a propellor blade, tracing its contoured edge.

When Hux had gotten his first commission, he had flown a Hawker Hurricane, and he still had a certain fondness for them. They were, however, no longer the top of the line when it came to combat. Hux had thought most of them were being decommissioned and replaced with the newer, more powerful Spitfire. To see so many of them lined up for his squadron was a not an altogether welcome surprise.

“Have the squadron been up in them yet?” he asked.

“Not these,” Snoke replied. “But you’ve got the morning tomorrow to go up with them and see what they’ve got.”

Hux would have to take the pilots up in shifts, groups of three. Once he had a look at their records, he could decide how to divide them. There would have to be a mix of abilities in each group, the more experienced complementing the lesser. That was assuming, of course, that there was some difference in their levels of skill and they weren’t all green as the grass beneath Hux’s boots.

“I will appraise them this afternoon and see how to handle their flight schedule tomorrow,” he said.

“Very good,” said Snoke. They turned away from the aircraft to where there was a sturdy wooden building marked with a red cross. “The infirmary is here. We have one doctor, but a number of good nurses. If you’re unwell, they’ll see to you.”

“Have you had a good deal of illness among the men here?” said Hux.

Snoke shook his head. “Fortunately not. There was a bout of influenza last winter, but since then it’s been well enough.” He cast a sidelong glance at Hux. “Worried about the health of your men?”

“It’s always something to consider, sir,” he said. “We don’t have a large reserve to draw from if they get sick.”

“That’s true enough. You haven’t any reserve pilots in the squadron. Just the men who are on active duty.”

Hux’s brows rose in surprise. “No reserves at all? What happens if we lose a man?”

“They’ll send someone up from an operational training unit, I’m sure,” said Snoke. “From what I was told, there are more Americans coming over. Maybe not enough for another squadron, but there are some if you should need them. Let’s hope you don’t.”

“Of course, sir,” said Hux. “Is there a high rate of loss at this field?”

Snoke’s frown pulled at the scars by his eye, closing it halfway. “If that’s a roundabout way of asking how much fighting you’re actually going to see, you might have just said it outright.”

Hux, chastised, said, “Is there a great deal of combat?”

“When we fly sweeps we pick up the most,” said Snoke.

Fighter sweeps were low-flying passes over German airfields in France, meant to entice enemy fighters up to engage. For an airfield that was away from London and the night bomber raids, it was probably the most exciting assignment a pilot would receive.

“Are bomber escorts more common, then?” Hux asked.

“Yes,” said Snoke. “There’s a Bomber Command field not far from here. An older installation. We usually make three or four runs with them every day.”

Escort missions were tedious for fighters who would rather be in the thick of combat, but they would be a good place to start a young squadron out. It would allow the 363 to get their feet under them, so to speak. If they performed well, they would earn more active missions.

“Understood, sir,” Hux said. “Will 363 be expected to come into the rotation soon?”

“Not immediately. The other squadrons aren’t too hard up yet. You have two weeks, maybe three.”

That timeframe was tight, but Hux was resolved to work within it. Even the most inexperienced of pilots would be able to hold formation for the hour or so it took to conduct a bomber escort. As long as they didn’t get set upon by the enemy, they would be able to manage the first few flights.

They returned to the other side of the field, where the offices and barracks were located. The enlisted barracks was the largest building at the airfield, built to house the ground crew that serviced the aircraft and took care of the field. The officers’ barracks had space for the forty or so pilots. The officers’ mess hall was adjacent, labeled with a brass plate above the double doors. As Snoke opened one, Hux could hear the din of loud conversation from inside.

It was a fairly small space, with three long tables only a few feet apart. Hux counted twelve men seated on the benches at the nearest table, most of them chattering amongst themselves in broad, distinctly American accents. He would grow accustomed to that, he knew, but he would have to teach them to speak at a reasonable volume. They were all but yelling at each other, the noise echoing around the mess and amplifying it. Hux had to force himself not to wince at the sound of a booming laugh from one of the men.

He looked over them cursorily, immediately dissatisfied with what he saw. Officers in the Royal Air Force were expected to be dressed appropriately, even when not on duty, in uniform and tie. These men, who purported to be officers, were in their shirtsleeves with their collars undone and jackets nowhere to be found. A few wore the turtleneck sweaters they were issued for flying, but none were turned out as they should have been.

“Gentlemen, good afternoon,” Snoke said, loudly enough to be heard.

Heads turned, and as the wing commander was recognized, some of the men got to their feet. They tugged the others, who were still talking, by the shoulders until they joined them. Hux scowled. That kind of sloppy conduct was unacceptable.

“Wing Commander, sir,” said a man with dark hair and eyes, who was standing near the front of the group. “What can we do for you today?”

Snoke took a hitched step forward. “363 Squadron, I’ve brought you your new commander.” He clapped a hand firmly on Hux’s shoulder. “This, gentlemen, is Armitage Hux. He’ll be in charge of you now.”

“Hello there, sir,” said the dark-haired pilot, grinning and extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hux looked scornfully down at his hand and then back up. The man blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“What, are you going to make him wait all day, Poe?” another man said. “You’re supposed to salute him.”

“Oh, right,” Poe said. “Sorry about that, sir. Squadron Leader, sir.” He snapped to attention and gave a sharp salute. The others followed him with varying degrees of correctness.

“I leave them to you,” said Snoke to Hux. With a last look, he turned on his heel and strode out of the mess, leaving Hux with his squadron.

He surveyed them again, taking in their faces and unkempt appearances. They were young, certainly none older than him. Most, like Poe, were on the smaller side, ideal for piloting, but there was one man at the far edge of the group who stood nearly a head taller than the rest. He hunched his shoulders slightly to draw attention away from it and was looking down at his feet. His hair, also dark, was long enough to hang into his eyes, hiding them. Hux made a note to insist that all of them adhere to proper standards of grooming as well as dress. He would not have his squadron looking slovenly.

Clasping his hands behind his back and straightening his own shoulders, Hux said, “Good afternoon. As Wing Commander Snoke told you, my name is Hux and I am your squadron leader. I’d like to begin with introductions. Please step forward and tell me your name and your rank.”

The men glanced around at each other, as if trying to identify which one of them should go first. Annoyed, Hux tipped his head toward Poe.

“If you’ll begin,” he said, curt

“Right, sir,” Poe said, taking a long step forward, as instructed. “I’m Poe Dameron. Flight lieutenant.”

Hux raised a brow. He hadn’t expected any of these men to be experienced enough to be ranked that high. That, at least, was a good sign. He would have to find out how much flight time this Dameron had.

“A pleasure to meet you, Flight Lieutenant,” he said. He nodded to him before turning to the next man, who looked barely old enough to be out of secondary school.

“Uh, Temmin Wexley, sir,” he said in a high, nervous voice. “Pilot officer.”

“How old are you, Wexley?” Hux asked.

His cheeks pinkened. “I’m twenty-one, sir. Old enough to fly.”

Hux knew that was a lie. The boy couldn’t have been a day over nineteen. “And where are you from?”

“Madison, Wisconsin, sir.”

Hux hummed a sound of acknowledgement, though he wasn’t certain where exactly that part of the United States was. But he assumed if he told Wexley or any of the other men that he came from Surrey they wouldn’t have the slightest idea where that was, either.

“And you?” Hux said to the next man. He was blond-haired with a full, round face and blue eyes set shallowly beneath nearly white brows.

“Clifford Strickland,” he said in a deep southern American drawl. “Pilot officer. I hail from Dallas, Texas and I’m twenty-four years old.”

“Very good,” said Hux, though he was already looking at the next man. He was Norman Crowe from Lawrence, Kansas, twenty-two years old. After him came Theo Meltsa, Andrew Ward, William Taylor, and Jacob Putnam, whom everyone apparently called Shorty. The two men after them were brothers, Brewster and Lewis Mills. Beside them was Virgil Gilbert of Albany, New York, twenty-seven years old.

The last man Hux came to was the taller one at the back of the group. “And lastly,” Hux said, “you are?”

He lifted his face slowly, allowing Hux to get the first proper look at him. He stared back at Hux through brown eyes, the color unremarkable, but their brightness striking. He had a strong, square chin that he jutted out just slightly as if to make himself look stern. A few dark spots dotted his face.

“Pilot Officer Benjamin Solo,” he said. His voice was deep and clear. “Twenty-one.” He shot a glance at Wexley. “And that’s the truth.”

Hux pressed his lips together to keep them from curving up at Wexley’s wide-eyed look of betrayal. “And where do you come from, Solo?”

“Oakland, California.”

Hux knew that state at least, though anywhere other than Hollywood was unfamiliar. He would have to find an atlas and look for the others’ cities, though he wasn’t certain one would be available at the airfield.

“Well,” he said, “it is a honor to know you all. We will certainly become better acquainted over the next few months, but this, at least, is a start. I would like to meet with each of you individually this afternoon to discuss the particulars of your training both in the United States and in your operational training unit here. We are to begin flying tomorrow.”

“Real missions, sir?” asked Strickland, his smile wide and toothy.

“Not yet,” Hux replied. “We aren’t expected to take up that kind of work for the next two or three weeks.”

The pilots’ faces fell.

“We’re ready, sir,” said Brewster Mills, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “We’ve been in training for over a month. More if you count the time at home.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Hux, “but I have particular expectations of my squadron, and before I can let you loose up there, I need to make sure you can handle what is required of you.”

“It’s not like we’ve never flown before,” Solo said, sharp. He was standing straight, glaring at Hux from under his brows. “We’ve been flying in circles and doing drills for six weeks. We can take the Jerries.”

Hux eyed him coolly. “I spent years flying in circles, as you put it, before I was ever faced with a Messerschmitt. And I was thankful for every hour of practice I had when I did. Good training will save your lives. Charging in headlong will get you killed.”

Solo scowled. “We’re ready.”

“I will be the judge of that tomorrow morning,” said Hux. He gave Solo a hard look, discouraging any further challenge. Solo seemed to understand, and remained silent, though Hux could see his fists clenched at his sides.

“So, sir,” Dameron said, “which of us do you want to see first? And should the rest of us go in the meantime?”

Hux glanced at his watch. It was just a little after noon, and he needed a chance to look over the reports from his squadron’s operational training unit before he had his meetings with each of them. He had no doubt that Snoke had those reports; he would just have to go fetch them and spend a little time reading.

“We’ll start with you,” he said to Dameron. “There are some things I need to see to, but if you’ll report back here at two o’clock, I’ll see you.”

“Can do, sir,” said Dameron with a crooked smile.

“Mills,” Hux said, looking at Brewster, “you’ll be next. Half three.”

“Yes, sir.”

Testing his ability to put names to faces, Hux doled out the rest of the time slots. Some would have to be after dinner, but by his reckoning he would be finished by around ten o’clock, time enough to get himself to bed for a decent rest before an early morning of trying his new squadron.

“All right, gentleman,” he said, picking up his rucksack from where he had dropped it on the floor at his feet. “You are dismissed for now, but I will see you back this afternoon at your appointed times.”

There was a chorus of “Yes, sirs” before they broke and made for the door. Hux watched them go for a moment, though just as Dameron was about to go out, he said, “I expect you to be in full uniform for your appointment.”

The acknowledgments were slightly less enthusiastic, but still present as they filed back outside.

When they had gone, Hux let out a breath. As far from ideal as his squadron was, he was feeling somewhat better about their prospects. The next day would be the real test, but for now he was cautiously optimistic. He had told Vice Air Marshal Leigh-Mallory and Wing Commander Snoke that he would make something of 363 Squadron, and he fully intended to.

Chapter Text

Hux didn’t tarry in the mess after his squadron had gone. He needed to see the pilots’ flight records, and for that he needed to get back to the command tower.

The layout of the airfield wouldn’t be difficult to learn; most fighter posts were constructed along the same lines. There was one main runway, maybe with a secondary crossing it, somewhere between three thousand and thirty-five hundred feet long. A narrower track encircled the runways, allowing the aircraft to taxi into position for takeoff and landing. The hangars were a few hundred feet back from the runways, just off of the track for easy access. The command buildings, barracks, and other facilities were across the runway from them, clustered fairly close together.

Hux was confident he could find his way back alone, but when he stepped out of the mess, he found a young man standing just outside. His black hair was damp from the rain, as if he had been waiting for quite some time.

“Squadron Leader Hux?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Sergeant Mitaka. Dopheld. I’ve been assigned as your batman.”

Hux looked him over. He was well-kempt despite the rain, his uniform in good order and his chin cleanly shaven. That boded well for his ability to keep Hux’s clothing and quarters in acceptable shape. A batman wasn’t a servant, but he would act as a valet of sorts and a runner to convey Hux’s orders. If Hux remembered correctly, Snoke had sent Mitaka to summon the squadron to the mess for their introductions.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mitaka,” Hux said.

“Likewise, sir,” said the sergeant, ducking his head. “I’ll show you to your quarters now, if you’d like.” He gestured to the rucksack Hux carried. “You can set down your things.”

“That would be good. Lead on.”

The barracks were cool inside, but dry. Through a door to the right was a common room furnished with several plush chairs and a billiard table. The space looked to be heated by a coal stove. That was a rudimentary comfort, but far better than a cold tent in a wet field.

“The officers’ quarters are upstairs, sir,” said Mitaka. He was standing at the foot of a stairway, waiting.

The wooden steps creaked under their boots as they ascended, the mark of new construction. The barracks couldn’t have been more than a few months old. Wolcastle had likely been farmland at the start of the year. Nine months later, the building still smelled of freshly cut timber.

Doors lined the hallway at the top of the stairs, a luxury. Privacy was hard to come by in the military. Hux had shared quarters with another officer at Biggin Hill and expected to do the same here, but the room Mitaka led him to contained only one bed and a small desk.

“You’ll bunk here, sir,” said Mitaka. “Does this suit you?”

“It does,” Hux said, genuinely pleased. He went to drop his bag at the foot of the bed, but Mitaka hurriedly took it out of his hands.

“I’ll see to this,” he said. “With your permission, sir.”

Hux nodded. “Please. I have a matter to attend to with the wing commander. I will be back in short order, I should imagine.”

“Of course, sir,” said Mitaka. “I’ll have your things arranged for you when you return. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

At that moment, warm tea sounded divine, and Hux accepted readily.

Mitaka stood at attention. “Very good, sir. I’ll have it for you.”

Hux left him to his business, going back out and across the field toward the command tower. He could hear the rumble of the engines of several aircraft from the hangars, even across the field. The ground crew was likely keeping them warm in case they needed to take off. If the engines cooled too much, the planes would choke before they got into the air. They needed to run every hour or so to keep in fighting form.

Hux would have to send to Mitaka with orders to his own squadron’s crew to have their aircraft warmed up for the morning training flights. As no one had been present to use them, it was unlikely they had been run.

The woman Rey was the first to greet Hux when he got to the command tower. She smiled broadly, displaying straight, clean teeth.

“Hello, sir,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was hoping to get the flight records for my squadron,” he said. “I assume the wing commander has them.”

“He said you might come for them,” Rey said. “He brought them out here.” She went to a side table near the telephone operator’s seat and picked up a pile of folders tied with twine.

“Thank you,” Hux said, taking them.

“You’re very welcome, sir.” She gestured to the folders. “They’re intriguing fellows, the Americans. A bit unusual perhaps.”

“They are, yes,” he said. “I imagine it will take them some time to accustom themselves to how we do things here.”

“I’m sure they’ll do fine,” said Rey. “Though if we can help you at all, you only have to say.”

“I appreciate that,” Hux said. “I’m sure they would be charmed to make your acquaintance. And that of the other ladies here.”

The women of the air force were also discouraged from fraternizing with the pilots and ground crew with whom they served, but those rules were almost inevitably bent and broken. Hux didn’t want his squadron distracted by liaisons on base, however, and he was in no hurry to introduce them to Rey and the others. If his pilots wanted companionship, they would have it in town when they were on leave. That was simple enough to arrange and it meant they could leave their swains when they returned to base.

Rey laughed lightly. “You have nothing to worry about from us, sir. We’re not out to catch husbands among the lads here. Jessika and Elaine both have men, though they’re fighting.”

“And you?” Hux asked.

“There’s someone I write to,” she replied, fondness in her face. “An old friend I grew up with. Finn. He’s at the front as well.”

“I hope he stays safe, then,” said Hux.

Rey sobered. “As do I, sir. I wish the same for all the men here, too. Losing them is never easy.”

“No,” Hux said.

“Enough of that talk for now, though,” said Rey, brightening. “I won’t detain you any longer. I’m sure you have quite of bit of reading to do.”

Hux smiled, adjusting the heavy folders in his hands. “Have a good afternoon, Miss Rey.”

“Same to you, sir.”

As Hux left the building, he spotted a pair of aircraft coming in toward the field. He paused to watch them land, each bumping along the grass until they came to a stop at the end of the runway. There were ground crewmen at their hangars to meet them, the men directing the planes to their places in line. The landings were neat and well-executed, the mark of good flyers. Holding the records of his squadron’s pilots close to his side, Hux hoped that they would be able to manage the same performance.

There was a pot of tea and a china cup laid out on his desk when he got back to his quarters. He shucked his jacket and hung it on the hook on the back of the door, which he had closed behind him. Sitting at the desk, he poured himself a cup of tea and untied the knotted twine holding the folders together.

The first record belonged to William Taylor. According to it, he had had training at a California flight school. There was no note about the aircraft he had flown, but it did have a full report of his hours in the air and a few notes on his performance. Those from his operational training unit at Abingdon were more detailed, noting a particular aptitude for formation flying. He kept good control of the aircraft and executed maneuvers effectively. Taking the file, Hux placed it down to start a pile that he considered mid-level experience. He then opened up the next one.

For the most part, his squadron seemed to have the basic skills they needed to pilot a Hurricane in formation. Combat, though, was an altogether different matter. The records of gun time were very limited, consisting mostly of firing exercises into the water, meaning that the men had hardly any practice using their weapons in the air. That posed a significant risk. If one of them misfired, it could easily bring down a friendly aircraft. Such incidents weren’t uncommon in untried squadrons, even the British ones. And ammunition was not unlimited, which meant practice would be restricted even further. It was possible that none of the squadron would be able to truly test their skills until they were faced with actual combatants.

It was close to two o’clock by the time Hux read through all the files and determined the flying order for them during the morning exercises. Poe Dameron would be among the first to fly. The notes in his file had commended him for his performance in training and it seemed he had been flying for several years as a civilian before he had joined up to come to England. He would be an asset to the others in a teaching capacity.

Hux had placed him in a flight group with two of the most inexperienced pilots, the Mills brothers. The trio of Wexley, Strickland, and Crowe would follow. Meltsa, Taylor, and Solo would fly after that.

Hux had been surprised to find that Solo’s file included a tattered civilian flight record that indicated that he had more hours in the air than anyone else in the squadron. By all accounts, he should have been commissioned as a flight lieutenant, but there was a note in his file from his operational training commander that described in a few short sentences why he hadn’t been awarded that rank.

Solo displays exceptional knowledge of aerobatics and a high potential for mastery of combat tactics. However, he does not fly well in formation and often deviates from standard practice, which could put his squadron at risk. Upon verbal correction for this behavior, he remained obstinate and unresponsive. The behavior did not change and should be looked out for by his squadron leader.

Hux frowned down at the note. None of the other men had had their attitudes flagged. If Solo had, it was likely he was going to be a problem, especially on escort missions, where formation flying was critical. Hux hoped the issue was overstated, but he would be glad for the opportunity to speak to Solo that afternoon. It would allow him to feel the young man out, to judge his demeanor for himself.

At five minutes to two, Hux put his jacket back on, straightened it appropriately and gave himself a quick once-over in the small mirror tacked to the wall. Satisfied, he made his way back to the mess hall.

Dameron was already seated at the nearest bench when he arrived. As ordered, he was in his uniform, though the buttons were tarnished and the tie around his neck was just slightly too loose. There was a patch on his shoulder that Hux didn’t recognize: an eagle with wings spread, arrows clutched in its right talon and an olive branch in the other. Above it were the letters E.S. Eagle Squadron.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Dameron said, rising and saluting.

“Thank you for your punctuality,” said Hux. “You may sit.” He took the place across from him, folding his hands on the table. “I’ve had the opportunity to look over your file, Flight Lieutenant. You have a most impressive record.”

The corners of Dameron’s mouth turned up. “Thank you, sir.”

“You were top of your class in your training unit. Your commander spoke highly of you. I’m glad to have you.”

“Glad to be here,” said Dameron. “Looking forward to getting in the air tomorrow.”

Hux nodded. “Indeed. Before that, I’d like to hear more about you. Where are you from?”

“Well, I grew up in Oregon. My dad was a machine shop foreman. I took after him and worked there for a while. Never cared for it, but it paid for flying lessons.”

“When did you first start flying?”

Dameron scratched his chin. “I was...twenty-two, maybe? Something like that. About the age of some of these kids over here now.”

Hux cocked a brow. “You’re not terribly old, Dameron. Twenty-seven.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. You just see these boys in the squad and it gets you thinking about when you were that age. I don’t know that I’d have what it takes to fight a war at nineteen like Wexley.” He winced. “I mean twenty-one.”

Hux chuckled. “Yes, well, I’m sure he’ll shape up to be a good pilot, young though he may be.”

“I’ve no doubt, sir,” said Dameron. “These are good boys. I’ve gotten to know them pretty well since we shipped out.”

“That’s good,” Hux said. “I’d like to make use of your insight.”

“Don’t know how much I have, sir, but I’ll help out if I can.”

“I see you taking a leadership role among the squadron.” Hux pinned him with his gaze. “I need a second. I believe you are the man for that job, if you’re willing.”

Dameron sat up straighter. “I’d be honored, sir.”

“Excellent,” said Hux. “It’s not an official role, but men usually default to the more experienced pilots in their squadrons.”

“I understand,” said Dameron. “Just tell me what you need from me, sir, and I’ll do my best.”

“Well, we’ll start with your flight test tomorrow morning,” Hux said. “It will consist of the basic formations and aerobatics our first missions will likely require. I’ve made a list of flight groups to go up together.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small piece of paper on which he had written the order. “What do you think of this?”

Dameron took the page and looked it over. “Looks like a good plan, sir. I might switch Shorty and Gilbert, but everyone else should fly well together.”

Hux made a note of the change. “Very good. Tell me, do the men get on well for the most part?”

“Oh, sure. We have some laughs and nobody has a grudge, if that’s what you mean. We all get on pretty well.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Hux. “Conflict will compromise the effectiveness of the squadron. I trust that any issues will be brought to my attention so they can be dealt with.”

“Can do, sir,” Dameron said, “but I really don’t think we’ll have any problems. They’re good boys.”

There would undoubtedly be some hitches over the course of their tenure as a unit, Hux knew. It was impossible for thirteen men to live and work in close quarters without some disagreements, but keeping them to a minimum was preferable. Hux was in no rush to take disciplinary action if it could be avoided. It took much-needed men out of the air.

“Well, Lieutenant,” he said, “I’d like to hear more about what you think of the Hurricanes we’ll be flying. You had them in training, did you not?”

“We did. They’re solid machines far as I can tell, light and they move well in the air. I’ve never flown anything that can turn as tight. It’s got a good set of wings on it.”

Hux had to agree with that. Though he preferred the Spitfire to the Hurricane, he had to admit that the strong wings kept the guns stable and allowed for clear, true shots. Though they were no longer the most agile or powerful planes in the sky, the Hurricanes would serve the squadron well.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Hux said.

Dameron didn’t hesitate in his reply. “Sure, sir. I don’t have anything to hide.”

“What brought you into the RAF? It’s no small feat to cross an ocean and fight a war that your country isn’t a part of.”

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “there’s a few reasons, I guess. I’ve got some distant family from over here, so there are some ties that way. But mostly I think Hitler needs to be stopped. I know the U.S. government doesn’t agree, but I wanted to do my part to keep him out of Britain and anywhere else.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “And there’s something to be said for flying a fighter. It’s nothing like the little things I flew back home. More exciting.”

Hux huffed a laugh. “I know the feeling. And even if that was the only reason you came over, it’s appreciated. We need good flyers, and you appear to be one of them.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Well,” said Hux, pushing back from the table and standing, “I believe that’s all I need to know for the moment. Thank you for speaking with me, Dameron.”

“My pleasure, sir,” he said. “And, if you wouldn’t mind, you can call me Poe.”

Hux held out his hand. “Poe it is.”

He watched as Poe turned to go, heading toward the door. Waiting just outside was Brewster Mills, the younger of the two Mills brothers, whom Hux was seeing next. Gesturing to the bench across from him, Hux welcomed him and bade him sit.

They spent their half hour discussing the particulars of his experience and some about his hometown of Tucson, Arizona. He was twenty-three years old, the youngest of seven. He had only about fifty hours of flight time as a civilian and quite a bit less from training in Abingdon. His knowledge of the mechanics of flying was sound enough, though.

His brother Lewis followed him for his interview. He was less talkative than Brewster, and spent most of the time sitting with his arms crossed and regarding Hux sternly. He answered Hux’s questions about aircraft thoughtfully and with sufficient detail, but he would have to be watched carefully come the morning.

Hux saw six more of the pilots before others began to come into the mess for dinner. The noise from the kitchen had been increasing since around four o’clock, which had been somewhat of a distraction, but Hux had continued despite it. In the future, however, he would see anyone who wished to speak privately in his quarters. The desk made it enough of an office to serve.

After his interview with Pilot Officer Ward, they both remained in the building. Ward, a skinny young man of twenty-four from Raleigh, North Carolina, stood stiffly at the side of the room, putting his hands into his pockets and then immediately taking them out again.

“Do you usually sit at a particular table?” Hux asked him in an effort at easy conversation.

Ward pointed to the one nearest the door, where they had been sitting. “There, sir.”

“The squadron sits together, then?”

“Ah, yes, sir,” said Ward.

Hux would have to remedy that eventually. Though he wanted to encourage squadron cohesion, he also wanted his pilots to get along with the others at the field. They would acclimate to life among the English sooner that way, too.

Before Hux could say more, a pack of pilots came in through the doors, smiling and chattering amongst themselves. A few of them shot glances at Hux, clearly recognizing him as a newcomer, but none stopped to introduce themselves. Hux would make the rounds of the other squadrons later, after he had gotten to know their commanders. He had every intention of finding a seat next to them this evening.

The mess filled up steadily in the next few minutes, the space filled with voices. The accents were mismatched as the Americans arrived, and all of them still managed to speak louder than all of the rest of the men in the hall. Several of them nodded to him as they passed. He repeated their names to himself as they did, making sure he could recognize each one.

The last to come in, he saw, was Benjamin Solo. He was in uniform now, though it looked as though he hadn’t combed his too-long hair. He went past Hux without so much as a glance, and took a seat at the far end of the table beside Norman Crowe. Crowe gave him a nod, but then returned to his conversation with Gilbert and Strickland. Solo didn’t seem offended. He sat quietly, his posture still somewhat slouched, with his arms folded on the table.

“You must be the new squadron leader.”

Hux turned his attention to the small man who had come to stand at his side. He had a Northern accent and a small, dark mustache that was neatly trimmed.

“I am,” Hux said, giving his name.

“Good to meet you, Hux. I’m Alistair Barlow.”

They shook hands.

“Would you like to sit with Chapman and me tonight?” Barlow asked. “He’s in charge of the 222. Good man.” He looked to the door. “Here he comes now. Say, Chapman! Come over here.”

A man of average build and height, Squadron Leader Chapman walked over in efficient, short strides. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He looked to Hux. “You belong to the Eagles, then?”

“Armitage Hux.”

“Eric Chapman. Welcome to Wolcastle. Got your hands full with these Americans, haven’t you?”

Hux held back a frown. Despite whatever shortcomings his men had when it came to manners and dress, he did not like the implication that they were unmanageable.

“They’re not quite used to how we do things here,” he said, “but they’ll learn.”

Chapman sniffed and rubbed at his nose. “Yes, well.”

Hux eyed him darkly for a moment.

Barlow, sensing the tension, cleared his throat. “Shall we sit? I hear there might actually be wine tonight. Wouldn’t that be a treat?”

He led them over to the table farthest from the door and sat near the head. The pilots nearby acknowledged them, but there was no shift in mood. That the commanders were respected, but not feared, was something Hux could appreciate.

Chapman sat next to Hux, Barlow across from them. The table was set with plain, functional china: a plate, utensils, and a cup. Hux had strongly doubted there was wine to be had, but when one of the mess sergeants appeared with a bottle of red, he was glad for even the half cup he was given. It was a bit sour, but he was not about to complain when it had been weeks since his last drink.

“Has 129 been here long?” he asked as the first bowl—potatoes—was handed down.

“Six months,” Barlow replied, spooning three small potatoes onto his plate. “We came down from No. 13 group.”

Hux took the next bowl, of brown bread, from Chapman. “Having a better time down here?”

“Decidedly,” Barlow said, taking a sip of wine. “Much more action over the Channel than there was running shipping convoys up north.” He nodded to Chapman. “But the 222 came up from No. 11. I think they’ve been missing it.”

Chapman took a thin slice of chicken from the platter that was making its way down the table. “We needed the rest,” he said. “It was a hard eight months.”

Hux understood that. Squadrons were moved fairly often to ensure that the pilots had some periods of downtime, when they flew fewer missions and put themselves in much less danger. His squadron at Biggin Hill had been nearing the end of their time there when he left. They likely would have been shipped elsewhere to recuperate for a few months before returning to No. 11 Group.

“It’s not all cards and sitting on our hands here, though,” Chapman continued. “We fly five or six runs every day, some sweeps.”

“Were you both out today?” said Hux.

“We were,” Barlow said. “Bombers over the coast. Got a few of the enemy fields. It was a good run.”

“It will ease the load, though, when your squadron is ready for action,” said Chapman. “If they can manage it soon, of course.”

“We fly first thing tomorrow,” Hux said, willing himself not to bristle.

Chapman’s smile was cutting. “Then I’ll be sure to come out to watch.”

Hux picked up his knife and fork and cut purposefully into his chicken. It was drier than he might have wished and there was no sauce to go with it, but it filled his belly and that was enough.

A loud chorus of laughter erupted from the table where the 363 was sitting, making a number of the other men in the mess glance over. The Americans didn’t seem deterred by the cool, admonishing looks, though, continuing to talk over each other until they were laughing and pounding fists on the table again.

Poe was at the center of the mess, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. Shorty Putnam and Theo Meltsa were seated around him, leaning in to add to his story. The others were paying rapt attention as well, even Solo, far removed from the conversation as he was. A thin-lipped smile crossed his face once, but then faded into impassivity again.

Turning back to Barlow and Chapman, Hux found both of them looking unimpressed by the Americans’ conduct. Hux himself was put off, but wasn’t exactly in the appropriate place to scold them. He didn’t want to make a scene of it by getting up and going all the way across the mess just to tell them off for being in good spirits. He would have that discussion later, perhaps when he was sitting with them.

Resigned to letting them be raucous for the evening, Hux returned to his meal. He cut a piece of potato and chewed it slowly as he caught Barlow’s eye.

“Did you have some leave before you came out here?” Barlow asked. “They must have given you at least a few days to yourself in town.”

Hux shook his head. “I came directly from Uxbridge.”

“That’s rather callous of the superiors,” Barlow said, dabbing his napkin at the sides of his mouth. “Sending a man directly on from No. 11 to a fresh command. No time to breathe.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” said Hux. Had he been given the choice of taking a brief leave, he would have turned it down. He had better things to do than idle the days away in a pub or otherwise go about London. Leaves were best spent with comrades, not alone, and in any event, he had been itching to get to his new command.

“I wouldn’t mind a good long leave,” said Barlow, almost wistful. “In a real city rather than the village here. Not to disparage it, mind you, but there’s only so many times you can go to the dance hall and to the pub before the new company is exhausted.”

Chapman gave a scornful hmph. “Perhaps the company in those places grows tedious, but there are a number of very kind families in the village who are willing to share an evening with us.”

RAF officers had a certain standing in most communities they frequented, Hux had learned. They were offered drinks on the house when they wanted them and were even invited home to dine with residents they met on the street. For families already strapped by the rationing, that was a significant gesture. Sometimes pilots would bring small offerings of their own money or ration tickets to offset the cost of being hosted. Hux had gone to a few homes before, but he didn’t make a habit of it as some others did. One man in his squadron had met and gotten engaged to the daughter of one of the families he visited. They had all attended the wedding four weeks later.

“Well, there is something to be said for a wife’s cooking,” said Barlow. He pushed at the remaining cooked carrots on his plate with his fork. “Better than this fare, to be sure, but I’d rather have a few dances and a pint than talk around a dinner table with strangers.”

“You might benefit from it,” Chapman said. “Your conversation could use some improvement.”

Barlow, unoffended, shrugged. “Not everyone is as long-winded as you are, especially when it comes to politics.” He cocked a brow. “Are you interested in all things political, Hux?”

“If it affects the war effort in particular,” Hux said. “But I admit I paid more attention to ancient governments than I did our own when I was in school.”

“Ah, a fellow Cambridge man, I hope?” said Barlow.

“Oxford.”

Barlow hung his head. “Damn shame that.”

“Indeed,” Hux said.

“Well, I suppose I’ll fly with you all the same.” Stabbing into the last of his chicken, Barlow grinned around it. “You going up with your men tomorrow?”

“All of them.” It would be a long day of performing standard maneuvers, which would undoubtedly grow tedious after more than one round, but consistency was needed to maintain a standard by which to judge the squadron’s abilities.

“Good, good,” said Barlow. Leaning back, he pushed his plate away. “Gentlemen, I must beg your pardon, but I have a report to write this evening before I turn in, so I must be on my way.”

Hux and Chapman said their good evenings, and Barlow was gone. Silence fell between them, and not a particularly comfortable one. Hux wasn’t willing to let himself dislike Chapman after knowing him for so short a time, but his off-handed dismissal of 363 Squadron was irksome. They were not the ideal and Hux was still concerned about their performance, yet he wasn’t going to write them off completely.

“You belong to the Eagles,” Chapman had said before. No matter what kind of men the Americans were, they were Hux’s now, and he would make them into something serviceable enough to match any English squadron.

Leaving his own plate, Hux rose. “It was a pleasure talking with you,” he said to Chapman. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow morning, as you’ll be observing my initial flights?”

Chapman pursed his lips, tucking the tip of his tongue under them. “It will be quite the display, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” said Hux. “Good evening.”

On his way to the door, he paused at the squadron's table. Ward and Taylor, who were seated at the end, turned to him. The others gradually quieted as well, though one was notably missing: Solo.

“The mess staff should be finished cleaning up here within the hour,” Hux said. “I will meet with you, Taylor, here at half eight.”

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said.

“The rest of you will report to Hangar Three promptly at seven o’clock in the morning tomorrow, after you’ve breakfasted. Be dressed and prepared to fly.”

He got a few smiles, along with, “Yes, sir.” Satisfied with that, he went out.

It was cooler outside now than it had been during the day, though the rain had passed. There were a few stars in the sky between the obscuring tufts of cloud. Hux had nearly three quarters of an hour to spare before he was due to meet Taylor, most of which he could spend walking around the airfield’s buildings. There were few lights, an attempt to keep the enemy night flyers from seeing the installation, but enough to get around by.

As Hux rounded the mess, he began toward the hangars, delving into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a silver cigarette case. It had been a gift from his father, monogrammed for his graduation from university. He didn’t often smoke, but when there was nothing much to do between flights, it was something to keep himself occupied. Picking up a slender cigarette from inside the case, he stuck it between his lips. He fumbled with the matchbook for a moment before he got a flame and lit up. The smoke filled his lungs with a pleasant tingling as he drew it in. He held it for just a moment before exhaling.

He strolled slowly through the well-trodden grass, finding himself wandering toward where the planes were lined up. Their paint was matte and unreflective, but the metal and glass components of the canopies winked in the half moonlight. Hux paused alongside one of the Hurricanes, admiring the sleek taper of the spinner to the three-bladed propeller. Behind it was the powerful Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, producing nearly thirteen hundred horsepower and a top speed of three hundred and forty miles per hour. It wasn’t a match for any of the best German fighters in that sense, but it was armed with eight .303 caliber machine guns, each with some fourteen seconds of ammunition. When concentrated, it was deadly for any enemy in its path.

Leaving the planes behind, he went toward the open end of the nearest hangar. There was a tarpaulin covering one side of it, the corner waving slightly in the breeze, but otherwise it was uncovered. There was no one about that Hux could see. Presumably all the ground crew were enjoying dinner in their own mess hall.

Hux took a long drag on his cigarette, tapping it between his fingers to ash. Only at night would there be such silence at an airfield. Most days, men were bustling around, planes were running, and fuel trucks were moving between them. There were always guns to rearm and repairs to be seen to. When the sun went down, though, things went quiet and dark.

He was just coming up on the maw of the hangar when he noticed a red-orange spot of light just at the edge of the building. It burned bright for a moment and then dimmed: the tip of a cigarette. Trailing smoke behind him, Hux walked toward the figure he could just make out leaning against the wall.

Pilot Officer Solo was smoking what was swiftly becoming the stub of a cigarette, one of his legs bent at the knee as he held his foot against the wooden frame of the hangar. His jacket was hanging open, the white shirt beneath exposed. The tip of the cigarette illuminated his face enough for Hux to see that he was looking at him, but little more than that.

Hux didn’t speak immediately. He drew the last few puffs from his cigarette before dropping it at his feet and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. Though one was more than enough for the night, he pulled out the case again and flipped it open. He took another cigarette for himself before offering the case to Solo.

Solo reached out and took one with his free hand, snuffing out his current cigarette with the other. Hux lit a match, a brief flare of brightness between them, and held it out. Solo lit up first. Hux could feel the heat of the flame by the time he got it up to his own cigarette.

“Thanks,” Solo said as he exhaled.

“You’re welcome.”

Solo picked a piece of tobacco from his lower lip, pausing to look at it for a moment before flicking it away. “These aren’t the standard issue.”

“No.” Hux had purchased them at an exorbitant price the last time he was in London, a rare indulgence.

“They’re good.”

“Yes, they are,” Hux said, ashing with a flick. “And the last of my supply, unfortunately. I shall be reduced to what we are rationed come week’s end.”

Solo gestured in the direction of Hux’s pocket. “Ten will last you the week?”

Hux shrugged one shoulder. “They can. I admit, I don’t do this often. It doesn’t serve me well to want one every hour, especially when I’m in the air.”

“Guess not,” said Solo. He took another drag. “But you’re never up longer than an hour, are you?”

“Rarely,” Hux said. “Unless we’re on a longer bomber run. But we’ve only about an hour and a half’s worth of fuel, so it can’t be more than that.”

“That’s what we’re supposed to do here, isn’t it? Escort bombers?” Solo’s tone was sour.

“In large part, yes,” said Hux. “They’re critical missions.”

Solo scoffed. “I didn’t come here to sightsee over France. I came here to fight.”

Hux eyed him, though it was still too dark to see his expression. “I understand that,” he said, “and you will likely have your chance, but you and the others are barely out of training. To put you in a dogfight at this point would be throwing you into something you’re not prepared for.”

“You don’t know that,” said Solo. “You haven’t even see us fly yet.”

“No, but I have read your files.”

“Paper doesn’t tell you anything about what we can really do. But you’re already saying we don’t know what we’re doing up there.” He turned the cigarette tip-up, looking at it between his fingers. “There were pilots in the other training units with us who were just as ‘inexperienced’ as we were. But I’d bet a dollar you wouldn’t tell them what you’re telling us. Would you, sir?”

Hux frowned, noting the condescension in Solo’s voice, and disliking it. “Any squadron fresh out of OTU would be vetted before they were given an operational mission.”

“You said it was going to be weeks before we got one,” said Solo. “More time wasted on drills. We’ll learn better in action, in the moment.”

“If you’re not ready ‘in the moment,’” Hux said, “you’ll die and take one of His Majesty’s airplanes with you.” He turned sharply to Solo. “Fools think they can go into a fight without the proper knowledge, and I will tell you this, Pilot Officer: I do not tolerate fools in my squadron.”

Solo blew smoke up in front of him, forming a gray halo around his head. “We’re not fools. You’ll see tomorrow.”

“I will,” Hux said. He paused to smoke, searching for what to say next. He had no obligation to stay, of course—he was set to meet with Solo in a couple of hours—but he had no reason to go. It would be easy enough to just have the necessary talk now. “You have a great deal of experience in the air. More than three hundred hours as a civilian.”

“That’s only what’s on record,” Solo said. “I’ve got even more than that, really.”

“Is that so?” said Hux.

“Mmhm.”

Hux expected him to elaborate, but Solo simply took a pull from his cigarette in silence.

“How did you come by the opportunity to fly so much?”

“I grew up in a plane,” Solo said. “My dad’s.”

“Your father was an aviator?” Hux asked, probing further when it seemed that that was all that Solo was going to say.

“Yeah. Used to travel all around the west with a bunch of other barnstormers.”

That was a term Hux didn’t recognize. “What exactly is a ‘barnstormer?’”

“A trick pilot,” said Solo. “They do a kind of flying circus together, showing off what their planes can do. Sometimes they take people up on rides.”

“And they make a living that way?” Hux said.

Solo gave a dismissive wave with his cigarette. “They don’t live like kings, but it’s enough to get by. And they get to fly. Not much else matters to them.”

“As a boy you traveled with these barnstormers? Flew with them?”

“In the summers when I wasn’t in school,” Solo said, almost begrudgingly. “I stayed with my mom for most of the year, but I went with Dad the day I could get out of school.”

“That must have been exciting for you,” Hux said. He certainly would have enjoyed spending his summers in the air with a band of performing pilots. It sounded a sight romantic, like living with gypsies or a traveling band of musicians, living off the money they gathered in a hat on the ground. It was nothing Brendol Hux would have approved of for his only son, though.

“It was the best time I ever had,” said Solo as he finished his cigarette and dropped it in a hail of sparks on the grass. “Nothing like it.”

Hux marked the wistfulness in that. “When did you become a pilot yourself?” he said.

“Thirteen,” said Solo. “My dad taught me how as soon as I could reach the rudder pedals.”

Hux’s brows rose. “So young?”

“I told you I’ve got more than three hundred hours. Maybe not in something like the planes we’re flying now, but it’s not so different.” He tipped his head toward the Hurricanes. “These just have more power and some guns.”

“But flying combat is not like performing showy aerobatics,” said Hux. “It’s not about rolls and inversions. It’s about staying alive.”

“I thought it was about shooting down the enemy,” Solo said as he hunched his shoulders forward against the breeze that was coming up.

“That, too,” Hux conceded. “But you can only do that if you preserve yourself and your squadron mates, and that takes finesse.”

“I can do that.”

“I believe you can,” said Hux, “if you are properly trained.”

Solo sighed, leaning his head back against the side of the hangar. “I heard you the first time, and you heard me. We’re good pilots. Maybe some of the others need some work, but me, Dameron, and maybe Meltsa and Strickland could fly out tomorrow and be fine. Better than fine.”

“Then I’ll expect to see that capability during our training,” Hux said. “Demonstrate to me that you can follow orders and take care of your squadron in the air and you’ll have to chance to face down the Germans. I won’t hold you back if you have the skills, Solo.”

He stood up straight, bringing him close enough to Hux for him to see the slight difference in their heights. Solo was broader, too, especially across the shoulders and chest. Hux couldn’t imagine being in the cockpit of a fighter was comfortable for him.

“Well,” Hux said, “I need to be getting back to the mess. If you’d still like to come speak with me at your appointed time, you may, but I don’t think it’s necessary after this conversation.”

“Fine,” said Solo.

Hux nodded curtly. “Very well. It’s been a pleasure speaking to you, Solo. I look forward to tomorrow. Good evening.”

A simple “Night,” followed Hux as he retreated toward the mess.

The morning brought fairer weather than the day before, with a high ceiling and good visibility. Hux judged it to be excellent for his squadron's first flight. As he crossed the field from the barracks, he found them waiting for him at Hangar Three, all dressed in uniform and sweaters. They carried their parachutes over their shoulders and had their thick gloves tucked into their leather helmets. They turned, quieting their conversations, as Hux approached.

“Good morning,” Hux said. “I see you’re all prepared for today’s trials. I’m glad to see it. We have the runway for the moment, but that may change at any time if the other squadrons are disbursed, so I’d like to get started right away. Dameron, Mills, and the second Mills will go up with me first.”

Poe, Brewster, and Lewis stepped forward, each fresh-faced and eager.

“You’ll fly the first three aircraft in line,” said Hux. “They should be warm already. I sent word to the ground crew earlier.”

Sergeant Mitaka had run the message right after he had brought Hux his meager breakfast of biscuits and tea. Hux could never eat much in the mornings, and his nerves were already running high. He didn’t want to knot his stomach in the middle of the training flights.

“Yes, sir,” said Poe. With the Mills brothers on his heels, he set off at a jog toward the far side of the line of Hurricanes. There were a few ground crewmen milling around them, waiting for the pilots to arrive.

“We should be up for about half an hour,” Hux said to the others. “We’ll be flying formations and basic aerobatics. I’ll give you your orders as we fly. Wexley, Strickland, and Crowe, you’re on deck. Be ready when we return.”

Hux left them there, making his way to his own aircraft. Two crewmen were standing beside it when Hux arrived. A slip of a young man in a too-loose uniform struggled to salute around the parachute he was carrying.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Thanisson. I’m in charge of your kite, sir.”

“Good to meet you, Sergeant,” said Hux as he took the parachute and slung it over his back. “I assume everything is in order.”

“It is, sir.” He looked to the plane. “I had her running just ten minutes ago. She’s ready for you.”

Hux felt the familiar surge of excitement he experienced whenever he prepared to get into his aircraft. Taking his flight helmet, he pulled it on and fastened the buckle. Thanisson followed him as he went to the port-side wing and pulled himself up onto it. Standing at the inside of the wing, he released the catch on the canopy and slid it back. The cockpit door came down after it, allowing him to duck inside.

The seat was a touch too high for him, so he lowered it and adjusted the parachute. He checked the height of the rudder pedals and strapped his legs into the harness. When the rest of the restraints were in place over his shoulders and chest, he fitted the radio cable and oxygen tube connected to his mask and helmet into their sockets on the right side of the cockpit. With all that in place, he flipped the master switch.

The dials and gauges sprang to life, indicating the necessary systems—oxygen and fuel—were operational. The checklist of actions to perform ran through his head easily: the undercarriage selector lever is positioned down, the indicator light flipped on; the landing lamp is on; the fuelcock levers up. Glancing back and around, Hux manipulated the control column—the stick—and the pedals to test the movement of the elevators, ailerons, and rudder. Satisfied with them, he turned on his radio transmitter, a button set for each of the four frequencies. Adjusting the fuel mixture to “rich,” he made sure everything was in order and then, with a sign to Thanisson, he called the all clear. The sergeant waved his acknowledgement as Hux flipped the magneto switches up.

“Contact!” Hux called, pressing the starter button and easing the priming pump handle in. With a rumble, the engine fired up, making the aircraft hum. Hux waited for the engine to even out and run smoothly, watching the radiator temperature gauge. Remaining stationary for too long could easily overheat the engine.

Giving a last check to the oil temperature and pressure, Hux called down to the ground crew, “Chocks away.”

Thanisson and the others pulled away the wooden blocks that kept the aircraft’s wheels stationary, moving clear so that Hux could engage the throttle and taxi out of line. He didn’t wait around. He could already hear the other planes’ engines starting, and they, too, would have to get into the air as soon as possible.

The head of the runway wasn’t too far off, a few hundred yards at most. Hux slowly moved forward, guiding the Hurricane toward the dirt track that would take him to the runway.

The plane bumped along the track until Hux reached the slightly smoother surface of the grass runway. Turning into the wind, he checked the elevator trim, rudder bias, and throttle friction. He opened the radiator shutter fully and cursorily glanced over the instrument readings. Everything was in order.

“This is Blue Leader,” Hux said into his radio, “requesting permission to take off.”

“Affirmative, Blue Leader,” said a woman on the other end of the connection. “You are cleared.”

Hux released the brake lever on the stick and pushed it forward as he opened the throttle. The plane moved forward, steadily gaining speed as he increased the power. The wind picked up, buffeting his face, as he began his takeoff run.

The tail of the aircraft came off the ground first, leveling it and indicating that Hux should give it full power. Racing down the runway at nearly eighty-five miles per hour, he started to feel the wheels come off the ground. He carefully watched his airspeed increase to one hundred, one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty. At the one hundred and forty mark, he started his climb up and away from the airfield.

Exhilarated, he grinned, enjoying the smooth lift of flight. He would never tire of it.

Safely in the air, he pulled the undercarriage control lever to bring the wheels up and throttled back some to reduce the RPM on the engine, bringing it back to around two thousand. Finally, he closed the cockpit door completely and pulled the canopy over his head and locked it.

He didn’t fly far, coming around to reset his gyro for his eventual landing before making a circle above the airfield. He couldn’t see much, but he heard through the radio that Poe—Blue Two—was up and ascending and Brewster Mills was following close behind.

Hux waited for each of the others to announce their positions in the air before giving the order for them to form up. They would be flying the finger-four standard formation to start, holding it out over the Channel and then breaking off for individual aerobatics.

“Blue Flight,” said Hux. “Check in.”

“Blue Two checking in,” Poe said, his voice crackling over the radio.

“Blue Three checking in.” Brewster Mills.

“Blue Four checking in.” Lewis Mills.

“Very good,” Hux said. “I want to see your formation first. Poe, I want you as flight wingman. Brewster, element leader. Lewis bringing up the rear as element wingman.”

They acknowledged and moved into position. Hux was at the head of the formation as flight leader with Poe a few yards behind and to his port side. Brewster flew at the same position as Poe, though on Hux’s starboard side. Lewis was some feet behind Brewster to the starboard. Initially they held their places well, though it took a moment for Lewis to settle into his.

“Thirty miles out before formation breaks,” Hux said. “Let’s see what you can do, gentlemen.”

They soared out over the countryside of Norfolk toward the Channel, the parcels of land divided into square farming tracts flashing by. As they reached the coast, Hux could see a radar array at the edge of a field. They had been built all over the country, and had been essential in tracking enemy aircraft as they came over to attack during the summer of the Battle of Britain. Information from the arrays was sent directly to Fighter Command’s operations room, where plans were made. From there orders would be issued to the groups and then to their sectors and individual airfields. It only took a matter of minutes to make it all happen, and fighters were in the air in less than three. It really was a remarkable weapon.

The flight left the array behind in a matter of seconds, coming out over the choppy water of the Channel.

“We’re staying close to the coast here, flight,” Hux said. “I want to see your aerobatics. Lewis, you’ll be first. Everyone else, give him some space, but stay in formation, following my lead.”

“What should I start with, sir?” Lewis asked.

“A normal loop into a slow roll,” Hux replied. It was a simple combination, but it would be a good test of Lewis’s coordination. It was easy to stall the engine during a loop if it wasn’t executed properly, and there were a number of other faults he could make that would show his capability, or lack thereof.

“Yes, sir,” said Lewis as he broke out of formation and moved clear. Hux watched closely as he began his climb up into the loop. He should have tipped his nose down slightly before entering it to make sure he had an aiming point of reference on the ground to return to when he leveled out, but he managed to get up without much trouble. He hit the point of full inversion without a stall—a relief—and began his dive back into level position.

On the whole, it was well done. However, as he came out of the loop, he had to take a moment to recover before going into the roll. Those few seconds could easily have cost him his life in a dogfight.

“Not bad,” Hux said when Lewis had completed the maneuver, “but it will need some improvement. Do it again, and this time anticipate the actions on the stick and pedals that will take you into the roll before you exit the loop. It needs to be done quickly and without interruption.”

The next time was better, but still a bit clumsy. Hux would have to spend some time training him one-on-one, or send him up with a more experienced pilot to do the same. With hope, Poe could do that.

“Return to formation, Blue Four,” said Hux. “Blue Two, the same combination.”

Poe’s “Yes, sir,” came as he was already leaving formation and going into the maneuver. There was no hesitation in either part of it, a smooth roll following a graceful loop. Hux smiled behind his oxygen mask. That was the kind of flying he needed.

“Give me a half roll and reverse, Blue Two,” Hux said.

Poe performed admirably again, pulling his nose up before rolling into an inversion and then back level.

“Excellent. Blue Three, I’d like to see the same three maneuvers from you. Can you handle that?”

“I can, sir,” said Brewster.

Hux took each of the pilots through another few combinations, including vertical reverses, snap rolls, and even the Immelman turn, which reversed their direction of flight completely. Both of the Mills brothers struggled with the last turn, but with some coaching, they made it through successfully.

“All right, gentlemen,” said Hux when they had all come back into formation and were flying back toward the coast. “Well done. We’re finished for now. You’ll fly again tomorrow, or perhaps later today if time allows.”

As they approached the airfield, Hux had them line up to land one after the other. It was a risk since he didn’t know how well they could handle landing, but one he was willing to take after what he had seen in the air.

“Poe, after you,” he said.

“Wolcastle control,” Dameron said over the radio. “This is Blue Two requesting permission to land.”

There was a pause, and then: “You are cleared to land, Blue Two. Welcome home.”

Poe began his descent toward the landing strip. Brewster got his clearance next, followed by Lewis.

Hux continued to circle, turning so he could see the airfield. Lewis’s plane was in the proper position on the landing strip, but he was coming in faster than he should. At this rate he would fly by the end of the strip and wouldn’t have enough grass to slow down before he went rolling into the field beyond, wrecking his aircraft.

“Mills, pull up,” Hux said, sharp and clear. “You need to come in again and line up properly.”

“Approach looks fine to me, sir,” Lewis said. “I have this.”

“You do not,” Hux snapped. “Pull up, Pilot Officer.”

“I’m good, sir. I—shit. Yes, sir, pulling up to circle back.”

Hux breathed a heavy sigh. The last thing he needed today was his first flight to end with a maimed airplane. He watched as Lewis came around and aligned again for his descent. This time he slowed to an appropriate speed, and Hux saw him touch down roughly, but safe.

“Blue Leader, are you coming down?” said the radio operator.

“No,” Hux said. “Send up the next flight. I’ll be waiting for them here.”

The next pilots got up into the air about ten minutes later, slower than Hux had hoped, but all of them got off the ground without incident. However, Strickland didn’t ascend far enough and Crowe nearly clipped him as he got up. It was a quick pull on the stick that had Strickland up and out of the way before they collided.

Hux talked them into formation as he had the first group. He was already missing Poe, who had kept the others in position as he flew with them. They managed, though, as they got out over the water.

Wexley proved to be the most adept at rolls and loops, executing them well and with precision. The others performed acceptably, but Hux had to issue direct instructions to get Crowe through an inversion and correction when he straightened out again. He was certainly far from ready to evade enemy aircraft.

After the three of them were on the ground again, Hux came in for his own landing. He throttled back and set the aircraft down at a smooth seventy miles per hour, applying the brake to stop several hundred feet from the end of the runway.

The fuel truck was waiting when he got back to the parking line. He locked the brakes as the ground crew ran in to replace the chocks. The engine idled for a few moments before Hux turned the master switch off to cut it. The flipping of the last switches was accompanied by the whirring sounds of the gyros unwinding behind the instrument panel. When Hux had disconnected his radio and oxygen line, he released his harness and dropped the door.

Thanisson was waiting outside to help him down from the wing. “We’ve got another kite ready for you, sir. The next flight is standing by for takeoff.”

“Tell their crews to get them in the air and I’ll follow,” said Hux. He stretched his arms and shoulders, releasing the tension that had built while he was in the cockpit. The roaring of an engine from the runway had him looking up to see one of the next pilots taking off. He cleared the ground well and was soon up and away. Hux watched him bank and turn to circle the airfield as he waited for the others.

He jumped into the cockpit of his new plane, ran through his checks, and started the engine. Soon enough, he was at the end of the runway asking for clearance to take off. Seconds later, he was flying again.

It was Meltsa, Taylor, and Solo up with him this time. Hux checked them all in, talked them through the routine he had used for the others, and got them in formation. Their performance was solid as they came out over the Channel. It glistened in the short bursts of sunlight that shone through the clouds.

“Hot damn,” said Taylor. “Got nothing that looks like that in Texas.”

“That’s France over there, isn’t it?” Meltsa asked.

“It is,” Hux replied. “We’ll be seeing quite a bit of it in the coming few months. This is your battleground.”

“If we ever get to see battle,” said Solo.

“You will,” Hux said, tamping down a flash of irritation. “In time. But first you’ll be tried. Yellow Two, we’ll start with you. Fly round us and come up behind me as if to take a shot. I’ll stay in formation for now, but I’ll come out after this to see if you can catch me.”

“Acknowledged,” Solo said. From his position astern and on Hux’s port side, he shot out ahead and began to spiral before going into his loop. It wasn’t part of the test, but Hux would permit brief displays of exuberance as long as it didn’t compromise the objective. Coming out of the loop, Solo banked hard to port and soared out of Hux’s field of view.

A few seconds later, he heard Solo say, “In position behind the flight. Ready to fire.”

Hux glanced behind him to see Solo’s aircraft a few hundred feet back from his own, flying just slightly higher than the flight. It would be easy enough for him to tip his nose down and take the shot.

“Come on, then,” Hux said. That was all the warning he gave as he pulled sharply up and away, leaving Meltsa and Taylor in their positions in formation.

Solo came immediately into pursuit. Hux dove to avoid him, corkscrewing down toward the water and then pulling up and turning hard to starboard. Behind him he could see Solo following, though Hux was just out of range of his guns. He kept the rest of the flight in sight as he flew around them, leading Solo.

He was adept, quick on his corrections and difficult for Hux to shake off. It was some impressive flying, far better than most Hux had seen that day. Only Dameron, perhaps, could compete. Solo still had his weaknesses, though. He was aggressive, and charged after his prey rather than thinking it through to anticipate their next move. Hux could exploit that.

Cutting away, he came around and inverted, bringing himself into position to fire across Solo’s tail.

“I have you, Yellow Two,” he said. “You’re on your way down. You’d bail out if you could.”

“Yes, sir,” Solo said, his voice tight even over the radio. “But I almost got you.”

Hux admitted that. “Yes, and it was well done, but in the end you didn’t succeed. That will make all the difference when it comes to combat.”

There was no reply, so Hux moved on. “Back in formation, Yellow Two. Yellow Three, you’re up.”

Meltsa and Taylor did well, performing their tasks to Hux’s satisfaction. They needed improvement in a number of areas, especially quick turns and watching out for enemies behind and beside them, but they wouldn’t be a liability in the sky. He was willing to say they would be ready for service in another two weeks.

“All right, Yellow Flight,” he said as they came back in toward Wolcastle. “Prepare to land. Starting with—” He was cut off as Solo, to his right, moved ahead of him again. He got in front and then looped around to cross behind the flight. “Yellow Two,” Hux said. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking my shot,” Solo said.

Hux looked out behind him and saw Solo’s aircraft behind his, positioned to fire. It was a good move, but Hux had not given him permission to execute another drill this close to the airfield. Everyone would have to circle back around to put them in the proper position to land.

“Get back in formation, Solo,” Hux snarled. “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself.

Hux allowed the others to land first, watching them all bounce down and taxi back. He came down last, positioning his aircraft in the parking line once again. As he got out and dropped to the ground, he was seething. What Solo had done had been unacceptable, a breach of protocol that could have ended in disaster. He deserved to be reprimanded. Sternly. Spotting him down the line of planes, Hux pulled off his helmet and stormed over.

“I don’t take kindly to showboating,” Hux said, scowling at him. “You put the others at risk by doing that at such a low altitude. You easily could have caused a collision and brought down both yourself and someone else, if not two of us. I will not tolerate that kind of behavior.”

Solo’s face, already flushed from the wind of his landing, turned a deeper shade of red. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. “I had an opening to take my shot and I did,” he said. “Isn’t that how it really works in a dogfight? You don’t let your target get away, no matter the circumstances.”

Hux’s ire flared hotter at Solo’s apparent inability to comprehend the difference between combat and practice. “This was a training flight, not a skirmish.”

“But that’s what we’re training for!” Solo said, eyes flashing with something akin to malice. “Why not do it now?”

Hux pointed a finger at his chest. “Because you were ordered to keep in formation. We were preparing to land, not in the middle of an exercise. You disobeyed your superior.”

That offense was formally punishable, and in that moment Hux was sorely tempted to do so. He held himself back, though, knowing it would not engender goodwill among the men. And Solo deserved the opportunity to heed a verbal warning before suffering more severe reprimands.

It seemed he was unmoved, however. He continued to glower, leaning into Hux’s space. “I was just showing you what I could do. That’s what you wanted to see, isn’t it?”

“The only thing you showed me,” Hux said, not backing down an inch, “is that you can’t be relied upon. We work together in the air. What you did is irresponsible, reckless. I won’t have it.” He looked hard at Solo. “Restrain yourself, or I’ll ground you. Is that understood?”

Solo’s brown eyes widened and then narrowed. “You can’t do that. You don’t have any reserve pilots.”

Hux lifted his nose, unperturbed. “Then we fly one man short. It’s better than losing two because of your foolishness.”

Solo looked murderous, his fists clenched at his sides. For a moment Hux thought he might hit him, but he stayed still, trembling with contained fury.

Hux backed away a step, though he never took his eyes off of Solo. “Do I make myself clear, Pilot Officer?”

The sides of Solo’s mouth pinched, but he ground out, “Yes,” before whirling and striding away. Hux watched him go to the hangar. A few of the other pilots were waiting there, and Solo pushed through them to go inside. They frowned after him, murmuring amongst themselves.

Hux blew out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Damn good of a pilot though he may be, Solo was going to be just the kind of problem Hux had feared.

Chapter Text

Despite Solo’s huffy departure, Hux managed to keep his mood from souring. The men of his squadron were far from perfect aviators, but none of them had failed during their test flights. He had a good idea of how to proceed with them now, starting with one-on-one training over the coming days. With luck and perseverance, they would be flying mock dogfights by the end of the next week.

“Sir?” It was Shorty Putnam, who had come over from the hangar. He was still wearing his flight helmet and looked eagerly up at Hux. “Are we going up again today? It’s still early.”

Hux pushed back the sleeve of his uniform to glance at his watch. “Just past noon,” he said. “We’re due for lunch, but we may have the opportunity this afternoon.”

Shorty grinned. “Sounds good, sir.” To the others nearby he called, “Come on, fellas, chow time.”

The pilots followed him toward the mess, some with arms slung over each other’s shoulders, others carrying their flight jackets and helmets. The only one who was not with them was Solo. Hux debated going to find him and ordering him to go eat with the others, but if he wanted to sulk and go hungry for a day, that was his business.

Hux’s stomach rumbled, a reminder that the two biscuits he’d eaten for breakfast had long since gone, but food could wait. He had more pressing matters to attend to, namely finding Wing Commander Snoke to request more flight time for the day. No point in wasting the fine weather.

Miss Rey was the radio operator on duty when he got to the command tower, and she stood when Hux entered.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. “Something I can do for you?”

“I’m looking for Snoke,” said Hux. “Has he already gone to the mess?”

“No, sir. He takes most of his meals here. Shall I ask if he’ll see you?”

Hux nodded.

The heels of Rey’s shoes clicked across the concrete floor as she hastened over to the wing commander’s door and knocked. She exchanged a few brief words with him—they were too muffled and quiet for Hux to make out—before gesturing Hux over. She flashed him a smile as he went past her and into the office.

“Hux,” Snoke said. He sat behind his desk, a half-full plate in front of him and a cup of steaming tea in his hand. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry to disturb your meal, sir,” Hux said.

Snoke waved his fork dismissively. “I assume you have something of importance to say to me, so if you could get on with it, that would be best.”

Hux held himself upright, shoulders squared. “Yes, sir, of course. I wanted to report that this morning’s test flights with 363 Squadron were successful. I have taken the measure of their abilities and am preparing a training plan for each of them.”

“Excellent,” said Snoke. “Seeing as there were no accidents or other misadventures to contend with, am I to understand that they are competent pilots?”

“They have a foundational grasp of the basic skills,” Hux said, “but there is refinement to be done yet. It is for that reason I had hoped to take them back up this afternoon.”

“Not today, I’m afraid. The 222 will be disbursed on a bomber run in half an hour’s time and the 129 is on a sweep of the coast. We’ll need to keep the skies around the field clear for their return.”

“I understand, sir,” said Hux, “but we would only be going up in pairs. Four kites at most. Surely that wouldn’t affect the pattern around the field if anyone from the 129 needed to land in a hurry.”

“If it were a more seasoned squadron, I would consider it,” Snoke said, running a hand over the gnarled scars on his brow. “But it’s best your men wait until morning.”

Hux bit back his disappointment. “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready to fly first thing tomorrow.”

“Very good. Is that all?”

“It is, sir,” said Hux. He saluted. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Snoke made a gruff sound of acknowledgement before turning back to his plate. Hux saw himself out, closing the door firmly behind him. He waved once to Rey, who wiggled her fingers briefly before sliding the radio operator’s headphones over her ears.

As Hux stepped out of the command tower, he took in the bustle of the airfield. Several fuel trucks were parked beside a row of Hurricanes at Hangar One, home of the 222, with their long hoses attached to the aircraft. Several of the ground crew were flitting around between them, checking engines and warming them up.

A group of pilots came around the corner from nearer the barracks, all of them outfitted to fly. Among them was Squadron Leader Chapman, who hung back as he spotted Hux. The others went on.

“Back from your exercises this morning, I see,” Chapman said. He eyed the fleece-lined, leather flight jacket Hux still wore and the helmet in his hand. “No worse for the wear.”

“Indeed,” said Hux coolly. “Everything went quite well. I’m sure you saw the successful maneuvers we performed nearest the field. What do you make of them?”

Chapman clasped his hands behind his back. “Looked fair enough from where I stood, though there was the matter of the man who needed to circle back to make a proper landing. I should have imagined such a simple skill would already have been mastered.”

Of course he would have seen that. Fortunately he made no mention of Solo’s showboating.

“Yes, I very much agree,” Hux said. “We’ll be working hard on those sorts of things, as well as combat tactics.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to see a marked improvement quite promptly.”

“No doubt,” said Chapman, his dubiousness clear. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a run to oversee.”

Hux nodded. “Certainly. Good hunting.”

Chapman marched off, straight-backed with his chin in the air. Hux permitted himself a scowl. Apparently his first impression of Chapman hadn’t been far off the mark. The man was a bit of an ass, and arrogant to boot. Hux would have to ask around about his squadron’s performance record to measure against 363’s when they finally got into combat. He didn’t expect them to be aces right out of the gate, but he had hope for them.

Putting that matter aside for now, he made for the mess, prepared to join the men for a first meal. They were seated around their usual table when he arrived, talking and laughing. Hux slipped his jacket off and hung it on a peg on the wall. Tugging his uniform to straighten it, he approached the table. Gazes fell on him as conversations trailed off.

“May I join you?” Hux asked.

There was pause, but then Poe spoke up. “Sure, sir.” He extended a hand toward the small space across from him. “Have a seat.”

Meltsa and Strickland slid over to make more room and Hux stepped over the bench and took his place. Serving platters and bowls were passed down to him in near silence. He filled his plate steadily with steamed string beans and baked pork loin, a slice of bread and gravy. The men hardly picked at theirs, still watching Hux with wary interest.

Hux took it upon himself to break the strange quiet. “I’ve been to see the wing commander. We are unfortunately grounded until tomorrow morning.”

There were a few groans and scattered complaints.

“Why, sir?” asked Wexley from down the table. “Did we do something wrong?”

“No,” Hux replied, cutting a bit of meat. “It’s no fault of yours. We are just to keep the skies clear for the other squadrons to conduct their operations this afternoon.”

“So, what are we supposed to do all day?” Strickland drawled in his heavy Texas accent. “Sure isn’t enough sun to sit out in, and we’ve got no books to read.”

Meltsa elbowed him in the side. “You can read? Coulda fooled me.”

Strickland made a face at him.

“Tedium is a reality of war,” Hux said. “Between sweeps and bomber runs, there’s not much to do. Though there is a Link trainer, isn’t there?”

The Link was a training simulator that built skills in instrument flying. It wasn’t always possible to see in the air, especially in English weather, so a pilot had to rely on his instruments to navigate. Even the most seasoned flyers still got in the trainer every once in a while to brush up. Hux had the distinct feeling all of his pilots could use some time in it.

“Yeah, there is,” said Poe. “In the building around back of the command tower.”

“Excellent,” Hux said, pleased. “I’d like each of you to spend an hour in it this week. You won’t all be able to manage today, but there will be more ground time in the future. Log it in your flight records.” He glanced around the table. “I presume you’ll all log today’s training as soon as we’re finished here.”

“You’ve got our files, though, sir,” Ward said. He was sitting near the end of the table.

Hux nodded. “I do. However, I’d like your records here to be started fresh. My previous squadron kept them on a blackboard in our briefing room. It was meant to inspire a bit of healthy competition between us. We recorded our kills there as well.”

He got a few smiles from that.

“How many Jerries have you shot down, sir?” Brewster Mills asked, looking eager.

“Ten,” said Hux. He tried to sound modest despite the fact that that was an impressive total. He had held the highest number of confirmed enemy aircraft destroyed in his squadron and had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Mills whistled. “Damn, sir. That’s a hell of a thing.”

Hux offered a small smile. “Thank you. I expect each of you will try to best me, however.”

A few scattered laughs.

“We can definitely give it our best shot,” said Poe. He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “And I mean that literally.”

“Well, time in the Link will certainly help improve your chances,” Hux said. “Perhaps you’d like to go first today, Poe?”

“Consider me signed up.”

Hux looked down the table, considering. “Then perhaps you, Taylor. Crowe, Gilbert. The rest of you can decide amongst yourselves. I trust you’ll see to it that you all get your allotted time.”

“Yes, sirs” made the rounds.

Hux returned to his food, though when he others didn’t do the same, he said, “I shouldn’t want this to get cold, now. Please, continue.”

Forks and knives were hurriedly picked up and the meal resumed. Hux watched the Americans out of the corner of his eye, noticing little peculiarities about how they ate. Mainly, he found it odd that they cut their meat with their knives in their right hands, but then set them down after they had sliced a few pieces and switched their forks into their place. Some also had a tendency to speak with their mouths full. Most ate quickly as well, putting down their food at twice the rate Hux did.

He was halfway done when the door to the mess swung open and Ben Solo entered. His gaze went almost immediately to Hux, and his expression darkened. No doubt purposefully, he chose the seat farthest from him, across from Gilbert at the end of the table.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Gilbert said. “Figured we might have to fix you a plate and bring it out to you.”

“I wanted to look at my plane,” said Solo, unaffected by the teasing. “I thought I heard a rattle while I was flying.”

Hux raised his brows. Officers did not see to the maintenance of their aircraft themselves. They relied on the riggers and fitters of the ground crew to take care of it. In most cases, they didn’t have the expertise to work on engines.

“What’d you find?” Gilbert asked.

“Just a loose fitting,” Solo replied with a shrug. “I tightened it up.” As he took the platter of pork from Putnam next to him, Hux saw the grease on his hands.

“Where did you learn to service your own aircraft, Solo?” Hux asked, genuinely curious.

“My dad taught me,” he said around a bite of meat. “He and the guys we flew with never had a maintenance crew. They did the work themselves or they didn’t fly.”

“But certainly the Hurricane is different than what you flew as a boy.”

Solo frowned as he swallowed. “An engine’s an engine. You get to know one, you can figure out the others.”

“That’s very admirable,” said Hux, “though not necessary here. There are other ways a pilot can spend his time. We were just speaking about the Link trainer.”

“You think taking care of your plane is a waste of time?” Solo said darkly.

Hux picked up on the hostility and kept his tone even. “No, certainly not, but it is not an officer’s duty. The enlisted men should have work to keep them occupied.”

Solo scoffed. “Right. I forgot that you English treat anyone who isn’t commissioned like the help. Like you’re some kind of high and mighty lords and they’re just the commoners.”

Hux bristled, unaccustomed to being openly accused of snobbery. “There is a historical precedent for military officers to come from the gentry,” he said. “The enlisted do not.”

“But that means you can’t talk to them?” said Solo, disdainful. “The riggers told me the officers go to a different pub than they do when they’re in the village. They won’t even sit with the ground crew.”

The other men around the table exchanged surprised looks. A few muttered, “That can’t be true.”

Hux, however, knew it was. It was simply not the custom for officers to mix with the enlisted. They worked together amiably, but when the had their leisure time, they kept to themselves. It had been that way for all of Hux’s life and certainly that of his father. He might have assumed the practices were similar in the American military, but perhaps that was not the case.

“There is nothing stopping you from speaking or spending your free time with them,” he said. “However, you should know that it is not common. There are certain ways things are done here, and if you are to fit in—”

“I don’t care about that,” said Solo. “I’m just here to fly.”

Hux willed his temper into check. “Well, you should care, Mr. Solo, because I expect you to behave in accordance with English ways. You are members of the Royal Air Force and will comport yourselves accordingly.”

“I’m sure Ben didn’t mean any offense, sir,” Poe said, shooting a pointed glance at Solo before turning a brighter one on Hux. “We know we’re meant to get to know England and the men we fly with.” He clapped Lewis Mills, who sat beside him, on the shoulder. “Just the other day we talked to a couple of boys from the 129, right?”

Lewis looked uncertain, but said, “Right.”

Poe smiled. “Exactly. We’re doing our best to get off on the right foot.”

Hux appreciated the attempt to appear more affable, overstated though it may have been. “That’s an excellent attitude,” he said.

Solo turned his attention back to his plate, stabbing rather savagely at his beans. The others seemed a sight unsettled by the exchange and didn’t immediately speak again. Fortunately, Meltsa piped up, asking for another helping of bread, and that seemed to break the tension.

“Can I ask you something, sir?” Strickland asked, turning to Hux.

“Certainly.”

“What was it like to shoot down your first Messerschmitt?”

That was a topic Hux would more gladly discuss than the peculiarities of English social class, and he could only imagine it was of far greater interest to his men as well. Taking a sip of water, he called up a memory that was still perfectly vivid in his mind.

“It was in the early part of July of ‘40, right when the Germans were starting to hit us hard. I was posted to No. 11 Group, just outside of London, in the thick of it.” He leaned in, trying to capture the excitement he’d felt as he got out over the countryside that day. “The full wing was up, each squadron in their formation. We had been called up because of something on the radar, but we weren’t seeing it. It was calm and quiet above the clouds, but then someone over the radio started calling ‘Attack! Attack! Attack!’ I looked all around, head on a swivel, but I couldn’t see anything.

“Our squadron leader called for us to break formation then, so my wingman and I took off into the sun. We looped back on the kites behind us, and that’s when I saw them. Eight enemy bandits coming in hard and fast along the horizon.”

Hux’s stomach had clenched up the moment he set eyes on them, his first chance to really take one down.

“I looked out for one of the stragglers,” he said, holding up his right hand to represent the German fighter and his left to illustrate his flight path. “He was higher than me, so I had to climb steeply before I could get within firing range. I went up into a loop, but turned out of it at the top, coming back down onto my belly. Took me a moment to find the bandits again, but when I had them in my sights, I started down toward them.

“I was zealous then and not so worried about my ammunition, so I started firing at three hundred yards. Foolish, I know, and wasteful, but it let me come in shooting. The Jerry flew straight into the spray and I peppered his fuselage from nose to rudder.”

A few of the men made noises of approval, smiling and completely focused on Hux.

“Didn’t look like I hit anything vital on that first pass,” he continued, “so I chased him. He was quick and agile, as the Messerschmitts are, but I managed to get in close enough for another shot. I lined his nose up in my sight and pressed the button. Three seconds of ammunition was all I had left, but was just enough. Got him right in the engine block and it started to spew smoke.

“He held his altitude for a few seconds, and I thought he might be able to limp home, but then he stalled and started to fall. It was stupid—again—but I held my course straight ahead and watched him go all the way down to the ground. That was the finest explosion I’d ever seen.”

“Guess you didn’t get anyone else that day, huh?” Shorty Putnam asked. He was leaning on his hand, his elbow on the table, rapt.

“No,” Hux replied. “I had shot all my bullets. My wingman managed to damage one, but it didn’t go down. He made up for it later, though. A good shot, was Alec.”

He had flown with Hux for four months before he had been shot down. The man who replaced him on Hux’s wing never was quite up the task.

“It wasn’t until a month later that I brought another one down,” Hux said.

“Did that one feel old hat after the first?” said Norman Crowe.

“Never. It’s exhilarating every time.”

“I can’t wait to get up there and get one of my own,” Strickland said, leaning back with his hands braced on the table.

Hux raised his cup. “To when you do.”

The others joined in the toast, even the taciturn Solo. “To when we do.”

Hux went to his quarters after lunch with a full belly and in good spirits. He had told one or two more stories of his exploits in the air during the Battle of Britain as they finished their meal, all of which had been listened to with eager attention. It was after one o’clock by the time he stood and reminded the men that they were due for their turns in the Link trainer. Though their response wasn’t one of overwhelming enthusiasm, they had gone off without protest. Hux would check in with them later, perhaps watch one or two of them as they worked the simulator.

But first there was the matter of the training schedule to draw up. He found the fountain pen his mother had given him when he went away to Oxford in its case on the top of the desk when he sat down. It was black with gold accents and felt pleasantly heavy in his right hand. He had requested a composition notebook from Mitaka the day before, and it had been delivered at some point during the morning when he was flying. Hux already appreciated his young batman’s competency. The notebook creaked with newness as Hux opened to the first page. He pressed the cover down with his left hand as he began to write.

The first time he had drawn up this kind of plan had been as a cadet in the Oxford University Air Squadron. He had been in his last year at university then, and had earned the right to lead the younger cadets. Their instructor had put him in charge, a significant show of faith in his abilities.

As a trainer, he had been exacting, expecting nothing but the best, and it had shown when his cadets had done their final aerobatics assessment. They had outperformed the others by a large margin, and Hux had been commended for it. The celebration in the pub that night had been raucous. Hux hadn’t paid for a single drink, and there had certainly been a good many. He had even sung, which was unheard of outside of hymns in church when his mother forced him to attend.

When he had returned home after his commencement ceremony, she had done just that. It wasn’t that he abhorred the tradition and pomp of the services, but he found the whole thing tedious. He could only imagine that God himself would be bored by the long liturgy and somber, unfailingly off-key devotional songs. However, his mother took some manner of comfort in them, and Hux was not about to refuse to join her during his brief stints at their home in Surrey.

That particular visit had lasted three weeks, which was more than enough to sate him. Though he also had little interest in his father’s form of worship—long hours on the bridlepath of North Downs Way—he had joined him on those outings as well. Muscles long unused grew sore after only an hour, and by the time they returned to the house, he could barely slide off the horse. His father had fortunately spared him the derisive comments about not being a horseman, though his looks as Hux hobbled back to the stable on shaking legs had been reproving.

When not suffering either of his parents’ favorite pursuits, Hux had been forced to endure visits from the neighbors, all of whom had uninteresting news to report about their tenants, the weather, and how their children were, one by one, taking husbands and wives. Hux’s mother had a particular interest in that topic, recalling the charming trappings of their weddings, which she had, of course, been invited to. Her sighs and smiles were blatantly directed at Hux, who, at twenty-one, was prime marrying age. She was particularly fond of singing the praises of the unattached daughters in the neighborhood.

Amelia Abbott was a favorite, and was more than once brought to the house for tea and a turn about the grounds. Hux was made to escort her and listen to her soft, shy conversation. She could barely look at him without flushing scarlet and stumbling over her words. She was a pretty girl, but Hux couldn’t abide her timidity. Even if he had considered taking a wife—which he decidedly had not, at that age or after—it could not have been her.

Aside from her, however, he did enjoy the company of ladies. He had had several female friends while at Oxford, most of whom he had met at various dances over the course of his studies. They had all been quite charming and forward, excellent partners on the floor and good company when they were sharing a pint.

Hux had been particularly fond of Sybil Lancaster, a student of English literature at St. Hilda’s College. She stood a mere five feet and one inch, but had a fiery temperament that more than made up for her stature. She wore her blond hair in long, loose curls that bounced when she got her dander up in an argument about her most beloved authors. She smoked ceaselessly and danced with boundless energy. Hux had admired her as he hadn’t any other woman before, and to his surprise, the feeling had been mutual.

He had discovered it perhaps six months into their acquaintance, when he had been walking her back to her dormitory after a night out. As they had reached her door, she had taken a puff from her cigarette and said, unabashed, “Ellen’s gone home for the weekend, and the matron of the house sleeps like the dead. You could come up and no one would be the wiser.”

Hux balked, having never had any inclination toward her in that manner, but part of him wanted to know if he had an interest in women that had simply gone untapped. That would certainly have made matters much simpler. So, he had agreed.

In the end, he accepted a kiss, but politely declined anything else. To his surprise, she hadn't seemed put off. He said as much to her.

“No harm done,” she said. “I understand things are a bit different with you. But I might like to give you a kiss every now and then. Might help you keep up appearances, don’t you think?”

Hux watched her blow out smoke with complete nonchalance, as if she had not just guessed—correctly—at his true nature.

“Why would you do that?” he asked.

She smiled. “Because I like you, Armitage. And I want to be a friend to you.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking at her steadily, “I suppose.”

After that, they spent more time together, taking walks and going out into town. His friends were pleased with the match, more than once telling Hux that Sybil was good for him. He agreed with them; being with her was easy and pleasant. He had genuine affection for her, too, and gratitude that lasted throughout his second year of university. However, she finished that spring, and decided to go abroad. They spent her last night in Oxford together, both a little drunk and happily reminiscing.

“You take care of yourself, Armie,” she said as she straightened his collar, a habit he disliked but had never complained of.

“You, too, Syb.” He had stooped to kiss her on the cheek and that was that.

He hadn’t found another female friend of her caliber after she had left. There had been other women—most when he was well into his cups and feeling particularly dissatisfied with this bachelor’s life—but none had won his admiration as she had. He still missed her, and wondered, as he sat in his quarters at Wolcastle, what had become of her.

He adjusted his grip on his pen, blinking down at the notebook, where he had barely even begun to put down this training schedule. He chided himself for letting his mind wander, and focused his attention on the task.

His hand was beginning to cramp as he put down the last of his notes some two hours later. He had ended up adding extensive comments to each pilot’s name, outlining how he needed to address their weaknesses. It was an exercise to solidify the plan in his mind before putting it into action tomorrow.

He would start with Wexley, taking him up to work on his timing in rolls and reverses. Poe would be in charge of Crowe’s exercises. Hux would have to discuss it with him after dinner that night. Hux’s former squadron leader had briefed him in the same manner almost every evening, preparing him for the next day’s work. If Poe was to be a good second, Hux would have to keep him apprised of his plans for the squadron.

Setting down his pen, Hux rubbed the center of his forehead. A headache had crept up on him, starting to become more than just a dull throb. He didn’t get them often, but when a good headache was coming on, it could put him down for the rest of the day. The only remedy was a strong dose of aspirin. That would mean a walk over to the field hospital to ask for it. He winced as he rose, a wave of pain radiating through his head.

The morning sun had disappeared behind a cover of cloud, for which he was grateful as he left the barracks. It saved him having to squint against it. He hurried across the field toward the brick building that housed the hospital.

It was relatively quiet inside when he entered, with only a few of the beds occupied. The others were neatly made, with crisp, square corners and fluffed pillows. If he had to hazard a guess at which members of the His Majesty’s military were the most disciplined, it would be the nurses. They were attentive and kind at the bedside, but when the moment called for it they were strict taskmasters. Those recovering from injuries were not coddled when it came to their treatment. The nurses wanted them back on their feet as soon as they were able, and there were no excuses for not being so.

Hux ventured farther inside, casting a glance around for one of them. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard someone speak from behind him.

“Looking for something?”

He turned, expecting to look down into a face of a young woman some inches smaller than him, as most were. However, he found himself eye to eye with this nurse. She had a blond, wavy bob and blue eyes, a stern expression, and her hands on her hips.

“Ah, good afternoon,” Hux said.

She continued to stare him down, unaffected.

“I am looking for something, yes,” he continued when it appeared she wasn’t going to exchange pleasantries. “Some aspirin.”

“What for?” she asked.

“A headache.” One which was swiftly getting worse.

She nodded curtly. “Right. Come on, then.”

She led him down the hall at a healthy clip, which he was just able to match without breaking into a jog. They stopped at a frosted glass door marked “Dispensary.”

“You’ll need to stay out here,” she said. “None but the doctor and nurses are allowed in here.”

“Of course,” said Hux, taking a step back to give her space.

She produced a key from the pocket of her white dress and unlocked the door. Hux could see shelves of medicines inside, containers large and small, but he hadn’t the first idea what they all were. The nurse went to a shelf midway down and pulled out a clear glass bottle with a metal top. She unscrewed it and tapped out two small, white pills.

Hux cleared his throat. “Might I have a third?” he asked. Two wouldn’t be enough to put this particular headache to rest, he could already tell.

The nurse eyed him suspiciously.

“I promise you I’m not some kind of addict,” he said.

The corner of her mouth quirked. “No one can get addicted to aspirin. It’s the morphine we have to keep under lock and key.”

Hux knew something of that. His father had told him the desperate need with which some of the injured had begged for the drug after they had stopped receiving it for their wounds. Their minds had been addled with it, and it was said they craved it more than food or water. Hux had never been treated with morphine himself, and was in no hurry to do so, if it was indeed something one could develop such an unquenchable desire for.

“Of course,” he said. “Still, may I—”

“Yes, yes,” said the nurse, dispensing a third tablet before putting the bottle away. “Here you are. I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”

Hux could have swallowed the pills without it, but she had yet to hand them to him, so he followed her into another room, where there was a large ceramic sink against the far wall. A number of instruments—scalpels and the like—were lying out next to it, their deadly edges shining. The thought of putting them to use turned Hux’s stomach. He had seen pilots injured, having carried more than one from his aircraft to the hospital, but seeing a doctor with blood up to his elbows was something that he could never get used to.

The piping of the sink whined as the nurse turned on the water to fill a glass. She pushed it and the pills into Hux’s hands. He took them under her watchful eye, almost tempted to open his mouth for her to inspect after he had swallowed, just to show that he had taken them.

“You’re new here,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I haven’t seen you in for a physical yet.”

“I wasn’t aware I was required to have one,” said Hux, taking another sip of the water. It tasted slightly metallic.

“It’s Doctor Tarkin’s preference. He wants to make sure the men coming from other airfields aren’t bringing anything unsavory with them.”

That, of course, meant venereal disease. It was startlingly common amongst soldiers, and a diagnosis usually took a man out of action for several weeks. Syphilis took a full six months to recover from. One of the men in Hux’s former squadron had been discreetly removed to the hospital for that time. He had been furious about being removed from the air, but too ashamed to put up much of a fight.

Hux was glad for his self-imposed celibacy when it came to that. He had not slept with anyone, man or woman, since ‘36, and certainly none of the kind that his fellows sometimes sought out. He would rather enjoy the admittedly somewhat disappointing attentions of his right hand than risk being grounded because he’d put his cock where he shouldn’t have.

“I am quite well,” he said to the nurse, “but if the doctor wishes it, I’m willing to see him at his earliest convenience.”

“I’ll pass the message along,” she said. “What name shall I give him?”

He stuck out his hand. “Armitage Hux, 363 Squadron.”

She shook it in a firm grip. “Matron Phasma. I’m in charge of the girls here. Second to Doctor Tarkin.”

Hers was an unusual name. Hux wondered what part of the country she came from, as her accent did little to give her away.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Have you been at Wolcastle long?”

“Since construction was finished in March,” Phasma said.

“How do you like it?”

“As well as any other posting, though it’s quieter than my last. It was closer to London during the worst of the fighting. More men came through the infirmary there.”

“I can imagine so,” said Hux. “There are fewer injuries to see to here, then? Fewer casualties?”

She brushed the wimple she had pinned to the back of her hair away from her shoulders. “I can’t speak for the ones who go down over the countryside, but most men who make it back here are whole. The few we have now were just scraped and shaken up. They’ll be back in the air in the next few days.”

“Were you a nurse before you joined Princess Mary’s corps?” Hux asked.

Phasma laughed. “No. I worked in a dress shop. Bespoke frocks like the ones I have to wear. Can’t find anything to fit in a regular store.”

Hux could imagine that there were very few things aside from gloves and handkerchiefs that she could purchase in a shop.

“What made you want to join up, if I may ask?” he said.

“Well, if there’s a war on, I’m going to do something useful,” she said. “And I found I like this a lot better than taking measurements and cutting fabric.” She gestured toward him. “What about you? Did patriotic duty bring you into the fray?”

“In part, I suppose. I’m glad to serve king and country, but I was a pilot before the war broke out.”

Phasma looked him over, putting her weight in her back foot. “Yes, I can see that. You’ve got the look about you.”

“Have I?” Hux asked, amused.

“Proud, just a little stodgy,” she replied. “Like rank is in your blood. Not quite like the Americans in your squadron.”

Hux might have been offended, but Phasma said it so good-naturedly that he couldn’t bring himself to it. Instead, he said, “Have you met the Americans, then?”

“They’ve been in for their physical examinations. Came by first thing when they arrived.”

“I trust they’re all in good health.”

“Hale and hardy all,” Phasma said. “Not even a sniffle in the wet autumn.”

Hux was glad to hear that. With no reserve pilots, he couldn’t afford to lose men because of something as trifling as a chest cold. There were other concerns, however, that he had yet to investigate.

“Did the doctor test their eyesight?” he asked.

Phasma cocked a white-blond brow. “Have a reason to believe one of them has poor vision?”

“It wasn’t recorded in their documents from their training unit. I simply want to know everything I can about them.”

“Understandably,” she said. “I believe he did. I can pull their files, if you’d like. As their commander you have the right to see them.”

He accepted readily. Phasma took him back down the hall to another side room, though this one was clearly not for clinical use. There were several file cabinets and a desk with a typewriter at the center. She went to the leftmost cabinet and began to rifle through the papers inside the top drawer.

“363,” she said as she carried a stack of brown folders over. “You can use the desk just over there.”

Hux took a seat, expecting Phasma to leave him, but she didn’t. In fact, she stood right behind his chair, clearly intending to look over his shoulder. Resigned to that, he opened the first folder.

Perfect eyesight was not a requirement to fly in the RAF, but there were high expectations. A man with glasses could lose them in flight, and those who were nearsighted could never pick out an enemy aircraft at eight hundred yards. It meant there were quite a few men sent home despite their hopes of flying, but those were did make it into the air were the best of the best.

Hux’s Eagles proved to be among them. All of the men tested with excellent marks on their eye examinations, several coming out with perfect scores.

“See what you needed to see?” Phasma asked as he closed the last of the folders.

“I did, yes,” he replied. “Thank you.”

She collected the folders and went to put them back into the cabinet. “I hope I won’t be seeing much of these lads in here. Wouldn’t mind hearing a story or two about America, but it’s best they stay clear of me and my girls.”

“Perhaps if I hear a particularly interesting story,” said Hux, “I can come relate it to you. It will come secondhand, but if you’re interested in the Colonies…”

She flashed him a grin. “I have tea around two o’clock every day unless there’s something pressing to be done. I’ll pour you a cup if you’ve got something good to tell.”

Hux found that he was coming to like the head nurse. She wasn’t simpering or sweet. In fact, she reminded him a little of Sybil. “I believe I’ll do that, Matron Phasma.”

“Oh, just Phasma will do,” she said.

Hux couldn’t resist the question. “Is that your given name?”

“It is. My mother was a bit of an eccentric. Wanted to call me something uncommon.”

“I think it suits you very well,” said Hux.

She chuckled. “Well, it’s what I’ve got, so I certainly hope so. Come on then, Armitage, I’ll show you out.”

Hux left the hospital with a promise to bring Phasma a story the next day. He would have to make some enquiries that evening at dinner to make sure he would have something for her. He was certain his men had some anecdotes that would interest her, and him as well.

As he walked toward the building where his squadron’s briefing room was, he couldn’t help but think of what Solo had told him of the barnstorming trick pilots he had grown up amongst. He wanted to know what their shows had been like, what airplanes they had flown. That would certainly make for a good story, but it would require finding a time to speak with Solo alone again. From the way he had acted toward Hux after their flight that morning, Hux had the distinct notion that he would no longer be particularly forthcoming, or have any desire to be in Hux’s company outside of the required exchanges of orders and meals.

That wouldn’t be acceptable in the long term, Hux knew. He wanted to know his men and have them trust and confide in him. It would strengthen the squadron’s cohesion if they could rely upon each other. If Solo remained apart, it would work to their detriment. Something would have to be done about him, though Hux was not yet sure what.

The buzz of conversation filled the small briefing room as Hux walked inside. The door had been propped open to let in a breeze, but it was still quite a bit warmer inside than out. The Mills brothers, Taylor, and Ward were seated around a small table in the corner playing a game of cards. Their jackets were off, slung over the backs of their chairs, and Taylor’s shirt sleeves were rolled up. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his tongue between his lips as he considered his cards.

“Ace high, boys,” he said, setting them down. “Beat that if you can.”

The others groaned, tossing their cards away as Taylor laughed. The pot looked to be a collection of ration tickets, cigarettes, and a few packages of chocolate. He raked it all toward him.

Across the room Wexley and Meltsa were sharing that day’s newspaper. Wexley had his feet propped up on a table, the dried mud on the soles of his boots flaking onto the top. That wouldn’t stand.

“Pilot Officer Wexley,” said Hux, sharp and loud enough to be heard.

The young man dropped his newspaper into his lap and looked up at Hux with eyes as wide as saucers. “Sir?” he said.

“Where did you learn that it is acceptable to sully the furniture in this room, or any room for that matter, with your filthy boots?” Hux demanded, striding over.

Wexley pulled his legs back, dropping his feet back onto the floor. He wiped at the table, dusting off the dirt. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to, um...”

Hux looked at him sternly. “No, I’d imagine you didn’t. I’m sure it was a slip that will not happen again.”

“Right, sir. Yes, sir.”

The other men in the room had turned to watch the exchange, wary, as if they were waiting their turns to be admonished. Hux saw Taylor push down his sleeves and button the cuffs.

“I don’t expect you all to be formally attired and turned out at all times,” Hux said, “especially in your leisure time, but there are standards of conduct that should be abided by. If you are not familiar with them, we’ll have to remedy that. I believe we’ll start tomorrow morning at five o’clock.”

Meltsa’s face fell. “So early, sir?”

Hux nodded. “There will be times when you are called up to fly at just such an hour. The war does not keep business hours.” He glanced over at the men at the card table. “Please relay a message to the others that you are all to report outside the mess at five tomorrow. You’ll be in full uniform for inspection.”

“We’ll do that, then, sir,” said Brewster Mills gruffly.

Satisfied, Hux said nothing more, going instead over to the rolling blackboard at the front of the room. It was divided into thirteen rows and twenty columns. His pilots’ surnames were written in, and all of them had recorded their hour in the air from the morning. There were a few who had marked time in the Link trainer as well. Hux picked up the chalk and wrote his own name. He recorded his time along with the rest. He would have to set a good example and do a turn in the Link. Perhaps tomorrow. For now, he would go and see how the others were doing.

“I’ll leave you here, gentleman,” he said, turning. “Until dinner.”

A few muttered acknowledgements followed him out.

The Link trainer was a large contraption, filling most of the space in the building. It was rather a remarkable invention, built to resemble a stubby fuselage with short wings and a tail. All the parts were working, and moved as the pilot manipulated the controls from inside the closed cockpit. It was even able to move to simulate the pitch and yaw of the aircraft. There were bellows in the base that shifted it.

Beside it was a control table, where the radio operator gave commands for the pilot to follow. He decided the weather conditions, wind speed, and other factors that would affect the simulation. The pilot would have to adjust for all of them using only the instruments in his cockpit.

Poe was seated at the table, wearing a headset and giving orders. The pilot inside the trainer was in the middle of an exercise, moving it as he “flew.”

“All right, Lewis,” Poe said. “You’ve got a low ceiling and a thick fog coming in. Stay on the easterly course, sixty degrees. Watch your drift angle from the northerly winds.”

“Don’t warn him of that,” said Hux, approaching the control table. “Let him make the decision for himself. If he fails, he fails.”

Poe opened his mouth to speak, but then just nodded, knowing Lewis would hear him. He turned back to the instrument panel to see the pilot’s readings as he guided the simulated aircraft down for a landing. Hux watched them as well. The heading indicator read true to Poe’s instructions, due east at about sixty degrees. The airspeed was slowing as Lewis descended and the attitude indicator showed that he was coming in along the horizon. All in all, it seemed that he was about to make a successful landing; however, he made an adjustment for the wind that overcompensated, and took him off course for the landing strip.

“Correct your course, Lewis,” Poe warned. “You’re off.”

He tried to make the necessary adjustment, but he was already too low. As he came in to what would be the ground, he missed his mark by a good twenty yards. Had he been landing at the field, he would have plowed directly into Hangar One. Hux sighed inwardly as Poe called an end to the simulation.

Lewis slid back the canopy on the trainer and stepped out. “I thought I had it,” he said, wiping the light sheen of sweat from his brow. It was never cool in the enclosed space of the trainer’s cockpit.

“You almost did,” said Poe. He pulled the headset down to hang around his neck. “You’ll get it next time.”

“There are no second chances when it comes to the real thing,” Hux said. “You’ll try again tomorrow, Mills, with the same conditions.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lewis. He picked up his uniform jacket from where it was lying on a nearby chair and left the room.

“Was that his only attempt for the day?” Hux asked Poe.

Poe shook his head. “His third. He, uh, didn’t make it in those, either.”

Hux wet his lips, tamping down his frustration. He had hoped for better. “How did the others do?”

“Well,” said Poe, lifting the headset away and setting it down on the desk, “not too great, if I’m being honest. Most of these boys never really had to fly blind before.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s sunshine and clear skies where they come from, not constant pissing rain and fog.” The voice came from the corner, where Ben Solo was sitting in the shadows. He had his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. “We don’t fly when the weather is bad.”

“Yes, well,” said Hux, “that is not a luxury we have in this part of the world. If we want to win this war, we fly even when the conditions are less than ideal.” Unable to resist, he added, “It takes far greater skill than fair-weather flying.”

Solo looked unimpressed. “We can handle it.”

“There is some manner of evidence to the contrary,” Hux said. “If the results from the Link are accurate.”
“It’s just a simulation,” said Solo. “It’s totally different to be in the air, feeling the plane and seeing the real situation.”

Hux’s patience with Solo’s contrariness was wearing even thinner. His cocksure tone was certainly not helping matters either. “The point is that you won’t be able to see in the least. You must have those abilities.” He gestured to the Link trainer. “Would you care to show me, Solo?”

“I’ve already been in.”

Hux looked to Poe for confirmation.

“That’s true enough, sir,” said Poe. “Landed three runs without a problem.” He shuffled some papers on the desk. “He was the only one, actually.”

Solo smirked.

“Excellent,” Hux said, just managing not to grind his teeth. He couldn’t afford to begrudge a pilot of Solo’s caliber, difficult as he was. “Then you’ll be willing to lead a discussion on strategies for successful instrument flying tonight after dinner.”

Solo’s smugness faded immediately. “I’m no teacher.”

“Your squadron mates could benefit from your knowledge,” said Hux. “And you’ll share it with them. We’ll all assemble at eight o’clock in the briefing room.”

“You, too?” Solo asked.

Hux nodded, fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from quirking up at Solo’s obvious displeasure. “Perhaps I’ll learn something as well.”

From behind him, he heard a choked-off laugh, quickly masked in a cough. Solo shot Poe a venomous glare.

“Fine,” he spat. Getting to his feet, he stalked over to Hux. He paused a pace away, looking Hux up and down.

To anyone of lesser height, Hux thought, he might have seemed menacing, but he couldn’t look down his long nose at Hux. Hux stood still and allowed him to glower. It was a kind of sparring, Solo lashing out to goad Hux like an overeager opponent in a fencing match. But Hux was not about to let Solo get a rise out of him. Fits of temper were not in his nature, and he had a distinct feeling that his coolness would irk Solo far more than if he snapped at him. He didn’t want to remain at odds with Solo in the long term, but the man had to be reminded of his place if he was to be a part of Hux’s squadron.

“I look forward to hearing what you have to say,” Hux said. “For now you are dismissed.”

The muscles in Solo’s jaw worked as he clenched it. He gave Hux a last dark look before brushing past him as he made for the door. Hux deliberately did not turn to watch him go.

“He’s not much of a talker, really, sir,” said Poe when Solo was gone. “I, ah, wouldn’t expect too much of him when it comes to tonight.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Hux said, coming around to face him. “However, it would likely do him some good to speak up amongst the others. He’s a good pilot, and they can learn from him.”

Poe leaned back against the desk. “Yeah, they probably can. But I don’t think they really want to.”

Hux cocked a brow. “They don’t like him?”

“He’s not an easy man to get along with,” said Poe. “Spends more time off on his own than he does with us. And he’s a little bit...how would you all put it? Cheeky?”

“Perhaps cavalier fits better,” Hux said. “He seems to do things without concern for how they will affect the rest of the squadron.”

“Yeah. I’ve been worrying about that since training.”

Hux rubbed his chin, where the prickle of his afternoon beard was just beginning to come in. “That’s a dangerous attitude. However, we need him in the air. There must be something I can do to set him straight.”

“I figure there is, sir,” Poe said. “But what that is, I couldn’t guess.”

Hux smile one-sidedly. “Well, it’s not your responsibility. It is mine.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear your assessment of those who came through the trainer today. I have some thoughts on who will fly with each of us tomorrow, but your input would be valued.”

Poe grinned. “Sure thing, sir. Want to have a seat?”

Hux took up the chair beside him and they went to work.

It was the dinner hour by the time they finished, so they walked over together to the mess. The more Hux spoke to Poe, the more he liked him. He was witty and quick to smile and clearly devoted to flying. He had good instincts when it came to training as well, which Hux greatly appreciated. Hux was confident he would do well with the pilots he took up in the morning.

Hux left the squadron to their own devices as they ate, choosing to sit with Barlow and Chapman, though the latter didn’t seem particularly thrilled to see him. Barlow was red-faced and cheerful as ever, peppering Hux with questions about his men and their performance. Chapman was conspicuously quiet as Hux related the details of their flight. Afterwards, he was told of the sweep the 129 had done that day and how they had shot down two German fighters. Hux gave due congratulations.

When they were finished, Hux excused himself to smoke an evening cigarette—the first of the day—before he went to the briefing room to enjoy Solo’s lecture on instrument flying. Unsurprisingly, it was misting rain as he stepped outside. Solo wasn’t wrong to complain of the weather in England. It was not a sunny and warm place, as was California; however, it was home to Hux, and he was fond of it. And no matter what others argued, it did make for capable pilots who could fly through nearly anything.

Hux puffed on his cigarette unhurriedly as the rain beaded on the wool of his uniform. There were a few lights on in the hangar as he passed by, and the tinny sound of jazz over the wireless. He might have ducked inside to chide whoever was responsible, but he didn’t bother. If the riggers and fitters were working late, it was their prerogative and none of his affair.

There was only one window in the building that housed the briefing room, and it, too, was illuminated when Hux arrived. With half a cigarette still in his hand, he went to it instead of the door, and peered inside.

Ben Solo was at the blackboard, its back side turned so he could write on it. There were a few crude diagrams of directional vectors and landing positions scribbled on it, but as Hux watched, he erased one with a wipe of his sleeve. He started again, attempting to draw an aircraft in relation to the horizon he had scrawled. When he had completed it, he stepped back to look, pushing his left hand through his hair agitatedly. It fell almost immediately over his brow again, the ends dangling into his eyes.

As he went to add to the diagram, the chalk he held snapped. He stared at the stub angrily before dropping it back on the ledge of the blackboard. Rubbing both broad hands over his face, he sat down heavily in a chair in the front row. He put his elbows on his knees, face still hidden.

Hux should have been satisfied to see that he was preparing—and even struggling, as this was admittedly a kind of punishment—but there was instead a twinge of sympathy. Hux had known a number of students at school who had been shy, and speaking in front of others had been almost unbearable for them. Their hands and voices had trembled at they recited the poems or prose they had memorized. Hux had never had such trouble, especially when it came to explaining the intricacies of flight. It seemed that Solo did not share that ability.

Dropping his cigarette and grinding it out with his toe, Hux went to the door and turned the knob. Solo looked up when he entered, his eyes wide with surprise. The clock on the wall still read ten minutes to eight, which meant Hux was quite early. Solo watched him, but said nothing by way of greeting. As Hux came closer, he noticed that there was a streak of chalk dust above Solo’s right eyebrow, turning just a few of the dark hairs white.

From here, Hux had a better view of the blackboard, and he could see what exactly Solo was drawing. It seemed that he was planning on first addressing how to properly fly between the turn and slip indicator, altimeter, and directional indicator. There were rough renderings of each near the top corner of the board.

“That’s a good place to start,” said Hux. “The basics.”

Solo looked at the board, brows drawn. “There’s so much more to it, but I don’t know how to say it. I’ve been trying to think of how for an hour.”

“You didn’t eat?” Hux asked.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Solo replied.

Hux remembered the boy with whom he shared a room at Charterhouse saying that he could never eat before a recitation or he would have vomited in the middle of the classroom. Sympathy rose again, almost making Hux regret his order forcing Solo to do this.

“May I make a few suggestions?” said Hux. Perhaps some pointers would ease the process and his nerves.

Solo nodded.

Hux went to the blackboard and, picking up the chalk, added the other critical instruments to Solo’s diagram. They were somewhat neater, though Hux was no artist.

“The first step, I think,” he said, “is to explain how to look between each of these. There’s a rotation that will ensure each one of them is checked periodically, so that one doesn’t neglect one of them.” He pointed to the air speed indicator at the leftmost corner. “I start here and work around. Sometimes across, but that can lead to missing the inner instruments. Your eyes track to the corners.”

“I guess that makes sense, yeah,” said Solo, getting slowly to his feet and coming to stand beside Hux. “I never really had a system. I just learned by doing it and seeing what worked.”

“I suppose you didn’t have much of a need when you were flying in the sunshine,” Hux said.

“I did when I was flying at night.”

Hux glanced over at him. “You flew in the dark?”

“Maybe not full dark,” Solo said, “but sometimes the only time I could was after the shows during the day. My dad would let me go up then and take the stick in the double seater. I had to use the instruments.”

Hux was impressed. Night flying wasn’t that common, but sometimes it was required. Without the lights on the ground—required by the blackout mandates—to help orientate oneself, it made the task very difficult. Very few pilots had the ability to do it successfully.

“You never used a simulator,” said Hux. “You learned everything by doing it.”

“That’s right,” Solo said. “No way we could have afforded something like the Link. And my dad didn’t learn that way. He taught me from the cockpit.”

“That’s truly quite remarkable. You must have a natural aptitude for it.”

Solo shrugged. “I just did it until I got good. Don’t know if I was better than anyone else from the start. I just didn’t quit until I could fly everything the barnstormers had.”

“Did you fly in the shows with them?” Hux asked.

“Yeah,” Solo replied, though he looked down. “My dad wasn’t always up to it, so I flew for him as I got older.”

“He was unwell?”

“He just liked corn liquor when he could get his hands on it,” Solo said. “It helped him sleep. He had nightmares about the war sometimes.”

“Ah, I see,” said Hux. “I had an uncle who was much the same. When he returned from the trenches, he never quite recovered.”

Solo chewed the inside of his cheek uneasily, saying nothing.

Hux knew enough to change the subject. He turned back to the blackboard and said, “What are you planning on discussing next?”

Solo laid out a basic plan for going through instrument take-offs and landings. Hux asked about aerobatics and flying blind through them. Solo looked uncertain, but did a fair job of explaining them. As he spoke, he kept his shoulders hunched and hands near his pockets, clearly uncomfortable lecturing, even if only to Hux. He also had the nervous tic of pushing his hand through his hair every minute or so. Watching him dance anxiously around the front of the room was painful for Hux to see.

As they approached eight o’clock, Hux finally relented. “I believe you’ve done a very good job of this,” he said, “but it is likely more appropriate for me to give the lesson. Would that be acceptable to you?”

The fearful tension visibly left Solo’s body. “Yes. That would be...good.”

“Very well,” said Hux. “Why don’t you go to the mess and get something to eat before they clean up. You may be excused from the lesson if you so choose.”

Solo clearly didn’t believe him at first, but as he looked over Hux’s face—Hux did his best to convey his sincerity—he seemed to relax even more. “Okay. Sir.”

He made to leave, but stopped at Hux called, “Solo, wait.” Hux pointed to his face. “You have a little chalk just there.”

Solo raised his right hand and wiped at the dust, but only succeeded in spreading more.

Hux held back a laugh. “I’ll you’ll allow me.” He reached out and wiped the stain with his thumb. It came away easily enough. “There you are.”

Solo was staring fixedly at him when he glanced down to meet his eyes. Hux realized he was standing less than a full pace away from him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath as he exhaled through slightly parted lips and to see the rising tinge of color in his cheeks. Hux’s gut tightened as he held Solo’s gaze, a response he would not have expected and certainly did not approve of. And yet, there it was: the kick of appreciation for how Ben Solo’s flush became him.

Hux took a quick step back, putting a necessary distance between them. He cleared his throat. “Well, you should be off, then. I don’t want my pilots going hungry.”

Solo looked lost, confused, for a moment before he seemed to understand what Hux was saying. “Right.” He backed away a few steps, still looking at Hux, before finally turning on his heel and making his way to the door. He nearly collided with Lewis Mills as he left. Mills mumbled, “‘Scuse me,” but Solo said nothing, just disappearing into the darkness outside.

Hux rubbed his right thumb along his forefinger, spreading the chalk dust, and set about gathering himself as he invited Mills to sit.

Chapter Text

The chilly wind buffeted Hux’s face as he turned his aircraft back toward the east and Wolcastle. He was flying low enough to leave the cockpit’s canopy open, a rare indulgence that reminded him of the early days of his training in open-air biplanes. They were considered antiques when compared to the powerful, agile machines he now flew, but he remembered them well as his first teachers.

Three days had passed since his squadron’s first test flight. In the time since, they had been up every morning for drills. Hux and Poe took each pilot individually, working them through the critical maneuvers and honing their reflexes. Hux had spent the last hour with Temmin Wexley, and while there had been some considerable improvement in his rolls and reverses, there was still work to be done. Hux would tell Poe, with whom Wexley would be working the next day, to take him through them until he had mastered the finesse of each movement. For today, though, they were finished, and both of them were coming in to land, Wexley to retire and Hux to switch aircraft to something with a fresh reserve of fuel. He had another lesson to give straightaway.

“Wolcastle control,” Hux said into his radio. “This is S.L. Hux requesting permission to land.”

“Permission granted, sir,” the operator in the control tower replied. “The field is clear.”

Hux came into an approach at around fifteen hundred feet and lined up for his descent. Engaging the landing gear, he began to throttle back and slow. Wexley was beside him; they would land nearly abreast. The grass of the runway was swiftly approaching as they soared toward it, and Hux held his airspeed at eighty-five as he passed the far boundary of the field. He couldn’t see over the spinner at the nose of the aircraft, but he looked over the sides to gauge his height. Taking the throttle back completely, he eased into a glide. Only a few seconds later, the wheels bumped down onto the grass.

Hux taxied the plane back along the dirt track to Hangar Three. His ground crew guided him into position and chocked the wheels as he cut the engine.

“Everything in order, sir?” Thanisson said as Hux climbed out of the cockpit. He handed Hux a canteen when he got to the ground.

“It is, yes,” said Hux after he had taken a drink of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “Prepared for my next flight.”

“Very good, sir,” said Thanisson. “We’ve your next kite ready for you.”

The aircraft was nearby and already running. Hux climbed onto the wing and then tucked himself into the cockpit.

Another of the Hurricanes was moving away from the hangar as Hux went quickly through his checks. He couldn’t see the pilot, but he knew who it was. Ben Solo was the man scheduled to fly with him next. Signaling the all-clear, Hux followed him out toward the end of the runway.

“Wolcastle control,” Hux heard Solo say over the radio, “P.O. Solo requesting permission to take off.”

“Granted, Solo.”

Hux received his own clearance less than a minute later, but he waited for Solo to get a few hundred feet ahead of him before he throttled up. Hux watched him get up into the sky smoothly, increasing his altitude and airspeed once his landing gear was up. Hux went with him, catching him up a few thousand feet above the field.

“All right, Solo,” Hux said. “We’re headed inland today, and we’ll start with vertical reverses and rolls. Stay on my wing until I give you the order to break.”

Solo came into position starboard and aft with a terse, “Yes, sir.”

Some of the men kept up a kind of conversation as they flew, responding to orders with their own commentary. It wouldn’t have been tolerated in combat, but Hux could accept it during training.

Solo, however, was not one of the talkative ones. He performed his tasks in near silence, acknowledging only as much as he was required to, most often when Hux made a correction. Those were few and far between, though. Solo was an excellent pilot with good instincts.

When Hux deemed them far enough away from the airfield to start their drills, he decided to begin with the reverses. He said as much over the radio.

Solo broke formation immediately, putting enough distance between him and Hux to do the maneuver. He took a hard turn to port going into it, staying there for a few moments before reversing to starboard. It was deftly done, and would likely save his life when it came to avoiding gunfire in a dogfight.

“Good,” Hux said. “Once to the other side and then go into a roll.”

Once again, Solo remained silent, simply following the order. He did well, with no hesitation in either part.

“Loops or snap rolls next?” he asked flatly.

Hux had both of those planned for the lesson, but he knew Solo didn’t really need them, at least not as individual maneuvers to be watched for faults. Hux had a number of combinations he could have asked him to do, but Solo had done them all flawlessly the day before. Whatever aerobatics he had learned from the trick pilots he had flown with as a boy had honed him.

Hux paused at the thought of show flying. He had done something of the sort for the annual displays of the Oxford University Air Squadron: flying in pairs, performing maneuvers in tandem and abreast. It was good practice for covering a wingman in combat, but was also a technical challenge, especially the closer the pilots flew.

“Solo,” he said over the radio, “have you done any tandem flying? Or something synchronized?”

There was a brief pause, and then, “Yes.”

“With your father’s air shows?”

“Yeah. All the time. Why?”

“I think we might do an exercise in that,” said Hux. “It’s a sight different than the usual drills, but—”

“Yes,” Solo said hurriedly. “I’ll do that.”

Hux smiled to himself. “Very well, then. Stay on my wing and follow my lead. I’ll call out the maneuvers, if that’s how you’re accustomed to doing it.”

“We didn’t have radios, but I guess that’s the way to do it.”

The squadron at Oxford hadn’t either; it had been necessary to plan every moment far in advance before even attempting to perform them in the air. Hux said, “Your routines were rehearsed.”

“We practiced until I could do them in my sleep,” said Solo.

“Well, this will be a bit different, but I think we can manage. Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hux adjusted his grip on the stick, planning out the first of their maneuvers. He would start simple, with reverses and rolls, but he hoped Solo would be able to manage loops as well. Hux expected that this would be the most interesting lesson of the day.

“Let’s begin with just holding this position through some turns,” he said. “Keep a proper distance, but stay with me.”

Hux flew straight and level to start, but then began to turn to starboard, banking up and away from the sun. From the limited view he had, he could see Solo mimicking him, easing into the turn. From there he turned to port in a snaking pattern across the sky. It was simple, and Solo kept with him without a problem.

“Let’s try a roll,” Hux said. “Counterclockwise. On my count. Three, two, one…” He pushed the stick hard and began the roll. As he inverted, he lost all sight of Solo, but coming back around, he spotted him again. It seemed they had come out of the roll at the same time. He allowed himself another smile. “Something more involved this time?”

“Half roll and reverse into an Immelman turn,” said Solo.

That was a much more complicated combination, but not something they couldn’t handle. Or so Hux assumed.

“All right,” he said. “Port roll on my count.”

Together they went into another inversion, though they turned back in the direction they had come instead of making a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation. Back level with the horizon, Hux dipped the nose of his aircraft down to prepare for the loop. He increased the power and pulled on the stick, taking him up. As he reached the apex of the loop, he rolled out of the inversion and back level. It put him several hundred feet higher than he had started, but now he was flying in the opposite direction. A glance to the side revealed Solo in position at his wing.

“Well done,” said Hux.

“You rolled back clockwise and I went counter,” Solo said, “but we got here.”

“Shall we try it again, then? With a counterclockwise roll to finish, as you did?”

“Sounds good.”

When they came out of the turn, Hux veered to port to see how Solo would react. He came along without a problem.

“How about a dive with three rolls?” Hux asked. “Think you can do it?”

“I can do it,” Solo replied.

Hux counted off again and down he went into the dive. He spiraled lazily toward the ground, counting each rotation before leveling out. Solo pulled up a few feet below him, a small mistake.

“Do it again,” he said before Hux could comment. “I can get it.”

“All right,” said Hux. “Three, two, one…”

They dove together, arching down until they were descending vertically. When Hux pulled up, Solo was right beside him. Hux grinned, though he knew Solo couldn’t see it.

“Try for a double loop?” he said.

Solo sounded pleased as he replied, “Yes, sir.”

For the next three quarters of an hour, they flew as one, going through the same motions. Hux increased the complexity of the maneuvers as they went along, until they had built a short routine. He could imagine a few of the farmers and townspeople below them watching as they played off of each other and cavorted across the sky. Hux easily could have done it for the rest of the afternoon, but a glance at his fuel gauge put an end to that notion, not to mention that Meltsa was waiting for his lesson next.

“We’re running low on petrol,” Hux said to Solo. “Let’s get back to the field.”

They said nothing as they flew the ten minutes back to Wolcastle, but at every small adjustment Hux made, Solo did the same. It was unusual to be so attuned to another pilot, even among wingmen. If this was how he and Solo would fly together, it would make sense for them to do so when they entered combat. However, it was custom that a squadron leader’s second—informal second though he may be—would fly on his wing. Hux had yet to fly training with Poe, but he imagined they would match up just as well.

Hux requested permission to land from the control tower, and when he was granted it moved in to land. Solo touched down beside him, both of them rolling along the grass. Once their aircraft were back in line outside the hangar, Hux got out and onto the ground. He rolled his stiff shoulders and accepted the canteen from Thanisson again.

Solo, his hair mussed from his helmet, came around the side of his plane toward Hux. He paused as Hux called his name.

“You did exceptionally well today,” Hux said. “I’m sure it was quite something to see you fly with your barnstormers.”

Hux expected a curt nod or brief “Thanks,” as the Americans were wont to say, but instead he saw Solo’s lips curl up into a true, if small smile.

“We were the best in the state,” Solo said. “Worth every one of the ten cents to see us.” He eyed Hux. “You’d have been pretty good, I bet.”

Hux huffed a laugh. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Solo didn’t reply, but didn’t move away, either. He stood watching Hux as if he expected him to say something more. Hux took a moment to look at him again, taking in the hunch of his broad shoulders and the slightly crooked set of his face. His usual sullenness was gone, and in its place was a kind of uncertainty that may have even bordered on shyness. He looked young and a little lost. Hux wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Well,” Hux said, “I’d best be off again. Good flying with you, Solo.”

Solo muttered something unintelligible before falling back a step to let Hux pass. Though he could have been imagining it, Hux thought he could feel Solo’s gaze on his back as he walked away.

After another few hours of flying and a leisurely lunch, Hux returned to his quarters to make some notes on the day’s training. Before he sat down, he stopped to fill a basin with water. It was cold, but he still stripped off his shirt and bathed his chest, underarms, and neck. His shirts would have to be laundered soon, but there was one more clean one, which he pulled on and buttoned. He tied his tie around his neck and put his jacket on.

It didn’t take long to write what he needed to; he finished up just before two o’clock. There were some other reports he could write, namely one for the wing commander on 363 Squadron’s progress, but he was in the mood for a cup of tea, and if he remembered correctly, Matron Phasma had told him she took hers right around this time every day. She had invited him to join her, and he didn’t see a reason not to.

He wasn’t sure where he might find her in the infirmary, but there were two young nurses standing outside sharing a cigarette when he arrived. He asked them, and they, with inquisitive looks, pointed him to the lounge at the end of a long hall a good distance from the main ward. After a short deliberation, he decided not to knock, walking in unannounced.

The matron was seated at a round table with a half-drunk cup of milky tea in front of her and a folded over copy of yesterday’s News of the World in her hand. She didn’t look up.

“Close the door behind you,” she said. “We don’t want the wanderers getting in here again.”

“Your patients are permitted to walk around freely?” Hux asked. “I thought they would have been confined to bed.”

Phasma turned to him, though if she was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it. “Sometimes they get bored and start to wander about. We don’t have enough staff to keep an eye on all of them. Found three of them sitting in here sipping tea without a care a few days ago. I had to run them off, as this room is for nurses only.” She cocked a brow, half curious, half admonishing.

“I can leave, of course,” Hux said, “though an offer was extended for stories in exchange for company and tea.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” she said, picking up her cup, “but I thought you would. The officers generally have their own business to attend to. No time to visit with the likes of us.”

It was Hux’s turn to lift his brows. “A matron in Princess Mary’s Nursing Service has the equivalent rank of a squadron leader, if I’m not mistaken. That puts us on equal ground.”

Smiling, Phasma said, “Not everyone is aware of that.” She set her cup down and pushed her chair back. “Have a seat, S.L. Hux. I just need to put the kettle on again.”

Hux took the place across from hers, crossing his right leg over his left. Phasma filled an electric kettle—a luxury he didn’t expect to see, when metal was in such short supply—and set it to boil before joining him back at the table.

“Anything of interest in the news?” Hux asked, gesturing to the discarded newspaper.

“More about the Jerries in Russia,” Phasma replied. “Word is in they’re laying siege to Leningrad, and doing well at it, too.”

Hux frowned. Bad news always seemed to come from the German advance on the Eastern Front. If Russia fell, it didn’t bode well for the rest of Europe. His countrymen may have turned Hitler back from English shores, but that didn’t mean they weren’t gaining strength elsewhere.

“The Russians will turn them back,” he said, with confidence he wasn’t sure was warranted.

“Hm,” Phasma hummed, unconvinced. “We can certainly hope so.” She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “So, how are things going with your squadron? Word is they’re a bit behind the curve.”

“Is that so?” Hux said testily.

Phasma shrugged one shoulder. “Only gossip, of course. I don’t know the first thing about what makes a good pilot.”

Hux doubted that was true. One didn’t live at an airfield and not pick up some of the finer points of flying, especially someone who had surely heard the men in the infirmary bragging about the exploits that had landed them there.

“They’re improving steadily,” he said, not bothering to deny that the Americans had been playing catch-up since Hux had taken command. He thought of his aerobatics with Ben Solo. “Some are stronger flyers than others.”

“That’s to be expected, I suppose,” said Phasma. “Some of my girls came with far more experience than others. I’m fortunate to have a couple who came from actual hospitals. But the ones I’ve had to train up are doing fine, too.”

“How many are there here?”

“Fifteen.”

“So few?”

Phasma nodded. “We work with what we’ve got. Most times it’s enough, but there are times when we’re stretched thin.”

“Is that the case now?” Hux said.

“No. We haven’t been bombed in weeks, and only a few of the pilots have been coming back shot up. Honestly, most in residence now have sore throats and chest colds. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to send my men your way if they start coughing.”

“You do that,” Phasma chuckled. Behind her, a plume of steam had begun to rise from the kettle, though it didn’t whistle. Following Hux’s gaze, she got up and went to the counter. She put a full scoop of loose tea into a ceramic pot with a chip in the lid and, picking up another cup and hanging it from her pinky finger, brought both over to the table.

“How do you take it?” she asked.

“Plain,” Hux replied. He hadn’t drunk milk since he was a boy, when his mother had forced it on him.

Phasma swirled the pot to stir up the leaves. “A purist. I can respect that.” She handed him the strainer, which he put over his cup before she filled it. The scent of bergamot rose up to Hux’s nose. She poured herself a cup and then put in a splash of milk from the small creamer.

“Do we get milk every day?” Hux asked. At his former airfield, there hadn’t been a dairy nearby, so most often they went without milk and cheese.

“We do,” said Phasma. “There’s a farm about three miles east of here, just outside of town. They deliver every morning.”

Hux took a sip of his tea, careful not to burn his tongue. “How is it in the village? Do you go often?”

“Every couple of weeks or so, when we can manage a leave,” she said. “There are a couple of pubs and an assembly room for dancing. The band is small, but they know their way around American music.”

Hux was pleased with that. He had been dancing since he was young, though the foxtrot and waltz were hardly appropriate for modern parties. Over the course of his years at Oxford, he had learned the Lindy Hop and the art of swing that had made its way over from the States. He was a fair hand at it, if he said so himself, and he enjoyed it immensely.

“I’d very much like to attend one of the dances there,” he said.

“No doubt you’ll have your chance,” said Phasma. She blew lightly on her tea to cool it. “There are more than enough girls to go around. All of their men are off at the front. But they’re in good spirits despite it.”

The resilience of the English spirit in the face of the war was something Hux was proud of. Even the darkest days of the summer bombings hadn’t broken them. His fellow pilots had seen their brothers and friends shot down or killed in the fighting on the Continent, but they never wavered. They continued to get up into the sky and do their best to take down as many of the enemy as they could. Hux had never known braver men. And he could not discount those who were not in the thick of the fighting, either: the women who had taken over in the factories and those who cared for their loved ones despite the hardships of war.

“Where, if I may ask, is your family?” Hux said.

“Sussex,” Phasma replied. “My father is a barrister, and my mother was the one who got me the job in the dress shop. She’s worked there for as long as I can remember.”

“Any siblings?”

“A younger brother. Arnold.” She grinned around her teacup. “Somehow he managed to escape a name as ‘unique’ as mine.”

Hux returned her smile. “Is he enlisted?”

She shook her head. “He’s twelve. But he’s already playing at being a solider. He says as soon as he’s old enough, he’ll be an army man.”

“Does he expect this war to last another six years?”

“There was a Hundred Years’ War once,” said Phasma. “I won’t say it’s going to end until it does.”

Hux took a somber drink of tea. The Great War had been fought over four years, and they were already nearly two full years into this new conflict. Six more years was hard to fathom. If that was the case, Hux would continue to fight, but he had good reason to believe he wouldn’t survive to see the end of it. He was lucky to have made it this far unscathed.

“I didn’t mean to sour the mood,” Phasma said, eyeing him. “You want to look out and see the end on the horizon, not say we’re going to be at this forever.” She gave him a congenial look. “We were talking about family. What kind do you have?”

Hux told her about his parents in Surrey, some of what his father did, and how he had spent his summers in the countryside. They were good memories, untainted by poverty or discomfort. He had never wanted for anything. Even in the face of his father’s disapproval when he decided to join the RAF instead of the army, he hadn’t been cut off from either financial support or affection. He was fond of his parents, and it was high time he wrote to them.

When he was finished with his tea, he set the cup down with finality. “Well, I thank you for your company,” he said to Phasma, “but I imagine we should both be returning to our work.”

“Indeed.” She gathered Hux’s cup and her own, holding them together as she took the teapot in the other hand. “Do come by again. I believe you still owe me some tales of your Americans.”

“Of course,” he said. “I apologize that we didn’t get to any of them today. I had the notion of telling you about the Mills brothers’ flight over the Grand Canyon. It’s quite interesting.”

“Then we’ll start with that next time,” said Phasma. “Good afternoon.”

Hux left feeling pleasantly warmed from the tea and good conversation. As he walked from the infirmary building back toward the barracks and his reports, though, he caught sight of three aircraft in the distance, flying toward the airfield. His good humor faded immediately as he saw they were struggling. One was spewing a trail of black smoke and another fighting to keep from rolling hard to port, likely a problem with a starboard aileron. They had taken fire, that much was clear.

He watched the first two land without incident, even the lame duck that was smoking, but the third pilot had to fight to keep the port wing up as he came in. Hux held his breath, willing him to hold steady, but the wing tip dipped again and scraped the grass, digging a deep scar into the runway. Sod arched up in a cascade as the screech of metal pierced Hux’s ears. The wing wasn’t completely torn from the fuselage, but it bent down and back toward the tail. The aircraft spun hard to the left, cracking the landing gear with a terrible crunch. When it finally came to a halt, the nose was tipped to the ground, one of the props buried in the grass.

Almost immediately, the emergency ground crew was racing across the runway to help. There was a water truck in case a fire broke out, and one with a flat, wooden bed coming after it. Six men were holding on, but sprang off as soon as the truck stopped beside the downed Hurricane.

Hux could barely make them out in the distance, but the pilot was pulled from the cockpit by two men. He looked to be hanging limply between them, and Hux feared the worst.

“Make way! Make way!” someone called from behind him, a woman. Three nurses, two carrying a stretcher, charged out of the infirmary. Hux barely sidestepped fast enough to avoid being bowled over.

It was a good distance to the runway from where he stood, but the nurses made good time. When they got to the wreckage, the ground crew helped them lift the downed pilot onto the stretcher and took both ends. The nurses jogged beside them, one of them checking over the patient as best she could. Though Hux wasn’t one to pray, he wished for the man’s health and a good recovery.

He didn’t wait around to see the cleanup of what was left of the aircraft, instead returning to the barracks. There was a gaggle of officers standing outside, all of them looking toward the runway. Hux recognized a few of them from the mess, but he didn’t know their names. His squadron still took to sitting by themselves at meals rather than mixing with the others. That would have to be remedied soon.

“He’s 222, that’s for sure,” one of the pilots said in a thick Northern accent. “Have to find out which he is, poor lad.”

“You think he made it?” asked another.

“God only knows.”

Hux cut behind them, not bothering to acknowledge them; they weren’t paying any attention to him anyway. He ascended the stairs to his quarters gravely, each step heavy. In the peaceful sequestration of training new pilots, it was easy to forget the realities of the air war. Frightful though it was, Hux appreciated the reminder. It allowed him to regain his focus. He was sharpening his squadron into weapons, not trick pilots and hobbyists. It would do them all good to remember that.

The mood at dinner that evening was subdued. Word had come from the infirmary that the pilot in the crash, Flight Lieutenant Basil Umberton, had survived, though he was in critical condition. He had broken both of his legs and punctured a lung, and was struggling for every breath. Hux hoped Phasma and Dr. Tarkin were as capable as she said they were.

“Have you got a lesson planned for us tonight, sir?” asked Theo Meltsa as they were finishing up their meal.

After the first tutorial Hux had given on instrument flying, he had decided the squadron would benefit from more regular classroom instruction, and had told them they would called together for it again. He didn’t have anything in particular planned for that night, however, having spent the rest of the afternoon completing his report to Wing Commander Snoke and then penning a letter to his mother and father. He could improvise something, but he preferred to be prepared.

“Not tonight, no,” he said to Meltsa and the other inquisitive faces around the table. “I’d like you all to log some more Link time.”

Expressions darkened. Someone outwardly groaned.

Poe, who was sitting a few seats to Hux’s right, shot a look at the guilty man. “Crowe, I think you’re a couple of hours short. How about you start right after we’re done here?”

“Your weather conditions are always impossible,” Norman grumbled.

The scores in the trainer had increased over the past days, but ten out of the twelve pilots were still failing at least one of their simulations. That wasn’t good enough by Hux’s standard, and he would continue to push them until they reached it.

“I’ll come run the trials myself, if you’d prefer,” he said. “I’m certain I can come up with a ceiling and wind speed to challenge you.”

“Ah, no, sir,” said Crowe, wide-eyed. “We’ll do just fine on our own. You’ll have the numbers tomorrow, and that’s a fact.”

Hux hid an amused smile in his water glass. The threat of the CO’s oversight was usually enough to set most squadrons straight. He would stop in and check on their progress, of course, but only after he had a walk and a cigarette.

“Well, you have your orders, gentlemen,” he said, rising. “I’ll leave you to them. Good evening.”

Hux had no destination in mind when he set out from the mess, but as he puffed at his cigarette, he found himself walking toward Hangar Three. He didn’t expect anyone to be there, and yet wasn’t altogether surprised to find Ben Solo lingering by the door with a lit cigarette in one hand and the other in his pocket. Hux had seen him leave dinner early, as he usually did.

Hux approached him slowly, exhaling a cloud of smoke that blew up and away in the light breeze. Solo’s face was barely visible, but he was watching. Hux stopped next to him, took the last drag, and then flicked the butt of the cigarette away. Deliberately nonchalant, he pulled the silver case from his pocket and took out another, sticking it between his lips.

“Do you come out here every night?” he asked, voice almost too loud in the near silence of the night.

Solo blew out smoke. “Most.”

Hux fumbled with his matches for a moment, but got one lit and touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette. “And why is that?” he said, waving the match out.

“I like the quiet.”

“Ah, yes. It does get rather raucous in the mess.” Mostly because of the boisterous Americans, but Hux wasn’t about to say that. Solo was more mild-mannered, perhaps, but he was still one of them.

“Mmhm,” was his low reply.

Hux let the silence descend again, seeing as that was what Solo wanted. He was content in it, too, letting the tension of the day subside. They finished their smokes, and wordlessly Solo tapped two out of his pack, holding one out to Hux. Hux took it, but held it without lighting it. Solo seemed to hesitate as Hux did, rolling the cigarette along his palm.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Hux said. “I just can’t stomach too many at once. I, ah, get a little green in the face.”

“My dad never would have let you get away with that,” said Solo. “He smoked while he flew.”

Hux huffed a laugh. “That must have been a sight. My father preferred cigars; I wasn’t terribly fond of those, either.”

“They say breathing the clean air is better for you anyway,” Solo said around the cigarette, which he was in the process of lighting up. “At least that’s what my mother always used to say when she’d had enough of my dad.”

“Why is it that mothers seem to have a disapproving streak when it comes to fathers’ habits?” Hux asked. “Smoking, drinking, billiards, cards.”

“Oh, my mom didn’t have a problem with cards,” Solo replied. “She could beat anyone at poker. Use to rob my dad’s friends blind when they stayed at the house. She held her liquor, too.”

Hux tried to imagine a woman with Solo’s features, his dark hair, and his height holding her cards close to her chest as she stared down a table full of men. Maybe there would be a glass of bourbon at her elbow, half-drunk and reflecting the light from the dim bulbs above her.

“Do you write to them?” said Hux. “Your parents.”

“When I got here I did. Let them know I made it.” He took a drag and exhaled. “Not all the ships get here. The group before us didn’t. We heard they sank the day before we left Halifax.”

Hux’s brows rose. “You were in Canada? I thought your training was in the United States.”

“Most of it was,” said Solo, “but you can’t ship out to this outfit from American soil. If the FBI knew what we were up to, they would have thrown us all in jail.”

“Violating the neutrality acts would get you imprisoned?” Hux thought perhaps a fine of a few hundred dollars and a stern reprimand, but not something quite so serious.

Solo gave a terse nod. “They aren’t kidding when they say we’re supposed to stay out the war. If it weren’t for the Canadians, we wouldn’t be here.”

“And why are you here exactly, Solo?”

“Ben.”

Hux blinked at him. “What?”

“I don’t liked being called ‘Solo.’ Nobody says that but you.” He turned to look at Hux properly. “Just call me Ben.”

Hux thought it was, perhaps, a little too informal, but he called some of the others by their given names, so Solo—Ben—should not have been any different. “Very well,” he said. “Though the question still stands. What brought you to England?”

Ben took a contemplative pull from his cigarette. “I wanted to fly.”

“You could have done that in relative safety at home,” Hux said, unsatisfied with that answer. “Why would you put your life on the line for this country?”

“I didn’t do it for the country,” said Ben. It was a sight snappish. “I came because I wanted to get in the cockpit of a Spitfire, or a Hurricane. Nothing I could have flown in California could come close to that.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “And you can’t shoot down a Messerschmitt in a crop duster from ‘31. The best pilots fly the best planes. That’s what I wanted to do: be the best and have the kills to prove it.”

Hux’s frown wasn’t wholly disapproving; he understood the drive to be exemplary, but it was reckless to join a war just to prove oneself better than one’s peers. Who, after all, in America would know or care about Ben’s record of kills while he was abroad? If the United States continued to stay neutral, it would mean nothing to anyone there. Ben might not even be able to return, if he was branded a traitor for breaking the neutrality laws.

“You could have joined the Army Air Force and gotten your glory there,” Hux said. “I’m sure they have leaderboards for the most skilled pilots in their squadrons. If you wanted a reputation for ace flying among your countrymen, you might as well have stayed there.”

“And do just what we’ve been doing here?” Ben growled. “Or in OTU? Just flying around in circles and pretending to dodge bullets that aren’t there? That’s no true test of a pilot.” He stuck his finger out toward the runway. “ That, what happened today—that’s what it means to be tested. You want real pilots? Those are them. And I’m going to be one.”

He was breathing heavily when he finished, the cigarette in his left hand forgotten until he took a steadying pull. Hux watched him, waiting for him to calm down before speaking again.

“Your enthusiasm is admirable, Ben,” he said. “But flying in this battle is not one man taking on every German in the sky. The squadron operates together, as a unit. Without each other, none of us are protected.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “Individual greatness is not the end goal. We are meant to keep each other alive and defeat our enemies. This is not a competition for trophies and medals. This is a war. Are you prepared to die for glory?”

Ben glowered, continuing to suck on his cigarette until the cherry was dangerously close to his fingers.

“You haven’t really thought of it, have you?” said Hux. “Dying in combat. Of course you haven’t. You’ve never seen it happen. It’s all abstract to you.” He thumbed the end of the cigarette he still held, freeing a bit of the tobacco. “You think you won’t be the one to be shot down; you’re too good, too fast. But I promise you, you’re not.

“A single man, no matter his skill, can be picked off. It’s not fair that it’s luck and timing, but that’s a part of it. You may very well be the best pilot at this airfield—you’re not, but that’s not the point—and yet you could get up into the sky and a Jerry could land one good shot...one good shot and you’re dead.” Hux finally put the cigarette to his lips. He struck a match, allowing it to illuminate his face so that Ben could see it. “I’ve watched men who fly just like you go down before, and you’ll watch them, too.”

Ben dropped the butt of his cigarette to the grass and ground it in with his toe. “You don’t say this kind of thing to the others.”

Hux blew out smoke. “They haven’t needed to hear it yet.”

“They aren’t much different than me,” said Ben. “They want to fly fast and shoot Jerries, too.”

“As do we all,” Hux said, “but they are more willing to follow my orders and fly together. They’re cohesive. They care about each other. That will keep them safe in the air.” He ashed his cigarette with a practiced flick. “You keep yourself at a distance. It will catch up with you eventually.”

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re telling me I have to be everyone’s best friend or I’m going to get shot down?”

“Friendships breed trust. Trust will keep you alive.”

“And that’s all it’s about, right?”

Hux nearly scoffed. “You die, your flying days are over. Isn’t that precisely what you want to do? Fly?”

“Yeah,” Ben said gruffly. “It is.”

“Then do your utmost to keep doing that,” said Hux. “It will take effort to work with the others, but it’s necessary.” He threw the remainder of his cigarette away. “You can start by going to the Link room. There are those who could use your help.”

Ben didn’t move immediately, holding his ground and keeping his gaze on Hux. But then, he said, “Fine. Goodnight, sir.”

Hux waited until he had rounded the corner to fall back against the metal side of the hangar. He had known ambitious men before—he was one of them—but not one who was ambitious to a fault, as Ben was. If he kept on in that careless, dangerous manner, he would be chewed up and spit out by the sharp German pilots they fought. And though Hux had said he was not the best pilot at the field, in truth he was one of them, and 363 Squadron could not afford to lose him.

Hux sighed deeply, tipping his head up to the overcast sky. There was a fog coming in, he could tell, and there was no doubt that tomorrow would the first real chance for his pilots to fly blind. He would see them succeed, but that would take more time in the Link. Starting down the path that Ben had taken, he wound his way through the buildings and to the one that housed the trainer.

The weather the next morning proved to be just as poor as Hux had predicted, the kind of damp that seeped into the bones to chill them. It was cold for mid-September, and mist hung heavy over the airfield. Despite the squadron’s mostly acceptable performances in the Link trainer the night before, his concern lingered. If they couldn’t make it through the soupy cloud cover, it could be disastrous: feeble take-offs; uncertain flying that could mean mid-air collisions; botched landings.

His wasn’t the only apprehension, he discovered when he arrived at the hangar. His men were quiet and solemn, their attention fixed on the grey skies and their fog-shrouded aircraft.

“Good morning,” he said. He received muttered greetings in return. “We have our work cut out for us today. I hope you’re prepared to face a challenge.” He turned to Brewster Mills. “You’ll be flying first, with Poe. I’ll be taking Gilbert.”

Virgil chewed his lip nervously as the others glanced at him with pity. Still, he shouldered his parachute and made ready.

Hux led the way to their aircraft, springing up onto the wing of his kite and into the cockpit. He gave a cursory wave to Thanisson before calling the all-clear. Virgil taxied out with him to the runway and took up his position to Hux’s starboard side. After a short check with the control tower, they were off.

Hux could see the grass in front of him as the wispy mist parted, but he couldn’t make out much in the air above. He turned his gaze to the instruments and gauged his speed as he began to lift off of the ground. Everything around him was white. He couldn’t see Virgil at all, but he called out over the radio, “Gilbert, are you up?”

“Yes, sir,” was the crackling reply. “I’m right on your tail. I think.”

Hux breathed a sigh of relief. “Maintain your course and come up to eight thousand feet.”

At that altitude, the cloud cover was still heavy, but Hux wanted to test how well Virgil would manage to hold his position and fly alongside Hux. The complicated aerobatics would be saved for another day; this was an equally difficult task.

“What are your instrument readings?” he asked.

Virgil read them off dutifully, slowly enough that Hux could hear each one. They checked out well, and Hux reckoned that he was twenty or thirty feet off of his tail, holding steady. He kept them there for another few minutes, requesting readings every so often to make sure Virgil wasn’t veering too close or too far.

“All right,” Hux said. “Let’s get up to fifteen thousand feet.” It was a steep ascent, but he hoped it would get them out of the clouds.

They broke out at twelve thousand feet, coming into skies made orange and pink by the still-rising sun. It was a sight that very few ever got to see, and Hux took a moment to appreciate it before turning his focus back to Virgil.

Hux talked him through a few maneuvers, which he performed well. Hux was more than satisfied, though he still had to get through the landing successfully.

“That’s enough for today, Gilbert,” he said. “Let’s return to the field. Do you have the coordinates set in your gyro?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. I’d like you to take the lead.”

If anxiety could be heard over a radio, Hux was sure it was now. Virgil acknowledged, though, and made the turn back toward Wolcastle. Hux fell into position behind him, watching carefully as he began to descend.

“Watch your altitude and speed,” Hux warned. “And stay level with the horizon. Don’t come in too steep or you’ll put your nose into the ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tension coiled in Hux’s gut following Virgil down into the clouds. He was putting himself in a significant amount of danger by coming in second. If something happened to Virgil, Hux wouldn’t be able to see it until he was about to touch down, far too close to pull up and save his aircraft. But Virgil was one of the most timid pilots, and a successful landing ahead of Hux would bolster his confidence a great deal. That was worth the risk.

Hux’s gyro indicated that they were on the correct heading, and a quick look at the altimeter had him preparing for the final descent. He took of a deep breath of oxygen through his mask and let it out, determined not to hold it and muddle his head.

“All right, Gilbert,” he said. “Nice and easy now. Don’t rush it.”

Virgil didn’t reply, but Hux didn’t chide him for it. He was no doubt wholly consumed by checking his instruments. Hux kept watch of his own, too, until the low-hanging fog began to clear and the runway came into sight. They were a little to the left of center, but it didn’t pose a significant threat. Hux corrected for it with a slow guide of the stick, coming down just to starboard off of Virgil’s tail. They both descended steadily until Virgil hit the grass. He bounced twice, but recovered well, rolling smoothly down the runway.

“Well done, Gilbert,” said Hux. “Very well done.”

Virgil’s “Thank you, sir,” was breathy and clearly relieved.

When they got back to the hangar, they were greeted by the rest of the squadron, almost all of them enthusiastically congratulating Virgil with smiles and thumps on the back. Hux stood a few paces away, letting them celebrate amongst themselves. From his place there, he noticed that one of the pilots remained back as well.

Ben Solo was watching the others without joining them. Displeased, Hux looked at him darkly, catching his gaze, and did his best to convey a reproof. Ben held his ground for a moment, but then took a few steps closer to the group of pilots. He cut through them to Virgil’s side and said something to him. Virgil grinned and clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

Hux took Lewis Mills up next. He assigned Shorty Putnam to Poe, and they continued on into the early afternoon. Some of the flights were more nerve-wracking than others, but no one failed to get their kite back to the field.

When they were finished, Hux had them assemble at the mouth of the hangar. “You have all done impressively well today. You exceeded my expectations, and I congratulate you. Tomorrow we’ll be going up in proper flights and doing some mock dogfighting. It’s high time you started learning how to fly in combat.”

He received eager looks and smiles.

“Unless you have other matters to discuss with me now,” he said, “you are dismissed.”

No one stayed, instead jogging off to the mess in good spirits. Hux followed at a steadier pace, allowing them their exuberance. They would no doubt be rowdy at lunch, all but yelling over each other as they competed for attention. It would earn them reproachful looks, but Hux found that he didn’t much care about the English pilots’ apparent disdain for their colonial allies.

The Americans had a way about them that Hux was becoming more and more certain he wouldn’t be able to change. They were loud and forward, brash and overconfident, but there was an honesty to it all that the gentry Hux had been raised among did not have. He had been bred to behave with dignity and stoicism, keeping to particular topics of conversation and never raising his voice above a polite volume. His men lacked that schooling. It was true that Hux might not have wanted to bring them into his mother’s drawing room, but part of him admired their openness.

When he joined them at the table, they were passing the bowls and platters around and laughing at a tale of drunken misadventure Shorty was regaling them with. It seemed he had had too much of his uncle’s home-distilled liquor one night and wandered into a neighbor’s barn, looking for a place to sleep. He found one in a pile of hay and promptly nodded off. When he woke up, he was surrounded by goats, one of which was chewing on the shoe he didn’t remember taking off.

“Ate half the damn thing, I swear,” he said, slapping a hand on the table. “My ma was spitting mad. We couldn’t afford anything new until the cattle went to auction, so she covered the toe in burlap and told me to make do. That was a damn cold winter in that sacking shoe.”

The others chuckled, Strickland saying, “Serves you right for drinking corn liquor. Couldn’t pay me enough to drink that swill.”

Shorty smirked. “It didn’t taste like much, but it sure packed a punch. That’s all that mattered in the end.”

Strickland shook his head.

“You ever get up to trouble, sir?” Theo Meltsa asked, glancing down the table at Hux. “Sure there’s gotta be some stories you can tell.”

Hux rarely drank enough to put him in a compromising position. It was dangerous, as he had discovered in his first year at Oxford. One night, he had had more pints than he should have, and had found his attention drawn to a young man with dark hair and a sharp jawline. He was standing with his friends across the pub, paying Hux and his group no mind at all. But Hux couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Inhibitions lowered, Hux had gotten up and gone to him. He introduced himself, no doubt messily and slurred, offering his hand. The man—Philip—had shaken it cheerfully, though his brow furrowed when Hux held on just a moment too long. Hux had fixed him with a bright smile and asked him if he studied at the university. They talked for a time, and Hux found him ever more charming.

“Come outside for a cigarette?” Hux had asked him.

“Certainly.”

In the shadows of the alley to the side of the pub, they had smoked and continued their conversation. Careful not to move too fast, Hux got closer and closer to him until they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. When Philip didn’t seem to mind, Hux tossed away his cigarette and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Philip had shied back with affront, goggling at Hux like he was a trespasser on sacred ground. His surprise quickly transitioned into cold fury. “Get away from me,” he snarled. “You’re...you’re disgusting.”

Hux had stumbled back in shock. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“Just stay away from me,” Philip said. “Filthy nancy boy.”

He left Hux there, standing in the alley while the autumn wind cut through his jacket. Hux’s knees shook, and clapping a hand over his mouth, he had crumpled against the damp brick wall. The tears came hot and wet down his cheeks, but he managed to stifle the sobs. He had risked everything over a pretty boy in a pub. If Philip decided to say something, Hux would be a pariah. Word would spread, and he would have to leave school. He cursed himself, striking the flat of his palm about his temple. Idiot. Fool.

When, at last, he could catch his breath, he got unsteadily to his feet. He had left his scarf and hat inside, but he refused to go back in. Bareheaded, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, he wended his way home. He had fallen into bed in all of his clothes, curled into a ball. If he could have cried more, he would have, but instead he just lay trembling until sleep finally claimed him.

He banished the memory as quickly as it had come, searching hurriedly for something to say to Meltsa.

“There was one shooting party of my father’s,” he said. “We were out in the countryside with a few of his friends and their sons, hunting fowl. I was fifteen, maybe sixteen. One of the boys had brought a flask of brandy and we started passing it between us. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to make us unsteady and our guns a bit unwieldy.”

“Shooting drunk never turns out right,” said Andrew Ward, looking somber. “I can tell you that for sure.”

“You’re right about that,” Hux said. “I was lining up for a shot, but the birds were too low. I fired anyway. Immediately I heard the yelp. Lowering the barrel, I looked up the hill to see my father’s friend Ambrose clutching at his backside.”

“You shot him?” Norman Crowe said, wide-eyed.

Hux nodded. “It was only birdshot, but when we got him back to the house, the doctor spent two hours pulling it out.”

Groans and winces went around the table.

“Did your daddy tan your hide for it?” William Taylor said.

“I managed to escape that fate,” said Hux, “as there was no proof it had been my shot that hit him. There were enough men on the moor that we couldn’t decide who it had been.”

“Lucky break,” Poe laughed.

Hux smiled one-sidedly. “It was indeed.”

“When do we get to shoot our guns here?” The question came from the end of the table. Ben Solo.

Hux looked down at him. “Soon, I suppose, though we have no proper targets.”

“Then how are we supposed to learn to shoot down the Jerries?”

Hux didn’t have a good answer. There wasn’t much of a way to practice firing a Hurricane’s guns in the air without risking hitting a friendly aircraft. That happened enough during dogfights as it was. The only alternative was to fire the guns into the water over the Channel, where they couldn’t do any damage. But with limited supplies of ammunition, it wasn’t encouraged.

“We’ll discuss the fine points of tactics this evening, if you’d like,” Hux said. “Lining up shots, firing at the proper range and angle.”

Ben wasn’t impressed. “Theory isn’t going to make up for a real lesson.”

“You’re right,” Hux conceded. “That is something you will have to learn for yourselves in the air. You’ve been saying you’re ready to do so for quite some time, Ben. I trust that will prove true when the time comes.”

Ben crossed his arms over his chest churlishly, but said nothing in reply.

“We’ll manage,” said Poe, “won’t we, boys?”

Murmurs of agreement came from every man at the table.

When they were finished their lunch, several of the pilots made for the briefing room, where they had started a daily poker game. Hux hadn’t played cards in some time and preferred to avoid being humiliated, so he forewent it. Instead, he stopped by his quarters to leave his flight gear before going to the showers at the far end of the barracks.

The dressing room was small and tile-lined, a wooden rack for shoes attached to the wall below a number of hooks for clothing. It wasn’t terribly warm inside, the floor cold against Hux’s feet when he stripped out of his socks. He tucked them into his boots and set to taking off his uniform.

There were two others in the gang showers when he stepped inside, both men he had seen before, but they had never been properly introduced. This was not the place for that, so he went to a space across the room from them and turned on the shower. It sputtered cool water at first, making gooseflesh prickle all over Hux’s body, but it slowly began to warm. He stood in it for a time, letting the spray pour down his shoulders and back.

He didn’t like admitting that the confines of the cockpit wore on him, making his muscles tense and cramped. He had to fight the hunch that his body wanted to develop, forcing himself to stand straight. His height was something he had never hidden or played down; his father, also a tall man, had taught him that. But the reality of flying was that it came with some pain.

“You heard anything more about Umberton?” one of the pilots across the way asked.

Hux turned, thinking perhaps the man was speaking to him, but his comrade replied first: “He’s laid up in the infirmary for the next few weeks in plaster, poor bloke.”

“Are they calling up someone from the reserves?”

“S.L. Chapman said the message was already sent. They don’t want to be short a man for long.”

Hux shared their pity for the pilot who had crashed the day before. He was going to be out of the action for at least six weeks while his bones knit, and then he would have to spend another two building up the muscle that had atrophied. It would be months before he was back in the air.

Picking up the soap, Hux began to lather it over his chest. He had never been removed from duty by illness or injury, and he considered himself fortunate. He had broken an arm as a boy when he fell from a tree he had climbed, but otherwise he had been a hardy child, rarely sick. The bone of the arm had healed well, his doctors had told him, but occasionally when a storm was blowing in, it seemed to creak and ache. Hux rubbed at the knob of his wrist with soapy fingers, remembering how skinny his arm had been when they had removed the plaster cast.

Turning into the water again, he rinsed himself off. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the two officers were gone and someone else had come in. Ben Solo was at the shower head across from Hux, wetting his too-long hair in the spray. His face was in the water, his eyes shut tight, but Hux still looked hurriedly away from him.

There was little shame when it came to nakedness in the military, but Hux had learned long ago to keep to his own business in the showers. Lingering eyes were quickly noticed and generally unwelcome. Hux stayed away from the jokes and roughhousing that inevitably happened, washing efficiently and redressing without exchanging banter, no matter how friendly. He knew it made him seem detached and cool, but he preferred that to what else they might say if he was caught out admiring someone.

With his back to Ben, Hux retrieved the shampoo and scrubbed in into his hair. The splatter of the water on the floor was the only sound as he dug his fingers into his scalp. Ben, it appeared, was not one for chatter, either.

Hux washed himself clean once again, feeling looser. The relaxation that normally came with a shower was absent, though. He felt strange with just Ben for company, not uncomfortable, but keyed up and sharply aware of his presence. That feeling was not altogether unfamiliar, and had implications that Hux did not like in the least.

He leaned his head into the water a last time, trying to clear it, before shutting off the shower. He meant to turn right for the door and leave without an acknowledgement to Ben, but he hesitated, not wanting to ignore him completely. He came around slowly, about to nod in greeting before making his way out, but as he looked over, Ben pinned him with his gaze. Hux froze, caught off guard.

The water was still running over Ben’s head, but he looked straight at Hux without blinking. His hands hung at his sides, one clutching the white bar of soap and the other fisted tightly. The tension in him was visible; the cords in his neck stood out. It was as if he was poised to run, or to attack.

Hux stood perfectly still, waiting uncertainly. He didn’t believe Ben would charge him, but there was something else the matter. Carefully, Hux said his name.

Immediately, Ben turned his gaze away, spinning on his heel to face the wall. He went back to soaping himself up. Hux, utterly baffled, stared at his back. He could see his shoulder blades moving beneath smooth skin and the columns of muscle along his spine. There were two dimples at the base, just above the curve of his backside.

Hux’s fingers twitched with the compulsion to touch him there, to explore the small dips, but he caught himself. Idiot . Fool. He forced his eyes away and padded quickly across the tile to the dressing room.

He pulled a clean towel from the pile and mercilessly scrubbed himself dry. He berated himself as he did it. He could not afford to slip up even the slightest bit; even a rumor could end his career.

But the way Ben had looked at him stuck in his mind. He had stared openly, restraining himself from something. Hux hadn’t the first idea what that meant, but he knew he could not put either of them in this kind of position again. Tugging on his jacket, he retreated to his quarters.

Chapter Text

Seven days of training passed in a flurry of activity, the squadron going up every morning in flights of eight to drill combat maneuvers. Four played the role of the allies and four the enemies, chasing each other across the sky as they feigned firing their guns. At first they were clumsy, their reaction times slow and cumbersome, but with practice they sharpened until they were flying cleverly. They were still green, but Hux was pleased with their progress.

In the hours between those in the air, the pilots found ways to amuse themselves, occasionally getting up to trouble. It was mostly harmless, but still worth a stern lecture from Hux after the shenanigans were discovered. Once, they pasted newspaper pages featuring stories about the other Eagle Squadrons over the blackboard in the 129’s briefing room after a few of the pilots had been overheard criticizing the press the Eagles were getting over their British counterparts. 71 Squadron was racking up an impressive number of kills, enough to rival any other squadron in the RAF. They had even earned a visit from Air Marshal Sholto Douglas, the head of Fighter Command, during which he had shaken all of their hands and congratulated them.

Hux had met Douglas once, when he was presented with his Distinguished Flying Cross, but it was rare the air marshal left Fighter Command headquarters at Bentley Priory to visit with a particular squadron. After reading the story, Hux’s men were atwitter with boasts of how they would merit a visit someday as well, suggesting what they would say to Douglas and how he would reply. Hux listened, amused, as they chattered away.

In the evenings, Hux continued to give lessons on combat tactics and the mechanics of flight. He was surprised to learn that very few of the pilots actually knew the physics of lift and drag, thrust and weight. He had been taught those things by his instructors at Oxford, and had taken for granted that it was a part of the curriculum for his men—but then, in the end, they didn’t need to know the math to get into the air, just the practicalities.

Hux broke down the equations and calculations for them, teaching them the basics. He discovered that none of them were university-educated, though all had completed high school. Some struggled with the numbers, but most got through them fine after scraping the rust off of their memories. Theo Meltsa and Norman Crowe had particularly good heads for maths and always finished their work in half the time they were given. Poe usually finished next, followed by the Mills brothers. Shortly after, Ben Solo would quietly bring his paper up to Hux, delivering it without aplomb. His answers were nearly always correct, save for a few mistakes now and again.

Over the past week, Hux had observed some subtle changes in Ben’s behavior. He still remained apart to a point, keeping to his seat at the far end of the table during meals and sitting out of the card games to watch, but he didn’t avoid the others as he had before. He even shared a laugh and a few of his rare smiles with them.

When it came to his flying, though, he still had a tendency to fight for himself and not with his flight. His wingman, Shorty Putnam, often struggled to keep up with him and was left on his own all too often. Hux tried to partner Ben with Strickland and Ward as well, but he lost them, too, neither of them up to his level. Hux hadn’t forgotten about how well he and Ben had flown together, but Poe’s place was on Hux’s wing, and they were a good match.

The evening before, when Hux hadn’t had a lesson planned, he had invited Poe to go over his reports with him. They had dragged two desks together in the briefing room and spent two hours working. Poe had valuable insight into how the squadron was doing, but he interspersed it with jokes and quips that had Hux laughing. Poe was free with his smiles, flashing straight, white teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He was undeniably a handsome man, which didn’t escape Hux’s notice, but Hux wasn’t drawn to him in any untoward way. He genuinely liked him, enjoyed his company, and trusted him. He was an ideal second.

That next afternoon, on the fifteenth day since he had taken command of the 363, Hux was sitting in his quarters making notes for that night’s lesson. He would be discussing how to gauge the distance between one’s aircraft and the enemy’s so as to line up a shot without firing too early and wasting ammunition. Hux was planning on taking them out to the hangar and putting each of them in the cockpit while he positioned the other pilots at five hundred, three hundred, and one hundred feet. It wasn’t a perfect strategy, but it would help them eyeball the distances.

He was drawing a diagram of their intended positions when there came a sharp rap at his door.

“Come in,” he said, correcting the line that had gone askew as he started at the knock.

The hinges creaked as the door opened to reveal Sergeant Mitaka. Hux, looking up, greeted him without standing.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Mitaka said. The quavering in his voice when speaking with Hux had finally gone away. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but your presence has been requested by the wing commander. It’s urgent.”

The message was delivered calmly despite the purported urgency, but Hux stood immediately and reached for his uniform jacket.

“I assume he’s in his office?” he asked as he pulled it on and fastened the brass buttons—all dutifully shined by Mitaka every day.

“Yes, sir.”

Hux grabbed his cap, setting it over his hair. “Very good.”

Mitaka backed out of the room, making space for Hux to exit. Hux swept past him and went hurriedly down the stairs. He didn’t flat-out run to the command tower, but he jogged, careful not to slip on the wet grass. It had rained constantly for the past three days, though it had thankfully stopped that morning.

Hux’s breathing was labored as he crossed the threshold into the radio operators’ room. All three of the girls were sitting at their stations, each of them engrossed in their work. Hux strode by them without an acknowledgement, going straight to the wing commander’s door. It was cracked open, so he simply pushed it in and entered.

“Hux,” said Snoke as he looked up from his paperwork. “Good.” He spoke around the thick cigar in his mouth, the end giving off blue smoke that filled the room with a woody tobacco smell. “Didn’t take Mitaka long to find you.”

“No, sir,” Hux said, standing at attention. “And I came as quickly as I could. He said the matter was urgent.”

Snoke rose slowly, pushing himself up with his hands on the top of his desk. “Reasonably, yes. We’ve got an hour or so yet, but I imagine you’ll need time to prepare.”

Hux’s senses prickled. Snoke had read Hux’s reports since the start of the 363’s training, but he had never given orders. Time to ready his men suggested an assignment.

“Prepare for what, sir?” Hux asked.

Snoke came around the side of his desk, picking up a half sheet of paper as he went. He held it out to Hux. “The 142 bomber squadron is flying a run at 16:30. The 222 were supposed to accompany them, but they’ve got four aircraft out of commission and are down two men. The 129 is already out.” He plucked the cigar from between his lips and tapped it into a tin ashtray. “That leaves the 363.”

Hux read the details of the mission in the dispatch, his excitement rising with each line. The bombers were bound for Audembert airfield, just outside Calais: a major fighter field in the northeast of occupied France. They would hit it hard and then fly a little inland to strike at any other German installations before returning to England.

“Are your men ready for this, Squadron Leader?” Snoke asked, his eyes narrow beneath the bare ridges where his brows should have been.

“They are, sir,” Hux replied. It was as true as it was going to be. They were untried, but this was their chance to prove themselves.

Snoke nodded curtly. “Excellent. I suggest you gather and brief them. You’ll take off at 16:15 and rendezvous with the 142 shortly after.” He chewed his cigar, adding a gruff “Good hunting.”

Hux saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

As he left the command tower, he went directly to the briefing room, where he found three of his men—Wexley, Crowe, and Taylor—sitting on the canvas deck chairs just outside the door. They were passing pages of yesterday’s paper between them.

“Afternoon, sir,” said Crowe, folding his page so he could look over it. “Something we can do for you?”

“Yes,” Hux replied. “I need the squadron assembled and at the hangar immediately.”

Crowe’s face brightened as he asked, “We’re going up again today?”

“We’re being disbursed,” said Hux, calm despite the importance of the pronouncement.

“Hot damn!” Taylor said, shooting to his feet. He slapped his paper down into his empty chair. “A real mission?”

“Yes,” said Hux, “and we haven’t a moment to lose. Help me round the others up, retrieve your gear, and get yourselves to the hangar as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir!” Crowe said. He scrambled up and hurried into the briefing room. Hux could hear him calling from inside, “Get your asses up, boys! We’re getting deployed!”

Excited, raised voices came in response, followed by the scraping of chairs across the wood floors and the heavy fall of booted feet. The pilots spilled out of the building, breaking into a run as they made for the barracks to get their flying gear. As they charged by, Hux counted only nine. They would, hopefully, be able to find the last three.

Hux followed them back toward the barracks at a slightly more subdued pace, but it turned out he didn’t need to go all the way there. Mitaka met him halfway; he was carrying Hux’s jacket, helmet, and gloves. He had a wool scarf over his arm as well, a necessity when it came to flying. A good pilot kept his head on a swivel, and if he didn’t want his neck rubbed raw by the helmet and breathing apparatus, he had to wear a scarf.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Hux said, taking the gear. He shrugged the jacket over his shoulders and knotted the scarf around his neck.

“Be careful out there, sir,” Mitaka said. “And good luck.”

When Hux arrived at the hangar, the men who had been in the briefing room had not yet appeared, but there was one pilot present already. Ben Solo, dressed to fly, was standing at the mouth of the building speaking to Thanisson. Hux assumed that he had been working with the riggers and fitters, as he was wont to do, openly flouting convention. Talk around the field was that Ben could fix anything just as well as the maintenance crew, and it had earned him their respect. As far as Hux knew, he spent more time with them than he did with his fellow pilots.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Thanisson as Hux approached. “We heard you had orders for us.” He glanced toward the line of airplanes waiting just a few paces away. “Something about a run.”

“The wing commander is disbursing the squadron to join the 142 bombers,” Hux said. He looked briefly at Ben. “Just what we’ve been waiting for.”

Ben’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes flashed as he met Hux’s gaze. Hux recognized the nervous excitement he himself had felt at his first combat flight.

“Well, it’s about time, sir,” Thanisson said, offering a closed-lipped smile.

“It is,” said Hux. “I expect you’ll have the aircraft prepared in short order?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll set the boys to it now.” With a smart salute, he disappeared into the hangar, leaving Hux alone with Ben.

Neither said anything right away; they watched each other in silence. Hux had never struggled with conversation, having been trained by his mother to navigate all manner of social situations with confidence, but there was something disarming about the way Ben looked at him that made all of the pleasantries he had learned seem trite and foolish. Ben’s gaze was intent, as if he could lay bare anyone on whom it fell. Perhaps that was why he kept it downcast more often than not, keeping from piercing others, looking through them.

Hux wondered what Ben saw when he looked at him: a comrade in arms; a commander to respect and heed; or an uptight holdover from an era of aristocracy that had never existed where Ben came from. Maybe it was a mix of all of them, or something altogether different: Hux recalled the intensity with which Ben had stared when they had been in the showers a week before. Hux had been utterly exposed then, and startled by Ben’s fierce regard; it had bordered on violent, as if prefacing an attack. Hux had never before been looked at in such a way. That severity was absent now, but Ben’s eyes were, nevertheless, trained only on Hux.

Hux pulled at the too-tight scarf at his neck, clearing his throat. “You led Blue Flight this morning,” he said to Ben. “You will be with them again when we get into the air.”

The corners of Ben’s mouth turned down slightly. “Mills and Wexley don’t move fast enough.”

That was true of anyone who flew with him, but Lewis and Temmin had better response times than any of the others Hux might have paired with Ben and Shorty. Since they were still alone and not at risk of damaging the notoriously fragile egos of most pilots, Hux said as much to Ben.

“I—we—should be flying with you and Poe,” Ben said. “We’d be a stronger flight for it.”

Hux shook his head. “It would unbalance the squadron overall. We need to distribute the best pilots between the flights to lead the weaker. They will follow and learn from you.”

Ben gave a sullen suck of his teeth. “I’m not a teacher.”

“Perhaps not directly,” Hux said, “but the others take cues from you. They admire your ability and seek to emulate it. That, in its way, is teaching.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Ben. His tone was flat, but he lifted his chin, proud.

Hux didn’t often pay him compliments, he realized. He was quick to offer praise to the others, reassuring them and building their confidence, but neither Ben nor Poe were frequently told how well they were doing. Hux supposed it was because they were the strongest flyers in the squadron and needed less of his attention, but that didn’t mean they should be allowed to fall by the wayside.

“I am assigning you to lead a flight because you’re an excellent pilot,” Hux said. “It’s not something I would trust to just anyone.” He adjusted his grip on his helmet and gloves, making the leather creak. “Would you not rather lead than follow on Poe’s and my tail?”

Ben licked his lower lip, a quick dart of his tongue. “No one else flies like you.”

“Does that make a difference to you?” Hux asked, cocking an inquisitive brow.

“I...” Ben started. He looked down for the first time since Thanisson had left them. “I like it. How you fly.” He seemed almost shy in his admission. “I want to fly like that,” he continued, barely audible. “With you.” He glanced up with wide eyes, as if he was afraid of Hux’s reaction.

Hux blinked at him, feeling an unexpected tendril of pleasure curling in his stomach. There had been a connection between them when they flew together that created a strange sense of intimacy in their aerobatics. And a remnant of that feeling flashed between them as they stood across from each other now.

“Perhaps we might have the chance to do that in the future,” Hux said, “but for now you must support your comrades.”

Ben stood taller, squaring his shoulders resolutely. “If I do, you’ll let me be on your wing.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but there was uncertainty in the statement.

Once Hux had a working flight order, he rarely changed it. Yet, he found himself saying, “Prove you can fly with the others, and I will consider it.”

Ben wasn’t given the opportunity to reply, as the others came trotting up behind Hux, their eager conversation filling the air. Hux cast a last, brief look at Ben, whose attention had been drawn to the gaggle of new arrivals, before turning to them.

“Gentlemen, good afternoon,” he said, voice raised to be heard. “As you know, we have received orders to join the 142 bomber squadron on a run over France. We’re to meet them over the Channel in three quarters of an hour.”

Grins spread across the men’s faces, the excited tension among them palpable.

“You’re to be divided into your assigned flights of four,” Hux continued, “as we’ve been practicing. The standard formation will put us around the bombers to guard them on three sides. We’ll be looking out for any enemy aircraft moving in. The airfield we are targeting could have sent out a regular patrol that we may encounter. Be prepared to engage if we are attacked.”

“Sir,” said Meltsa, raising a hand. “If I reckon right, there are thirteen of us in all. That’s three flights of four and one extra man.”

“That’s correct,” said Hux. “One of you will stay on the ground as a reserve pilot.”

Expressions hardened.

“Who, sir?” Wexley asked, hesitant.

Hux cast a glance among the pilots until he spotted his man. “Virgil,” he said. “You’ll remain here this time.”

Gilbert deflated, his shoulders falling. “Why me, sir?”

“I chose at random,” Hux replied. It wasn’t exactly true; he had made the choice just a few minutes before. Virgil was a good man, but he had been struggling more than the others in their drills in the past two days. Hux was most concerned about him when it came to actual combat. He wanted to let the others get their feet under them before putting Virgil into the action and potentially hindering his wingman. “You’ll be flying our next mission,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Gilbert muttered.

Crowe, who stood beside him, clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Buck up, buddy. You’ll get your chance to shoot down the Jerries in no time.” Gilbert gave him a wan smile.

“My flight will be taking the lead position in front of the bombers,” Hux said. “Ward’s will take the right flank and Solo’s the left. That leaves the rear of the formation exposed, but we should be able to see any incoming enemies from the front. If we see something coming from behind, the men on the flanks will drop back. Is that clear?”

He got nods and murmurs of assent.

“Excellent. The bombers have navigators who will lead us. We have only to follow them, but remember your coordinates for returning home. Are there any questions? This is the moment to ask.”

There were a few, mostly about formations and what the squadron would do while the bombers dropped their payloads. Hux talked them through the procedure, detailing how they would hold their positions until an attack necessitated a break.

“Do you think we’ll meet some Jerries?” Strickland asked in his deep Southern drawl.

“It’s possible,” Hux replied, “but if we get the jump on them, they likely won’t have time to get up into the air before the bombs fall.”

“They’ve got radar, don’t they?” said Brewster Mills. “Just like we do?”

Hux didn’t have that kind of intelligence on hand, but he knew that the infrastructure was likely not as well-developed by the occupying forces as it was on the British home front. “We’ll see,” he said. “If there’s nothing else, then we’d best get to our kites.”

By now each man had chosen a plane of his own. Some of the pilots in Hux’s former squadron had painted theirs with personal emblems or marks for each of the German aircraft they shot down. Hux had done neither, but he had gotten to know his kite well, learning its quirks and habits.

Members of the ground crew had already gotten several of the planes running, warming them up. Thanisson jumped down from the wing as Hux arrived, and saluted over the din of the rumbling engine. Hux gave him a short salute in return before pulling on his helmet and stepping up and into the cockpit. He led the squadron out to the runway in a double line, the leader and his wingman taxiing abreast.

“Wolcastle control, this is Red Leader requesting permission to take off,” he said into his radio. He recognized Rey’s voice on the other end:

“Red Leader, you are cleared. Fly safe.”

With Poe at his side, Hux headed up the take-off run. The squadron fell into formation behind—at least he hoped; he couldn’t see—and followed him out over the eastern countryside toward the Channel. Pulling down the edge of his glove, he read the time on his watch: 16:10. He tapped the radio and tuned into the frequency he would be sharing with the bomber squad.

“Hailing 142 Squadron,” he said. “This is 363 Red Leader on approach to the rendezvous point.”

There was a pause, and then a crackling response: “Reading you loud and clear, 363. We’re on course to meet you. Welcome aboard.”

Hux snapped his mask into place, taking a deep breath of the oxygen it supplied. “All right, gentlemen,” he said to his squadron, “let’s get up to altitude and prepare to get acquainted.”

Less than five minutes later, the bombers were in sight—four of them flying in a neat formation. Hux ordered Blue and Yellow Flights into position around them. He led Red Flight over top of the heavy aircraft and into the space ahead of them. They received another cheerful greeting from the leader of the 142, who then announced their heading and anticipated flight time. It would take only twenty minutes to reach the targeted field and then five or six to drop the bombs, as long as they weren’t intercepted by the Germans.

The conversation that Hux usually kept up with his pilots during training was absent as they flew out over the water and toward France. It was customary to keep the frequency clear for commands during a mission. Hux appreciated the quiet—it let him focus and keep his attention on the surrounding area in case they were attacked—but he would have liked to know what was going through his pilots’ heads. His nerves were running high despite the squadron’s satisfactory performances in training.

The coast came into view before Hux knew it, the beaches standing out against the darker landscape inland. Hux tightened his grip on the stick and prepared for what was to come.

“This is Angel Leader,” said the lead pilot of the 142. “Target is in sight. No bandits visible. Prepare to drop.”

The bombers began a steady descent, bringing them into range to let loose their payloads. Hux followed them down, watching the skies around them for any sign of German fighters. The Messerschmitts were quick and agile, and could appear at a moment’s notice.

“Stay with your escorts, 142,” Hux said. “We’ll watch out for you.”

Just over the nose of his plane, he could see the airfield. A few buildings were scattered around, but most looked flimsy and temporary at best. A well-placed bomb would destroy most of them and cripple the operations at the field. As it disappeared beneath the belly of Hux’s plane, he heard the leader of the 142 give the command to drop.

There was a beat of silence and then the muted booms of explosions below them. Hux stayed on the nearest bomber’s wing, veering to starboard as they began to turn back toward the west. As they came around, Hux got a short glimpse of the wreckage of the airfield below. Smoke was billowing up from one of the buildings, and several of the aircraft that had been lined up by the makeshift hangars had been reduced to scrap.

“Well done, lads,” said Angel Leader. “Let’s get home.”

The 363 left the bombers about thirty miles away from Wolcastle. They gave their thanks, adding, “Hope to see you chaps again soon.”

Hux switched back to Wolcastle’s radio frequency before addressing his men. “Gentlemen, I commend you all. This could not have gone better. A pint or two will be in order when we return.”

A few cheers came across the frequency. Beer was rationed carefully by the mess sergeants, but they would surely provide some for a squadron returning from their first mission. If Hux had to bribe them, he would.

They landed in neat rows on the grass runway, the moisture that had blown off of canopies at high altitude returning as a misting rain fell. When Hux’s plane was safely back in line and the engine shut off, he found he was grinning from ear to ear. Even if it had been an uneventful run, his men had performed admirably.

They gathered at the mouth of the hangar, exchanging congratulations and encircling Virgil, who was demanding a full account of the mission. Everyone attempted to weigh in, talking over each other. Hux managed to cut through them until he was standing at the center beside poor, accosted Virgil.

“You are all dismissed for now,” Hux said, “but I’ll expect you in the mess for drinks in half an hour’s time. You’ve earned them.”

The men laughed, peppering him with “Yes, sirs” as they set off to leave their gear. Hux hung back a little, watching them go. His Eagles would make something of themselves after all.

Following a good report to Snoke that evening, Hux was told that the 363 would enter the active rotation of runs with the bombers. They would be flying to targets all over the coast of France, some farther away than others. Hux relayed that to the men as they assembled for their lesson that evening. Hux didn’t get much teaching done in the end, instead listening to the pilots talk through that day’s experience. They were giddy from it, chattering and laughing happily.

“When are we going out tomorrow, sir?” Shorty asked, sitting forward in his chair with interest.

“I don’t know,” Hux replied. “We might not hear until minutes before we’re needed. That is often the case if there are incoming enemies detected on the radar.”

“What Jerries are going to bomb us out here?” said Ben Solo gruffly, his arms crossed over his chest. “There’s nothing but farmland. All the action is in No. 11 Group.”

Hux tipped his head to the side, conceding. Most of the night raids did take place over London and around the shipping ports where supplies were traded, not on the rural east coast. But that didn’t mean that they would not be called upon to defend Wolcastle. They were a smaller field, but still a target.

“You’ll have your chance for a dogfight,” said Hux. “I promise you that.”

The next day, they were disbursed at ten in the morning. They had gathered their gear first thing after breakfast and headed to the briefing room to await their orders. They killed time there, some reading the papers, others playing cards and talking. Hux had brought along his copy of Herodotus.

The run was once again undisturbed by enemy fighters, the squadron accompanying the 142. The following three went off the same way. The initial novelty and excitement quickly began to fade as the men realized most of their missions were going to involve half an hour of flying straight and level with the bombers and then returning to base. It wasn’t glamorous, as many of the exploits of Fighter Command were described in the newsreels, but it was a critical part of the war effort.

Their formal training came to a close as they went into active service, but Hux still insisted that each of them spend two hours per week in the Link trainer and attend his lessons. They did so, for the most part, without complaint.

They shared their three meals a day, though not always at their own table. Hux encouraged them to mix with the other officers. At first the conversations between them were stilted and unsure, but gradually the men from the 222 and 129 warmed to them, and some manner of comradeship was formed.

Hux was sitting between Shorty Putnam and a man named Fred Eldritch at the center table for dinner that evening. They had been discussing films they had seen in the past. It had been several months since Hux had been into London to see anything, but Eldritch had been on leave just three weeks before, and he regaled them with the highlights of the film he had watched.

“It sounds like one hell of a picture,” Shorty said, a little wistful. “My brother and me used to go into Bozeman every Saturday to see them, even if it was the same picture for weeks in a row.” He tapped his temple with his forefingers. “Got more than one memorized. Bet you I could teach the boys how to do it, and we could act it out.”

Eldritch chuckled. “That would be quite the spectacle.”

“What do you think, sir?” Shorty asked, giving Hux a bright smile. “Nothing like a little amateur theater.”

Hux took a sip water, amused. “Who could be convinced to play the heroine?”

“I’d say Wexley’d look good in a dress,” Shorty laughed. He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Though I’d give a week’s pay to see Ben in one, if we could find one to fit. He’s bigger than anyone at the field.”

The image that conjured in Hux’s mind was beyond outrageous, and certainly the taciturn Solo would never deign to go along with such a farce.

“I would try for Wexley first,” he said.

Shorty flashed a grin before turning back to the last of his food.

Hux finished his in a few more bites, chewing the tough chicken well before swallowing it. Pushing his empty plate away, he bid Shorty and Eldritch good evening and stood. It was a rare clear night, and he was craving a walk before he retired.

The waxing moon lit his path as he left the mess and headed toward the infirmary. It was particularly quiet there after the sunset. Even though there were always nurses on duty through the night, there was no one coming or going around the building, and Hux could enjoy the solitude.

He had been by to have tea with Phasma earlier that day. As promised, he visited regularly and shared the tales of America his pilots told him. She seemed to find the unusual culture of the Colonies fascinating, often mentioning how she would like to visit the places Hux described. His own interest had been piqued by their tales as well. He had never had any particular desire to travel there before, but now he could see himself making the journey to New York or even far-flung California. Perhaps when the war ended.

That end did not seem within sight, though, as the squadron continued to bomb German airfields and installations in France every day, and news of Hitler’s advance in the East flowed steadily in. Hux appreciated the chance to see action, but never forgot the brutal reality of war. Men were dying every day, both on the ground and in the air. The price of his daily flights was the blood of others.

Hux lingered in the shadow of the infirmary building for a moment to light a cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs with a tingling sensation that calmed him. One hand in his pocket, he ambled across the grass again, this time in the direction of the hangar.

There was no sign of anyone around when he got there, not even Ben Solo, whom he had assumed still lurked nearby after dinner. Perhaps he had fallen out of the habit; after all, Hux had not ventured out to this place at this hour in nearly two weeks. Not that Ben went there to wait for Hux. He sought the silence and stillness.

Hux went to the edge of the building and, leaning against the wall, drew the cool night air in through his nose. It smelled of freshly trimmed grass and the ever-present, caustic scent of petrol and exhaust. They were familiar and invigorating, even homey. He felt like he belonged at an airfield more than he did in any other place, from his parents' home to the halls of Oxford. He knew that even if the war ended, he would not retire. He would fly until he no longer could, and then he would, with hope, be assigned an advisory or command role. He didn’t aspire to a position as high as vice air marshal, but he intended to remain a part of His Majesty’s Air Force until they put him in the ground.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a clatter and curse from inside the hangar. Curious, he stepped away from the wall and came around the corner to peer inside. There was a single splash of light a few paces from the door which he had not noticed before. It was muted and half-hidden by the nose of one of the out-of-commission aircraft. The side panel was lifted to reveal the inner workings of the machine, blocking out most of the illumination. Hux took a few steps closer, until he spotted a man on a step ladder working on the plane.

Ben Solo was struggling with some kind of bolt under the panel, using both hands to wrench it either tighter or looser; Hux didn’t know which. “Come on, you bastard,” he growled as he put his weight into the turn. The bolt didn’t budge. Clearly exasperated, he leaned back and pushed his hair back from his face.

Hux approached carefully, hoping not to scare him as he said, “What are you trying to do?”

Ben turned sharply to him. Fortunately, he didn’t jump with surprise. Hux took that as a victory. He wouldn’t have wanted him to fall from the ladder.

“I’m—” Ben’s voice cracked, clearly unused in some time. He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to adjust the fuel line. But the goddamn fitting won’t loosen up enough for me to do it.” He gestured to the spanner, which was still lodged on the bolt. “Some idiot tightened it too much.”

Hux looked up at the complicated mess of mechanics, at a loss. “Perhaps you should take it up with your crew tomorrow,” he said.

Ben gave the bolt a scornful look. “I can do it. I just have to…” He took hold of the handle of the spanner again and threw his weight into it. He was wearing a plain white undershirt, his uniform jacket absent, and Hux could see the cords in his arms standing out as he struggled. He gave a low, deep grunt with a last push and the bolt finally gave way. “Ha!” he said, triumphant. A few more turns and he had the bolt loose enough to unscrew it with his fingers. He tucked it into his pocket for safekeeping.

“What will your adjustment to the fuel line accomplish?” Hux enquired, leaning in to get a better look at what Ben was doing.

“Reduce the gas usage by a little bit,” Ben replied. “Should give us a couple more minutes in the air.”

Hux’s brows rose. “So much?”

“Well, one or two minutes.” He fiddled with the inner workings. “Could make a difference in a fight, I guess.”

“I suppose so, yes,” said Hux. “Have you done this for all the aircraft?”

“No,” Ben said, still focused on his task. “Just the ones in here. And mine. I can do the others, though.” He glanced briefly down at Hux. “If you want me to.”

Had Hux been asked by one of the riggers or fitters, he would have readily agreed, but Ben was not expected to do those sorts of tasks. “You can recommend it to Thanisson. He should take care of it.”

Ben moved away, seemingly satisfied with whatever he had done. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” He took the bolt out of his pocket and set it back in place. He tightened it with the spanner, but not, Hux assumed, too tightly. He came down the ladder in measured steps, dropping the spanner back into a metal box of tools at its foot. He grabbed a stained rag from the handle and wiped his fingers. Slowly, he turned to Hux, eyeing him.

Hux felt his stomach drop under that expectant gaze. “You spend a great deal of time here, do you not?”

“I guess I do,” said Ben with a one-sided shrug.

“The crew doesn’t mind that you join them?”

He shook his head. “They haven’t said so.”

“Well, good,” Hux said. There wasn’t much more to say on the matter, so they lapsed into silence, albeit not a particularly comfortable one. Hux had to break it. “Will you, ah, show me what you did with the fuel line?”

Ben blinked at him once, seemingly contemplating the request, but then said, “Sure.” He tipped his head toward the ladder. “Come up.”

Hux quickly removed his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby table, not wanting to sully it with grease. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt before stepping onto the ladder. It was sturdy enough for one, but creaked under Ben’s weight as he followed Hux onto it. The steps were too narrow to fit both of them, so he stopped on the one below Hux’s. They stood close together, Ben pressed against Hux’s back.

“What do you know about the injection system?” he asked. Hux could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest.

“Not much,” he replied, embarrassed for the first time at his ignorance.

“We’ll start with the basics, then,” said Ben. Pointing at various components, he began to explain how they worked together to make the aircraft run. The maze of metal and tubing became slightly less of a mystery as he talked, though Hux knew he would never be able to work on it as Ben did.

He grew used to the low cadence of Ben’s voice, finding it strangely soothing. Despite the chill in the air, Hux was quite warm. As Ben pointed at different parts of the engine and exhaust, he all but wrapped his arms around Hux. Hux  was sharply aware of it, his skin prickling at each brush, however brief, of Ben’s upper arm against his shoulder.

“So, that’s how the change to the line makes the fuel usage more efficient,” Ben concluded.

“Fascinating,” said Hux. He meant it.

“Yeah. Everything about planes is.” He sighed, a warm puff of air against the back of Hux’s neck.

A agreeable chill shot down Hux’s spine. It had been a very long time since anyone had been this close to him. He wanted to stay there a moment longer, appreciating the proximity of Ben’s warmth, but it was because of that impulse that he knew he had to go. “Thank you for showing me,” he said, perhaps a sight quieter than he intended.

“Anytime.” Ben gave the fuel line a last, almost tender caress before letting his arm fall. Hux nearly jumped as his fingers brushed the back of his hand.

Ben descended the ladder, allowing Hux to follow him. On the ground, they stood once again at nearly the same height, their eyes level.

“Are you finished for the night?” said Hux. “Will you accompany me back to the barracks?”

Ben nodded. He reached up to the lamp he had been working under and flicked off the switch. The hangar was plunged into darkness, Hux overwhelmed with black. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight again, though it barely filtered inside.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I can’t see my jacket.”

There was a rustle of fabric and then, “Here.” Hux fumbled blindly ahead until he felt the wool of the jacket. He took it from Ben and thanked him.

“Am I going to trip on something on the way out?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said Ben, half a laugh. “Here, just let me…” His hand curled around Hux’s wrist. He took a few steps forward, leading Hux along with him. They fortunately did not stumble over anything as they wove through the hangar and back outside. Ben released him there, though Hux could still feel the spot where he had held him.

Hux took the lead then, making his way back toward the barracks. He kept a leisurely pace, his strides matched to Ben’s. It reminded him of their synchronicity in flight.

“There likely won’t be much time in the next while,” he said, “but if it can be found, I’d like to fly with you again.”

Ben kept his gaze trained ahead, but Hux heard an intake of breath. “Like we did before?”

“Yes. It was quite remarkable performing in tandem.”

“Mm.”

Hux glanced over at him. “Do you not think so?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “I mean, I do. It was...good. We were good together.”

“I’d imagine we’d put on an impressive show if we ever got the opportunity to fly for an audience.”

“Would you want to do that?” Ben asked.

Hux replied in earnest, “I believe I would.”

Ben let the matter lie there, and Hux said nothing to the contrary. They walked quietly, but companionably. As they got to the barracks, Hux held the door open for Ben to go through. He followed him inside, and they paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Thank you again for the lesson, Ben,” Hux said. “Goodnight.”

Ben regarded him steadily. “Sir.”

“Hux,” he said. He didn’t often invite informality, but in that moment, in the weeks that they had known each other, it seemed appropriate. “You may call me Hux.”

The muscles in Ben’s neck worked as he swallowed. “Then goodnight, Hux.”

October the first turned out to be an unusually fair-weathered day, the ceiling high and the sun glinting off the canopies of the squadron’s aircraft as they soared over the square fields and narrow roads that led back to Wolcastle. They had had another successful run over France, the third in as many days. Since they had begun their campaign the week prior, they had heard news of disruptions to German supply trains and losses of fighters caught up in the explosions. The squadron had celebrated with their rationed half-pints of beer as often as they were allowed.

There had been some retaliatory bombings of British installations, but Wolcastle had yet to be targeted. Despite that, the personnel ran through air raid drills daily, scattering from the main buildings into the sandbag-lined trenches that had been dug in strategic locations throughout the airfield. Everyone had been issued a hard, metal helmet that they were expected to wear, but Hux couldn’t think of a single pilot who carried his on a regular basis; they had enough flight gear to carry as it was. Hux’s own helmet was hanging on a nail he had put into the door in his quarters and hadn’t been touched in weeks. The nurses and radio operators, however, were much keener on wearing theirs. Hux had once shared a trench with Rey, who had had to use the chin strap on her helmet to keep it in place; it was far too large for her. Hux had found it oddly endearing.

It wasn’t often that he saw her, but just the day before, he had found her sitting on the step out back of the command tower with her legs tucked to the side and a piece of creased paper in her hand. Her regular bright expression was absent, replaced by a forlorn look and red-rimmed eyes. Hux had approached her cautiously, knowing it likely wasn’t his place to disturb a private moment, but he found he was concerned for her wellbeing.

“Miss Rey,” he said, “are you all right?”

“Oh, Commander Hux,” she exclaimed, looking up with surprise. “I didn’t see you there.” She wiped at her cheeks, sniffling just a little.

He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I thought you might be unwell. Is there something I can do?”

“Thank you,” she said as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, “but no. It’s just a passing melancholy.”

Hux cast a glance at the paper she held. It was a letter, written in slanted, cursive scrawl, and there was an envelope on the step beside her that looked to be standard issue army stationary. Hux’s heart sank. He remembered that she had a friend at the front, and it was very possible that he had been killed.

“Is it bad news?” Hux asked.

Rey’s gaze fell on the letter. “Oh, no, thank goodness. I was just… Well, I tend to cry whenever I get a letter from him. From Finn.” Color rose in her cheeks. “He has a certain way with words.”

Hux smiled, knowing the familiar effect of a love letter. “He’s well, then?”

“He is,” she said. “His unit is in southern France. He says it’s sunny there, and warm. He’d like to take me there someday.”

“It’s a lovely place for a honeymoon,” said Hux, sly. He expected a deeper flush or a sweet smile, but Rey’s face fell. He backpedaled slightly. “I didn’t mean to imply anything by that. I could certainly have gotten the wrong impression.”

“You didn’t,” Rey said, eyes shining again. “I’d very much like to marry him, but it’s...not possible.”

“Oh,” was Hux’s lame reply. He wasn’t sure what else to say without prying into her private affairs. It wasn’t his business.

Rey sighed, folding the letter and setting it down on her knee. “It’s not fair, of course. He’s a good man, probably the best one I know. My mother and father like him, and have known him since he was a boy. We grew up together in London, and not the fancy part. But he’s…” She hesitated, worrying the corner of the letter between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s the color of his skin. We just couldn’t marry.”

Hux’s chest constricted with sympathy. “Ah, I see,” he said, slow and measured. “You’re right. It isn’t fair.”

Rey looked up at him, her brows slightly raised. “You don’t...disapprove?”

“No,” Hux said. “I know something of caring for someone you cannot be with. It is never easy or fair.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rey, offering a watery smile, “that you’ve had to do that, as well.”

He inclined his head. “My situation is—was—not quite that same,” he said, “but if you are in need of someone to speak with about him, I would be glad to listen.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.” Picking up his handkerchief from where she had left it in her lap, she held it back out to him. He tucked it into his trouser pocket as she got to her feet. “I suppose I should be getting back to work now.”

“Of course,” said Hux, falling back a step. “I hope you have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Rey.”

“You, too, sir.”

He stood where she left him for a time, her melancholy having leached into his breast and stuck. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to dwell on the more unfortunate realities of the heart for of those with his preferences, but there were brief moments when the imposed solitude wore on him. And he took no comfort in knowing that Rey was suffering as he did, restrained by a society that spurned any who did not fit into its neat mold of households and children, husbands and wives. It infuriated him, and yet he forced himself into a mold of his own, that of a model soldier, just so he could fly.

He could have chosen another way, perhaps staying at Oxford and living an academic life where he would not be so closely scrutinized. Richard, a man in his mid-thirties with whom he had enjoyed a short liaison during his final year, still lived in a flat in town with a revolving door of ever-younger flatmates. If anyone noticed that the second bedroom was used as an office, they said nothing about it. But Hux hadn’t wanted that life, even if it meant having the opportunity to take lovers or, at great risk, to keep them.

The hissing crackle of the radio brought his attention back to the cockpit of his Hurricane. Over it he heard Poe say, “Sir, we’re closing in on home base. You want to call down?”

“Yes, of course,” Hux replied, hurriedly switching to the appropriate frequency. He hailed Wolcastle control, and was pleased to hear Rey on the other end of the line.

“You’re all clear to land, sir,” she said, cheerful. “Welcome back, 363.”

When they had landed and taxied back to Hangar Three, the smiles and self-congratulatory chatter were gone, replaced by bored expressions and even a yawn from Wexley. The Eagles pulled off helmets and unzipped jackets lazily as they shuffled off toward either the briefing room or the barracks.

“What the devil is the matter with you all?” Hux demanded before they could get too far away. A few pairs of eyes widened, but most everyone remained unaffected. Hux scowled. “Have you gotten tired of these runs already?”

A passing “Well, yes,” was quickly spoken over by “No, sir, it’s just…”

“Just what?” Hux said, glaring.

Poe stepped forward. “What I think the boys are trying to say, sir, is that it’s getting a little slow up there. We’re just flying the same old routes, and no one’s seeing any action.”

“The routes are certainly not the same,” said Hux, sharply. They didn’t bomb the same targets day after day.

“Not technically, sir, but—”

Hux raised a hand, silencing him. “Yes, I see your point. You want a proper fight.” With a sigh, he tugged his own helmet off, smoothing the hair with his empty palm. Unbecoming as it was of a commanding officer to question their assignment, he had to admit that he, too, was growing bored with the tedium of bomber runs. “All right,” he said, “I’ll speak with the wing commander about it today.”

“That would be real good, sir,” Strickland said, grinning.

Hux nodded. “Indeed. Thank you for a good flight, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”

He found Snoke in his office, bent over paperwork as he usually was. He greeted Hux curtly as he knocked.

“What brings you here, Hux?” he asked as he tapped the butt end of his fountain pen against his desk, three dull thuds against a stack of papers.

“A request, sir,” Hux replied. “For my men.”

Snoke lifted a bare brow ridge. “Indeed. And what do they have to say to me?”

“Well,” Hux said, clasping his hands behind his back, “they’ve been performing well on their daily runs, working with the bomber squadrons, but they are becoming restless. The 129 and 222 have been seeing quite a bit of combat, and we have not. They would like the opportunity to distinguish themselves as proper fighters. I had hoped that we might take over some of responsibilities for sweeps in the coming days.”

“Ah,” said Snoke, laying down his pen and steepling his fingers below his chin. “Do you believe they’re ready for that type of assignment?”

“I do. They have come far in their capabilities since they arrived here. They’re as ready as they’re going to be, sir.” He paused, hesitant, but then added, “Take a chance on them. They deserve that much.”

Snoke blinked once, slowly. “All right. I trust you as a judge of their preparedness. I will put them into the rotation.”

“Thank you, sir. We won’t disappoint you.”

“I trust that you won’t,” said Snoke. He lifted his hand to his mouth and wet his thumb, turning back to his paperwork. “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.” Hux saluted. “Good afternoon.”

He left the command tower feeling lighter and looking forward to relaying the good news to his pilots. Set on doing that, he made for the briefing room. It was mostly empty when he arrived, but there was a group of three sitting in the center in the midst of a card game. They glanced up as Hux entered.

“Care for a hand of poker, sir?” Shorty Putnam asked, cheerful as ever. He held up his cards with a smile.

“I suppose so,” said Hux.

Poe, who sat to Shorty’s left, pulled a chair into the circle. “Have a seat, sir.”

Hux took the chair and glanced over the pot at the center of the table between them all. There were some pieces of spare change, ration tickets, bars of chocolate, and cigarettes. “Finish up this hand, and you can deal me into the next one,” he said.

“Right-o,” said Taylor. “I just raised you, Poe. What have you got?”

“Call,” Poe said, laying down a quarter bar of chocolate. “Shorty?”

Putnam made a face and tossed his cards down. “Fold.”

Poe grinned and laid his cards down in a neat arc, the last one snapping sharply. “Read ‘em and weep. Straight flush of diamonds.”

Taylor flicked his cards with his forefinger. “Well, damn.” He put them down. “Two pair.”

“Ha!” Poe exclaimed, pulling the pot over to his side of the table. “Told you I’d have this next round.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Shorty, dismissive. He collected the cards and shuffled them together again. They were well-used, some of the edges starting to show their age. It would be a good way to remember them and cheat if the players were familiar enough with the creases and frays, but Hux was not. He had no advantage in this, and had never been particularly good in the first place.

Shorty dealt deftly, sliding the cards across the table to Hux. He picked up both of them: an ace of spades and a two of diamonds. Not necessarily a promising hand.

Poe put in the small blind—two cigarettes—and Hux followed with a couple of his own, taken from his silver case. He realized he didn’t have much to ante up, putting him in the position to have to win if he wanted to stay in the game. Once their bets were all in, Shorty dealt the flop and play began in earnest.

“So, sir,” Taylor said as they eyed their cards and considered their next moves, “any rumors of a flight later today?”

“Not that I know of,” said Hux, picking up a ten of spades from the community cards. “Though I did have a discussion with the wing commander just a few minutes ago.”

Poe raised his brows. “About the sweep assignments?”

“Exactly that. We are to enter the rotation.”

“Well, all right!” Shorty said, slapping a hand on the table and jostling the coins in the pot. “Hell of a thing to hear. You think we’ll start tomorrow?”

“It depends on our orders from Fighter Command,” Hux said, “but I do hope so.”

“Outstanding,” Taylor said. “It’s about time. If you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

Hux chuckled. “I don’t. I am of the same opinion. I have thought you all ready for quite some time now.”

“Glad to hear it, sir,” said Poe. “I’ll let the rest of the boys know. They’ll be chomping at the bit come tomorrow.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Hux waited for him to put in his next bet, but Poe laid down his cards with a sigh.

“Fold,” he said.

Hux raised another three cigarettes. “Is this a game you all used to play at home?” he asked.

“I did,” said Shorty as he called Hux’s bet. “With my brothers. The oldest, Hammond, taught me. He was damn good, too. Used to clean our friends out when he played after school.” He laughed. “How about you, sir?”

“I learned at university,” said Hux. “A friend had spent some time in America and brought the game back with him. It was not something I learned in my mother’s drawing room.”

“What’s a drawing room supposed to be?” Taylor asked. “You can’t have a whole room for drawing pictures, right?”

“It’s a room for receiving guests,” Hux said. “Had you never heard of such a thing before?”

Taylor shrugged. “Sure hadn’t, sir. My mama didn’t have one. We had a living room with the radio and a sofa to sit on, but no special room for guests. Or is a drawing room the same as that?”

“Not quite.” Hux glanced at his cards again, trying to decide if his one pair had a chance at taking the pot, then he turned back to Taylor. “What was your home like?”

“Nothing special,” Taylor said. “There was that living room like I said, a bedroom for my Ma and Pop, and then one for me and my brothers. Big kitchen, though. Took a lot to feed three growing boys.”

Hux tried to imagine three young man sharing a single bedroom. He had had a room of his own growing up, with a large canopied bed that had belonged to several generations of Huxes before him. The house had four other bedrooms, including private residences for his mother and father, as well as a drawing room (or parlor), a formal dining room, a large kitchen, and a stable for his father’s many riding horses.

“It sounds quite charming,” he said.

Taylor laughed. “I wouldn’t call it that, sir, but it was home.” He looked around the table. “You boys ready?”

Poe laid down his cards first. He had two pair. Hux had only the one, unfortunately. Taylor came out with an ace high, but it was Shorty who laid down a straight of six through ten. He took the pot with a smirk.

Hux cursed. “I’m afraid that puts me out.” He opened his empty cigarette case. “I haven’t anything else to offer.”

Poe picked up a few cigarettes and some change. “I’ll lend you a bit.” His eyes shone with mischief. “If you’ll give me your wine ration tonight.”

“That’s a high demand,” said Hux, rubbing his chin. The wine they drank wasn’t terribly good, but it was something he was glad for at dinner. However, he found he was enjoying himself and wasn’t yet ready to abandon the game. He held out his hand to Poe. “Very well. I’ll make that deal.”

Poe handed over the goods and Hux placed them in front of him. The deal went next to Taylor, and they were off again.

An hour passed and then two. Hux won and lost a fair amount of his “money,” but he ended up with enough cigarettes to get him through the next couple of evenings, enough change to buy a pint, and two full bars of chocolate. He rarely ate sweets, but was pleased enough with his spoils that he opened one and had a couple of pieces. He shared it with the others. They were just about to start yet another hand when the door to the briefing room banged open and Sergeant Mitaka, chest rising and falling with hurried breaths, stepped inside.

Hux rose, cards forgotten. “Mitaka. What’s happened?”

“Orders from the wing commander, sir,” he panted. “A fighter sweep over the coastal air bases.”

“That’s the call, boys!” Shorty cried. “Let’s to the skies!”

With a barked order, Hux sent Mitaka out to the barracks to the find the other pilots. He himself took Taylor, Shorty, and Poe and headed for the hangar. As he jogged there, he chastised himself for not requiring the men to stay closer to one central location. His former squadron had taken up residence in their briefing room for most of the day. There hadn’t been a large hanger to go to, so they had remained there, prepared for disbursement at a moment’s notice. Hux would have to see to it that the 363 started doing the same. If they were called upon for a sudden sweep, they would need to be prepared for it.

Three of the squadron’s aircraft were running as they got to the hangar, Thanisson and several of the other ground crew milling around them. Despite the fact that most of the runs they did were in the mornings and evenings, the crew always kept the planes warm. Upon seeing Hux, Thanisson came over.

“You’ll be needing the rest of the kites readied, sir?” he said.

Hux nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. Thanisson hurried off to gather the rest of the crew.

The pilots weren’t far behind, a group of them all but sprinting across the grass toward the planes and Hux. They scrambled into their flying gear, pulling on their parachutes and helmets.

“What’s the order, sir?” Strickland asked.

“We’ll receive the coordinates in the air,” Hux replied. “We just have to get up there. Now!”

Strickland saluted smartly and, gesturing for the others to follow, made for his aircraft.

Hux counted each man as he went by, seeing all but one. “Where is Solo?” he demanded of Meltsa, who was designated to stay on the ground on this mission. Normally, Hux would have left the last man to show up as a kind of reprimand for lateness, but he needed Ben in the air. He was one of the best.

“I’m here, sir,” Ben said, trotting across from the hangar in full flight dress.

“Get to your kite,” Hux snapped. “On the double.”

Ben was gone in a flash, hurrying to the plane that was parked beside Poe’s, one away from Hux’s.

“Meltsa,” Hux said. “Go the command tower and listen over the radio. Miss Rey will allow it.” He pushed the young man in that direction before heading for the cockpit of his aircraft. Four minutes later, he was leading his flight into the sky.

There were a few wispy and scattered clouds at eight thousand feet, but not enough to obscure the blue skies. Hux set an easterly course, hailing Wolcastle control for the coordinates of the field they would be sweeping. He received them in short order. They were bound for a northern fighter base that was too close to a town to bomb. The only way to reduce the number of active fighters there was to shoot them out of the sky.

“All right, gentleman,” he said over the radio. “This must go exactly as I describe. There can be no deviations from protocol if we are to get the Germans to engage us. Once they do, you’ll be free to fly as you will, as you were taught, but until then you must do as I say.” He paused as though to wait for acknowledgement, but he didn’t expect more than one voice to come over the radio at once. So he continued: “Red Flight will lead. We’ll come down low over the field with guns and then get back up. Blue Flight will follow precisely two minutes later, flying the same pattern. The goal isn’t to destroy the aircraft on the ground; it’s to get them to chase us. Fire on the buildings if you have to. Just get them up into the air.

“If they don’t come after two passes, Yellow Flight will engage. If all of us come through and they don’t react, we pull out. Sometimes this doesn’t work. However, let’s hope that this time it does.” He looked at the directional gyro, assessing their heading. “Be ready when we approach.”

There was a fair headwind in the direction they were flying, slowing them somewhat and making the Channel below choppy. It would require more petrol to push through, and they would have to be conscious of how much they were using during combat. Hux wondered if Ben Solo’s minor fuel line adjustment would give him those extra two minutes after all.

The tension in Hux’s gut began to coil tightly as they approached the coastline. It had been over a month since he had been in a dogfight, and he worried that some of his sharpness had lapsed. A sweep was a fairly routine assignment, but there was a chance that the squadron would get themselves into a mess out of which one or more of them wouldn’t come. It was unlikely, but with so little actual experience, there was significant risk to all of them. Hux put the fear aside, though. When it came to fighting, there was one thing to concentrate on: keeping yourself and your wingman alive. That was his sole focus from now until they landed safely back at Wolcastle.

“We’re twenty miles out,” he said. “We’ll descend to two thousand feet and hold position there until Red Flight moves in. Flight leaders, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” came three replies.

“Then let’s to work.”

Hux’s senses sharpened and honed in on the airfield in front of him as he and his flight began their dive toward it. The houses and winding roads below were no longer tiny dots, but had clear features. A few figures in the fields they passed looked up, and Hux could see their faces.

“Guns at the ready,” he said, thumbing the trigger. The airfield came into his sights; there were a number of people on the ground between the buildings and parked aircraft. Hux swallowed, preparing himself, and said, “Fire.”

The guns made a whirring kind of roar as they discharged. Bullets hailed down on the ground below, striking anything in their path. The burst didn’t last long; they needed to conserve their ammunition if they were going to have any to fire at enemies in the air.

“Pull out and climb,” he ordered. “Blue Flight, get into position.”

Hux guided his plane up to two thousand feet and began a slow circle of the enemy airfield. From that altitude, he could see Blue Flight coming in to attack and the German response to it. They had no anti-aircraft weaponry that he could see, their only option for retaliation airborne combat. Hux couldn’t make out much of the action on the ground, but he squinted down at the line of aircraft he had passed and saw one or two of them taxiing toward the grass runway. He grinned grimly.

“Yellow Flight,” he said, “stand by. We have some takers, and we want them to join us.”

“They’re flying into a trap,” said Crowe. “They have to know that. They can count us up here. We’re just waiting for them.”

“That’s the nature of what we do,” Hux said. “And them as well. They know the risks.” He banked slightly to port. “Let’s give them a merry welcome, shall we?”

The Germans took off in pairs, pushing their aircraft up into the sky with trails of dark exhaust. They didn’t bother to form up, instead breaking off and scattering to target the 363.

“You have free rein, gentlemen,” said Hux, sharp. “Remember your training.”

One of the pilots gave a crow of elation as they went into combat. Hux turned to track a Messerschmitt that soared past him and up to a higher altitude. He knew he was being baited, but he took it and followed. The German wove to port and starboard, never flying completely straight. No one was foolish enough to do that; if you flew in a straight line, you got killed. Hux did his best to keep on his tail, opening up the throttle to give his Hurricane’s engine more power. It growled in response, and he shot forward the last hundred feet to put him in firing range. He pressed the trigger.

The Messerschmitt went immediately into a tight corkscrew down, trying to evade the bullets. Hux pursued him into a dive. He only had a few seconds of his ammunition left, but he continued to fire. As the guns spun out, empty, he saw the German’s rudder come apart in a hail of debris. Hux flinched as a piece of metal struck his cockpit canopy, leaving a mark in the glass. He rolled away before more could hit him, but kept the damaged plane in view. The pilot was struggling to control it without a full rudder and a tail end full of lead.

“Come on, come on,” Hux chanted under his breath. “Go down.” He bit back an exclamation when he saw the enemy’s canopy fly back and the pilot bail out of the cockpit. The plane continued on its course ahead, though it immediately started to lose altitude, spinning out of control. The German’s parachute opened, floating him to relative safety, but Hux kept his eyes on the abandoned Messerschmitt. It careered toward the ground, becoming smaller and smaller until it exploded in a belch of flame and dirt on the shoreline below.

“Hell of a shot!” Poe cried over the radio, reminding Hux he was still on his wing.

Hux didn’t bother to thank him, instead saying, “My guns are out. You take the lead from here, Dameron. I’ll watch your back.” He throttled back, letting Poe pass him.

The skies ahead of them were scattered with aircraft. To most it would look like chaos, but Hux could make out the patterns, the careful paths his pilots were following to chase down their marks. Most of the pairs—a leader and his wingman—had managed to stay together, watching out for each other. The Germans were quick and clever, but the Eagles had the advantage of numbers.

One pair converged on a Messerschmitt, forcing him to stay his course and fly straight. They shepherded him directly into the line of fire of another fighter, who peppered his fuselage and punctured the canopy. The plane banked hard to starboard as the pilot inside expired.

“I got him!” cried William Taylor. “I got him, goddammit!”

Hux watched as he and the others veered away from the falling plane, and in a flash, they were gone from Hux’s view again.

“I’ve got one in my sights,” Poe said, drawing Hux’s attention back to him. “I’m going to flank him.” He moved ahead, closing in on the German who was cutting across the air perpendicular to their flight path. His approach was smooth and perfectly aligned, but before he could engage, another Hurricane appeared, cutting him off and firing at a startlingly close range. The Eagle was unaccompanied by his wingman, and Hux knew him immediately.

Ben Solo emptied his few seconds of ammunition into the side of the Messerschmitt, much of it concentrated on the forward part of the fuselage. Black smoke billowed up from the engine and the propeller stalled and fell still. A few breathless moments passed, and then flames erupted from the front of the aircraft.

“Get back, Solo!” Hux said. “It’s going to explode.”

Ben didn’t hesitate. He executed a neat climb into a loop and reverse. He was far away by the time the Messerschmitt was engulfed in fire, breaking apart in a shower of red and yellow.

“They’re pulling out,” said Wexley. “Headed back to base. Do we follow, sir?”

“Is anyone still armed?” Hux asked. He got a few affirmatives, but by the time they came in, the Germans were already too far out of range. “Never mind. Let them go. We’ve done enough here. Let’s go home.”

All told, they had brought down five German aircraft. They had fallen at the hands of Taylor, Hux, and Solo, as well as Lewis and Brewster Mills. The squadron’s radio frequency was alive with chatter as they flew back over the Channel and then to Wolcastle. Hux could only imagine what Miss Rey and the other radio operators were thinking as they listened to twelve men congratulate themselves on a job well done.

Their good spirits only grew as they landed and clamored out of their airplanes. The Mills brothers ran into a bone-jarring embrace, laughing into each other’s ears. Taylor and Solo were surrounded by their fellows, their backs slapped and hair tousled.

“Congratulations on your kill, sir,” Poe said to Hux. He had hung back some from the others.

“It wasn’t a kill, really,” said Hux. “The pilot survived. But thank you.” He pulled off his glove and offered his hand. Poe shook it. “That kill, the one Solo took, should have been yours.”

Poe shrugged. “Maybe, but I’ll get another chance. The kid did a good job.”

Hux looked over to where Ben was standing. He was more than a head taller than most of the others, making him quite conspicuous amongst the group. He had pulled off his helmet and was grinning broadly. A kind of warmth ignited in Hux’s belly at the sight; Ben was beautiful when he smiled.

“He flew with great skill,” Hux said to Poe, though his eyes were still on Ben. “And grace.”

Poe set a hand on his hip. “You could say that, yeah. He flies kind of...pretty. Can’t say that for the rest of us. Except maybe you, sir.”

“No,” said Hux. “I was taught to be practical. He learned finesse for show, not combat.”

“But he proved today he’s a damn good fighter pilot, too,” Poe said.

Hux nodded. “Yes, he certainly did.”

The 363 was welcomed to dinner that night with applause. The news of their success had made the rounds of the airfield, and even the most faithless British pilots had to admit that the Eagles had done well. The squadron preened as they took up their seats, Shorty and Lewis taking comical bows before they sat. They were just starting in on their food when the wing commander entered the mess. As he usually wasn’t present at meals, the hall fell silent in his presence.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice rumbling low. “I won’t keep you from your meal for long. I have an announcement for 363 Squadron. A reward of sorts for this afternoon’s impressive performance.” His thin, scarred lips twisted up. “You have all been given leave for the evening. If I understand correctly, there is a dance in the assembly hall in town. I’m sure there are a fair number of ladies there who are in need of partners. That is, if Americans can dance.”

Hux stood before his men could pipe up and said, “Oh, they can, I assure you. And we’ll be glad to go to the hall tonight and prove it.” The men around him clapped and whooped.

Snoke gave another of his crooked smiles. “Very well. There will be transport for you in an hour.”

The food on their plates was bolted down in record time, leaving them a few minutes to shave and shine their shoes before they set off for town. Even Hux tucked in faster than he was accustomed to, and retired to the barracks to comb and pomade his hair properly. Mitaka was waiting with a brush for his uniform and a clean shirt when he arrived.

The men—cleaned, polished, and smelling of aftershave—were gathered around outside at exactly eight o’clock when a canvas-covered lorry rumbled up. There were benches in the back that would seat all of them. Brewster and Strickland sprang up first, holding out their hands to help the rest in. Hux allowed them to hoist him into the lorry, and he chose a place between Meltsa and Gilbert. When they were all aboard, the lorry jerked into motion, setting off down the lane toward the town of Wolcastle, from which the airfield took its name.

Most of the windows of the houses they passed on the road where dark, but as they approached the center of the village, a large square of light lay on the ground in front of the assembly hall. As soon as the lorry’s engine was cut, music could be heard coming from inside, a quick and horn-heavy swing tune. Hux tapped his toe to the beat, suddenly itching to get out on the floor. And he clearly wasn’t the only one.

“I’m going to grab the first girl I see,” said Ward, rubbing his hands together, “and not let her go until the night’s over.”

“No one’s going to want to dance with you for that long,” Crowe scoffed. “You’ve got two left feet.”

Ward made a face. “The hell I do.”

“Come on, you two,” Poe said, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders. “Settle it inside.”

Hux jumped down from the lorry, bending his knees to ease the jarring landing on the cobblestones. The last of the pilots clattered behind him and followed the sound of the music. It was warm inside the hall, and it was filled to the brim with people, most of them in skirts. The band, a ten-piece affair with a sprightly leader at its head had set up at the far end of the room. There was a short table set out with refreshments, including a bowl of some kind of punch. Hux couldn’t imagine the sugar ration that would have had to have gone into that.

“Well, hello there,” said a woman at Hux’s side.

He turned, expecting to see a stranger, but instead found Matron Phasma. Gone was her white nurse’s frock; in its place was a dress of cornflower blue with short sleeves and a full skirt. Her hair was elegantly coiffed, and she was smiling.

“Good evening,” Hux said, returning the smile. “You’re looking very well.”

Phasma brushed at her skirt. “Thank you. I don’t get much chance to wear these things anymore. Feels a little odd to be out of the uniform.” She looked him over from nose to toes. “You don’t have that problem, of course. Do you even own civilian clothing?”

“I do. In a wardrobe at my family’s home in Surrey.” He fiddled with the middlemost button on his jacket. “But I’d rather be in uniform anyway.”

“More’s the better,” said Phasma. “It suits you.” She extended a hand toward the dancefloor. “Interested in a partner?”

Hux looped his arm through hers. “Why, yes. Thank you.”

They went together onto the floor, and Hux didn’t waste a moment. He spun Phasma around once, then into his arms. The steps were fast, but they fell into them easily. Phasma was a keen dancer, following Hux’s lead without a problem.

“So,” she said as they shimmied and swung around each other, “I hear your lads did well up there today. Shot down some Jerries.”

“They did. I took one of them myself.”

Phasma looked duly impressed. “Well, well, Squadron Leader. Congratulations.” She slipped under his arm and spun on her toe. “Though I should have thought you might let the others do the shooting and get their glory.”

Hux shot her a wry look. “I was simply in the position to take a shot. I’m not about to waste that.”

“Of course not,” said Phasma, clearly teasing him. She knew the egos of pilots and how much it mattered to shoot down an enemy, even if they claimed it was all part of their duty. Hux couldn’t lie about that. “Are you proud of them?” she asked.

“Immensely,” Hux replied as he lifted their joined hands above their heads, turned them around back-to-back, and then ‘round front again.

“Did you tell them that?”

He cocked a brow. “Yes, I did.”

“Good,” Phasma said. “They should know they’re doing right.”

They went back into the dance full force, both having to concentrate on the quick steps as they navigated around the other couples. Hux spotted Wexley and Taylor and their partners, two pretty girls with chestnut brown hair who looked to be twins. He could only tell them apart by the color of their dresses. Crowe and Ward, true to their word, were dancing as well, and exchanged a few hard looks and words as they competed against each other. Shorty Putnam was in the arms of a girl who stood almost a head taller than him. To see him dancing with Phasma, who would have towered over him, would have been even more entertaining. Hux resolved to put her up to it later in the evening.

The Mills brothers were on opposite ends of the hall, Lewis sipping a cup of punch as he talked to a young lady in a green top and grey skirt, and Brewster lindy-hopping with his round-faced partner near where the band was playing. Strickland had one girl on each arm, dancing in a circle around him. He looked quite pleased with himself. Gilbert and Meltsa were nearby, focused on their own partners. Hux saw Poe just a few couples away from him and Phasma. He was dancing with Rey, who was laughing at something he had said. She looked fetching in a green dress with a wide skirt that flared out when she spun, baring her slender calves and knees.

“Do you see Solo?” Hux asked of Phasma, realizing he wasn’t on the floor with the others.

Phasma hopped into the next step. “Who?”

“Ben Solo, one of my pilot officers. I know he’s here, I just…” He cast a glance around, finally alighting on a shadowed corner of the room by a line of unoccupied chairs. Ben had worked himself into it, leaning with hunched shoulders against the wall.

“Oh, I’ve seen that one,” said Phasma. “He’s a favorite of Thanisson’s ground crew. Heard he has a hand with the kites.”

“He does,” Hux said. “I’ve seen it firsthand.”

Phasma gave an acknowledging hum. “Not much of a dancer, though?” She narrowed her eyes, almost predatory. “Is he shy? I so love making the shy ones dance.”

Hux chuckled. “Perhaps you should go ask him, then.”

“Perhaps I will. When I’m done with you.” She spun him once under her arm and then turned under his. He grinned.

When the song ended, the band leader let his players take a few breaths before he launched them into the next piece. Hux took Phasma’s hand and brushed a dry-lipped kiss to the knuckles.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said. She nodded and headed off to find a new partner. For the next song, Hux found himself with a slip of a girl with freckles across her long nose. She was followed by a stockier young woman in pink, after whom came a pretty girl with blond hair in waves down to her shoulders.

Hux could feel the sweat at his back after the latest dance ended, his skin hot under his woolen uniform. A cup of the punch was looking especially enticing just then. He cut across the dancefloor to the table and ladled some into a glass. It wasn’t quite as sweet as the stuff he had been served at his mother’s parties as a boy, but it was cool, and that was enough.

“What is that?”

Hux looked up to see Ben Solo standing on the opposite side of the table, eyeing the punch dubiously. “A fruit cocktail of a sort,” Hux said. He took a sip, rolling it around in his mouth and over his tongue. “No champagne in this one, but a nip of something with alcohol. Strawberry and orange. A hint of sugar. It’s good. Try it.”

Ben filled a glass halfway and took a careful drink. He didn’t immediately grimace.

“What do you think?” Hux asked.

“It’s all right,” Ben replied with a shrug. But he took another sip.

Hux hid his amusement in his own glass. “What do you think of the party? Do you dance?”

Ben’s expression soured. “Not really.”

“Ah, I see. Well, there is certainly someone here who can teach you.” He tipped his glass toward the corner where Ben had been lurking before. “You needn’t stay at the side all night.”

Ben’s gaze followed Hux’s hand and then snapped back to the dancefloor. “It looks hard.”

“It isn’t really,” said Hux, “once you get the basic steps down. Perhaps Phasma could show you…”

“You could show me.” The intensity was back in his eyes, and he stared fixedly at Hux.

“I suppose I could,” Hux said, slowly. “Though it would be more appropriate if we found you a proper partner. Someone who knows how to follow. I can only lead, I’m afraid.” That much was true, but it wasn’t difficult to reverse the steps in order to teach someone else. Hux was concerned more with the appearance of it all. Two men were not supposed to be partnered, especially not when there were so many young ladies whose husbands, sweethearts, and brothers were gone at the front.

Looking out at the floor, Hux searched for Phasma’s familiar face. It was Rey he found first. “Ah, there!” he said. “Miss Rey looks to be quite light on her feet. Let’s ask her to show you.”

“No,” Ben grumbled.

Hux’s brows drew in. “Why not? She’s perfectly amiable.”

“I don’t want to learn. I don’t need to.” He sullenly drained the rest of his glass of punch.

“Are you embarrassed?” Hux asked.

“Maybe,” Ben said, chewing his lower lip. He looked uncomfortable enough that Hux actually felt for him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised; Ben wasn’t one for crowds even at the airfield.

“All right, then,” said Hux, setting down his glass. “Come with me.” Ben gave him a quizzical look, but put down his own empty glass and went with Hux toward the entrance to the building.

It was blessedly cool and dry outside, a good respite from the stifling air of the hall. The town square lay around them, a neatly cobbled street with a fountain at the center. It wasn’t running, but Hux assumed the water sprang from the mouth of the rabbit at its top and fell down into the three tiers below. It likely would have filled the empty square with pleasant, tinkling splashes.

The music from inside was muted, but still clear enough to be heard. That would be enough for Hux’s purposes. Making his way into the shadows beyond the door, he gestured for Ben to come.

“Stand here,” he said, pointing to the space just in front of him.

Ben stopped a pace or two away, uncertain. Hux reached out and pulled him by the sleeve of his jacket until he came closer, close enough to dance.

“There,” Hux said. “We don’t have to be as near as we might for a waltz, but you can’t stand across the room.”

Surprise flashed across Ben’s face. “You’re going to teach me to dance?”

“If you won’t countenance anyone else, then yes.” Hux meant to tease, but Ben lowered his gaze bashfully. Hux resisted the urge to chuck him under the chin and lift his face, instead clearing his throat. “I understand not wanting to start from scratch with so many people watching. I imagine it will be easier for you out here.”

Ben nodded.

“Excellent,” said Hux. “We’ll have you out on the floor with the best of them in no time.” He held out his left hand. Ben blinked at it for a beat and then slid his into it. His fingers were warm, filling Hux’s palm. Hux shifted their positions until his own hand was resting in Ben’s grip. “Don’t hold too tightly. Just enough for me to have a guide. You’ll be leading.”

Ben loosened his hold some, brushing his thumb over the side of Hux’s hand. “Like that?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Now, we’ll start with footwork. It’s a simple triple step. Have you ever heard of that before?”

Ben shook his head.

“It’s like this,” Hux said. He counted, “step, step, tr-i-ple step,” as he moved his feet in the pattern, starting on the left. To Ben: “Can you do that starting on the right foot?”

His first attempt was unsure and a little clumsy, so Hux showed him again, counting as Ben took the steps. He did much better the second and third time around.

Satisfied, Hux said, “Very good. Now, let’s get moving. Start with a step back with your left leg.” As Ben moved back, Hux stepped forward on his right leg, keeping them close. “Now step in and to the left with your right foot.” Ben complied, allowing Hux to step with his left into the space Ben had made for him. “You’ll come around me now, but…” He took hold of Ben’s free hand and set it at his side and up to his back. “Hold here and turn me with you.”

They made a slow, insecure turn as Hux talked Ben through every fall of his feet. He trod on Hux’s more than once, but began to pick it up steadily. Soon enough, he was leading Hux through the basic form of the dance, without any turns or other frills. Hux wasn’t having the easiest time of it himself, having never followed before; he more than once ruined their work by trying to do the lead’s part.

Despite the strangeness of the unfamiliar role, Hux fell into the rhythm and let it carry him. He called the steps and Ben followed them. Ben caught and released him as he did his first experimental spin, Ben’s free hand landing firmly on Hux’s back when he returned to his arms. Hux laughed at their success, and Ben smiled in return.

“Do you think you can take it up to full tempo?” Hux asked as they danced at half-time. “Nothing flashy, I promise, just faster.”

“I’ll try,” Ben replied. “Will you keep saying what I’m supposed to do?”

“Of course.” They paused, got with the music, and Hux counted off: “Five, six, seven, eight, and step back…”

Ben managed the first turn without trouble, but stumbled as Hux came around again. “Shit,” he snarled, pulling up short.

“It’s all right,” said Hux. “Just start again. Count with me.”

Together, they narrated the dance, voices rising and falling against the sprightly tempo of the music. They were in the middle of a spin when it came to an abrupt halt. Ben froze, but Hux guided him through the last part of the step, until they finished standing across from each other, hand-in-hand.

“Well done,” said Hux. “I think you’ve got the feel for it now. Would you care to try your hand with one of the ladies inside?”

Ben’s grip on his hands tightened minutely. “I can’t really do it if you don’t tell me what I’m supposed to do. I’d forget. But…” He sucked his lower lip into his mouth. “You want to go back in and dance, right? Not stay out here with me...like this.”

Hux had been looking forward to a night on the floor, but he had been enjoying his lesson, too. Ben wasn’t as quick on his feet as he was in the cockpit, and yet he moved well and would more than likely make a very good partner with a little practice. And there was the timid expression on his face in that moment; it kept Hux rooted to the spot, unable to leave until it was gone.

“I’ll stay,” Hux said. “At least for a little while longer.”

Ben’s lips curled up, the lower just slightly red and bitten. Hux’s attention lingered a sight too long there before he grinned and set up his frame for another dance. The lively tunes didn’t start again, though. Instead, the lonesome call of a trumpet sounded, followed by the crooning trombone. The tempo remained slow and doleful.

“Are we going to start?” Ben asked.

“This is a different dance,” Hux replied. It was meant to be a pause in the liveliness, for the intimacy that only dancefloors afforded the young people who could otherwise not hold each other so close. Hux felt the stroke of a soft thumb against his hand.

“Can you teach me that, too?” said Ben, quietly.

A prickling sensation of awareness passed through Hux, drawing his attention to all the places where Ben touched him, of how near they were to each other. The buttons of Ben’s jacket would catch the light just so when he inhaled, and there were callouses at the places where his fingers met his palms, but otherwise his hands were smooth. Hux could smell his soap—standard issue—and the aftershave had had apparently borrowed from someone else. His jaw was smooth and clean, save for a small cut. Hux trembled with the sudden desire to press his lips there, to soothe the broken skin with his tongue.

“Hux.”

His name sounded far away, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. Ben was studying his face, his eyes dark and lips parted. Hux watched them move as he spoke again.

“Please show me.”

“All right,” Hux said. He raised Ben’s right hand to his waist, setting it there before laying his own along Ben’s shoulder. He positioned their opposite hands for a proper partner dance. “This is the foxtrot. It’s slow, not difficult. Start with your left foot back.”

Ben obeyed him as he described the steps. His movements were jerky and far from graceful, but Hux held him steady and talked him through all of it until they found a rhythm. The brass from inside wailed mournfully as they moved in the half-lit street. Ben danced with his head down, as most beginners did, but he didn’t resist when Hux cupped his chin with his left hand and raised his face.

“Eyes here,” Hux said. “Don’t look at your feet.”

Ben did as he was told, holding Hux’s gaze. His fingers dug into Hux’s waist, as if to pull him closer. On his next step, Hux moved in, closing the distance between them. He expected Ben to withdraw slightly, but he didn’t. He held Hux to him.

Hux’s throat felt tight, but around it he said, “You did an exceptional thing today, in the air.”

“I know,” said Ben.

Hux scoffed at the cheeky reply. “But it was unthinking. You lost your wingman and stole a kill from Poe. He would have had that Jerry if you gave him thirty more seconds.”

Ben’s nostrils flared. “He wasn’t fast enough. I was. It was my kill.”

“It was, yes. But you took a great risk to get there. If Poe had been too close to you and unable to pull up—”

“I wouldn’t have hit him.”

“I believe you, but you have to realize that you put others in danger when you fly without thinking of anything but your kill. You have a wingman and a squadron to support you. Use them.”

Ben looked over Hux’s shoulder and away.

Hux sighed. “I don’t mean to criticize you unduly. I only want to make the best pilot of you that I can. And to do that I have to think of the rest of my men as well.”

“I know,” Ben said again, though this time softer. “I’ll try harder.”

“Your effort isn’t in question.”

Ben huffed. “You know what I meant. I’ll try to do what you tell me to. Stay with Shorty, fly with the squadron.”

“Thank you,” said Hux, squeezing Ben’s shoulder. “It will make us all the stronger.”

With a last trumpet crescendo, the music faded out. Hux and Ben slowed and then stopped, but didn’t yet step away from each other.

“You’ll be very good at this if you keep practicing,” Hux said.

“Will you dance with me again?” asked Ben.

Hux smiled, letting his hand fall from Ben’s shoulder. “I will certainly consider it, but we should go back in.”

Ben caught his arm as he turned to go. “Thank you for showing me.”

“You’re welcome, Ben.”

Side-by-side, they returned the crowded assembly hall.

Chapter Text

A commander learned early never to underestimate the value of leave. Good company, dancing, and drink always put a squadron in good spirits. Even three days after the dance in town, the 363 were still feeling their oats. They held their heads high as they paraded around the airfield, bragging openly about their exploits in the air. Snoke had made good on his promise to put them in the rotation for fighter sweeps, and they had been flying at least one every few days, between longer bomber runs. They didn’t always get the Germans to take the bait or succeed in bringing down enemy aircraft, but they flew with greater determination and skill every day.

So too did they learn the perils of combat. In a skirmish along the French coastline, a patrol of Messerschmitts had caught them off guard and taken shots at Gilbert and Strickland. They had both come back with bullet holes in their aircraft, but the damage hadn’t been severe enough to bring either of them down. Thanisson and the ground crew had pulled both kites into the hangar to patch their wounds and get them back in fighting form. Gilbert complained of his new kite sticking on the turns, but he flew it anyway.

Despite their increasing age and wear, the Hurricanes were still performing up to standard. Hux would have preferred the more agile Spitfire, but it didn’t seem likely that Wolcastle would be reequipped with them anytime soon. A valuable installation though the field may have been, it didn’t see as much action as those in No. 11 Group. The Hurricanes were more than adequate for the roles of the squadrons in No. 12.

“Well, we make do with what we’ve got,” said Alistair Barlow when Hux mentioned the matter that afternoon at lunch. He had been invited to join the two other squadron leaders for the meal and a bit of a conference. Next to Hux was Charles Chapman, commander of the 222.

“We flew Spits at Wimbish,” Chapman said, neatly slicing a bit of meat on his plate. “They remained there for the squadron that took our place.” He pinched his mouth sourly as he chewed. “It took a bit of adjustment for my men to accustom themselves to a slower machine.”

“That can be said for any new aircraft one flies,” said Hux. “Each has its own attitude.”

Chapman sniffed. “Perhaps, but there is something to be said for taking a step down in performance.”

“Come now, Charles,” Barlow said. “Don’t disparage your kites. They might overhear you and take it to heart. They do have such fragile constitutions.”

Chapman rolled his eyes. Hux stifled a laugh, taking a bite of his potatoes. He had grown to like Barlow; he had a way about him that put everyone at ease. Hux had even gone so far as to invite him to give a lecture on advanced aerobatics in close combat situations for the 363, and it had been well-received by the men. They were on good terms with most of the pilots in 129 Squadron now, even after their joke with the newspapers. They had been paid back in full when the 129 had covered their briefing room in red and yellow crêpe paper.

“Where did they find all this?” Poe had asked as he stood in the doorway, looking over the crisscross of paper around the room.

“The shop in town, I’d imagine,” Hux had said. “Though they must have been planning this for some time if they went out of their way to buy all of it. It couldn’t have come cheaply.”

Poe had shaken his head. “Vengeance is sweet. This is going to take a couple of hours to clean up.”

“Get a few of the others and it should go quickly enough.” Hux had clasped his hands behind his back, taking a step away. “I would offer to help, but I have quite a bit of pressing paperwork to take care of.”

“Sure you do,” Poe had said, disbelieving. “But go to it, sir.”

His reports could have waited until the evening, but he reasoned that he hadn’t been party to the prank on the 129 and could safely escape the repercussions.

“So, tell us, Hux,” said Barlow, waving his fork and bringing Hux’s attention back to the table, “do you have a clever shooter amongst your men? Someone who will be...what do the Americans call it? An ace?”

Hux had heard the term before, but it was not used by English pilots. If he remembered correctly, it implied a certain number of kills, but he wasn’t sure how many.

“I have high hopes for one or two of them,” he said. Those who came most readily to mind were Ben Solo and William Taylor.

Barlow nodded, approving. “Well, they have a good teacher. You’ve got a Flying Cross, haven’t you?”

“I do, yes.”

“Damn impressive, that.”

Hux inclined his his head. “Thank you. It was hard-won.”

“No doubt,” said Chapman, terse. “I know many a man with whom I flew during the Battle that deserved the same recognition.”

“Thinking perhaps of yourself?” Hux asked, sharply.

Chapman scowled. “I wouldn’t presume such a thing. I was thinking only of my brave comrades-in-arms.”

Hux took a prim sip of wine. “Of course.”

“Fortunately you still have your chance,” said Barlow, patting Chapman on the back amiably. “Did you not bring down an Fw 190 just last week? Devil of a feat.”

The Focke-Wulf Fw 190 was the vicious counterpart to the Messerschmitt, deadly at lower to medium altitudes, and a brutal interceptor. The 363 had yet to encounter a flight of them, but Hux was wary of what would happen when they did.

“One,” Chapman said, lifting his chin slightly, “and peppered another before my guns were spent.”

“Very impressive,” Hux said, though the earnestness was forced. Chapman didn’t look convinced of it, either.

“Ah, nothing like the thrill of the kill,” Barlow sighed. He leaned on his hand with a wistful look in his eyes. “My men have been stealing them right out from under me for months. I’m glad to see them do it, but I wouldn’t mind having one of my own one of these days. Brings a man’s spirits right down.”

Chapman pressed his lips together until they whitened. “No sense in moping about it, Alistair.”

“I am certainly not doing that,” said Barlow. There was an edge to his voice that was unlike his usual pleasant bluster. Hux didn’t fault him for it; Chapman could be a bit of bastard at times, and he made no effort to apologize, simply turning back to the last of his food.

They finished the meal with innocuous talk about the news from France and Russia, leaving the topics of their squadrons and personal records behind. Healthy competition was to be expected, but Chapman’s attitude was hard to stomach. When Hux returned to his quarters some time later, he peeked into the case that held his Distinguished Flying Cross with a touch of smugness.

He was just tucking it away when Sergeant Mitaka rapped on the frame of the open door. “Post for you, sir,” he said. In his hand was a cream-colored envelope. Hux easily recognized the elegant writing of the address. It read Armitage Hux, Wolcastle Airfield, Norfolk, in his mother’s hand.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said as he took it. The paper was of fine linen. “Please see to it that I’m not disturbed for the next hour, unless we are disbursed or the matter is of dire importance.”

“Of course, sir.” Mitaka backed out of the room, closing the door behind him with a click of the latch.

Hux ran his thumb along the top of the envelope. It was curved just slightly from the thickness of the folded letter inside. He had last written to his parents on the fourteenth of September, five days after he had arrived at Wolcastle. It had provided them with the location of his new posting for the direction of their letters and had given some of his first impressions. He had told them of his promotion and of his unconventional squadron.

His correspondence was always cursory; he deliberately left out any narratives of combat or mentions of the fallen. There was no delicate way to address either, and his mother was not to be burdened with those matters. She had wholly forbidden Brendol from telling war stories at the dinner table, no matter the guests. Those tales were relegated to the library, where the men would retire for cigars and brandy after the meal was done.

As a boy, Hux hadn’t been party to those conversations, but his father had still managed to find ample time to share his tales with his son. Hux knew all about the gallantry of the cavalry and how warfare had become honorless with the advent of the machine gun and mustard gas.

One of the gas masks worn by Brendol’s horse during the war still hung in the tack room of the stables, forgotten and collecting dust, but otherworldly to a young Hux. The bulbous eye shields were yellowed with age and use, as if jaundiced, and the canvas of the mask itself hung limp like empty skin. Two filters were attached at the nose, meant to guard the horse’s mouth and nostrils from the deadly gas. The apparatus wasn’t in itself frightening, but the effect of it, staring out at Hux like a ghoul from the shadows behind the disused saddles, had been enough to invade his dreams. He had imagined a towering white horse with the mask over its face chasing him across a field of barbed wire, its hooves landing with heavy thunks on the bodies of men who lay dead in No Man’s Land. He hadn’t seen such things firsthand, but his father had told him of them. They had been, in small part, why he had turned to flying instead of the army.

Going to his desk, he sat at the edge of the straight-backed chair and reached for the letter opener. He sliced tidily through the top of the envelope and drew out the letter. The handwriting inside matched that on the envelope, a loopy cursive slanted to the right, just as his mother’s tutors had taught her as a child. Thumbing the corner to count the pages—there were five—Hux sat back to read.

Dearest Armitage,

My darling, I hope this finds you well. First, I must offer you our sincerest congratulations on your promotion. At last you have a squadron of your own. Has that not always been your aspiration? Your father and I could not be more proud of you. When the Abbots came to join us for dinner a week past, we told them of it and toasted to your success. Miss Abigail was very taken with the notion. You’ll remember her, of course, our neighbors’ pretty daughter. She was quite insistent that you come by for tea when next you’re home. I’d imagine with a new squadron to lead you will not be given leave in the near future, but do consider visiting when you have the opportunity. We miss you, my dear.

You must tell us all about these Americans. They’re called Eagles, you said? How quaint and patriotic. And yet they serve His Majesty. Were they made to kneel and take their oaths of service, as you did? I admit, these matters are quite difficult for me to understand, but your father is interested in an explanation if you have one to offer.

At first, Hux had assumed the very same thing about the Eagles. All the men of the RAF declared themselves as servants of His Majesty when they took their commissions. It seemed only natural that the Americans would do the same, but Hux had discovered that doing so would have required them to forfeit their their citizenship. To avoid that complicated matter, it had been decided that they could serve without swearing themselves to the Crown.

There were some that disliked the policy, arguing that the Americans were not loyal to the cause without a formal declaration, but most seemed to accept it—as much as the Eagles were accepted, that is. They were still considered by some to be attention-seeking interlopers. Hux disagreed. Despite their loud manner and their propensity to appear without their proper uniforms, they were stalwart fighters, as bold as any Englishman.

Turning back to the letter, Hux flipped to the next page and read on. The topic changed from there, moving on to matters in Surrey, from a friend's son getting married in the small church in town to the weather and the number of mares Brendol had had bred that summer. He didn’t keep a large stable for breeding, but every year he raised and broke two or three foals to saddle. They no longer went to the cavalry—there was none anymore—but they were purchased at high prices by those in the countryside who still rode.

The letter concluded with well-wishes and more requests for Hux to come home. It had been nearly a year since he had been back. His most recent leaves had been spent with his squadron-mates in London, visiting the pubs and spending their meager pay on indulgences like cuts of meat and the rare sweet cake. They would stay out to all hours, drinking and dancing. By the time they got back to the airfield, more than half of them would be fighting off the effects of the drink. A few minutes with the pure oxygen they used when they flew, though, would set them straight again.

That, fortunately, had not been necessary after the dance in Wolcastle. The punch had hardly been strong enough to muddle a man’s head, let alone lay him up with a hangover. Hux had only had one glass, too: that which he had enjoyed before he had taken Ben Solo outside to dance.

They had gone into each other’s arms so readily, Ben with his hand at Hux’s waist and Hux’s resting on his shoulder, close enough to his neck that he could feel the soft ends of his hair. It had been strange for Hux to take the follower’s role, but there was a lulling calm about it that he had never experienced before. It would have been easy to lean his head on Ben’s shoulder and give himself over to the lead.

That tranquility had gone, though, when they returned to the assembly hall. Hux had gone again to the dance floor and spun his partners handily, but his gaze had drifted again and again to the corner where Ben stood alone in the shadows. And he was being watched in return. Ben stared with that now-familiar ferocity, looking through anyone else but Hux. It should have been disconcerting, but Hux found himself moving sinuously through the dances, displaying his skill. It was meant to captivate, to keep Ben’s attention on him. It never once wavered, and satisfaction had raced through Hux’s veins.

Had he had the choice, he would have gone and pulled Ben onto the floor with him, giving him a taste of the joy of it, but years of fearful caution won out. They could not be seen together without setting tongues wagging, even if it was only to laugh. Hux would not endanger Ben for the sake of his own desire.

Hux put his mother’s letter down and scrubbed his hands over his face. He forced himself to school his thoughts, as he had long ago learned to do when his feelings got the better of him. A bit steadier, he reached into the drawer of his desk and produced his stationery. With the fountain pen that his mother had given him, he began to compose a reply to her.

He went undisturbed for the rest of the hour, but come five o’clock he was called to the hangar to join a bomber squadron for a run over France. It was uneventful, as most of them were, and he returned to Wolcastle pleased with the 363’s performance. He taxied back to Hangar Three, saw the wheels of his plane chocked, and cut the engine.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Thanisson, who was standing next to the wing when Hux jumped down to the ground. “Any matters of maintenance to report on the kite?”

“None at the moment,” Hux said. “She’s flying perfectly well.” He laid a hand on Thanisson’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you.”

The rigger gave him a half-smile and left. Hux adjusted his parachute over his shoulder and started toward the hangar, where he could drop it until the next flight. His pilots followed him. They were rather subdued, very much used to this work.

“Off to dinner, then, boys?” Gilbert said, breaking the humdrum silence.

“Thank God,” Strickland sighed. “I could eat a horse.”

Wexley made a face, somewhere between grimace and shock. “Is it true that the French really eat horse meat? I heard that, but I didn’t believe it.”

“They do indeed,” said Hux as he dropped his parachute into its place on the nearby rack. “It’s quite common.”

“Have you had it, sir?” Wexley asked, wide-eyed.

Hux shook his head. “My father is very fond of horses, and I couldn’t bring myself to try it.”

“Give me an old-fashioned steak anytime,” said Taylor. “My granddaddy had a whole spread with a thousand head of longhorn cattle. We ate beef fixed in every way you could think of.”

Lewis Mills whistled through his teeth. “Oh, Lord in Heaven, I’d give just about anything for a piece of beef. All the vegetable stew we’ve been eating barely stays in the stomach more than an hour.” He grabbed at his middle. “I’m skinnier than a bear in the wintertime.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” his brother Brewster laughed. He elbowed Lewis in the arm. “You were looking a little round before we left.”

Lewis grabbed him around the neck and mussed his hair. “What do you know, you little shit?”

Hux smiled at them. “Well, come along then and eat something.”

Lewis released his brother and shoved him toward the hangar door. Brewster stumbled forward a step, laughing. The rest of the squadron shuffled along after them as they made their way toward the mess.

When they entered, their joviality faltered. The mood in the mess was usually light and pleasant, but now a creeping quiet pervaded the hall. Any conversations being had were murmured. Heads were close together to confer without disturbing the tenor of solemnity. The Eagles fell silent, looking around with concern.

Hesitantly, Hux approached the nearest table, where several of the men from the 129 were seated. They regarded him steadily as he joined them. There were several bowls and plates on the table, but they weren’t passed to him.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

The man beside him—young with a black mustache and deep-set brown eyes—pressed his lips together, but then spoke in a hushed tone: “The 222 lost three this morning over the Channel.”

Hux flinched. “So many?”

The man gave a brief nod.

“Who were they?”

“Alexander, Middleton, and Bartleby.”

Hux had a vague memory of speaking to men by those names at dinner some time past, but he couldn’t have placed their faces. Now they were gone.

Across the mess, he could see several of the men of the 222 sitting at the far table. A few of them were eating, but they were glassy-eyed and distant. One man had his head down on his folded arms. The pilot beside him rested a hand on his back.

The news slowly made the rounds of the tables, and Hux could see the faces of his men fall. Gilbert made the sign of the cross over his chest. In all the weeks since they had arrived at Wolcastle, no one had yet been killed, and the war had still seemed like a romantic adventure; but now they were faced with the truth of it.

Though Hux had dealt with death often enough to grow accustomed to losing men in combat, his appetite disappeared. Still, he forced himself to reach for the bowl of boiled potatoes and the thinly sliced pork loin on the nearest tray. Both were cold, but he ate them anyway.

When he had finished, he rose. He paused by the table where most of the 363 sat together. “I’d like you to come to the briefing room this evening at nine,” he said. “We have things to discuss.”

“We’ll be there, sir,” Poe said.

True to his word, he led them into the small building at the appointed time.

“Good evening,” Hux said, sitting at the edge of the table at the front of the room. “I don’t have a lesson planned tonight. Instead, I’d like to discuss your flying and what elements you believe you could improve. Any small mistake can bring you down. I want you to understand your strengths and weaknesses so that you can improve upon them.” He looked over them steadily. Their expressions were glum. “Who would like to begin?”

Crowe, who had, two days prior, brought his aircraft back to the field with quite a bit of damage, spoke up first: “I, uh, think I’m not so good at my rolls, sir. I don’t get into and out of them fast enough. I bet a Jerry could hit me pretty easy.”

“That’s a good place to start,” said Hux. “Why do you think speed is your problem?”

“Well…” Crowe scratched the back of his neck. “I’m maybe not so good at gauging how far to push the stick before I need to stop. I tend to...what’s that you called it, sir? Overcorrect?”

Hux grasped his knee with both hands, leaning back slightly. “Indeed. And I believe that’s something we worked on in training. But you haven’t mastered it?”

Crowe chewed his cheek. “I could always get better, sir.”

“We all could,” said Strickland. He glanced around at the others. “We’re good at what we do, boys, but if we want to be real aces, we’ve got work to do yet.”

“I’m glad you recognize that,” Hux said. “What do you believe you could best improve, Clifford?”

Strickland listed a number of faults in remarkable detail. He did not hold back for the sake of his pride. After he had finished, the rest of the men were more forthcoming with their own missteps. Hux gave critiques and suggestions, even drawing diagrams on the blackboard to illustrate maneuvers; they were crude, but they got the point across.

At the conclusion of the hour, he took his place on the table again, saying, “I’d like to take you all up individually again. We don’t have much time for it, but it would be of use. I will request permission for it between our other assignments come tomorrow.” He rubbed his chalky hands together. “Now, go get some rest. You are dismissed.”

The men filed out quietly, but Hux stayed to clean the blackboard. He thought a little about how he might structure the aerobatics lessons to fit the needs of each of them. He would have to make notes the next day after he spoke to Snoke about more air time. Fuel and the risk of having a squadron leader away from the field for a good part of the day would have to be taken into account, but it had been permitted in the past. If Hux could make the case that it would make better pilots of the Eagles, he was certain Snoke would accept it.

He was just finishing sweeping the blackboard clean when he heard the scuffing of boots behind him. Setting the eraser down, he turned to see Ben Solo standing at the center of the room. Hux’s stomach tightened.

“Ben,” he said, just a bit strained. “Is there something you needed?”

Ben shifted his weight between his feet uneasily. “Not...exactly,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wrinkled pack of cigarettes. “I was going to take a walk. I thought maybe you’d…”

Hux’s brows rose in surprise. It had been some time since he had gone out to the hangar in the evening for a cigarette or two and run into Ben there. He hadn’t thought much about it, in fact, but now, faced again with the prospect, he wished he had done it more.

When Hux didn’t immediately reply, Ben lowered his gaze to the pack of cigarettes in his hand. “Never mind,” he said. “You have things to do. Reports. I’ll just go.” He took a few steps toward to door.

“No, wait,” Hux said, holding out a hand. “I would gladly join you.”

Ben seemed to release the tension he had been holding in his shoulders. There was a relieved, upward curve to his lips as he said, “Okay.”

Hux’s own mouth bowed up. He gestured to the door. “Shall we, then?”

Ben took the lead, passing out into the night beyond the threshold. Hux flicked off the light as he followed and shut the door behind him. It was dark outside, the moon obscured by clouds, but he could see well enough as his eyes adjusted. He went to reach into his jacket for his cigarette case, but Ben tapped one out of his pack and offered it to him. It was slightly bent, Hux saw, from being crammed into Ben’s pocket. Hux went to straighten it, but it broke in a shower of tobacco.

“Shit,” Ben said. “I’ll get you another one.”

Hux produced his case. “No need.” Ben sheepishly took a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. He struck a match and lit it before offering the flame to Hux. Hux ignited the end, drawing in the first breath of smoke. He held it in for a moment before blowing it out through his nose.

By tacit agreement, he and Ben set off at a slow walk toward the hangar.

“You were very quiet tonight,” Hux said after they had gone a few paces from the briefing room.

Ben exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Didn’t have anything to say.”

“You mean you made no mistakes during the past few runs?”

“Not many,” Ben said, unaffected.

“Really?” said Hux. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.”

It could have been the case, but Hux had little evidence to support the claim. It wasn’t always possible to decipher which pilots were where during combat, and Hux was focused on his own work rather than the performance of the others. He knew, though, that Ben had shot down a second Messerschmitt since his first on their initial sweep. He was the only pilot in the squadron who had made more than one kill. However, Shorty Putnam had mentioned that evening that his mistakes included not staying with his wingman. Hux surmised that that was not his fault; Ben was still leaving him behind.

“No flight is ever perfect,” Hux said, stern.

“Not even yours?” Ben asked.

“Of course not. I am not infallible. I have faults in my habits just as any other man does.”

“You didn’t talk about them tonight, either.” He looked over at Hux darkly. “How is that different from what I did?”

“A fair point,” said Hux. “Would you like to hear them now? Would that appease you?”

“I don’t need to be ‘appeased,’” Ben grumbled. “I don’t care what you did wrong. You still fly better than anyone else I’ve ever seen.”

Hux balked at the unexpected compliment. “I...thank you.”

Ben took a long drag from his cigarette. “What was your training like?”

Hux had never talked in detail to anyone in the squadron about his formal education. He had discussed the practical matters of what he had learned, styles and skills, but never where or when he had learned to fly. It hadn’t been relevant to any of the lessons he had taught or conversations he had had with the men. Part of him liked to preserve the mystery, allowing them to think that he had always known what he knew, but he had no real reason to hide it.

“I was trained at Oxford,” he said, “in the University Air Squadron. I was eighteen years old when I first got into a trainer, the de Havilland Tiger Moth.”

“I’ve seen those,” said Ben. “Two-seater biplanes. Ancient now.”

Hux tried to not take offense; he had been fond of his Tiger Moth. “Indeed they are, but they were excellent for mastering the basics. We learned aerobatics in them and honed our reflexes. It wasn’t ideal, perhaps, but for young pilots, they were enough.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t good planes,” Ben said gruffly. “One of the barnstormers my dad used to fly with had one. I flew it once when I was just learning.”

“And how did you find it?”

“Finicky. It wasn’t the easiest to fly. It actually took a good pilot to keep it from acting up.”

Hux chuckled. “That’s true enough. Not just anyone could put it through its paces. I found that out quickly when I first started in it. There was little room for error when it came to aerobatics. A few of the cadets left the squadron when they couldn’t master it.”

“But you did,” said Ben.

“Yes.” Hux took a last pull from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and pausing to stamp it out. “I was at the top of my class.” It was arrogant, perhaps, to say it so plainly, but it was true, and Hux had worked hard to earn that rank.

“What happened after you finished school?” Ben asked. “You were, what, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one,” Hux replied. “And once I completed my course at university, I went to the Royal Air Force College at Cranwell. All the young officer candidates received their advanced training there. It’s closed now. Some are still trained on the same field, but the curriculum is no longer taught.”

“The what?” said Ben, taking a battered cigarette from his pack and lighting it.

“What we learned, the lessons in flight mechanics and physics. Some of the things I’ve taught you here; the maths of it all.”

Ben hummed contemplatively. “How long were you there?”

“Two years,” Hux said. “Some remained for three, but I was commissioned before that mark.”

“Were you the best there, too?” His tone wasn’t condescending, as Hux might have imagined it would be. He said it frankly and with earnest curiosity.

Hux tucked a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket to retrieve another cigarette. “I was one of them. I went into the service as a pilot officer with accolades.”

“That’s the lowest rank for officers,” said Ben. “What they commissioned us as.”

“Yes. We all start there and work our way up. It is a privilege to be promoted.”

“When did you make flight lieutenant?”

“I was twenty-four,” Hux said. “That’s a rather average time for it. I had a good record, but that wasn’t particularly exceptional. But that was the year the war broke out. It gave me the opportunity to distinguish myself.”

“And you did.”

Hux made a sound of acknowledgment. They were approaching the hangar, the inside dark and the area around it deserted. The line of Hurricanes was just outside of it, the sight familiar and welcoming. Hux went to the nearest aircraft and reached out to touch a propeller blade.

“I flew my first Hurricane at Cranwell,” he said. “An earlier model than this, but it was still the most powerful machine I had ever been in. I knew I could never go back to the plodding trainers at Oxford.” He turned to look at Ben. “Don’t you agree?”

Ben nodded, coming up across from him to run his hand along the blade as well. His fingers brushed close to Hux’s. “It’s amazing,” he said. “Every time we go up. I could never go back, either.”

Hux’s gaze went to his face, watching the affectionate way he looked at the aircraft. “You have a gift, Ben. You shouldn’t go back. This is your place.”

There was a beat of silence, and then: “I don’t miss home,” Ben said. “I thought I would, but I don’t. Aside from the awful weather here, I like it.”

“Do you?” Hux asked, choosing to ignore the dig at the English climate. “I’m glad to hear that. Though…” He hesitated, concerned he was about to venture into territory that he should not. He asked anyway: “Do you not have someone in California waiting for you? A sweetheart, perhaps?”

“No,” Ben said sharply, expression hardening.

Hux shouldn’t have been relieved, but he was. “I see.”

Ben looked at him with disarming intensity. “Is there someone for you? A girl?” He sounded almost spiteful, accusatory.

“There is not,” said Hux. “There hasn’t been anyone in a long time.”

“Why?” Ben asked.

“Wartime isn’t exactly ideal for forming attachments, and I prefer to be in the sky more than anywhere else. Lovers require attention and time that I am reluctant to give.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it was the only excuse Hux could safely offer.

Ben raised his cigarette to his lips, taking a hurried drag. He flicked the ash away agitatedly. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve never had a sweetheart?” Hux asked, fighting to keep the surprise from his face. Ben may have had an unconventional look about him, but he was very striking. It was difficult to imagine that he had never been with anyone, even if he was shy and tended to keep to himself.

Ben touched the edge of the propeller blade, glancing away from Hux. “No. There’s never been anyone I wanted to…” He trailed off. Hux stayed quiet, waiting. “There were some girls who looked at me a certain way, whispered things about me, but I didn’t want them. I didn’t want anybody...before.” He looked up then.

Hux felt the burn of the smoke in his lungs as his breath stuck. Ben was so close, standing just half a pace away. Hux could easily reach a hand out and touch him, trace down his jaw to his lips. Hux’s fingers twitched as if compulsed to move toward him.

A stinging between them startled him, making him hiss in pain. “Damn,” he said, dropping the stub of the cigarette that had burned him. He brought his hand up to his mouth to suck on the damaged skin.

“You should run it under cold water,” said Ben as he discarded the butt of his own cigarette. “Over here.” There was a spigot at the side of the hangar. He turned it on, and water sputtered out.

Hux stuck his hand into it, sighing at the coolness. He let the water run over it for a minute or two before withdrawing. “It’s not too bad,” he said. “But that helped. Thank you.”

Ben shut off the water and stood up from his crouch. “Let me see.”

“Are you playing nurse, now?” Hux said, though he held out his hand to be inspected. Ben took it and lightly ran his thumb over the burn. Hux didn’t think it would blister, but it stung a little. “What’s your diagnosis, Matron Solo?”

Ben frowned at him, but his hold on Hux’s hand was gentle. “I think you’ll live.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Hux. “I was so very worried.”

Ben released him with a small smile. A curl of heat unfurled in Hux’s gut.

“We should go inside,” he said. “We’ll no doubt have early runs to fly in the morning.”

“Okay,” said Ben, though he made no move to go.

Hux reluctantly started back toward the barracks. Ben fell in beside him, and it didn’t escape his notice that he stayed close to enough that the backs of their hands occasionally brushed. Hux didn’t move away.

The bomber runs didn’t prove to be early the next day. After an undisturbed breakfast, the 363 went to the briefing room to await orders. Hux played a few rounds of cards with Taylor, Poe, and Strickland, losing quite spectacularly. As Clifford took the most recent pot—including all of Hux’s ante—Hux bowed as gracefully out as he could. He retired to a corner of the room with Herodotus for company.

He was just beginning the third book, concerning Cambyses of Persia’s attack on Egypt, when that air raid sirens began to blare. He knocked his chair to the ground as he jumped to his feet, nearly tripping over it as he made for the door.

“To your kites!” he called to the men. “Now!”

The personnel from all around the airfield were hurrying either to their hangars or into the trenches. Hux sprinted past them, long strides eating up the ground and carrying him toward his aircraft. Enemies had been detected on the radar several miles off the coast, but the pilots still had only three or four minutes to get into the air to counter the attack.

Hux’s lungs were burning as he skidded to a halt next to his kite. It was already running, and Thanisson was standing next to the wing with Hux’s parachute in his hands. Hux threw it over his shoulder and sprang up into the cockpit. On a bomber run or a sweep, he would have waited for the squadron to be fully assembled before taking off, but in these circumstances all that mattered was getting planes up. He did a hurried check of his systems before taxiing out of line and toward the runway.

There were four aircraft ahead of him, and from what he heard over the radio, they were part of the 129. They took off in pairs, one following close to the other. As Hux moved into the space they had vacated, he announced that he was going up, but didn’t wait for permission. He was engaging the throttle when another aircraft came up next to him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw that it was Poe.

“Damn good to see you, Dameron,” he said.

“Same to you, sir. Let’s go get some Jerries.”

They were just getting off the ground when someone cried out, “Attack! Attack! Attack!” Hux gave his aircraft more power and shot steeply up into the sky.

The fight had broken out at less than three thousand feet. Hux and Poe entered it from the left flank, taking off after an Fw 190 that was tearing past. Hux banked into a path to intercept, his thumb hovering over the trigger of his guns. Crossing into range, he fired.

Bullets cut through the air with a percussive rat-a-tat-tat. The first of them missed their mark, but Hux continued to shoot until he struck the 190 in the fuselage. The pilot turned sharply away, going into a dive. He left a trail of black smoke, but Hux knew it was only the exhaust from the engine. The 190s could fool a man with it.

Hux didn’t give chase. Either the German would disengage or he would fly into someone else’s line of fire. There were pilots who remained at a lower altitude to guard the airspace closer to Wolcastle. Hux turned his attention to the other 190s flitting across the sky.

He estimated that he had spent half of his ammunition, but that still gave him enough to put down an enemy if the shot was precise. However, Poe still had all of his rounds, and letting him take the lead was more sensible. Hux gave the command over the radio, slowing to allow Poe to pass him. He fell back enough to keep him in sight, but paid more attention to the surrounding area.

He grimaced as he saw a German open fire on a Hurricane, striking it. For a moment he thought the damage had been minor, but as he watched, the Hurricane heeled to port and then began to fall. Hux waited for the pilot to bail out, his parachute opening to carry him safely down, but it never came. The Hurricane struck the ground in a shower of dirt and flames.

“Dameron, get that bastard!” Hux cried.

Poe engaged, opening fire. The 190 went into a barrel roll to avoid the bullets. He wouldn’t be able to get away from all of them, but he had protected the most vital parts of the aircraft. Going into a loop, he got far enough ahead of Poe to get out of range.

“Shit,” Poe growled.

“I’ve got him,” said Hux. He turned and climbed, his Hurricane’s engine whining with the effort. The German was fast, but couldn’t see Hux approaching from below him. “Come on, come on,” Hux said.

He was so engrossed in the pursuit that he didn’t immediately see the 190 on his starboard side. It was just coming into range when he caught sight of it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of the way in time, so he braced himself for the hail of bullets.

It never came.

From five hundred feet above, a Hurricane swept into view and began to fire. The bullets cut right through the canopy of the 190, shattering the glass and killing the pilot inside. Hux’s thanks were on the tip of his tongue, but as he watched, the Hurricane didn’t let up firing even after he had hit the German, putting him directly into Poe’s path.

“I’m hit!” Poe said. “Going down.”

“Get out!” Hux yelled. “Get out now!”

Poe’s canopy flew back, caught in the racing wind. A moment later, the side door opened, and Poe threw himself out of the cockpit. He disappeared from Hux’s view, but Hux went into an inversion to find him again. His parachute was open, and he was drifting down.

“They’re disengaging,” said one of the other pilots—Barlow, Hux thought—over the radio. “Abney, Coburn, see them out.”

Two from the 129 peeled off to chase the 190s. They wouldn’t be able to reach them, but they would ensure that the Germans got away from the airfield and over the Channel back toward France.

“Let’s go home, lads,” Barlow said.

Hux turned back toward Wolcastle and tuned back into the field’s frequency. “Control, this is Red Leader. I need emergency retrieval for Flight Lieutenant Poe Dameron.” He gave the approximate coordinates he had seen on his gyro.

“Understood, Red Leader,” said the radio operator. “We’ll dispatch it immediately.”

By the time Hux had landed and taxied back to the hangar, he was seething. Poe could have easily been killed by the fool who had shot him down. It was true that that pilot had kept Hux from being struck, but he would rather have taken the fire and bailed out himself than watch Poe fall to one of his own comrades.

Hux was the last to arrive at the hangar. Several of the aircraft were still there, having not gotten up in time to join the fight. Their pilots were waiting to greet those who had returned. Fury burning through him, Hux kicked open the side door of his kite and jumped down. He stormed across to where the squadron was waiting, sans Poe.

“Who the hell took that shot?” Hux demanded, throwing his gear to the ground. “Who the fuck fired on a friendly target?” He glared at all of them, eyes aflame.

Most of the pilots looked lost, fearful, but not guilty. But then Ben Solo stepped forward.

“I did,” he said.

Hux nearly flinched, his anger suddenly shot with painful disappointment. Rage winning out, he crossed the distance between them and grabbed Ben by the lapels of his jacket. “You,” he snarled. “You could have killed him.”

Ben stared into Hux’s face, his expression stony. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to hit the Jerry that was—”

Hux shook him. “Shut your mouth! I don’t want to hear excuses, Solo. You are reckless and unthinking. Your stupidity has cost us a kite and could have taken the best pilot in this squadron down with it. How in the bloody hell are any of us supposed to trust you now, when you’ve done this?” He shoved Ben away from him.

Ben stumbled back, but when he regained his footing, he stood stock still, the muscles in his jaw straining as he clenched his teeth. “That bastard would have shot you,” he said. “You would have gone down.”

“And instead of allowing an enemy to hit me, you shot your own man out of the sky,” said Hux. He pointed a finger at the parachute at Ben’s feet. “Take that away. You’re grounded until further notice.”

Ben’s eyes went wide, his lips parting. “Hux,” he said, quiet. “I’m—”

“No,” Hux snapped, cutting him off. “Get out of my sight.”

For the space of a breath, he stayed where he was, a shocked, wounded look on his face.

“Go! ” Hux spat. “Now.”

Whirling on his heel, Ben pushed through the other pilots and disappeared into the hangar. Some of the men turned to watch him go, but came around to face Hux again in short order.

“What’s going to happen to Poe, sir?” Wexley asked.

“Control has already sent men to retrieve him,” Hux replied. “He’ll be brought back here and checked over by the doctor.”

Taylor, who spent much of his free time with Poe, looked stricken. “You think he’s hurt bad, sir?”

Hux raised a shoulder and left it fall, unable to give a definitive answer. “I’m afraid I don’t know. The parachute will have saved his life, but the landing isn’t always soft. He might have been injured by that. I hope not, but we will have to see when he returns.”

“Can we go out and look for him, too?” said Lewis Mills.

Hux shook his head. “We must remain here in case we’re needed. The Jerries may try again, or command will send us out to retaliate.”

“Good,” said Meltsa, darkly. “I want to kill as many of those bastards as I can. They got one of the boys from the 129. I saw it.”

“As did I,” Hux said. “You may go and offer your condolences if you wish to, but don’t stray far from here. We’ll have only a moment’s notice if we’re to fly again.”

Brewster Mills gave a salute—the American variation—and dropped his parachute to the ground. He sat right beside it, kicking out his legs. Lewis and Meltsa joined him, followed by Shorty and Crowe. Gilbert put down his gear, but reached into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Wexley, but the young man shook his head.

Hux found he craved a smoke himself. It would steady his nerves, as would a few minutes alone to collect himself. Leaving the squadron where they sat, he made for the side of the hangar. It was quieter there and out of the wind that had come up from the east. He drew out his case and lit up a cigarette. The first pull was a balm.

He rubbed his brow with his free hand, trying find a way to recover from his disaster. In the space of ten seconds Ben Solo had managed to cock up the squadron’s otherwise satisfactory combat record. This incident would have to be reported to Snoke, and it would not bode well for the 363. It was possible their privileges for sweeps or runs could be suspended pending more training. Hux had said the night before that he wanted to take them up for it again, but he had not intended it to go this way.

Blowing out a stream of smoke on a sigh, he closed his eyes. In part, he had to be grateful to Ben for what he had done; he had killed the man who might have killed Hux. But it had been rashly done. There had been no one on Ben’s wing when he charged in. Once again, he had left Shorty behind. Hux was at a loss how to further order him to stay with his wingman. It had been said more times than he could count, but nothing had changed. Ben still flew without any concern for the rest of the squadron.

Save for Hux, it seemed.

“Damn you, Solo,” he said. “Bloody fool.”

He wasn’t yet halfway done with his cigarette when Matron Phasma came around the corner of the hangar. She was once again dressed in her usual white, though some blades of freshly cut grass were clinging to the tips of her shoes.

“Hux,” she said. “I was told something’s happened to one of your men, but no one’s in the infirmary. What’s going on?”

He gave her a cursory account of the events, and left none of the details out to save face.

“Good God,” she said, setting her hands on her hips. “How could this Solo be so careless?”

“I wish I could say I didn’t know,” said Hux, “but the truth is that he’s been unpredictable since he arrived here.”

“Maybe it’s time he was sent packing.”

Hux hadn’t even considered that. He wasn’t certain what his options were when it came to dismissing a pilot. An Englishman would have been reassigned or sent to a hearing to judge his capability, but the Americans’ circumstances were vastly different. Even if he was clear on the process, he didn’t want to wash Ben out.

“He’s too good to send away,” he said to Phasma. “I called Poe the best, and it’s true, but Ben has a gift.”

Phasma lifted a brow. “Not if he’s shooting down his own squadmates. That makes him a liability.” She smoothed a hand over her skirt. “I’ve had to send one or two girls home in the past. They didn’t have the stomach for the work, or they didn’t have the temperament. It seems that that is the case with your Solo. If you’ve given him an order and he’s ignored it, he isn’t worth the trouble.”

“There has to be a way to make him do as he should,” said Hux. “He would be so brilliant if he just did as I told him. But instead he leaves his wingman and comes running after me.”

“Why you?”

Hux chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. Perhaps he was just in range and saw I was in danger. He might have done the same thing for anyone else.”

Phasma gave him incredulous look. “I don’t think that’s true, and neither do you.”

“Perhaps not,” Hux said, “but all that matters is that he get it through his head that he can’t behave like this, or I will have to ship him back to America.”

“Have you told him as much?”

“I haven’t threatened dismissing him, but I have more than once given him direct instruction on how to fly with the squadron.”

“So, he doesn’t take orders well,” said Phasma. “I’ve known the type before. Is there another way to address the issue? Asking it of him politely, perhaps?”

Hux scoffed. “A commanding officer does not make friendly requests of his soldiers. He gives them their orders and expects them to be obeyed.”

Phasma gave a small shrug. “If you have no other option and do not want to send him away, will you not at least make an attempt at speaking to him man-to-man, as equals?”

“He is not my equal. He is my subordinate.”

“But he’s still a man with his own ambitions and desires, many of which I’m certain you share.” She smiled wryly. “Pilots tend to want their glory no matter the cost.”

“Yes,” said Hux, conceding. “I suppose I might have a talk with him on even ground.” The idea wasn’t altogether unthinkable. Hux had not thought of himself as Ben’s commander as they had walked together the night before, and it had been the farthest thing from his mind as Ben held him when they danced.

“Try,” Phasma said. “What’s the harm?”

He nodded. “Very well.”

Phasma went back with him to where the squadron was seated, though she didn’t linger. “I’ll see that your pilot has the best of care when he returns,” she said, and with a wave, went away.

“No word on Poe, sir?” asked Meltsa as Hux took a seat beside him on the grass.

“It’s only been a little while,” Hux replied. “It will take them some time to find him. I gave the coordinates, but he could have drifted off of them. But they won’t give up until he’s back.”

Taylor, who sat across from Hux, hugged his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them.

“It won’t be long,” said Hux. “I’m sure.”

Four hours passed before a car and the infirmary’s ambulance came up the main road, cutting through the mire of mud. The men jumped up immediately and went to meet them. Hux jogged with them to the door of the infirmary, where the ambulance had stopped. The driver got out first and went to open the back door. Hux braced for the worst, but the fear in his breast dissipated when he saw Poe step out of his own volition.

“Hey, boys,” he said, with levity, despite the exhaustion he was no doubt feeling.

“Dameron!” said Lewis Mills, taking hold of his arms and squeezing. “It’s damn good to see you. How do you feel?”

“Like I fell a few thousand feet out of the sky, but I’ve had worse.”

The other pilots laughed.

From around the back of the ambulance, Dr. Tarkin appeared, hollow-cheeked and severe in his white coat. “Flight Lieutenant Dameron?”

“That’s me, Doc,” Poe said, turning.

“Come with me, please. We’ll need to examine you.”

“Sure, sure.” To the rest of the 363 he said, “See you later, boys. I’ve got a hell of a story to tell you.” He followed Tarkin into the infirmary with only slightly hitched steps.

Hux told the others to remain outside, but trailed after the doctor himself. Several of the nurses were guiding Poe to a bed, and he was flashing smiles at all of them. Tarkin walked sedately behind them, allowing Hux to catch up with him.

“Doctor,” he said. “How long with this exam take? I need to speak with him.”

Tarkin turned a steely glare on Hux. “As long as it takes to ensure he is sound of body, Squadron Leader. You may wait out here if you choose. I will send someone when we are finished.”

Hux fell back, watching him disappear behind a curtain. Knowing something of medical matters, he prepared to wait for quite some time.

He watched an hour and half again go by on the clock above the door to the main ward before Tarkin reappeared.

“You may go in now,” he said. “He’s expecting you.”

“Is he well?” asked Hux.

“He is.” With his hands behind his back, Tarkin strode away.

Hux ducked into the ward, searching the twin rows of beds for Poe. He was in the second one on the right.

“Hey there, sir,” he said as he Hux approached.

Hux stopped at the edge of the bed by his side. “How are you feeling?”

Poe patted the blanket that was draped over his legs. “Right as rain. They said they’re making me stay here tonight, though.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Nurse Anne said she’d bring dinner by personally.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Hux with a small smile, though he sobered again almost immediately. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Yes, sir. One of ours hit me.”

“You say that so calmly. I would be furious.”

“It was a mistake,” Poe said. “Everybody makes them.”

Hux shook his head. “Does anything bring down your spirits?”

Poe laughed. “Not if I can help it, sir.” He bit his lower lip. “Though maybe I’d like to know who it was.”

“Ben Solo,” Hux said. “I’ve ordered him grounded.”

Poe’s brows rose. “Really? But you saw that move he pulled. That was some impressive flying. He saved your life, sir.”

“Nearly at the cost of yours.”

“Fair enough, but it wouldn’t be the first time somebody took friendly fire, and my guess is it won’t be the last.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Why don’t you send the kid in, and I’ll talk to him?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Hux, “when you’re feeling better. I will be the one to talk with him tonight.”

Poe nodded. “All right. But go easy on him. He learned his lesson. He won’t be doing that again.”

“I certainly hope not.” Touching Poe’s shoulder, Hux said, “Get some rest. I’ll let the others know you’re all right.”

“Thanks, sir. Goodnight.”

The sun had gone down in the time since Hux had been inside, and he was late for dinner. He was in no particular hurry to eat, but he hastened to the mess to report on Poe’s condition. When he arrived, the men clamored to hear him.

“I knew he’d be fine,” said Taylor. “He’s a tough one, all right.”

Several of the others asked questions about when Poe would be back, some of which Hux could answer. The rest he said was up to the doctors. They seemed satisfied enough with that, and went back to their usual animated conversations. There was one, though, who said nothing at all.

Ben was staring at his empty plate, a half-glass of beer in his hand. He sipped at it from time to time, but never looked up. Hux was a little pleased to see that he was suffering the ill effects of his misstep. However, he couldn’t stay angry with him. After all, he had promised Phasma that he would try to speak to Ben on equal terms, and Poe that he would “go easy on him.”

Hux was pulled into a discussion about the merits of the Hurricane versus the Spitfire by the Mills brothers, drawing his attention to them, but out of the corner of his eye, he kept watch on Ben, waiting for him to leave the table.

Brewster was talking about armaments when Hux saw Ben push his plate away and rise. Gilbert gave him a brief wave as he stepped over the bench, and Ben said something in reply, touching Gilbert’s shoulder, before turning for the door. Pushing it open, he disappeared outside.

Hux took a few minutes to finish his dinner, but didn’t tarry. Excusing himself, he followed the path Ben had taken to the door. The noise of the mess died out as it closed behind him, leaving him in the quiet of the night air. It was remarkably dry despite the early afternoon rains that had passed through, and the sky was clear enough to see a smattering of stars. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he took the familiar path toward the hangar.

He was squinting hard into the darkness ahead of him, looking for that tell-tale sign that Ben was by the hangar door, when he walked straight into a puddle. “Bollocks,” he said, as the wetness began to seep into his boots. He tried to get out, but sidestepping only had his left foot splashing down into the mire as well. As he cursed again, he heard a low chuckle from a few feet ahead.

“Guess I should have warned you about that,” Ben said. “But I guess I didn’t want to be the only one with wet feet.”

Hux trudged out of the puddle and back onto the grass, his socks squelching with each step. “How kind of you,” he grumbled as he made his way over to where Ben was standing. “Now we can both be uncomfortable.”

“It’s not so bad if you don’t move around.” Ben tapped his pack of cigarettes against the meat of his palm until a single stick slid out. He offered it to Hux.

Hux took it. “Have a match?”

“No,” Ben said. “I dropped them in the puddle.”

“Of course you did. Give us yours, then.”

Ben barked a startled, “Hey!” as Hux plucked his cigarette from his mouth. Pressing the cherry tip to his own smoke, he puffed until it ignited. He took a satisfied drag before handing Ben’s cigarette back to him.

“Thank you,” Hux said.

Ben gave him an annoyed look as he blew smoke out of his nose.

Hux shifted in his wet socks, frowning. “What the hell are you still doing out here with no matches and sodden boots?”

“You sound like my mother,” Ben said. “I’m fine.” He gestured toward the barracks, ashing as he went. “You’re welcome to run and put on your slippers if you want, though.”

Hux glared at him, not appreciating the cheekiness, but he said, “I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. During the height of the battle last summer, my squadron was in tents in a makeshift airfield. It rained for eight days straight. None of us were dry.” He shot Ben a hard look. “Ever felt what it’s like to have your wet boots freeze solid while you’re in the air?”

Ben leaned back against the wall. “Can’t say I have.”

“And you don’t want to. So, I suggest you put those by the stove tonight.”

“Is that an order, Squadron Leader?”

Hux took a pull from his cigarette and exhaled. “Are you planning to countermand it just to be obstinate?”

“I’m not obstinate,” Ben grumbled, sounding just that.

“I’m afraid this afternoon’s flight is evidence to the contrary,” said Hux. “I have been telling you to fly with your squadron since you got here, and either you haven’t heard me or you deliberately ignored what amounts to a direct order.”

“I do hear you!” Ben snapped. “Everything you say.”

Hux tightened his fingers around his cigarette angrily. He hadn’t meant to let his temper flare again, but it did. “Then why will you not do as I say?”

Ben hunched his shoulders. He took a sullen drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground.

Hux took a breath and willed himself to be calm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cigarette case and tossed it to Ben. As if it were delicate, he held it gingerly in his broad palm, studying it but not flipping it open. He ran his thumb along the curved edge. “I left Shorty because I saw the Jerry coming for you,” he said. “I couldn’t let him get you.” He kept his head down, as if he wanted to hide.

“It is Poe’s responsibility to watch my back,” Hux said, “not yours.”

“It should be,” said Ben. He closed his fist around the cigarette case, looking up at last.  “Why won’t you let me fly with you?”

Hux saw hurt in his face, an imploring softness in the downturn of his mouth.

“Is that what this is about?” Hux asked. “You’re acting like this because you’d prefer to be on my wing?”

Ben swallowed. He seemed conflicted, unsure. Annoyed with him still, but unwilling to let him suffer, Hux reached out a hand and set it on his shoulder. Ben’s mouth opened just slightly on a quiet inhale as Hux touched him. Hux nearly pulled back, assuming he had done wrong, but before he could, Ben turned his head and tipped it to the side until the edge of his jaw brushed Hux’s hand. His sigh was a cool gust of air against Hux’s fingers.

Quietly, he said, “I just want to be where you are.”

It was a hushed admission, but Hux felt it like a kick to the chest. All the sounds around them, few though they were, fell into silence, muted as Hux’s heart thrummed in his ears. Ben rubbed his cheek against Hux’s hand where it rested at the edge of his collar, his eyes closed. Hux stared at him in wordless awe, all vestiges of his anger now gone.

Tendrils of smoke were still creeping up from the cigarette in Hux’s other hand, but he couldn’t move to bring it to his lips. Warnings should have been sounding like a klaxon in his mind, making him back away and take a steadying pull of smoke, but instead he opened his fingers and let the cigarette fall away. Raising his hand, he set it on Ben’s neck, the heel of it resting over the pulse point.

“Hux,” Ben said. It was a plea, raspy and deep.

“Oh, God,” Hux breathed, running his thumb along the sensitive skin behind Ben’s ear. Ben shuddered. The sensation made everything concrete, and with it came the fear. Hux pulled back, drawing both of his hands away from Ben’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Ben stared at him, wide-eyed and bereft.

Hux rubbed a hand over his face, trying to gather himself. “I should go.” He took a small step back, creating sorely needed distance, but Ben closed it again. A firm grip came around Hux’s waist, and he was pulled forward. He opened his mouth to give a last, feeble objection, but Ben’s covered it before he could say a thing.

It was a hard kiss, and not in the least hesitant. Hux grabbed the lapels of Ben’s uniform to keep himself from falling back from the sheer force of it. He grounded himself there, fighting the shock of the contact.

Ben continued to push ferociously, though closed-lipped. When Hux tried to draw away to soften it some, he pursued. Hux stopped, changed tacks, and tried to turn his head slightly to get in a quick breath. His lungs were burning, and it was making him lightheaded. When Ben didn’t relent, Hux reached up for his face again, taking it between his hands. Gentle, but insistent, he eased Ben back until they could both breathe.

The smell of burned tobacco and uniform wool hung between them as they panted, noses nearly touching. Hux’s thumbs were resting on Ben’s cheekbones, just below the wells of his eyes. His skin was pale, soft, and dotted with delicate marks that Hux wanted to taste. For now, though, he would settle for his lips again.

Hux steered the kiss this time, going into it gently. He pressed in and then withdrew, lightly, almost teasing, and then moved in deeper, easing his mouth over Ben’s until Ben made a soft sound in his throat. Encouraged, Hux carefully tongued the seam of Ben’s lips. It was a request, not a demand, but Ben opened for him immediately.

Hux gave a satisfied hum as he slid into the warmth of Ben’s mouth. He tasted of smoke and the beer they had drunk at dinner, dark and a little woodsy. At first, Ben let Hux do as he pleased, but with some coaxing, seemed to realize that he could bring his tongue up to Hux’s in return. He echoed Hux’s movements: brushing the top of Hux’s mouth, sucking at his lower lip. What uncertainty Hux had read on him from that first kiss quickly dissipated as they delved into each other.

Hux’s back landed hard against the metal siding of the hangar as Ben pushed him into it. His hands slid around to the back of Ben’s head, making runnels in his dark hair. Ben held him around the waist, his hands splayed at the small of Hux’s back. They clung to each other there as Hux’s blood surged through his veins.

Everything about this was going against the oaths he had sworn to himself when he had entered the RAF. He had promised that no matter the circumstances, he would keep himself in check, never giving in to the desire for companionship amongst his fellow pilots. A dalliance with another officer could end his career. One with a subordinate could get him court-martialed and sent to prison. And that didn’t even take into consideration what might happen to Ben, a foreigner.

That cut cleanly through the euphoria, shaking Hux to his core. He moved his hands to Ben’s shoulders, going to push him away, but Ben only sought to move in deeper, sweeping the inside of Hux’s mouth and sending shivering jolts up his spine. Hux’s resolve wavered, but held strong. He pulled back, putting a few inches between them.

He expected to see some sort of surprise on Ben’s face, maybe even a bit of his own trepidation, but his eyes were heavy-lidded, his cheeks darkened with a flush. His gaze moved lazily from Hux’s mouth to his eyes. There was no fear in it, only the haziness of the well-kissed. Hux had to fight every instinct that told him to lean in and take another.

“Ben,” he said. He was startled to hear how ragged his voice sounded. He cleared his throat, trying again: “Ben, you need to let me go.”

“I don’t want to,” Ben rumbled, pressing his forehead to Hux’s.

Hux gripped the back of his skull, pulling lightly at his hair. “Anyone could come by here. We shouldn’t be out in the open.”

Ben retreated slightly, but then started to guide Hux toward the main hangar door. “No one’s inside,” he said.

In any other situation, Hux would have gone with him gladly, but there was too much at stake. He planted his feet. “We can’t.”

Ben’s brows knit. “Why?”

“Because I am your commanding officer, and men in His Majesty’s Air Force do not behave like this.” Despite what he said, he found that he had relaxed his grip on Ben’s hair and was absently massaging the base of his skull.

Lifting his hand, Ben timidly set his fingertips on Hux’s cheek. “You tell us all the time that we don’t act like men in the air force are supposed to. Talking too loud, spending time with the ground crew, not keeping our ties straight.” He trailed his fingers down to Hux’s chin, where his evening beard was just beginning to show. “We’re still a good squadron, though, right?”

“You are,” said Hux with the same mixture of pride and irritation that always came with his Eagles.

“Then we can do this, too,” Ben said, moving close again.

Hux wet his lips, sorely tempted, but knowing better. “Someone will find out.”

“Everyone’s inside.” Ben rubbed the tip of his nose against Hux’s.

“Maybe now, but next time...” Hux said, exerting every ounce of his willpower to keep from seeking Ben’s lips again. He nearly deflated with relief when Ben withdrew, but then he saw the smile.

“‘Next time?’” Ben said.

Hux was struck momentarily dumb. There had never been a question in his mind that if they went down this path, it would lead them back here again and again. But Ben, it seemed, had not jumped to that conclusion, not until Hux offered the prospect. He wanted to bite his tongue. There was no possible way to carry on a liaison when there were so many eyes and ears at an airfield. It would be the end of both them.

Hux pushed at Ben’s chest, and thankfully he took a step back. “This can’t happen again. It must be forgotten.”

Ben’s face fell. “Was it bad?”

He looked terribly young, hurt that he might have been a disappointment. Hux winced inwardly. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he touched Ben’s cheek again.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t bad. Not at all.”

“Oh,” said Ben. “That’s good.” He glanced down at his hands, which he rubbed together nervously. “I liked it. I’ve never done it before, but...”

Hux’s surprise was unmistakably shot with pleasure. His kiss had been Ben’s first, and that was a heady thing. He said, “You did very well.”

Ben’s smile was shy. “I bet I could do better...next time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hux, pulling his hand back, “but we can’t. It would cost us both our careers.” He slipped away from the wall, putting a greater, necessary distance between them. “I need to go now. I will see you in the morning.”

“Wait,” Ben said. Stooping down, he picked up something from the ground. It caught the moonlight and winked; Hux’s cigarette case. Their fingers brushed as Hux took it from him, making Hux’s tingle. It took all of his will to walk away, leaving Ben standing by the hangar.

Chapter Text

Hux wasn’t running; it was a strategic retreat, removing himself from danger before he took any real damage. He kept his steps measured as he walked away from the hangar, focused on the grass ahead of him, and did not look back. Behind him was everything he was not permitted to have or even to want.

He shoved his trembling hands into his trouser pockets, gripping at the linings. His chest was still constricted with a mix of fear and desire, both twisting until he could barely breathe. He felt dizzy; the path at his feet wavered in and out of focus. From inside his right pocket, he pinched his thigh hard enough to bruise, and it cleared his head.

The lights in the barracks were out when he got to the door. He had to feel blindly along the wall to guide him to the stairs, but he managed not to trip up them. Though Mitaka had already retired for the night when Hux got to his quarters and flicked on the light switch, he found his nightshirt laid out on the bed. There was a pitcher of water for him to wash with in the morning. Going it to it, he poured some into the tin cup on his desk and gulped it down. He sputtered, half-choking, and dropped the cup again.

He wanted to wash the taste of Ben from his mouth, wipe away the traces that remained even after he had bolted from the hangar, but they clung to him like a spider’s snare, keeping him bound up in the feeling of Ben’s arms around him. His knees quivered, threatening to give out. He stumbled over to his bed and sat down heavily. The springs creaked under his weight.

“Christ,” he said, letting his head fall into his hands. His palms brushed his lips, the touch a laughable imitation of how Ben’s lips had felt against them. His mouth had been slick and hot, open for Hux’s taking, and he had given himself so easily, without any hesitation. Hux had never had a lover who was so free with his affection; all of them had known the risks. But Ben had offered it without a second thought.

He doesn’t know any better.

He had told Hux that he had never had a sweetheart, never even been kissed. He hadn’t the slightest notion of what he was getting himself into. Like when he flew, he didn’t think; he just acted. In part, Hux envied him his naïveté, but he knew if Ben didn’t quickly learn how perilous his situation was, he would never be able to survive in a world that didn’t abide men like them.

He needed a teacher, someone to show him how to protect himself, but Hux wasn’t in a position to do that. His only choice was to avoid him and the temptation he presented. It wasn’t that Hux could ignore him completely—he had to fly with him—but he could keep a safe distance. Their evenings by the hangar would have to stop immediately, and Hux would have to make certain that he was always accompanied, chaperoned even, when Ben was nearby. The distance would, in time, build a callus between them, until the urge to seek each other’s company was gone.

Hux fell back against the mattress, his hair catching on the rough wood of the wall behind him. It had been years since he had felt this fierce pull to someone, both the physical desire to touch them, but also the curiosity that made him want to spend hours in conversation just to discover what they made of the world. He had enjoyed talking with Ben; it was easy, even if Ben was quiet or replied with only a few words. Hux was so accustomed to Oxford lads who talked just to hear their own voices that he had not realized how much he appreciated sharing the quiet with someone of whom he was fond.

He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. He was fond of Ben, difficult as he could be. He flew beautifully, and he had come out of the sky like a Valkyrie to rain bullets down on the German fighter who had been coming for Hux. He was unusual and taciturn, with a hair-trigger temper, but Hux wanted to know him, as much as he was willing to share. And, God help him, Hux wanted to hold him again.

He lay across the bed for another few minutes, watching the bulb of the overhead light until he could see its outline when he blinked. It was late, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep for a while yet, so he rose, first stooping to remove his wet boots and then going to hang up his jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt and put it aside as well. His desk chair was hard on his seat bones as he lowered himself into it, but he ignored the discomfort and reached for a sheet of formal report stationery and his pen. The wing commander would need to know what happened that day during combat.

Snoke had already heard, no doubt, but Hux would have to submit something to put on record. It would stay with the 363 in perpetuity, a black mark. Hux rubbed the pad of his forefinger along the grip of his pen thoughtfully. Ben would have to be reprimanded for what he had done. In the long term, grounding him would be a detriment to the squadron, so some other form of punishment would have to be arranged.

Hux couldn’t banish him to the hangar to do menial chores with the ground crew; he did that of his own volition. He could send him into the Link trainer for an extra four hours a week, but Hux doubted any of the other men would want to run the simulation for him while he complained, loudly. The only other option was to return him to training, to fly him through basic maneuvers until he was utterly bored. He was restless and eager enough for that to frustrate him.

Hux set the tip of his pen down on the paper, forming a thick, black dot, then he began to write. The description he gave of the fight was brief and to-the-point, just as a commander expected. Hux finished the report with his note about putting Ben Solo through training for one hour every day for the next week, until Hux judged him capable of returning to active duty.

As he outlined the punishment, he felt a stab of guilt, a twinge of shame. He had been a fool to give Ben hope that they could pursue some kind of liaison, especially when now he would have to discipline him harshly. Were Hux in his place, he would be incensed, confused about the sudden turn in his commander’s mood. Hux should never have given in to him; he had weakened his standing as Ben’s squadron leader.

Hux paused just as he was signing the report, thinking of the logistics of this reprimand. While Poe seemed forgiving enough of Ben’s mistake, Hux could not assign him to fly with Ben in his trainings; it would be a punishment for Poe as well. That left only Hux to conduct them. In that, he and Ben wouldn’t exactly be alone, not when they were in two separate aircraft with the radio operators listening to their every word, and yet it would bring them close in a manner that only a pilot and his wingman could be.

Hux looked bleakly down at the letter. He could start a new one, find a different way to teach Ben a lesson, but it would be hard to come by one that was as effective. No, they would have to fly together daily until the punishment was complete. As Hux blew lightly on the ink on the page to dry it, he resolved to conduct himself with the utmost control and coolness. Yet his heart beat deeply at the thought of being in the air with Ben. If they could not be more to each other than fellow soldiers on the ground, at least Hux would be able to share the sky with him.

He set his report on the corner of his desk to be dealt with first thing in the morning, and taking his boots, he put them at bottom of the small wardrobe where his clean shirts and undergarments were kept. His uniform hung there, too, until it went to be laundered once a week. Everything about the jacket was as it had always been—unadorned for day-to-day wear save for the wings above the heart—but now there was a patch on the left arm, the flash of their squadron: an eagle with arrows in one talon and an olive branch in the other. Mitaka had sewn it on when Hux had first arrived and become one of the Eagles.

He had thought it gaudy in the beginning, yet another thing that made the Americans stand out amongst the English. But now he had come to appreciate what it represented: the Eagles were different. They were cavalier and brash, flying with unpolished abandon; yet somehow it worked to their benefit. Hux was certain they were the only airmen who could get away with that attitude. He found it oddly charming, and he was becoming quite proud to be among them.

And Ben.

Hux wouldn’t have known him without this command. Perhaps, though, that would have been for the best. He would not be in the position to compromise himself.

He stripped off his trousers roughly, feeling suddenly confined in them. He discarded his underwear in the wicker basket for soiled linens and stood bare for a moment. He could see the reflection of his upper body in the mirror on the wall: pale skin, narrow frame and shoulders. As a boy he had been almost delicate, with slender wrists and lanky arms, all bones and sinew rather than the bulk of some of his classmates. Ben was built like they were, powerful and broad. Though they were nearly of a height, Hux would look small next to him.

Did Ben find that appealing, he wondered. Some men preferred their lovers to be more slight than them, though just as many likely craved the opposite. Hux had never had a preference; his attraction began intellectually. But that had been at Oxford, where intellect was the currency. His interest in Ben was baser: a physical draw and the fascination with his flying. That was new to him, and off-putting in its intensity.

He shivered in the coolness of his quarters, and went to retrieve his nightshirt. The bed sheets were just as cold, making him curl up into a ball to preserve his warmth. Another body alongside him would have been a boon, but it had been five long years since he had had that. He couldn’t help but imagine Ben in his own bed. Maybe he, too, was lying awake, chilled and acutely aware of his solitude.

Letting out a breath, Hux closed his eyes. It was only by the grace of years of taking advantage of whatever rest he was afforded that he was able to slip into sleep.

When he rose in the morning promptly at six, he washed up with the remainder of the water in the pitcher, splashing it over his face to wake himself up. He dressed hurriedly, looking forward to the hot tea they would be serving in the mess with breakfast.

The windows of the building were steamy as he walked up; it was far warmer inside than it was out. A cold front had come in overnight, blowing up a cool wind that cut through the wool of Hux’s uniform. He rubbed his hands together before grabbing the handle of the door and turning it. There were only a few men scattered around this early. Most of them appeared closer to seven. However, Meltsa and Gilbert were already seated at the Eagles’ table, talking as they ate their eggs and porridge.

“Good morning, sir,” said Meltsa after Hux had retrieved his plate and joined them. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Hux said, salting the eggs. “Yourself?”

Meltsa shrugged. “Okay, I guess. What happened yesterday didn’t sit so good with me.”

Hux took a sip of his tea; it wasn’t as hot as he had hoped. “Understandably,” he said. “It was a difficult day. The 129 lost a man and us one of our aircraft. And Poe...well, at least he came back to us safely.”

“Is he getting out of the hospital today?” Gilbert asked. “He won’t want to miss a day in the air.”

“You’re damn right, I wouldn’t.” Poe appeared from behind him, setting his hands on Gilbert’s shoulders. He flashed Hux and Meltsa a grin. “You boys couldn’t handle it without me.”

Gilbert laughed. “Like hell we couldn’t, but it’s better to have you up there anyway. Now go get something to eat and sit down.”

Poe headed for the counter where the mess sergeants were serving breakfast and picked up a plate. He took a cup of coffee rather than tea, something the Americans had pled with the mess to drum up. It was bitter and brewed lightly to conserve grounds, but the Eagles seemed satisfied with it.

As Poe joined them, a few of the others came through the door in a rush of cold air, all of them shuddering.

“This damned climate will kill me, I swear,” said Taylor, a native of Dallas, Texas. “Cold and wet. Makes my bones creak.”

“You should try a winter in Bozeman,” Shorty chuckled. “Freezing and snowy. You can’t drive an inch some days.”

Taylor shook his head. “Hell with that.”

They went to get their plates before taking up their places on the benches. They muttered their greetings.

“Say, sir,” Shorty said to Hux around a mouthful of toast, “do you get much snow in these parts?”

“Not more than a few inches,” said Hux. “We get more rain through the winter.” He had a few good memories of walking through the quadrangle at Jesus, watching the snow dust his lover Arthur’s dark hair. It had melted by the time they had gotten to his room, and Hux had gently toweled his head dry, pressing a kiss to the crown. However, rain was much more common.

Meltsa sighed. “Of course it would rain. It always rains.”

“Come on,” Poe said, light-hearted as ever. “It’s not so bad. And it’s clear up where we’re flying anyway. We just have to get up there and then it’s just like home.”

Some agreed, others not so much. Hux listened to them in silence, used to their occasional complaints. He imagined that he would feel just as out of place in America as they did in England, so he let them whine.

He was just finishing his thin porridge when the door opened again, this time admitting Ben Solo. He wore his thick, blue jumper rather than his jacket and his hair was windswept. He paused just inside, looking around warily. His gaze slid over the faces of the pilots until it landed on Hux. His expression softened some as he looked at him, unblinking. His cheeks were slightly pinkened by the cold, reminiscent of the flush that had come up as Hux had kissed him.

The now-familiar mix of remorse and yearning washed over Hux. He couldn’t have guessed what Ben was thinking, whether or not he felt something similar, or if he still hoped for more than comradeship. Troubled, Hux glanced away, focusing on his breakfast, though out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben stalk over to get his plate. He chose his usual place at the end of the table, sitting down heavily. At first, no one spoke to him, all of them looking nervously between him and Poe. It was Poe who broke the tension.

“Hey, kid,” he said. “How’s it going?”

Ben swallowed the bite of eggs he had taken, reluctant to meet Poe’s eyes. “All right.”

Poe smiled. “Good to hear it. I’m feeling just fine, too. My kite’s not looking so hot, but there’s no hard feelings about yesterday, okay?”

“Okay,” Ben said, dubious. He chewed his lower lip. “I’m real sorry, Poe.”

“It was an honest mistake, kid.” He gestured to Hux. “You were just trying to keep our fearless leader out of harm’s way.”

Ben’s eyes flicked to Hux, then away. “Yeah. But—”

Poe waved a dismissive hand. “It’s behind us. Just keep me out of your sights next time, and we’ll be just fine.”

That got a few weak laughs.

Ben looked down again, spooning up a bit of porridge and letting it drip back into the bowl. He said nothing else.

Hux averted his eyes, pushing away the desire to assure Ben that it would be all right, touching his face to lift it, pressing his lips to his brow, the tip of his nose. Despite the fear and his attempts to ignore it, the want still sat heavily in Hux’s chest.

Appetite gone, he abandoned the rest of his food. To Poe he said, “May I speak with you briefly when you’re finished?”

Poe nodded, swallowing his food. “Of course, sir. It’ll be just a minute.”

“There's no rush,” said Hux as he stepped over the bench and away from the table. “I’ll wait for you in the briefing room.”

“Yes, sir.”

The wind whipped around him as he crossed the field toward the briefing room. He had to pull hard on the door to get it to open against the bluster. There was a small stove inside, but it hadn’t yet been lit, and Hux could see his breath. He brought his hands up to his mouth and blew onto them. Bouncing on his toes to keep warm, he went to the wooden bin at the corner of the room and filled a nearby bucket with coal. He was just kneeling at the stove when the door opened and abruptly shut again. He turned, expecting to see Poe, but instead it was Ben standing there.

Hux set the bucket down, rising slowly from his crouch. “Mister Solo,” he said, cautious.

Ben frowned at the formality. Hux hadn’t called him by his surname in weeks.

“I don’t recall summoning you here,” Hux continued. “It was Poe I wanted to speak with.”

“He’s still eating,” said Ben. “And I had to…” He advanced a step. “I wanted to see you.”

Hux might have expected this. When he had first met Arthur, he had been dismissed initially, but had persevered until Arthur agreed to spend some time with him. It seemed Ben had similar intentions, but Hux, unlike Arthur, could not bend.

Clasping his coal dust-blackened hands behind his back, Hux said, “We have nothing to discuss. I made that clear yesterday evening, did I not?”

Ben took another step forward, though still kept a few paces from Hux. “You don’t mean it,” he said. “You can’t. Not after the way you ki—”

“Don’t,” Hux snapped. “Do not say another word. It didn’t happen. Nothing happened.” He crossed the distance between them, determined. “I mean it very seriously. I will not risk my career for anyone. Especially not you.”

Ben flinched as if struck, and Hux regretted the acerbity immediately. He did not need to be cruel to push him away.

“Ben,” he sighed, softer. “I—” Before he could say more, Ben brought his hand to Hux’s face, his thumb over his lips. He rubbed the lower, exposing just the slightest bit of Hux’s teeth. A tremor went down Hux’s spine, betraying him.

“Please,” Ben said. “Hux.”

Though he knew he shouldn’t, Hux pursed his lips in a brief kiss against the pad of Ben’s thumb. Then he stepped back. Ben’s hand fell away.

“I can’t,” Hux said.

Ben moved to pursue him, but before he could, the door swung open, and Poe announced, “Jesus, it’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.” He stopped just beyond the threshold, glancing between Ben, who looked crestfallen, and Hux. “Am I interrupting?”

Hux cleared his throat. “Not at all. We were just about to discuss Mister Solo’s week out of rotation.”

“What?” Ben snarled.

“What?” Poe asked, brows raised.

“In light of yesterday,” Hux replied, “I’ve decided that he needs to return to basic training, until he can prove he has control of his aircraft.”

Ben scowled, clenching his fists. “That’s bullshit. I won’t do it.”

Hux remained calm, his voice steady. “You have no say in the matter. You will be kept out of combat for seven days, going up only to train with me.”

Ben tensed visibly, struggling to control himself. Hux could tell he was biting back more caustic protests, his jaw clenched to the point that Hux could see the muscles flexing.

“Are you, uh, sure about that, sir?” Poe said. “I mean, Ben’s got a good handle on the basics. It’s not going to help much to go back to that. He’d do better to learn by fighting.”

Ben gave Poe a surprised look, clearly not having expected him to take his side.

“It’s decided,” said Hux, sternly. “We fly today at two in the afternoon, barring any attacks or assignments. Is that understood, Mister Solo?”

“Fine,” Ben ground out. “Is that all?”

Hux nodded. “You are dismissed.”

With a last hard glance, Ben turned on his heel and stormed over to the door. He slammed it behind him.

“Well, he’s going to be like that for the rest of the week,” said Poe, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have to admit, sir, I’m not really looking forward to it.”

Hux wasn’t either, but he said, “I apologize for any inconvenience it causes you, but he needs to be reprimanded. I thought the tedium would suffice.”

“Yeah, I guess it will,” Poe conceded. “If he starts raising hell, though, I’m sending him to you for a paddling.” He smirked.

Hux’s eyes widened as the image of Ben, bare-bottomed and turned over his knee, came into his mind. “I would never,” he said hastily. “Corporal punishment isn’t permitted.”

Poe laughed, rocking back on his heels. “A joke, sir. I’m pretty sure Ben Solo would punch you right in the face before he let you lay a hand on him.”

“I’d imagine so, yes,” said Hux, though just the night before he had readily accepted Hux’s hands in his hair, on his neck and face. There were some touches he would accept.

“So, the boys should be headed over in just a little while,” Poe said. “Got anything else for me right now?”

Hux shook his head. “That’s all I wanted you to know. Thank you for coming.”

“Sure thing, sir. Sure thing.”

Once assembled, the squadron was stuck in the briefing room for several hours before they were finally called up to fly a bomber run. It went longer than usual, forcing them to fly farther beyond the French coastline. It pushed the limits of the fighters’ range, which was less than a quarter of a bomber’s. If they went any deeper into France, the squadron’s fuel would run out.

By now they had a bit of a rapport with the 142 bombers, greeting them as friends when they rendezvoused over the Channel. Hux knew the leader of the Angel Flight was called Hampton, and Hampton had learned the names of all of the flight leaders in the 363. He greeted them all cheerfully when they arrived.

“Ben’s not with you today, huh?” he said over the radio. “Well, tell him I say hello when you get back to the field.”

Every run didn’t always go as smoothly as this one had. They had been engaged the week before by a full squadron of Germans, and the bombers had taken fire in the wings and tails. The 363 had come to their aid, but they couldn’t cover them from every angle. Fortunately, none of the bombers had gone down, though the next time they flew, Hampton was in a different aircraft than he was used to while his own was grounded for repairs. He hadn’t been particularly pleased about it, either. He had a tendency to curse even in casual conversation, but his vocabulary had been peppered with obscenities throughout the entire run.

As Hux landed back at Wolcastle, he engaged the brakes on his kite and slowed at the end of the runway. He turned to the right, starting his taxi back to the hangar. When he got out of the cockpit, he met Thanisson, saying, “I need it refueled and running in ten minutes. Get Solo’s running as well.”

It was past two o’clock, when Hux had told Ben he would go up for their training flight, and he didn’t want to tarry on the ground. The squadron could be disbursed again at any time. If Hux was in the air, he would be able to join them, but he would have to be conscious of his petrol levels. After an hour of training, he would be dry and unable to make it even to the Channel, let alone across it.

When the squadron had left for their run, Ben hadn’t been in the briefing room. Hux assumed that he was in the hangar instead, working with the ground crew. He went there now, looking around the disabled aircraft in search of him.

“Can I help you, Squadron Leader?” asked a burly rigger with a thick head of blond hair.

“I’m looking for Pilot Officer Solo. Is he here?”

The rigger nodded, pointing to a corner to the left of the door. Hux found Ben sitting on a stool fiddling with a piece of piping, a hard look on his face. When he saw Hux, it darkened further. Hux braced himself for the ire to which Poe had alluded. The entreating, quiet Ben of their morning meeting appeared to be gone.

“Mister Solo,” said Hux by way of greeting.

Ben returned to scrubbing at the piping with a piece of steel wool. “What is it?”

Hux scowled. “I’ll thank you to watch your tone,” he said, sharply.

“What is it, sir?”

Hux disliked the defiance in that even more, but pressed on. “Your kite is ready for you,” he said. “Get your gear and report in five minutes.”

Ben gave him an indignant look, and for a moment Hux thought he would be ignored, but Ben set the pipe down on the table beside him. He got to his feet, making Hux aware of his considerable breadth. He stood there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on Hux.

“What are you waiting for?” Hux said. “I gave you an order.”

Ben crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re standing in the way.”

Unamused, Hux turned to the side to let him pass. Ben brushed by him with no particular care for whether or not his shoulder hit Hux’s. Hux grunted at the contact, shooting a glare at his back. Ben paid him no mind, going to where his jacket and parachute were waiting.

Hux didn’t bother to watch him retrieve his things. He went out of the building and back out to his aircraft. The engine was humming with life, Thanisson standing by with Hux’s gear. He tugged the helmet over his head and pulled on his gloves, but waited until Ben appeared before springing up onto the wing and into the cockpit.

Ben took his time about getting into his own aircraft, carefully adjusting himself once he had gotten inside. He really was a sight too big to fit, but he managed somehow. When he was finally ready, he shot a glance over at Hux, gesturing for him to take the lead.

Hux taxied out to the runway, setting his radio to the appropriate frequency for the tower and requesting permission to take off. Ever-buoyant Rey replied that he was cleared. A few moments later, Hux was engaging the throttle and skimming over the grass and into the sky.

“Come up to eight thousand feet,” he told Ben. “We’ll work there for the hour.”

Ben said nothing, simply coming up on Hux’s wing and ascending at his side. They flew smoothly together, Ben holding steady to mirror any move Hux made. When Hux banked to port, Ben followed in perfect unison. It was a remarkable ability.

“Shall we begin with basic loops?” Hux said.

“Fine,” Ben replied. “One thousand foot height?”

Hux paused to consider that. Generally, most pilots couldn’t judge that kind of distance, simply performing the loop at whatever height they saw fit. Hux’s own ability to fly that precisely was questionable.

“Give or take a few hundred feet, yes,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll go into it. Three, two, one…” He tipped the nose of his aircraft just slightly down to pick a fixed point on the ground to fly back to when the maneuver was complete, then he pulled back on the stick and moved up into the loop.

His first loop had been performed in the open cockpit of a Tiger Moth. He had been talked through every adjustment by his instructor, equal parts terrified that he might fall out and exhilarated as the prospect of flying inverted. As he reached the apex of the loop, he had looked down at the dizzying ground below him and laughed. His exuberance in the aftermath had lasted for days.

As he came up into the loop now, he could feel the power of the Hurricane’s engine pulling it into the sky. It roared and spewed exhaust in blue-gray trails as it cut through the clouds. Though it was a routine maneuver, he still felt a rush of that long-lost euphoria.

He and Ben came out of it without incident, easily leveling out with the horizon. They raced over the countryside below them, walled fields flashing by. Hux ordered more turns, simple inversions, and reverses. By the time the hour was up, he was all but yawning. Ben had said as little as possible, only acknowledging Hux’s commands and speaking over the radio to control as they were landing. When he got out of his aircraft, he walked away without a word, disappearing into the hangar once again.

The following days went much the same way that first one had, though there were several dogfights over the Channel and a raid on the airfield. One of the trenches took fire from German guns, leaving eight people dead. Elaine, a pretty young radio operator, was among them. Hux and his men stood by as the wooden coffins were loaded into trucks to be sent back to their homes for burial.

The squadron was subdued that afternoon, and when Hux and Ben flew, they did very little save for flying inland. The hour passed in silence.

Ben was, by far, the quietest of Hux’s pilots, but across the following six days, he said absolutely nothing to Hux. He was present at meals and flew at the designated time, but otherwise he kept to the hangar, avoiding almost everyone.

“He works hard,” said Thanisson when Hux asked him about Ben’s habits one morning. “Puts in as many hours on the repairs as any of my lads do.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s odd maybe, and doesn’t talk much, but he’s well-liked. The lads have said before that he’d be welcome to join them in the pub when next they’re in town. I know it’s not approved of for officers to mix with the enlisted, sir, but they would be glad to buy him a drink. Or several.”

“I won’t stop him if that’s what he wants to do,” Hux said. He had long since given up on the Eagles keeping with convention.

Thanisson gave him a small smile. “That’s good of you, sir. I’m sure the lads would like that.”

As it happened, that Saturday evening, the 363 and their crew were given leave to go into town. There were three pubs in Wolcastle: one on the north side, one to the west by the road to London, and the Bull and Kettle in the center of town near the assembly hall. It was the smallest, so the officers gathered there. They had good ale and porter, which the men said was heavier than anything they drank at home.

“It’s like eating a whole slice of bread,” said Brewster Mills, examining the pint of dark beer he had bought. “I can’t have more than two before my stomach’s aching.”

Hux took a deep drink of his. “You’d best learn to hold it if you’re to survive here,” he said.

Brewster raised his glass. “Well, I’ll drink to that, sir.”

The mood grew jolly as the night went on and more drinks were had. Hux made the rounds of his men, speaking to each of them in turn. The beer loosened their tongues and made them forget due formality.

“You’re a damn good man, Hux,” Andrew Ward said, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “What do you say, boys? A toast to our squadron leader.”

He, Meltsa, and Lewis Mills clinked their glasses and drank to Hux’s health. Hux, feeling a little bit drunk himself, told them stories of his early days at Cranwell and the trouble he and his cohort got up to.

“No doubt you broke some hearts,” said Meltsa. “I bet all the girls fall for the way you dance.” He shuffled his feet in a half-hearted illustration, listing to the side slightly. Ward caught his shoulder and steadied him.

Hux avoided replying by offering to buy another round. The four of them cheered.

Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of Ben. He was likely with the ground crew, as Thanisson had said, at the Sheep’s Bell. Hux wondered in passing what he was like when he was in his cups. Perhaps his reserved demeanor faded into the same good-natured swagger as his countrymen. Or maybe he grew even more sullen and withdrawn, finding a table in a hidden corner to drink in peace. There was, of course, the possibility that he became forward and brash, touching others just a moment too long and offering sportive smiles that hinted at what he really desired.

Hux drank deep, anger flaring in his gut at the thought of Ben seeking the attention of others. It wasn’t his business, but he didn’t like it.

They all returned to the airfield in good spirits, the Americans singing songs that Hux didn’t know. He bid them all goodnight before making his way to his quarters. There, he undressed and fell into bed, but sleep didn’t immediately come. He found himself restless, agitated. There was one way to relieve the pressure, though he didn’t make a habit of it.

With some reluctance, he tugged the hem of his nightshirt up until his lower body was exposed. Reaching down with chilly fingers, he wrapped them around his cock. It took embarrassingly little time for him to harden, and he began to stroke himself.

Having shared dormitory rooms with other boys throughout his young life, he had learned to pleasure himself surreptitiously. Though he was alone in his quarters, he still kept quiet, pressing his lips together without a sound as he worked his cock, thumbing the underside with each pass. He raised his hips to push up into his fist, craving release.

When he did this, he was efficient about it, hurrying to reach completion before anyone heard the tell-tale rhythm of masturbation. He was glad that the springs of his cot didn’t squeak as he increased his pace.

He had a few images that he conjured in these moments of need. Most of involved past partners, and how they had come together in their beds. Hux struggled now to call them up, his mind wandering down a dangerous path.

In his mind, he was standing at the hangar again, hidden in the shadows where Ben had been sitting on the stool several days before, but it wasn’t his own hand around his cock; it was Ben’s. Hux was pressed against the wall, Ben’s arm barred over his chest while he stroked Hux with the other hand. Hux was straining to reach his mouth, to kiss him as he had done before, but Ben held him fast.

“It isn’t permitted,” Ben hissed. “You can’t have it.”

Hux groaned, both frustrated and gratified by Ben’s strong pulls of his cock. Hux tried to reach for his trousers, to free Ben so they could take their pleasure together, yet he couldn’t get there.

“Please, Ben,” he said, an appeal. “Let me have you.”

Ben worked Hux harder, faster, sliding the foreskin over him until he was shaking. “You said no,” he whispered. “It’s too late.”

In his cot, Hux gasped, spilling himself over his knuckles and onto his lower belly. His body was wracked with tremors, aftershocks that came with each final stroke of his cock. When he stilled at last, he sighed, “Christ Jesus.”

He cleaned himself up with a worn shirt from the basket by his wardrobe before collapsing back into bed. He was out of his depth, quickly sinking into longing he could not afford. And yet, this was all in his head. Ben was forbidden him in every place but there. There he could safely reside, out of Hux’s reach, but his for the taking in reverie.

On Sunday afternoon, Hux folded his last hand at poker, taking his remaining cigarettes and chocolates and tucking them into his pockets. Taylor took the pot, grinning all the while.

“Off to see the big man?” he said as he tucked a cigarette behind his ear.

Hux nodded. Snoke had sent word via Mitaka that morning that Hux was to come to his office at half-past one, no excuses or delays. He had been reading the daily reports Hux sent—at least Hux assumed so—but Hux had not been summoned directly since the start of the week. The wing commander was remarkably reclusive, choosing to concentrate on his work rather than mixing with the other officers. Hux didn’t mind the freedom it gave the squadron leaders. His superiors at previous airfields had had the tendency to breathe down their necks.

“Good luck with that,” said Poe, shuffling the cards for their next hand. “Don’t tell him we’re doing too bad.”

Hux gave him one-sided smile. “I don’t know what you mean. I have a great many infractions to tell him about.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Staying up past lights out, stealing the 222’s little dog for a day, slovenly appearances yet again, not to mention replacing the tea leaves with actual green leaves.”

Wexley grinned. “That one was my idea, sir.”

“Charming,” Hux said, frowning down at him. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for the game.”

They waved him off as he went to the door and out into the rain. The water was beading on the wool of his uniform and weighing down his hair by the time he got to the command tower. The girl Elaine’s place had been taken by a round-faced woman with crow’s feet at the corners of her hazel eyes. She looked up curiously at Hux as he entered, but seeing his rank, returned to her work.

“Hello, sir,” said Rey, turning on her stool to face him. “Here to see the wing commander?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Rey,” Hux replied. “And yes, I am. Is he ready for me?”

She set her headset down on the desk and went over to Snoke’s door. She rapped lightly, exchanged a few words with him, and then motioned Hux over. Hux touched her shoulder in thanks as he passed her by.

“Hux,” Snoke said gruffly as Hux entered his office. “Shut the door behind you and sit down.”

For once, there was no cigar in his mouth. It was lying unlit in the divot of the ashtray at the corner of his desk. The smell of rich smoke still suffused the room, though, giving the air the kind of sweetness that cigarettes did not.

Hux took the chair across from Snoke as instructed, folding his hands in his lap and sitting up straight. “You requested my presence, sir.”

“Yes,” said Snoke, drawing out the vowel in a slow slide. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and held it up to read it. Hux recognized his own handwriting as the light behind Snoke illuminated the translucent page.

“You’ve had success lately, I see,” Snoke said. “Six Jerries damaged and minimal abuse to our own machines. It’s an impressive record.” He looked up with narrowed eyes. “Better than most.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hux said. “My men are very capable.”

Snoke huffed. “That’s modest. They’re one of the better squadrons in No. 12 Group, and you know it.” He flicked the corner of Hux’s report. “I didn’t expect it, but you’ve made something of them.”

Hux held back his smile. “They’re good pilots, sir.”

“Even the one who shot down his own man?” Snoke asked.

Hux sobered. Ben hadn’t come up in their previous meetings; Hux’s report had said all that needed to be addressed. As stipulated, Ben had been removed from active duty, but today marked the last of his retraining, and come tomorrow he would be back in rotation. Hux was relieved. Even if Ben was a wild card, he was a damn good shot.

“Pilot Officer Solo has realized his mistake,” Hux said, “and has paid the price for it. He is now prepared to re-enter combat.” He lifted a brow. “Unless you see fit to continue to keep him on the ground, sir.”

Snoke made a gesture to dismiss him. “It’s your decision, not mine. I just need to know that we’re not going to lose another aircraft. We’ve got enough damage and maintenance to contend with these Hurricanes.”

“Any word on whether we might get supplied with something a little newer?” Hux asked. He didn’t need to specify; Snoke knew he meant Spitfires.

“The vice air marshal has been alluding to something,” Snoke replied, “but likely nothing will come of it. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Hux inclined his head. “Of course not, sir.”

Snoke reached for his cigar at last and bit down on the chewed end. He pulled a match from the right-hand drawer of his desk and lit it. “We haven’t got anything on the slate for this afternoon. It’ll be a tedious day unless the Jerries decide to lay into us.”

Hux doubted that would be the case. It was likely raining just as hard in France as it was at Wolcastle, and not even the ever-tenacious Germans were inclined to fly in inclement weather.

“We’ll spend some time in the Link, sir,” he said. “It will do the men some good.”

“Or drive them mad,” Snoke chuckled. “I still hate that damned thing.” He took a puff of smoke and blew it out. “You’re yet to fly with your...what’s his name? Solo?”

Hux nodded. “That’s correct. We’ll manage in the clouds. He’s my best man when flying on instruments.” Save for Poe, perhaps, but Snoke didn’t need to know that. “And it will make his final day of retraining a challenge.”

“Indeed. Well then, get to it. You’re dismissed.”

Hux rose, saluted, and left. As he did, he saw Rey standing at the far side of the room, looking out the open back door at the grey skies. He made he way over to her.

“Miss Rey,” he said. “Are you well?”

She turned a smile on him. “I am, sir. Are you?”

“Yes.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, stepping up next to her to lean on the doorframe. “Have you had any letters from the front these past few weeks?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I know it takes time to get the post over the Channel, but I can’t help but worry. You understand that, of course.”

“I do.”

Rey smoothed her hands down over her skirt. “Do you have family over there? A brother maybe?”

“No,” he said. “I’m my parents’ only child. My cousin might have gone over, but he has a bad leg. They wouldn’t let him into the army. He’s suffering at Cambridge.”

“That must be hard for him,” said Rey. “To be young and unable to fight.”

Hux shrugged one shoulder. “He’s safe. His mother will be glad for that. But I suppose he would rather be wielding a rifle than an inkpen.” Alex was training as a scholar of modern history, and though he might have disapproved of his rejection from the army, he had quickly been absorbed by his studies again. He would have a professorship of his own someday, of that Hux had no doubt. “Do you have brothers?” he asked Rey. “Sisters maybe?”

She shook her head. “My mother had a hard time with birthing me, and the doctors said if she had another she wouldn’t survive it.”

“I hope she’s still alive and well,” said Hux.

“She is, thank you. My father, too.” She looked down wearily. “My only family gone over to the front is Finn.”

“Well, I hope you hear from him soon. I’ve no doubt he’s just been unable to write.”

Rey gave him a wan smile. “You’re very kind, S.L. Hux.”

He laughed lightly. “I daresay you’re the only one who’s ever called me that. I’m not usually quite so affable.”

“Your men like you,” she said. “So does your ground crew. They have respect for you.”

“Respecting one’s commander and liking him are two different things,” he said. “I hope to set a good example for my squadron and lead them effectively. I don’t want to be their friend.” That wasn’t altogether true, as he got on well with all of them, but commanding them came first.

“There must be something in between,” said Rey. “I think you have that.”

“Perhaps,” Hux said. He pushed his sleeve back to glance at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock, when he was due to fly with Ben for the last time. He expected their routine would not change. Ben would say nothing to him before, during, or after the flight, doing only as he was told. Resigned to that, Hux bid Rey good afternoon and went back out to the hangar.

His leather jacket was tucked in with his parachute, helmet, and gloves on the designated shelf inside. He donned each item, watching Thanisson jump down from the cockpit of his aircraft, having started it up. Another of the ground crew was getting Ben’s running.

Hux sensed the approach from behind him without having to turn. Ben, dressed to fly, stopped next to him in front of the curtain of water that sloughed off the corrugated metal of the hangar’s roof.

“Shall we, then?” Hux said.

Ben started away without a reply.

The cloud cover was thick as they ascended together, both relying on their instruments to steer them where they needed to go. Hux ordered Ben to come up to ten thousand feet, hoping they would leave the misty clouds behind at that altitude. The skies cleared at nine thousand, and the sun reflected off the droplets of moisture that still clung to the canopy.

Hux had no particular desire to perform the same loops and reverses that they had been doing for the past six days, but he had little choice but to finish what he had started. “Start with a full loop,” he said over the radio. “I’ll hold course and observe.”

There was no acknowledgement, only the dip of the nose of Ben’s Hurricane, and then he disappeared into the sky above. Hux had intended to bank back and watch, but he knew Ben would perform flawlessly. Instead he went up into his own loop, transitioning into an Immelman turn at the apex. It put him several hundred feet above where Ben flew. He turned into an inversion to try and see him, but Ben was nowhere below him.

“Solo, what’s your position?” he said curtly.

“Look up,” Ben replied.

Hux rolled back level and glanced up through his canopy. Ben hung a few hundred feet away, inverted and looking down at Hux.

“Bloody hell,” Hux muttered. He hadn’t the slightest idea how Ben had gotten there and into that inversion. And yet he flew so easily, almost carefree. However, he didn’t stay inverted long, rolling belly-down. He stayed above Hux, both of them flying at the same speed and heading. An electric thrill shot down Hux’s spine; this was the kind of tandem flight he had done with Ben before, and now he craved it again.

“Get beside me,” he said.

Ben didn’t immediately move, but then steered to port and down, placing him next to Hux, the wings of their aircraft no more than fifty feet apart.

“I want an Immelman into clockwise rolls and a dive,” said Hux. “Can you do it?”

Ben replied with a terse, “Of course. Count it off.”

“Five, four, three…” When he reached one, Hux pulled back the stick and entered the loop. Ben did just the same, staying beside him without so much as a foot’s deviation. They spun up together and then rolled in a tight spiral down toward the ground. Hux was concentrating too hard on his own flying to keep track of Ben, but when he called for them to pull out of the dive, he saw Ben come up right next to him again. Without speaking, he banked to starboard. Ben followed.

When Hux straightened his course, he opened the throttle and shot ahead. Ben reacted quickly, bringing the nose of his Hurricane up level with Hux’s again. Hux responded by slowing.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked, even as he drew up next to Hux.

“A dance of sorts,” Hux replied, not certain how else to explain the game he was playing. “I thought you might be keener on this one than the foxtrot.”

There was a pause, and then: “I like them both, but I’m better at this one.”

Hux couldn’t deny that, and he wanted to keep going. “Will you follow me then?”

“Anywhere,” Ben said.

A flash of joy burned in the pit of Hux’s stomach. It wasn’t the fearful excitement of battle or the freeing exhilaration of flying aerobatics from the first time, but there was a furor to it that he had never experienced before.

Grinning, he veered to port and toward Ben. Ben corrected for it, leaning into the wind with him. They tore across the sky together, Ben following Hux’s lead in all manner of maneuvers: simultaneous loops, deep dives, and sweeps over the countryside.

Feeling a little wicked, Hux said, “Shall we buzz the tower?”

He heard Ben laugh. “Okay.”

Though he knew the radio operators had heard him, they didn’t order him to stay away, so Hux flew down low, within four hundred feet of the ground. In the distance, he could make out the buildings at Wolcastle. The control tower was a two-storey building with an array of radio equipment on the roof. The antennae were like narrow spires. It was far enough away from the runway to avoid most of the noise of the aircraft taking off and landing, but everyone inside would likely get a bit of a scare as Hux and Ben flew past. It was a rude trick, yet Hux couldn’t help himself.

“S.L. Hux,” said Rey, her voice clear with the nearness of the antenna, “your position is—” She made a little peep of surprise as the two Hurricanes rumbled past the building.

Hux laughed out loud, anything but contrite. Ben joined him, his chuckle deep and resonant even filtered through the radio.

“My apologies, Control,” Hux said. “We were off-course by a bit.”

“To say the least,” Rey said. She sounded quite perturbed.

Hux and Ben returned to a higher altitude, turning back to their instruments as they cut through the clouds and back out of it into the open air. Their fuel was beginning to run low, but Hux said, “Once more?”

“What do you want?” Ben asked.

Hux thought for a moment before he replied, “Have you ever come into a loop from opposite directions?”

“We used to do it all the time with my dad’s friends,” said Ben. “I could do it with my eyes closed.”

“Braggart,” Hux said. Ben laughed. “All right. Let’s try this…”

He described the combination in detail. It started with loops and added turns and passes, inversions and tight spins. It was one of the most challenging series of maneuvers Hux could think of, and here he planned to do it precisely enough to end up in the same place as Ben at the end: side-by-side on each other’s wing.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s go,” Ben replied.

The combination started slow, but then grew more intricate. Hux performed his part unable to see anything but brief flashes of Ben out of the corners of his eyes, but with a kind of uncanny awareness of his proximity throughout. When Hux finally exited the last dive and leveled out, Ben was right beside him.

“Goddamn,” Ben said, sounding a little breathless. Hux shared the sentiment completely. His head was spinning with the intensity of what they had just done. He was at the loss for words to describe it; he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to.

He settled on: “That was marvellous. Thank you, Ben.”

Ben didn’t reply, but made a slight adjustment in his position, steering a few feet closer to Hux. Hux might have moved in the opposite direction, dancing as Ben had with him, but instead he moved in as well, so that they were nearly wing-to-wing. He turned to look and met Ben’s gaze. He wanted to smile, to show his pleasure at their success, but he couldn’t. He was caught up in the piercing look Ben was giving him. The connection they shared only heightened, making a chill run through Hux’s body.

“We should land,” Ben said, his eyes still on Hux. “I’m almost out of fuel.”

Hux came back to himself with a start. “Yes, of course. Let’s do that.” He turned back toward Wolcastle, focusing on his work as he bounced down onto the runway. Yet his blood was still singing as he taxied back to their hangar and cut the engine. He pushed the canopy back hurriedly, scrambling to get out. By the time he hit the ground, he could see Ben getting out of the cockpit.

Hux jogged over to him, exultant. “Incredible,” he said as he pulled off his gloves and dropped them to the ground. “I’ve never flown like that before. With anyone.”

“I know,” Ben said. “We were together. Perfectly together.” He lifted his bare hands, holding them out palms up. “I’m shaking.”

Hux grasped his forearms, curling his fingers around the thick leather of Ben’s jacket. “You knew where I would be before I did, answered every move I made. How do you do it?”

Ben looked up at him. “I don’t know. I just feel you.”

Hux blinked, looking properly into his eyes for the first time in days. He was just as amazed as Hux was, caught up in the fervor of having flown in perfect sync. His face was alight with it, and it stole Hux’s breath. The realization hit him like a freight train: if this was what they could do together, he could no longer bear to stay apart.

He gripped Ben’s arms tightly, wanting nothing more than to pull him closer, but knowing he could not. That did not stop him from making the request he had been trying to deny wanting for six days. “Meet me here tonight,” he said just loudly enough for Ben to hear him. “After dark.”

Ben’s brows knit, confusion in his eyes.

Hux pushed him back behind his aircraft to where the wing joined the fuselage, where they couldn’t be seen. He released Ben’s arms and took his face between his hands. Gently, he rested his helmeted forehead against Ben’s, nudging their noses together. He was close enough to kiss him, but held back. “Tonight,” he said.

When he stepped back, Ben was looking at him in astonishment, leaning against the Hurricane’s wing as if he needed it to stay upright.

“Tonight,” he said, hushed. “Here.”

Hux nodded.

Ben’s right hand came slightly forward, as if reaching for Hux, but Hux fell farther back, preserving an appropriate distance. Ben fisted the hand. Hux mirrored him, fighting his instinct to go to him. Though he was broad and tall, his expression hard, he looked lost, overwhelmed. A lock of his dark hair was hanging out of his helmet just above his eyebrow. Hux could imagine that when he pulled the helmet off, it would be disordered, the strands tangled and mussed. If he could, Hux would have run his fingers through it until the knots were gone and it was lying flat again. It was soft, he knew, and thick.

Shaking off the thought, Hux said, “I have to go.” It sounded hollow in his ears. “I have...reports.”

Ben gave a minute nod. “Thank you for flying with me.” He paused, blinked once, and added, “Hux.”

A shudder passed through Hux at that; he wanted to hear Ben say his name again and again, perhaps between warm kisses. He looked down at Ben’s mouth, watching him lick his lips, a nervous tic. He wanted to taste them.

“I’ll see you again,” Hux said instead. “Tonight.” Slowly, he backed away until he reached the place where he had discarded his gloves. He stooped to pick them up, and with a last look at Ben, went away from the hangar.

Unlike the night he had left after Ben had pulled him into his arms and kissed the breath out of him, his steps were light and quick. He was mad for thinking it would be possible for them to come together like this, but he was tired of fighting what he wanted, what he knew Ben wanted, too. The fear still lingered at the back of his mind, but the eagerness and anticipation were outweighing it now.

He didn’t go back to the briefing room to join the rest of the men for another few rounds of cards or to check that at least a pair of them had been in the Link trainer that day. He didn’t trust himself to keep the high emotion from his voice or his bearing, and he did not need any of them to see that something about him had shifted so drastically. Instead, he went to the showers.

He stripped deliberately, folding his clothing—trousers, pants, socks, shirt, jacket—before stepping onto the tile. The water wasn’t that warm, but he bathed with care, taking time to wash a few days’ worth of sweat from his body. If he was going to go to Ben, he was going to do it smelling clean.

When he got back to his quarters a half hour later, he discarded his uniform, choosing a clean shirt and his dark blue jumper. He would likely catch flak from his men about it, as he never appeared in casual dress, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need the weight of his jacket on his shoulders to remind him of all he was putting on the line. Tonight he would be as much himself as he could be, not Squadron Leader Hux, Ben’s commanding officer. When they went into each other’s arms, it would be as men without titles to bear.

In the intervening hours between his shower and dinner, he forced himself to write his reports. His focus was compromised, but he managed to put together something coherent. He congratulated himself on that small victory, but was glad when his watch read seven and he could go to the mess.

The men of the 363 were sitting together at their table when he entered, and they waved him over, smiling congenially. He made his way to them, but noted immediately that Ben was not in his usual place near the end of the table. His stomach tightened with unease. It had to appear as if nothing was amiss; they could not behave as if anything had changed. However, Hux had not said anything of that to Ben that afternoon. He cursed himself. He had forgotten that this was new to Ben. It was not something he knew how to navigate without guidance.

Hux was forced to push the worry away, though, as he sat. He greeted Taylor and Crowe, between whom he sat.

“Hey, sir,” Norman said, pouring a half glass of red wine for Hux. “Didn’t see you much today. Something going on?”

“Not at all,” Hux said a little too quickly. “I met with the wing commander and then had some reports to take care of.” He didn’t mention Ben at all, even if the flight had been routine.

Taylor made a face. “I don’t know how you can write all those things, sir. My hand would be cramping after just a couple of lines.” He was left-handed and wrote in a small, crooked way that had taken Hux some time to decipher when looking over his maths problems.

“It’s necessary,” Hux said. “If you get to be a squadron leader, you’ll have to learn to do it.”

“When pigs fly,” Norman laughed.

Taylor made a rude gesture in his direction.

Hux left them to argue over him as he took some of the vegetable stew and bread that was for dinner that night. It was bland, but he forced himself to eat it. He took much less time about it, though, than he usually did. It was only a quarter past seven when he pushed his bowl away.

“That’s all you’re having, sir?” Taylor asked.

“Yes,” Hux replied as he stood. “I have a few more things to do tonight.” It was unwise to lie, but he could no longer sit still. He need to get to the hangar. Perhaps it was there that Ben was hiding. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

The night air was crisp as Hux cut across the airfield. There were still lights on in the infirmary and the enlisted mess, but he avoided them both. He didn’t bother to light a cigarette, either. He didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to himself.

By the time Hangar Three was in sight, his nerves were running high. If Ben wasn’t here he wasn’t sure what he would do, aside from wait for three quarters of an hour until dinner had ended. And then he would stay another hour if he had to, just to make sure that Ben really wasn’t coming. If that was the case, he couldn’t decide if he would be disappointed or relieved. It would save him a great deal of trouble if Ben just stayed away. But that wasn’t what he wanted; not in the least.

He approached the wide, canvas-covered mouth of the hangar cautiously. Ben wasn’t outside, but Hux had found him inside before. He looked for a sign, a lamp or the red tip of a cigarette. Squinting anxiously into the darkness, he didn’t see either. He wanted to call out, but his tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. He was about to go back outside and wait when the moon came out from behind the clouds and illuminated a metal table a few feet inside.

Ben was stretched out on it, one of his legs propped up at the edge and the other hanging over the side. He was staring up at the curved ceiling of the hangar; his hands were folded over his stomach. Hux paused at the threshold, not yet wanting to disturb him. It was rare that anyone could enjoy a moment of solitude and peace at the airfield. But Hux couldn’t stay away long; he didn’t how much time they would have here, and he needed Ben in his arms before that time ran out. Taking cautious steps, he approached the table.

“Ben,” he said, his voice startlingly loud in the silence of the deserted hangar.

Ben sat up on his elbows, attention zeroing in on Hux where he stood a few paces from him. He waited for the space of a breath, and then said, “You came early.”

Hux tucked his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out for Ben immediately. “You weren’t at dinner,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Ben, sitting up properly and sliding to the edge of the table. He hesitated there. “I couldn’t eat like this.”

“Like what?” Hux asked.

Ben rubbed his hands down his thighs to his knees. “So nervous I could puke.”

Hux’s brow creased, concerned that he had been wrong to come here, to make this request of Ben. Maybe he had changed his mind about it, whatever it was, whatever it could become. “Is it because of me?” he said. “I can go.”

“No!” Ben jumped down from the table, taking a quick step closer. “I was thinking you wouldn’t come at all.”

The tightness in Hux’s chest released, and he crossed the last of the distance between them. Reaching out, he took Ben’s hand. “I’m here,” he said.

Ben looked down at their joined hands as if he was still trying to make sense of the touch. Hux stroked his thumb along his knuckles, and with a gentle tug, led Ben toward a dark corner at the side of the hangar. Ben, unspeaking, followed him. The features of his face were obscured by the shadows, so Hux reached for him, cupping his jaw in both of his palms and resting his thumbs on his cheekbones. Ben let out a trembling breath.

“You understand how dangerous this is,” said Hux.

“Yes,” Ben said, quiet.

Hux slid one hand into his hair, brushing it back. “To everyone else it must appear that nothing has changed. I will not treat you any differently than I do the others. We are nothing more than comrades when we are anywhere but here. Is that clear?”

Ben set his hands tentatively at Hux’s waist. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” said Hux, tightening his grip on Ben’s hair just slightly. He could feel Ben’s frown against his right palm.

“Yes, sir.”

Hux brushed his cheek, feeling the beginnings of his evening beard. “Good. Now come here.” He applied just the slightest pressure to the back of Ben’s head, drawing him close. Ben leaned into it, and Hux felt the heat of his breath just a moment before their lips met.

It was a careful press at first, both of them uncertain about how this would feel again. Hux wasn't wholly able to eschew the fear that kept him from deepening the kiss. He was still listening for anyone passing by, ready to flee at a moment's notice. But when Ben opened his mouth and tongued Hux's lower lip, everything around them faded. All Hux could see, and all he could taste, was Ben.

Hux held tight to the back of his head while Ben’s arms came around his waist to hold him close. Hux went willingly, pressing their chests together. His shoulders were all but swallowed up by Ben’s—he was so much broader—and Ben was a solid weight, allowing Hux to lean into him.

Ben may have been hesitant in the kisses they had shared a week before, but now he slipped his tongue into and out of Hux’s mouth, teasing. Hux chased him and caught his lower lip between his teeth. He sucked on it, making Ben give a small, choked sound in his throat. Hux answered it with a hum as he delved back into him.

Taking two steps forward, Ben pushed Hux back against the steel wall. His hands went to Hux’s neck and then into his hair, ruining the neat style. Hux didn’t care; all his attention was on the touch of Ben’s lips, the feel of them soft against his own. It felt like flying an inversion: exhilarating and weightless, even a little disorienting. Hux threw himself into it as he might a dogfight, without qualm or thoughts of anything but the moment.

“God, Hux,” Ben said against his mouth, the words slurred and slick.

Hux’s pulse jumped. It had been all but moaned, thick with need. He wanted to hear more, all the sounds Ben could make for him. Hux kissed the corner of his mouth and down to his chin in brief, damp presses. Ben sucked in a breath when Hux trailed his lips down to his neck and gently nipped the tender skin. He dug his fingers into Hux's jumper, surely stretching it. Hux disregarded that; he needed to hear Ben gasp again. He pulled the collar of Ben's shirt aside and kissed the divot at that base of his throat. He flicked his tongue out for a quick taste: salt, the musk of a body unwashed that day.

Ben let his head fall back, giving Hux better access, and Hux took full advantage. He nuzzled under Ben's jaw as he kissed him, feeling the vibrations of Ben's groan. It made Hux's stomach drop, the blood rushing to his groin. It wouldn't take long for him to harden, filling out with desire long-suppressed. But he was cautious not to push his hips too close to Ben's. It was one thing to kiss a man, but to feel his arousal was another. Hux didn't want to move too fast and frighten him off.

Moving back up to his mouth, Hux slipped into it again. Ben wrapped his arms around Hux's back, pulling him in. He kissed with abandon now, hungry and determined. Hux found himself making his own small sounds of need to accompany to slick noises their open mouths made.

It wasn't long before Ben, always quick to learn, went for Hux's neck. He came into it with the exuberance of the unschooled, half mimicking what Hux had done and half clumsily trying to identify what felt good. His lips were smooth and warm, but when he used his teeth it was just a little too much.

“Careful,” Hux warned. “I bruise easily.”

Ben drew back, looking confused. “It would bruise you?” he asked.

Hux held back a smile at his innocence. “Yes. It’s easy enough to mark someone. But we can’t. There would be questions.”

“Oh,” said Ben. “I’ll do it...lighter?”

“Just your lips,” Hux said, stroking the back of his head.

Ben bent back to the side of his neck and kissed him gently. Hux cradled his head, fingers in his hair. The small pecks Ben gave him were exploratory, mapping the skin beneath Hux’s jaw and up to his chin. Hux couldn’t remember the last time he had been handled like this: with curiosity and care. Ben touched him with a kind of reverence, as if he would disappear if treated too harshly. Hux relaxed into it, allowing him to do as he wanted, but when he ventured back up to Hux’s lips, Hux kissed him hard, and stayed there until his chest was aching for want of air. He kept his forehead against Ben's as they caught their breath.

“Are you all right?” he asked, needing to make sure all was well; this was new to Ben, after all.

Ben rubbed Hux’s back. “Yeah,” he said. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Are you?”

Hux smiled softly, touching Ben’s face, his hair. “Yes. Don’t doubt that. I came because I wanted to be here.”

“Me too,” said Ben, pulling Hux against him in an embrace that was almost too tight. Hux set his hands on Ben’s chest, pushing back just slightly. A look of uncertainty passed over Ben’s face as Hux withdrew, so Hux planted a kiss on his jaw to reassure him. He relaxed.

Reluctantly, Hux said, “We'll need to go back soon. It will be lights-out before long.”

Ben held him fast. “Will you come here tomorrow?”

“We can't do this every night,” said Hux, kissing him lightly. “There's too much risk. If the others notice both of us are gone after dinner each night, they'll come looking for us. We cannot be found together here, in the dark.”

Ben sighed. “Then when? Please don't let it be a week again. I can't...I just can't.”

Hux shouldn't have felt a rush of pleasure at that, but he did. Ben wanted him, and it affected him powerfully. “Three days, then,” he said. “We’ll both be expected at dinner. You will leave first, as you do, and twenty minutes later I'll come to you here. We’ll have an hour, maybe less.” It was too little time, but these were stolen moments to be rationed out with care.

“All right,” said Ben, resigned. He sought Hux's lips a last time before he stepped back, giving Hux space enough to step away from the wall. Hux straightened his jumper and brushed a hand over his hair to put it back in order. The pomade had given way, but it would look presentable enough.

“You go back first,” he said to Ben. “We shouldn’t arrive at the same time.”

Ben pursed his lips, displeased. “We’ve done it before. There wasn’t anything wrong with it then. When we were talking out here, I mean.”

“I know,” Hux conceded, “but that was before. We have to be far more vigilant now. They’ll know, Ben. They notice patterns, little quirks of routine that will betray us. We are not free to do this. We have no choice but to hide.”

“Okay,” said Ben. “I’ll go. What will you do?”

Hux shrugged. “Have a cigarette. Watch the stars.”

“The stars aren’t out tonight.”

“Oh.” Hux glanced out the wide doors to the overcast sky. “I hadn’t been paying much attention.”

Ben grinned, his teeth white in the darkness. “I’m distracting,” he said, as if he had just realized he had some kind of power over Hux.

Hux returned his smile. “Yes. You tend to command my attention when we’re alone. And at other times, too.”

Ben touched the edge of Hux’s hand, though he held his gaze. “I haven’t been able to think straight since I met you.”

Hux swallowed, struck.

“I didn’t know why at the beginning,” Ben continued, “but the more I looked, the more I wanted to touch you. There was one time when you were standing with the sun behind you. Your hair was on fire, and I was burning, too.” He bit his lower lip. “I’ve never wanted anything like that in my life.”

Hux blinked at him, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. He had had lovers with silver tongues shined by years of reciting verse in the finest public schools in England. Their admiration had been expressed with elegant turns of phrase, but all of those pretty monologues were put to shame by Ben’s earnestness. Hux felt his own affection ignite, warming him from the inside out.

He stroked the backs of his fingers down Ben’s cheek. “You’re so lovely, Ben.”

Ben tipped his face into the touch. “I’m nothing special. Not like you.”

Hux gave him an indulgent smile. “Thank you, but you have to go now.”

“I will,” Ben said. “Just let me kiss you one more time. I still don’t believe you’ll let me.”

Hux moved in close, until their lips were a hairsbreadth apart. “You don’t need permission.” He nudged his nose against Ben’s. “I want you.”

“Hux,” Ben said, though it was lost in their mouths.

When they parted, a thin line of saliva hung between their lips. It broke as Hux stepped back.

“Goodnight,” he said.

Ben hung his head. “I won’t sleep. I don’t know if I ever will again.”

Hux fought the urge to touch him again, but if he did, Ben would never get back to the barracks. “Don’t make me order you to rest, Pilot Officer Solo.”

Ben saluted lazily. “Yes, sir.” He backed away two steps, three, and then turned and walked away.

Hux watched him go until the dark swallowed him up. Fumbling in the pocket of his trousers, Hux retrieved his cigarette case. His hands were unsteady as he pulled one out and lit it.

In the space of an hour, everything in his life had shifted. He was being pulled indelibly toward Ben, who he had, in the beginning, seen as a young boy. He was just twenty-one, five years Hux’s junior, and so inexperienced. Part of Hux thrilled at that. He had never taught anyone how to touch and kiss before, but Arthur, his first, had told him of how intoxicating it had been to introduce Hux to it all.

He puffed at his cigarette until the burning tip was nearing his fingers. Ben had said he would have a sleepless night, but Hux hoped that wouldn’t truly be the case. He needed his pilots to be as sharp as possible as they went into combat, and it was high time Ben returned to his place there. He wouldn’t be on Hux’s wing, as he hoped to be, but Hux believed that, at last, he would fly responsibly with his own wingman. He had been given at least one thing he wanted: Hux. That would have to be enough.

Dropping the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and stamping it out, Hux started back toward the barracks. When he woke in the morning, everything would appear to be the same, but in truth, it was utterly changed.

Chapter Text

Hux’s quarters were windowless, so the steady ticking of his watch was the only indication that it was nearing daybreak. He had lain awake for the past hour, staring at the boards in the ceiling and running his plans for the morning over and over again in his head. Everything would be carefully orchestrated so that it all appeared in perfect order, nothing out of the ordinary.

He would wash up and dress in his uniform, comb and style his hair, put on the boots he wore in the air, and make his way to the mess to arrive at exactly seven o’clock. He would greet the few men present that early and retrieve his ration and tea, as he always did. The seat he chose would be in his usual place near the center of the table, given that the other men were not at the far end by the door. If that was the case, he would sit with them. That could be advantageous, as it put him farther away from the place in which Ben Solo sat.

Hux tapped his fingers against his sternum, making a hollow thumping sound. Every part of this display of conspicuous normality was his attempt to keep his composure once Ben inevitably appeared. He had to keep his interest controlled, his gazes cursory. He would look at Ben as if he was any other man in the squadron, as if they had not been hungrily wrapped around each other just a few hours before.

The tick-tick of the passing minutes marked the last few he would have before he was forced to play-act again, hiding what was between him and another man. He had done it before, and he knew he could do it now; but the beginning was the most difficult. It was when he wanted to be as close to his new lover as he could, and spend as much time together as they were afforded. Those hours had once been easily carved out in privacy at Oxford, but that was not the case at Wolcastle. Hux anticipated that when he and Ben were on duty, they would say little more to each other than they had when the Eagles had first arrived. His chest ached at the prospect.

The creak of the floorboards outside Hux’s door announced the start of the day, when those who rose even earlier than he did left the barracks. Tossing the blankets aside, he rolled out of his cot, and, standing slowly, reached up in a languid stretch that pulled his naked skin taut over his belly. He hadn’t bothered with his nightshirt when he went to sleep, preferring to let the cool sheets soothe the heat in his body that Ben’s touch had brought on.

He found that he missed that warmth now, as he went to the basin by his desk and filled it with cold water. He shivered as he washed with it, wishing for a tap of something hot. Making do, he dried off with the small towel folded next to the basin and went to his wardrobe.

Belt buckled and tie knotted at his throat, he went down the stairs and out into the morning fog. It parted in wisps as he walked through it, curling around his back to fill the space he had left. The brick face of the mess was shrouded as he approached, but he found the door and pulled it open.

Inside, the clatter of silverware on china was nearly absent. Only three men sat at the tables: two from the 129 and a single Eagle. Hux’s stomach dropped as he saw Ben’s dark head hanging low over the cup of coffee that he held between both of his hands. As the door slammed behind Hux, Ben looked wearily up. The hazy cast to his eyes cleared as he realized it was Hux who had come in.

A kind of panic simmered through Hux. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Ben almost never came for breakfast before half-past seven, when the others had already arrived. He wasn’t keen on rising early. To see him here now was out of character in exactly the way Hux was determined to avoid.

Legs feeling wooden, Hux went to get his plate—beans and sausages rather than porridge—and his tea, taking both back to the table. Ben was watching him fixedly as he approached. His empty plate had been discarded to his right side, but he slid it back in front of him when Hux came up, an invitation to sit beside him. Hux disregarded it, going instead to the place across the table.

“Good morning,” Ben said, quietly.

Hux considered demanding to know what he was doing here so early, but it would only draw more attention to the already unconventional situation. He simply said “Hello, Ben” before looking down at his food.

If Ben was bothered by the brusqueness, he didn’t show it. He picked up his coffee and took another sip, saying nothing, but he didn’t look away from Hux.

Though the room was nearly empty, to Hux it felt full. Ben seemed to suffuse everything, making Hux sharply aware of every small movement he made, whether he saw it or not. Ben rested his elbows on the table for a moment, then shifted on the bench. He set his coffee cup down and ran his fingertip along the handle. His left hand went to his thigh, rubbing the palm there. He didn’t cover his mouth when he yawned.

“You didn’t sleep,” Hux said at last, glancing up to see him properly. “Did you?”

Ben shrugged one shoulder. “Not much.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You going to tell me off for it?”

Hux’s lips twisted wryly. Ben could be quite cheeky when the mood struck him.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Hux, pushing some beans onto his fork with deliberate nonchalance. “Though I would suggest you do better this evening.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Ben said, finishing off his coffee. He set the cup down, a little more sober. “Did you get some sleep?”

Hux set his utensils down and dabbed a serviette at his lips. He held Ben’s gaze as he said, “Not much.”

The grin Ben gave him was wide and perhaps a little cocky. Heat unfurled in Hux’s gut, fondness tinged with desire. He hid it as best he could in his cup, scalding his tongue with the hot tea. He cringed as it burned down his throat.

“Am I going to be allowed to fly today?” Ben asked. “On a real run, I mean.”

“You are,” Hux replied. “Though I expect you to watch where you’re firing this time.”

Ben frowned, a hint of petulance in the downturn of his mouth. “You don’t have to tell me that; I know. It won’t happen again. I’m a good shot.”

Hux nodded, taking another, more cautious sip of his tea. “That you are. One of the best I’ve seen.” He cocked a brow. “But don’t let that go to your head. You’re far from perfect.”

“I will be,” said Ben, resolute.

“No one is without faults,” Hux said. “But I believe you can overcome yours.”

Ben sat up straighter, lifting his chin. Hux took the opportunity to look him over. His face still held some of the roundness of boyhood, cheeks a little fuller than they would be in a few years’ time. But his jaw was defined, his nose straight, flaring just a little at the nostrils. The sides of his mouth wrinkled when he smiled. Hux wanted to trace the creases with his fingertips, kiss them as Ben laughed. Not that he laughed often. But Hux liked to imagine that there were hidden places where he was sensitive enough to flinch and squirm as Hux touched them. The thought of Ben bare and writhing underneath him sent the blood in his gut straight to his cock. Swallowing heavily, he moved to readjust himself before he could respond any further.

The drawling voices of a group of Eagles arriving thankfully pulled him out of his own head, focusing his attention on them. Ward, Meltsa, and Shorty gave cheerful greetings as they passed by the table on their way to get their breakfast. They formed up around Hux and Ben when they sat, and guided Hux into conversation; Ben fell silent again, keeping his eyes cast shyly down as the others chattered around him. The rest of the squadron trickled in eventually, saying their good mornings and asking Hux about their assignments for the day. He wasn’t certain why they still enquired; they knew that they would be disbursed when they were needed and not before.

They reported to the briefing room after the meal, all thirteen of them scattered around the desks and chairs as they waited for the call to action. Hux traded pages of the newspaper with Strickland, who commented occasionally on the state of the war. Hux made noises of acknowledgement, but offered no opinions of his own. Things were going well enough on the home front, but in other places they were less so. He couldn’t help but think of Miss Rey’s Finn and whether he had finally gotten a letter to her.

By eleven o’clock, they were still on the ground. Hux had abandoned the finished paper and was listening to Norman Crowe tell stories of his summer vacations spent working on a farm outside of Lawrence, Kansas, where he had grown up. Hux learned that it was common for young boys in America to take jobs when they were out of school to earn extra money for their families. Things had been hard since the financial collapse in ‘29, and were just beginning to recover under President Roosevelt. Norman’s parents had been skeptical of the programs Roosevelt was creating to put the listless men of the country to work, but when his father had gotten one of the jobs, that had put their concerns to rest quite promptly.

“What were your summers like, sir?” Norman asked when he was finished with a tale of cutting his hands “all to hell” while baling hay in the high heat of August.

Hux threaded his fingers together on the top of the desk at which he sat and leaned in. “Well, our holidays are quite a bit shorter than yours. We attend school from September to July with only six weeks for summer holiday. That’s not quite long enough to work as you do.”

“Sure isn’t,” said Strickland. “So what’d you all do instead?”

“Generally, I traveled with my parents,” Hux said. “France, Switzerland, Holland. We went to Greece once. Other times we summered in the lake country, staying with some of my mother’s relations.”

Norman sighed, leaning back in his chair to prop his feet up on a nearby desk. Hux didn’t chide him for it. “I’d never been east of St. Louis before I came here,” Norman said. “I bet France sure is nice.”

“You’ve seen some of it,” said Theo Meltsa, glancing up from the weathered hardback book he had been given by a friend in town the last time they had gone there. “We fly over it all the time. Sure doesn’t look so pretty all bombed-out.”

Hux had a number of good memories of the beautiful architecture of Paris and the picturesque countryside where his father had taken him hunting. He feared what might have happened to the good family outside of Compiègne who had taken them in for the night when the wheel of their automobile had gone askew.

“The war’s likely destroyed some of the most handsome buildings and villages in the country,” he said regretfully. “It’s a terrible loss.”

“Damned shame,” Strickland muttered. He cupped his chin in his hand, leaning on his knee. “I’d say we’re pretty lucky over at home that we ain’t getting bombs dropped on us.”

“That’s a fact,” Meltsa said. “But it seems like folks over here could use some help. We could do that if we wanted to.”

Hux cocked his head. “You are helping,” he said, looking up to see that several of the men who hadn’t been paying attention to Norman were now listening to him. Ben, who sat in the far corner of the room with a knife and the wooden figure he had been whittling over the past few weeks in his hands, was just as attentive. “You volunteered to come to our aid when we needed good pilots most,” Hux continued. “You broke the laws of your country to do it. That’s no small sacrifice, and though you may not hear it often, we’re grateful.”

“Well, that’s fine of you to say, sir,” Norman said, smiling. “We’re glad to be over here. Right, boys?”

Murmurs of agreement made the rounds of the room. Hux glanced about, meeting the eyes of his men. Their faces were open and sincere. He was glad for them and their courage.

The conversation turned to other things from there: horse racing, the girls they had met in town, the foods they missed from home. Hux listened mostly, only adding a comment when he needed to. It wasn’t his role to always be involved in what they did and discussed. Had he not been needed close to the hangar, he would have left them. There were always things that could not be said in front of one’s commanding officer, no matter how cordial that relationship might be. They needed the opportunity to do so without him hovering around them.

Thinking that he might give them a little more space, he excused himself for a cigarette. The fog had cleared mostly, but it was still damp outside. The flame of the match he struck nearly guttered out as he held it up to light his smoke, but then he heard the hissing burn of paper and tobacco. He waved the match out and dropped it.

He was less than a quarter of the way through the cigarette when he heard footsteps behind him. He braced, but was relieved when Poe stepped up next to him; he had feared—and also hoped—that it was Ben who had come to join him.

“Hey, sir,” Poe said, hands sunk deep in his trouser pockets. Hux might have offered him a cigarette, but he knew he didn’t smoke.

“Flight Lieutenant Dameron,” said Hux, his use of Poe’s full title a friendly, familiar greeting. “What can I do for you?”

Poe bounced on his toes blithely. “Oh, I’m not asking for anything. I just thought I’d check up with you. We haven’t been meeting much like we used to when we were all training, and I just figured that not many of the guys ask you how you’re doing.”

Hux raised his brows. “You’re enquiring about my wellbeing?”

“It sounds awfully formal when you say it like that,” Poe chuckled, “but it’s more or less what I want to know.”

Hux was accustomed to giving reports of his status and flight capability, but it had been quite some time since someone had asked him about him personally. The closest he had come was writing to his mother that he was healthy and unharmed. He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer, so he settled on, “I believe I’m all right.”

“It isn’t really a question of what you believe, sir,” said Poe, “but how you actually feel. War’s a hard thing. It wears on a man.”

“It can,” Hux conceded, though he wasn’t war-weary. He had been raised for a life in the military, and was accustomed to austerity and the demands of a conflict. “But I’m perfectly well in that respect. Are you feeling ill effects?”

Poe held up an admonishing finger. “Oh no you don’t, sir. You’re not turning this on me.” He pointed to himself. “I’m asking the questions here.”

“Forgive me,” Hux said, amused. “What else would you like to know?”

“Well, I’m not saying that the boys think there’s something the matter with you, but I maybe think that you’re so caught up in holding us together that you’re not watching out for yourself.” Poe looked a little sheepish. “Nobody I’ve ever met is as put together as you, but...there’s got to be something you need to get off your chest from time to time.”

Hux rubbed his chin, considering. He didn’t make a habit of confiding in anyone, not when so much of his true nature had to be concealed. But Poe was not asking about that. He seemed genuinely curious about how Hux was holding up. Hux thought he could be a little more forthcoming if it would reassure him that everything was in order.

“I’ve been thinking about how fortunate we’ve been since we began flying sorties,” Hux said. “It’s not always the case with new squadrons. Most lose a man within the first few weeks. I have been prepared for the worst.”

“Was that what it was like during the big battle last summer?” Poe asked.

Hux nodded. “Out of the three squadrons at the airfield, it was likely at least one would go down every day. Sometimes more.”

Poe whistled through his teeth. “That must have been hell compared to this.”

“We did what was required of us,” Hux said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “It’s less dangerous here, and I don’t take that for granted. I don’t want to lose any of you if I can avoid it.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Poe. “I was hoping you didn’t want to get rid of us. The boys like flying under you.” He flashed Hux a grin. “You’re sure as hell better than Chapman. What an ass.”

Hux held back a laugh. The leader of the 222 had done nothing to endear himself to the Eagles. He still looked at them as if they were beneath him. His squadron was more amiable, but they still kept a greater distance than the 129 did. Taylor and Ward had made a friend of S.L. Barlow when they had last been to the pub. They had taken him drink for drink, and by the end of the night they had been laughing and leaning on each other’s shoulders to stay standing. The friendship of the 129 had come along with him.

“Yes,” said Hux. “That much is true. The man is intolerable when I’m forced to sit with him at dinner. Consider yourselves lucky that you don’t have to deal with him.”

“Oh, we do,” Poe said. “Are there more like him in this outfit, or more like you?”

Hux blew out smoke. “I’m not certain I could say. Every commander is different.”

“But you like it, right? Being a squadron leader.”

“I do,” Hux said. “It...makes me quite happy.” He hadn’t stopped to think about his feelings toward his command since he had taken it. He was proud to do it, and served to the best of his ability, but he had not realized how contented he was in it.

Poe was smiling again, brightly. “You really don’t have any complaints, huh? Everything’s going good.”

Finishing his cigarette, Hux dropped it to the ground. “As I said initially, I really am well. Though I do appreciate your asking.” He clapped a hand on Poe’s shoulder, offering a smile in return.

He was about to say something more, but the howling of the air raid siren cut him off. Immediately, Hux reacted, throwing open the door to the briefing room. Chairs scraped across the floor as the Eagles sprang to their feet. They ran together toward the hangar, and within three minutes, they were in their aircraft and taking off to defend Wolcastle once again.

 There was a pair of nurses standing by the sink in the infirmary break room when Hux walked in two days later. They were washing up from their mid-afternoon tea, laughing cheerfully, though they turned at the heavy fall of boots behind them.

“Hello, sir,” said one, a narrow-faced girl with dark green eyes. Her wimple hid the color of her hair. The other nurse averted her eyes demurely.

“Good afternoon,” Hux said as he stopped near the table at the center of the room, clasping his hands behind his back.

The nurses set their clean cups and teapot on the wooden rack beside the sink to dry, and scurried past him toward the door. As they disappeared into the hall, he heard a shrill giggle and, “He’s so handsome.”

Hux shifted on his feet, feeling the familiar mix of pleasure and discomfort at being complimented on his looks by women. He was flattered, but wholly uninterested in their affections. What Ben had said of him three nights before, though, had affected him deeply. He had played the words over in his mind in the time they had been apart; his thoughts had wandered absently to them when there was nothing else to occupy him. And that was often.

The past days had been filled with the usual tedium, broken only by bomber runs and sweeps over the coast. The Germans had been quiet since the raid, leaving the 363 to bide their time in the briefing room. The day before, Hux had spent most of it reading the Histories again, tucked into a back corner of the room where he would not be disturbed. He knew the book well enough that he could read it without even thinking much about it. While he processed the words, most of his attention went to the corner behind the blackboard where Ben was sitting, alone as well.

Hux had been watching him, albeit carefully. Sometimes he read the newspaper, but never the whole thing, as if it didn’t hold his interest. Other times he pulled out his whittling. Hux had never seen anyone do such a thing before, and he found himself looking up over his book to see him work the wood. He had thought he was being surreptitious, but it didn’t take Ben long to catch him at it. When their eyes had met, Ben’s hands had stilled, the knife frozen along the figure’s back. It was a small knife with a tortoiseshell handle, and it folded to fit into his pocket when he was finished with it.

He had looked at Hux steadily, unblinking. Hux had dared to look in return, as the other men were listening to Andrew Ward bragging about a girl or something of that nature. The room grew narrower until it felt like it was just the two of them, watching and waiting for the other to move or to glance away. Neither did, but Ben hooked his foot around the leg of a nearby chair and pulled it closer to him, beckoning.

Hux closed Herodotus and tucked it under his arm as he crossed over to Ben. It was harmless enough, he decided; he had spoken to Ben in the briefing room before. No one would question them as long as they kept themselves at a distance. As Hux sat in the chair beside him, the fleeting hint of a smile passed over Ben’s face.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Hux asked him, gesturing to the figure. It was a shaggy-coated dog with a long tail and big paws.

“My mom taught me,” he replied. “We used to do it at night on the porch while the sun went down. She told me my grandfather taught her how to do it. I never knew him.” He held the dog by the back legs, examining it.

Hux could see the detail in the face. Its mouth was open, and there were narrow teeth at the front. “You’re very good.”

Ben shrugged. “I had a lot of time to do it. And a good teacher.”

“You’re fond of your mother,” Hux said. “You got along well with her?”

“Sometimes. I used to get in trouble a lot in school, so she’d have to chew me out for it, but when I wasn’t being a pain in the ass, we did okay.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine a young Ben getting into tussles with his classmates, or at least arguments. He had a temper on him, one he had probably had his entire life. But at the same time, he could be perfectly genial if he chose to be. Though it was difficult to puzzle him out at times, Hux very much wanted to.

“May I see that?” Hux said, holding out the flat of his hand for the figure. Ben set it in his palm. “Is this the kind of dog you had as a boy?”

“Yeah,” Ben said as he folded the knife up and set it on the nearby desk. “It’s supposed to be Chewie, my dad’s dog.”

“What breed was he?”

Ben rubbed his hands along his thighs, stretching his shoulders. “Hell if any of us knew. Some stray in a barn whelped him. She died, but he made it. My dad found him and raised him up. He used to guard the planes when everyone was too drunk to see straight.”

“I never had a dog,” said Hux, tracing the figure’s back with his fingertip, “though my mother has a cat. Millicent.” Ben made a face, and Hux smirked. “I know. It’s not the most charming name, but this is the woman who called me Armitage.”

“I like your name,” Ben said. “It’s fancy, like you.”

Hux cocked a brow at him. “You think I’m ‘fancy?’” He had been called many things in his life, but that was not one of them.

Ben scratched at the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to say it right. You’re like an oil man’s son or one of the rich barons in the movies.”

“Hardly that,” Hux said. “I’m not an aristocrat from one of the old families of the country. My great-grandfather had a knighthood, but that’s the only claim we have.”

“There are really knights?” Ben asked, eyes wide.

“Quite of few of them, in fact. It takes a great deal to earn a knighthood, but they’re bestowed by the king. It’s an honor.”

“What did your grandfather do to get one?”

“He fought in the Opium War of 1839, in China,” said Hux. “He was very gallant, or so I was told. He was an exemplary soldier.” He was holding the dog figure lightly still, and Ben moved his hand up to join it. He didn’t touch Hux’s skin, but he patted the dog on the head with his middle finger.

“Could you be a knight?” he said. “You’ve killed a lot of Jerries. They gave you a Flying Cross for it.”

Hux brushed his thumb against the dog’s neck, near Ben’s fingers. “I doubt it.”

Ben twitched one finger, just brushing Hux’s. Hux nearly jumped at the passing contact.

“I guess you don’t get any armor, then,” Ben said, sounding perfectly serious. When Hux looked at him, though, he was fighting a grin.

“No,” Hux laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

He had left Ben not long after that, difficult though it was. He had taken up a game of poker with Taylor, Poe, and Virgil Gilbert. He had done poorly, but it made no matter to him.

He had done better today, however, winning a full bar of dark chocolate that had been purchased in town; Brewster Mills had been loath to see it go into Hux’s breast pocket. He bowed out at two o’clock, when Matron Phasma took her tea. It had been some time since he had joined her, so he decided he would spend an hour in her company to assuage the boredom of another few on the ground.

He was just going over to the nurses’ kettle to fill it when she came into the break room.

“Well, well, well,” she said, hands on her hips. “Hello there, S.L. Hux. Didn’t expect I’d see you today.”

“I do like to surprise you,” said Hux, deadpan.

Phasma chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you do.” She pointed to the empty kettle in Hux’s hands. “Put that on, and I’ll get my stash.”

Hux could only guess what she meant by that, but he did as he was bid and set the water to boil. He turned to see Phasma on a step stool by one of the cabinets that contained the standard-issue white china. She reached up onto the top and pulled down an unmarked tin. As she stepped down, she opened it and breathed deep. Hux caught a of whiff of bergamot.

“Is that Earl Grey?” he asked, nearly salivating. It was his favorite tea, and currently in short supply.

Phasma grinned. “It is. I managed to get my mother to send me some. It arrived last week.”

“Your mother is a godsend,” Hux said. “And so are you for sharing it with me.”

“I’ll make you pay me back one way or another,” she said, going to the counter and spooning the dried leaves into a pot.

Hux crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid to ask, but I’m willing to take the chance for a cup of that tea.”

“Exactly,” Phasma said. From a cabinet she pulled a box of biscuits. The end was already open, guaranteeing they would be stale, but she took four out and set them on a plate.

When the water was hot, she brought it to the table. Hux pulled out a chair and sat. As they let the tea steep, he asked after the goings-on in the infirmary.

“Well,” Phasma said, “it’s been quiet save for that poor thing from the 222.”

Hux felt a chill run down his back. The previous afternoon, the 222 had been returning from a run when one of the landing aircraft had burst into flames. The engine had taken a few rounds during combat and a fuel leak had ignited inside it. The pilot had managed to get it to the ground, but by the time the crew arrived to put out of the fire, he was covered in burns. Hux had heard him screaming as they pulled him out of the cockpit.

“He survived,” Hux said, half a question.

Phasma shook her head. “The burns were manageable, but it was the shock that killed him. Body just couldn’t handle it.”

Hux looked down at the table, studying his narrow, unmarked hands. He thought of Snoke, who had been in a similar fire. His fingers were gnarled and shiny with scar tissue. It was remarkable that he still had use of both of them. Not every man was so fortunate.

“How old was he?” Hux asked.

“Twenty-two,” Phasma replied. “He’d just been transferred from No. 13.”

No. 13 Group covered the north of England, where Coastal Command operated. Their tasks were predominately to hunt for U-boats that could sink the shipping convoys making their way around the country. A posting in No. 13 was generally saved for new pilots who were just getting their feet under them. It was a relatively low-risk assignment; one was unlikely to get shot down there. Hux would have gone to No. 13 if he had been ordered to, but the 363 was better than that. They belonged in No. 12, if not No. 11, which saw the most action of all.

“He’s been sent home now,” Phasma continued. “Left on the lorry this morning, same one that brought his replacement. I don’t have the details, but I heard he’s a veteran looking for a quiet rotation.”

“Indeed,” said Hux. “I wish him the best.”

Phasma picked up the pot of tea, and held it out for Hux. A bit splashed over the cup and into the saucer as she poured it. She mumbled a half-hearted apology, but Hux waved her off. Picking up the cup, he blew on it, sending the steam swirling away.

“So,” said Phasma, chewing on a stale biscuit. A few crumbs rained down onto the table. “How’s your squadron doing?”

“Exceptionally,” Hux replied. “One of my pilots managed to bring down an Fw 190 yesterday afternoon.” It had been Poe who had shot the German fighter; Hux had watched it careen into the Channel below.

Phasma picked up her tea. “Very impressive. Was it that young one you were struggling with before? You said he was a good flyer.”

“It was not,” said Hux, “but I did have a talk with him as you suggested.” It had been a great deal more than that, of course, but since Ben had returned to the air, he was doing far better staying with his wingman. He paid more attention, flew with the others rather than going off on his own. Yet he still found his way into Hux’s space, staying near him in combat and dragging Shorty with him. If Shorty noticed Ben’s propensity for finding Hux and staying with him, he didn’t say anything about it.

“And?” asked Phasma.

“I believe it worked,” Hux said, sipping at his tea. It was fragrant, strong, and absolutely delicious.

She grinned, all white teeth. “So, you won’t be shipping him home on the first available boat. That’s good to hear. We need every man.” Taking another bite of biscuit, she asked, “He’s the tall one, isn’t he? Non-regulation haircut?”

Hux had long ago intended to tell Ben to get his hair trimmed into something more acceptable, but he had never gotten around to it, and now that he had had his hands fisted in it, he wasn’t so eager to see it cut off.

“That’s the one,” he said to Phasma.

She chewed her biscuit pensively. “Strapping thing, isn’t he? Tall as me, I think, and good-looking.”

Hux bristled, wary, but he managed to keep his tone light. “Fancy that kind of man, do you?”

Phasma eyed him for a moment, her expression unreadable, but then gave a shrug. “Not really, no. That little thing with the light brown hair, though…” She winked. “He’s got a nice look about him.”

“You mean Shorty Putnam?” Hux said. That was an improbable couple if he ever saw one.

“What,” said Phasma, looking utterly unfazed, “you don’t think he’d have a girl like me?”

Hux took a long drink of his tea. “I’m certain you could have just about any one of these men you wanted. The Americans seem rather taken with English girls. And you’re very charming.”

“Right,” she scoffed, though not unhappily. She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you’re suggesting that you and I…”

“While I am very tempted,” Hux said, teasing, “I will have to decline.”

Phasma laughed. “You’re not my type, either.” She picked up the plate of biscuits and held it out to him. When he shook his head, she took another one and bit into it.

They drank the rest of the pot of tea, savoring the flavor, before Hux rose to go. Phasma caught him just before he could leave and said, “You watch out for your Ben Solo, now. And let him watch out for you.”

Hux lifted his brows.

She smiled a little too knowingly for his tastes. “He’s your favorite. You would have sent him away if he wasn’t.”

“I don’t play favorites among my pilots,” he said lamely. For the most part it was true. He treated them all the same when it came to their assignments and flight order. But there was no one he loved flying with more than Ben.

“Maybe that’s true,” Phasma said, “but he covers your back when you need him. Don’t take that for granted. It’s not something everyone finds.”

The last thing Hux was about to do was take Ben for granted, not when he finally had him. “I understand,” he said to Phasma. She nodded, satisfied with that.

When Hux got back to the briefing room, the Mills brothers were tossing an oblong ball between them. It looked a bit like a rugger ball, but was tapered at the ends almost to a point. As Lewis threw it, it spiralled through the air.

“Heads up, sir!” Brewster called just a fraction of a second before he sent the ball spinning toward Hux. He managed to catch it, but barely. It was leather and a little rough.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A football, sir,” said Lewis.

Though he hadn’t played on the team at Charterhouse, Hux knew what a football looked like. This was not it.

“You don’t throw a football,” he said, rolling the ball between his hands. “It’s kicked.”

Brewster jogged over and took the ball from his hands. “You can kick this one, or punt it. But mostly the quarterback throws it, and one of the receivers runs it in for a touchdown.”

Hux had never heard any of those terms before. “I believe this American football is quite a bit different from the football we know here. We make goals, not ‘touchdowns.’”

“Oh, you mean soccer,” Lewis said. “Yeah, that’s different.” He screwed up his face. “A lot less interesting if you ask me. Just a bunch of boys running in circles. In football at least there’s some action. Tackles and all that.” He opened his hands, and Brewster tossed the ball to him. “We’ll have to teach you, sir.”

Brewster hummed thoughtfully. “Not sure we have enough people for a team, but we could get away with playing six-on-six.”

“Then let’s do it,” Lewis said, grinning. “Get the boys together and—”

“363 Squadron!” the disbursement officer called, telephone receiver to his ear. “You’re called up for a sweep. Report immediately.”

“The game will have to wait,” said Hux, and they were off for the hangar.

Hux returned with his Hurricane peppered with bullet holes. He had managed to get into a Messerschmitt’s line of sight and had taken heavy fire. Poe had gone after the fighter that had shot him up, but it was Ben who took it down. He’d emptied his entire magazine into the fuselage and cockpit, effectively shattering the thick glass. The pilot didn’t stand a chance.

“We’ll haul her in for repairs, sir,” said Thannisson as he looked woefully over the damaged aircraft, “but it doesn’t look good.”

Hux unzipped his flight jacket, resigned. “Do what you can.”

As he went to stow his gear, he saw Ben inside. He went to him and offered his hand. Ben eyed it, but put his own into it, shaking.

“Thank you,” said Hux.

Ben squeezed his hand tightly. “Thank me tonight.”

Hux’s skin tingled where they touched. The three days had finally passed, and they were meant to meet tonight.

They released each other as the other men came in, dropping their parachutes and helmets. Taylor asked if they were done for the day, and Hux nodded. He assumed as much anyway. With the wounds their airplanes had suffered—his was not the only one—he would request that Snoke send one of the other squadrons out in their place if necessary.

He spent the rest of the afternoon with his reports, sequestered in his quarters. It was hard going; his nerves were running high, half from the fight and half from the anticipation. By the time he got down the mess for dinner, his appetite was negligible, his stomach in knots. He picked at his food, cutting it up into small pieces only to push them around the plate instead of eating them. The half-pint of beer he drank readily, though.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ben. Unlike him, Ben bolted down the considerable helpings of food he put onto his plate. He finished his beer in record time before standing and going out of the mess. Hux wanted to follow immediately, but instead asked Theo about the latest letter he had gotten from his father in Maine. He was happy to share all the news from Portland, taking up nearly three-quarters of an hour. When, at last, he was finished, Hux was able to escape.

There was a light on in the hangar as he approached, and for a moment he was worried that someone else was working late, but when he made his way inside, he saw Ben. He was crouched down by the underside of Hux’s airplane, tracing a jagged bullet hole. Feeling around it, he hissed and pulled his hand sharply away. The tip of his forefinger went into his mouth.

“Did you cut yourself?” Hux asked, coming up behind him.

Ben shot to his feet, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the fuselage, and grabbed Hux around the waist. He didn’t hesitate to kiss him. Hux went into it happily, putting his arms around Ben’s neck and fingers into his hair. They clung to each other there, mouths open in heated exploration. Fumbling blindly with his left hand, Hux managed to flick off the lamp. They were plunged into the darkness that was necessary to hide them.

Moving from Ben’s lips, Hux kissed his jaw up to his ear. He took the lobe between his teeth and sucked at it. Ben gasped, pulling on Hux’s jacket. Pleased, Hux moved down his neck to the collar of his turtleneck jumper. It was an annoyance, a barrier, so he tugged it down for better access to Ben’s skin. He smelled like warm wool, dry with a mellow tang of musk.

“Hux,” Ben said as he laid a hand on Hux’s cheek. Hux allowed himself to be guided back to Ben’s mouth.

Ben kissed with impatient hunger, taking anything and all that Hux would give him; and Hux did give, willingly. He was caught up in Ben’s enthusiasm, which was uninhibited by learned caresses meant to seduce. He was spontaneous in his touches, going on instinct alone. Hux was certain that being with someone so untaught was highly underrated.

When they finally paused to catch their breath, Hux rested his hands on Ben’s chest, feeling the rapid beats of his heart. Ben palmed the small of his back, catching his thumbs on Hux’s belt. Hux felt suddenly very overdressed.

He went for the buckle of the belt, unclasping it before releasing the buttons on his jacket. When Ben realized what he was about, he moved his hands up and helped Hux ease the jacket over his shoulders. He took it from him and hung it over the propellor blade of Hux’s kite. He went immediately back to touching Hux, tracing the line of buttons down the front of his shirt to where it was tucked into his trousers. Hux’s cock twitched at his proximity, but he forced himself to keep calm.

“How have you been?” he asked quietly.

Ben fiddled with the tie around his neck. “Sore,” he replied. “A kind of hurt in my gut.”

Hux frowned. “You’re sick?”

“No. I’m just sore from…” He paused, searching for the words. “From having you right there and not being able to even look at you for long. It makes my stomach ache.”

Hux sighed. “I know. That’s the way of it.” He knew the same pain of wanting; it wore on him already, even more than the war did. He could train himself to serve, but to control what he wanted beyond that was an altogether different matter. “It’s not going to get easier,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ben. “I can do it.”

Hux reached for his cheek, brushing his lips as he went. “How did you know I was inclined to men? I like to think I hide it well.” He had been thinking of that for days, wondering how Ben could have seen through him so easily.

Ben laid his fingers over Hux’s. “I didn’t know.”

Hux’s lips parted, betraying his shock. “You kissed me without an idea that I would accept it?” He plucked at the ribbing on Ben’s jumper. “Had I not, I could have had you thrown out, held on charges of indecency. Why would you do that?”

“Because I had to,” Ben said, drawing Hux’s palm to his mouth. He planted a kiss at the center. “I couldn’t keep it in. It hurt even worse than it does now. I could barely breathe.”

Hux felt much the same in that moment. The risk Ben had taken was unthinkable. Hux had given no overt signs that he was interested in Ben’s affections, and yet he had put everything on the line for a single kiss. It was mad, but Hux could think of no other way for him to have acted. There was no subtlety to him, no fear. He did what his gut told him to do without a thought for the consequences. It could have blown up in his face, and yet here they were.

“Did you know that you were this way when you were younger?” Hux asked. “Could you tell?”

Ben chewed his cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’ve always stayed on my own a lot. I didn’t go to the barn dances that the others did. I didn’t want to dance with the girls. My dad figured I was just shy, but I guess I wasn’t like him. I wasn’t much like anybody when I was growing up.” He blinked at Hux. “Did you know you were different?”

Hux nodded slowly. “From a very young age. My mother forced me to dance with the girls, and I liked it, but mostly because of the dancing.”

Ben guided him into a foxtrot frame. “Is that why you taught me?”

“Mainly I wanted you to stop standing in the corner looking sullen,” said Hux, following when Ben took a step into the dance. “And there were more ladies than men, so you were needed as a partner.”

“Oh,” Ben said, stopping.

Hux took the hand from his shoulder and chucked him under the chin. “It was also an excuse to get you into my arms.”

“It felt good there,” said Ben as he moved into the steps again. “I had never been that close to anyone. Except when my mom made me hug her.” He bit his lip. “Or if I got into a fight.”

“You had to be fierce,” said Hux. “But they had to think twice before they came at you. You’re not a small man.”

As if to illustrate that, Ben pulled him closer. “Maybe not, but I pissed a lot of people off. Got pretty good at it. The only time I didn’t get into it was when I was flying with my dad. There’s something about being in the air that just makes me calm down.”

“Is that so?” Hux said, cocking a brow. “I’m not inclined to believe you.”

Ben looked duly abashed. “You kept getting on my case. I was used to being the best. It drove me crazy. For a while I was sure I wanted to punch you. Before I wanted to kiss you.”

Hux adjusted his hand at Ben’s shoulder, tugging the ends of his hair. “I’m glad you managed to restrain yourself. I’ve haven’t been hit since I was at school, and I admit I’m vain enough to fear a black eye or split lip.”

“I’d never let you get hurt,” Ben said. He fell out of their sluggish dance, curling his hands around Hux’s upper arms almost too tightly. “Today… Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t always be able to stay out of danger, Ben,” he said. “It’s part of the job.”

Ben moved in close, so Hux almost had to cross his eyes to see him. “Then let me protect you. Poe’s good, but he’s not me. Let me be on your wing.”

“The flight order stands,” said Hux, firm. “You don’t get your way just because of this.” Ben opened his mouth to argue further, but Hux silenced him with his lips. They didn’t talk again for quite some time.

It was nearing ten o’clock when they finally stepped apart. Ben, who had said he still slept fitfully, was yawning. Hux sent him away with a last embrace, waiting at the hangar for a few minutes before returning to the barracks himself. He felt light as he crawled into bed, lying on his back, once again staring at the ceiling. This time he didn’t count the boards; he simply closed his eyes, and drifted off with Ben on his mind.

Hux was summoned to Snoke’s office first thing after breakfast the morning next. The wing commander was, surprisingly, out of full uniform. His jacket was hanging over the back of his desk chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, baring yet more scars. The bones of his arms were sharply visible, part of the muscle over them having been burned away to reveal their contours.

“Hux,” he rumbled around his cigar. “Heard you and your lads took a bit of fire yesterday. Glad to see you came out of it without scathe.”

“It was lucky, sir,” Hux said. “Our kites, however, did not fare so well.”

Snoke grunted. “I’m well aware of the shortcomings of our aircraft. You don’t have to remind me so often.”

Chastened, Hux nodded. “Of course, sir. My apologies.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right about them taking abuse. I’ve ordered the 363 grounded today so your crew can get them back in working order.” He blew out dark, fragrant smoke. “And you could use a break.”

“You’re giving us leave?” Hux asked. He would enjoy a day in town. There was a shop with good cigarettes that he had been craving, and Snoke’s rich cigar was only making him want them more.

“Not full leave, no,” Snoke replied. “You’re to stay at the field in the event you’re needed. You still have enough functional kites to fight if you must.”

That was a disappointment, as it meant that the squadron would just have to spend another day killing time, and this one would have no excitement at all.

“I understand, sir,” Hux said. “I’ll let the men know.”

Twelve inquisitive glances fell on him as he entered the briefing room. All of the Eagles were inside, hiding from the pouring rain. Hux’s hair was soaked even from the short walk over from the control tower.

“News from the wing commander, sir?” Wexley asked, perking up.

“Indeed,” Hux replied as he shook off the worst of the water from his jacket. “We have the day off.”

A couple of cheers came up from the men, along with smiles.

“However,” Hux continued, “we have to say at the field.”

As expected, the joviality faded.

“What do they expect us to do here all day?” Andrew Ward grumbled. “Stare at each other? Watch the grass grow?”

Hux gave a helpless shrug. “We will have to find something.” He resolved it wasn’t going to be reports. He had no interest in paperwork when he had a day free to do anything else.

“Any ideas, boys?” Poe said, glancing around. He leaned on the back of his chair, twisted at the waist, to look at Ben, who was in his usual corner.

No one piped up immediately, and Hux was forced to consider another read-through of Herodotus. But then Lewis Mills stood, retrieving something from under his chair. Hux recognized the American football.

“How about a game?” he said, tossing it up and catching it again.

Meltsa made a face, gesturing to the rain-pelted window. “Have you been outside lately? It’s a damn monsoon out there.”

Lewis pointed the ball at him, smirking. “Afraid of a little water, Theo? Don’t want to mess up your hair?”

Ward leaned over and tousled Meltsa’s hair. Meltsa swore and shoved him off. Ward only laughed.

“Come on, gents,” said Lewis. “Let’s do it. What’s the harm?”

Wexley got to his feet, dropping the page of the newspaper he held. “I’m in. Who else?”

“What the hell,” said Poe. “Me, too.”

The rest of them gave in as well, some with greater measures of reluctance than others. Hux expected to sit out, as he didn’t know any of the rules, but when Lewis and Brewster named themselves team captains, Brewster pointed immediately at Hux and told him to join his team.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hux said, even as he crossed the room.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Brewster said. “We’ll show you the ropes.” He pointed at Taylor next. “Bill, get over here.” He chose Strickland then, followed by Shorty and Gilbert.

Lewis chose Poe, Wexley, Crowe, Meltsa, and finally Ben. Hux watched as Ben rose slowly and made his way over to Lewis’s side. He stood a head taller than everyone else and was broader, too. Lewis slapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’ll make a hell of a defenseman, Solo. Like a damn rock.”

Brewster headed for the door, but Hux stopped him. “Might I suggest we leave our boots and jackets here? The leather won’t dry well, and the launderers won’t appreciate soiled jackets.”

“Fair enough,” Brewster said, going for his belt.

The rest of them stripped down to their shirts and trousers, pulling off their socks and padding barefoot out into the weather. The rain was falling hard, but there was no wind, so it didn’t sting as it hit Hux’s face. He looked up into it, blinking as a drop hit his eye.

“Come on over here, sir,” said Strickland, crooking his forefingers. “We’ll tell you what this is all about.”

Hux squelched across the thin, muddy grass to where his team waited. Over the next ten minutes, he was buffeted with complex rules about “downs,” “punts,” “fullbacks,” and “quarterbacks.” There was defense and offense, huddles and plays. Hux couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“In the end, sir,” said Shorty, leaning down with his hands on his knees, “all that matters is that when the quarterback throws the ball at you, you catch it and run like hell toward the end zone.”

“I think I can do that,” Hux said.

Brewster smiled. “Oh, and, sir? Try not to get tackled.”

Hux swallowed. In some ways this football was similar to rugby, in that the players did their utmost to knock their opponents to the ground to keep them from catching and running the ball. He had been told about something called a “dogpile,” of which he distinctly feared being at the bottom.

“All right, boys,” said Taylor. “Huddle up.”

As they gathered together, he described a complicated play that involved a fake and then a pass. Hux was told to go for the defensemen, blocking their path to tackle the receiver, Gilbert. They clapped their hands as Brewster called “Break,” and took their positions at the fifty-yard line. Apparently there was something called a kickoff that they were supposed to have done, but it was decided that without shoes, someone could break a toe, and it was forgone.

Hux was at the far end of the line of the offense, and he waited as he had been told for their quarterback, Shorty, to start the scrimmage. Shorty called out what sounded like a nonsense mix of colors and numbers, but it ended in “Hike!” Brewster threw the ball to him between his legs, and Shorty caught it. He ducked to the left and pretended to hand the ball off the Strickland, but didn’t. Crowe jumped for Stickland and tackled him, but he didn’t have the ball, so Crowe came up empty. Shorty feinted back and set up to throw to Gilbert, who had run up the field.

Hux had watched this all take place, so he didn’t see Meltsa coming up from his left side. The wind was all but knocked out of him as he hit the ground, Theo’s arms around his middle.

“That’s the play!” cried Ward, for lack of a whistle. He was acting as the referee. “First down Brewster.”

Hux allowed himself to be pulled to his feet by Meltsa, who looked no worse for the wear after the tackle. Both of them were covered in mud down one side, and a few blades of grass hung off of Hux’s trousers at his hip.

“How long are we supposed to play this?” he asked.

“Four quarters, sir,” Meltsa replied with a grin. “Fifteen minutes each.”

Hux cringed inwardly. “And I’m expected to get tackled every play?”

Meltsa clapped him on the back. “Not if you’re quick enough.”

Groaning, Hux followed him back toward the line of scrimmage, where the offense was already in position.

By the fourth quarter, he was aching from head to toe and covered in mud up to his neck. It was washed from his skin by the rain, but his clothes didn’t fare as well. His white shirt was almost beyond help.

“Okay, boys,” said Brewster as they stood in the huddle. “This is our last chance to make a touchdown. It’s tied up out there. So…” He pointed at Hux. “I want you to run for it, sir.”

Hux’s brows went up. “You mean, run the ball for the score?” In the full time he had been in the game, he had been in possession of the football a grand total of six times, one of which had resulted in a turnover to Lewis’ team. He reasoned that after that his teammates didn’t trust him enough to give him the ball again.

“That’s right,” Brewster said. “Strickland and Gilbert will make a hole, Shorty will pass it to you, and you just run it right in. No one will see it coming.”

“I suppose I can do that,” said Hux, though he didn’t believe it. He could be depended upon in the air, but at this he was rather a shoddy player at best.

“Okay. Break!”

The bumps and sore spots that would surely bloom into colorful bruises the next day stung as Hux crouched down for this last play. Across from him was Meltsa again, his hair dripping with muddy water. Hux steeled himself for the hit.

“Red forty-one,” Shorty called. “Red forty-one. Hike!”

Hux mustered the last of his flagging strength and backed up toward where Shorty was standing. Gilbert and Strickland jumped across toward Meltsa and Wexley, knocking them out of Hux’s path toward the end zone.

“Here you go, sir!” Shorty hollered right before he threw the ball. Hux caught it in the pocket of his arm and, desperate, charged ahead.

Amazingly, the field was open, and the end zone in sight. He was about to cross the line, when out of nowhere a massive, dark shadow hit him and tackled him to the ground. This time he really was breathless, crushed by the weight of his attacker. Blinking his eyes, he looked up to see Ben lying on top of him. And the smug bastard had the audacity to smile.

“You ass,” Hux grumbled. “I almost had it.”

Ben smiled wider. “I know. I almost let you get away with it, but I couldn’t let my team down.”

Hux scoffed. “Get off of me.”

“Not yet,” said Ben, a sight quieter. “I like it here.”

Hux wet his lips, tasting dirt. “Well, I don’t,” he said. While he wasn’t able to complain about being pinned under Ben, he could think of several places that would be more pleasant for that than the trodden, muddy ground. “ Off .”

Ben shook his head, raining large, cold drops from his hair onto Hux’s face.

Annoyed, Hux reached beside him and picked up a handful of mud. He slapped it against Ben’s cheek.

Ben eyes widened, and he gaped at Hux, completely caught off guard. Hux burst out laughing, but it didn’t last long as Ben scooped up more of the filth and rubbed it into Hux’s hair.

“Bloody stop that!” Hux howled, trying to bat him away.

“Fair’s fair,” Ben said, though he did stop. He gave Hux’s hair a last touch before pulling back.

Hux glared at him, though he wasn’t truly offended. “Go away,” he said.

Ben ducked his head for the briefest of moments, touching his besmirched nose to Hux’s. “Yes, sir,” he said as he rolled off and onto his feet. He offered his hand, and Hux took it.

“Damned good try there, sir,” said Brewster as he jogged over. Lewis and the rest of the squadron trailed after him. “Looks like we’ll have to call it at a draw.”

Lewis shoved his shoulder. “Until the rematch.”

“Oh God, no,” Hux said, making everyone laugh.

“We should get cleaned up,” said Ben. He was standing a few paces from Hux now, but was looking at him still.

Hux plucked at his sodden, stained shirt. It was translucent and plastered to his clammy skin. “It’s going to take a miracle-worker to get us clean.”

“Nah,” said Stickland. “You just jump in the shower with all your clothes on and scrub them down. Then you can give them to the laundry.” He gave his thigh a wet slap. “Just some soap and these will be as good as new.”

Hux scarcely believed him, but there was no chance the airfield laundry would take their clothes as they were, so rinsing them in the showers seemed a reasonable option. “Very well, then,” he said. “Shall we?”

Most of the airfield personnel were safely inside where it was dry, but as the 363 made their way to the showers, they got a few odd looks from the people behind the windows. Hux tried to keep his head down, but it only served to drip mud into his face. He shot a look at Ben, who was walking near the center of the pack, a smear of dirt still across his cheek.

There was no one in the showers to see them leave filthy footprints along the dressing room floor. They bypassed the hooks and benches where they usually undressed, going straight into the tile-lined showers. Hux chose one at the far end and turned on the water. It was chilly at first, but no worse than the cold rain in which they had been playing. With the nearest bar of soap, he began to scrub at his trousers.

Dirty water swirled down the drains at the center of the room as they washed, until the worst of the mud was gone from their clothes. Hux worked a little harder at his than some of the others. They rinsed off without soap before stripping and piling their shirts and trousers in soggy heaps on the floor.

They laughed about the game, good-naturedly teasing each other about which team was really better. When Ward declared, as referee, that Lewis’ would have had it because of their strong defense—which was mainly due to Ben’s gift for tackles—Brewster grabbed him around shoulders and rubbed the top of his head with his knuckles until Ward changed his opinion.

Shaking his head at them, Hux began to unbutton his shirt. He had to peel it off, forced to undo the buttons at the cuffs to get it over his water-wrinkled hands. He dropped it with a splat at his feet. He was reaching for the fly of his trousers when he felt a tingle of awareness. Looking up, he met Ben’s gaze.

His chest was as bare as Hux’s was, but his trousers were just barely hanging from his hips, the zipper and button undone. There was a line of dark hair trailing from his navel that disappeared into the waistband of his underwear. He was holding a bar of soap, but he had stilled with it resting on his chest. He was staring openly at Hux, and though he knew he should have looked away, Hux stared back.

A electric sensation coursed through him, making every nerve in his body prickle to life. The irregular, faltering spray of the shower beat down on his shoulders, water coursing down his chest, where a heat was blooming, splotchy and red. He hated how he flushed, and had long ago learned to control the reaction, but that discipline slipped now as he stood half-clothed and exposed for Ben’s appraisal. It charged his nerves, exciting him with an intensity he had not known in years. It unsettled him even as he reveled in the ferocity of it.

As he watched, Ben carefully set the soap back down on the metal dish screwed into the wall. A few bubbles washed off of his hand as he moved it to the waist of his trousers. His eyes still locked on Hux, he began to ease them down. Hux’s lips parted on a sharp inhale, which stuck in his chest. He wanted to look straight on, but a splash and laugh from the other side of the showers reminded him of where they were.

He turned his head to the side, but kept Ben in the corner of his eye. With painful slowness, Ben revealed his long, pale thighs and calves dusted with hair. He stepped out of the trousers pooled at his feet and kicked them away. Hux willed himself not to look at the join of his legs, where his underwear did little to conceal him. Hux had excellent command of his body, but there were some responses that were beyond him to stop. He was not about to be betrayed when there was so much more to be seen.

Leaving his underwear on for the moment, Ben stepped back into the water and took the shampoo to his hair. His attention, though, remained on Hux. There was expectation in his expression, and a request.

Now you.

Hux took a steadying breath, knowing he would have to do this whether or not he was observed. But this was more than just taking off his clothes; this was a display. A shiver passed through him despite the warmth of the water, but his fingers went to his fly, releasing it. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, he tugged them over his hips and down. The feeling of exposure redoubled, and for the first time in many years, he was insecure, even shy. And yet there was the excitement at revealing himself that pervaded him. The thought that Ben liked what he saw was intoxicating.

He kept his eyes on the wall ahead of him, presenting Ben with his profile. As he pushed his abandoned trousers away from him with his foot, he considered washing his own hair without taking off the last of his clothes, but the others were already undressed. He didn’t want to look any more out of place than he already felt. His chest burning, he lowered his underwear and discarded them as well.

The reach for the shampoo wasn’t far, but when he did it, he turned just enough to see Ben across the room. He was facing away as Hux had been, but it was clear he was still eyeing him. Hux faced him properly as he washed his hair, just in time to catch Ben removing his underwear. His back was to Hux, but there was little that hid. He was so lovely, from the globes of his buttocks to the smooth swoop of his back. Hux pinched the soft skin at the back of his ear to keep his body from responding. He looked for just a few seconds longer before he hid his face in the water of the shower. He braced one hand on the wall, trying to get a hold of himself.

“You okay, sir?” asked Taylor, who was under the showerhead next to him. “Not feeling bad from the game?”

Hux mustered a tired look, though it was half-hearted. His bones ground together from the numerous hits, while the rest of the men looked completely fine. He was only a little older than most of them, but he envied them their youthful resilience.

“I think I might like to lie down and die,” he said. “Or at least sleep until I can breathe without my ribs aching.”

“Everyone feels like that after their first game,” said Taylor, soaping up his thickly-haired chest.

“Then why in the hell do you play it?” Hux grumbled. “I’m not like to survive another round.”

Taylor chuckled. “You’ll buck up for the next one, I promise. You just need to get used to it.”

Hux strongly doubted he would ever be able to manage that. He wasn’t one for sport in general, let alone the kind that forced him to endure a full hour of bodily abuse. Determined to avoid any and all American football in the future, he turned off the shower and picked up his clothes from the floor as he walked toward the dressing room, where the dry towels were waiting.

He rubbed one over his sore limbs and scrubbed at his hair until it was disordered, but had stopped dripping. It was only when he was finished and standing with the towel around his waist that he realized his trousers and shirt were far too wet and filthy to put back on. It would negate the effect of bathing completely. The 363 would have to make a run for the barracks in nothing but their towels.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hux muttered, preparing for the utter humiliation this was about to bring. Scooping up his clothes, he held them against his chest. Head up and chin high, he stomped out into the rain once again. The others, seemingly unaffected by their semi-nudity, trailed along after him. He was about to head directly for the barracks, but unfortunately he remembered that his boots were in the briefing room. He cursed again and turned for it instead.

A few of the men from the 129 were walking toward the mess as the Eagles passed by. They gawked, jaws slack.

“Good afternoon,” said Hux, nodding to each of them. They murmured their own greetings. Mortified, but refusing to show it, Hux walked on.

He retrieved his boots and jacket, pulling the former on after wiping his feet and folding the latter over his arm. Juggling the pile of soiled clothes and his relatively clean jacket, he wound his way back to the barracks.

“Anything else of us today, sir?” asked Poe as they went up the stairs toward the officers’ quarters.

“No,” Hux replied. “You may do as you will.” Though he had firmly intended to avoid his paperwork, he was now quite keen on hiding indoors for the rest of the day. He had already made enough of a spectacle of himself.

Poe gave him a lazy salute and disappeared down the hall to his room. Hux was just retreating to his own when Ben, trailing last, came up onto the landing. He paused there, gaze flicking over Hux’s chest and down to where the towel hung on his hips. Hux warmed at the appraisal, wondering what Ben saw when he looked at him. He wasn’t a particularly striking specimen, a little too reedy and slight. But there was an intensity in Ben’s eyes, something bordering on hunger. He took a slow step closer.

“You’re bruised,” he said, low and quiet. “Did they hurt you?”

Hux looked down at the shadow that was forming on the side of his hip. There was one at his shoulder, too. “I’m all right. I’ve had worse.”

Ben didn’t look convinced.

“Go on,” said Hux, tipping his head toward the hall behind Ben, where his quarters were. “I’ll be fine.”

Dismissed, Ben backed away a step, giving Hux a last glance before turning away. Hux didn’t linger, hastening to his quarters and shutting the door behind him. He leaned back against it, eyes pinched shut. He realized now what an utter fool he’d been. He had blatantly exhibited himself for Ben as they washed up, something he could have easily been caught out in. They had been surrounded on every side, and yet they had shamelessly undressed for one another.

Hux wanted to regret it, but the way Ben had offered himself was burned into his memory. He should have been shy, as Hux had been the first time he had stood naked in front of Arthur, but he hadn’t been. He had wanted Hux to see him, and was willing to risk raising suspicion to do it. Hux should have taught him better self-control, but he had fallen into the trap readily, playing right into Ben’s hands. He had been weak and stupid, and it could not happen again.

Dropping his clothes and towel into the soiled linens basket, he tried to put it out of his mind. A good few hours of reports would do the trick, unpleasant as they were. With a resigned sigh, he pulled on another set of underwear and trousers and a shirt that he didn’t bother to tuck in. It was another slip of protocol, but in his private space, he reasoned he could be permissive, at least for a time.

It took three full days for the bruises on Hux’s skin to fade. He had been inspecting them each night before he slept, watching them darken, yellow, and then disappear. The aches from the football game had gone away, but as soon as he saw Brewster Mills pull out the ball again, he found any excuse to get away.

He spent afternoons with Phasma when he had the time, and she saw fit to share her Earl Grey with him. He took out the dark chocolate he had won at poker as repayment. She accused him of holding out, having not given some to her sooner. He apologized, and she begrudgingly forgave him.

The squadron continued to fly regular sorties, though there was little action to be had. The weather continued to be poor, and neither Englishmen nor Germans were inclined to dogfight through rain-heavy clouds. The restlessness among the men was palpable by Saturday, when, finally, they were given leave to go into town. The lorry took them to the Bull and Kettle, where they were greeted warmly by the few townspeople inside. The first round was on the house, and the Eagles gladly went to get their pints. On the bar was a small wireless radio playing the newest tunes from America. The 363 was particularly fond of the swinging Glenn Miller song “Chattanooga Choo Choo;” they knew all the words.

Andrew Ward had the best voice by far: a liquid baritone with a full range. Sometimes he would sing in the briefing room in a three-piece with Wexley and Meltsa, a tenor and bass respectively. Hux was surprised at their crooning harmonies, having never been much of a singer himself. Aside from mildly off-key church hymns, he dared not join the songs. Instead, he watched and listened as they sang along, stamping their feet to the orchestra’s jaunty rhythm.

Those who weren’t a part of the show were scattered around the pub. Poe was playing checkers with a older man with a full beard. Gilbert was standing over his shoulder trying to give pointers, all of which Poe brushed off. Shorty and Strickland had sat with Hux for a while, chewing over their most recent sweeps, though now they had returned to the bar for another round. There they had been detained by the barkeep, who was wiping glasses as he spoke to them about something or other. That left Hux alone at his table near the center of the room. He didn’t mind the few minutes of solitude to sip at his beer in peace.

He was rubbing his thumb absently along the rim of the empty glass, thinking of nothing in particular, when two pints were set down on the table beside him. He looked up to see Ben standing there, waiting expectantly.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked loudly enough to be heard over the singing, but just barely.

Hux pulled out the chair Shorty had vacated. “Please.”

Ben sank down into it heavily, his knees hitting the low table as he settled into the chair. He slid one of the pints toward Hux. “Thought you needed a refill.”

“Thank you,” Hux said, picking up the glass and taking a drink. It was thick and rich; delicious.

They sat in silence for a minute or so, surveying the room together, before Hux tipped his glass toward the singers.

“Do you sing?” he asked, turning to Ben.

“No,” Ben replied. “I sound like a dog dying if I try, so I don’t.”

Hux chuckled. “That bad?”

“Worse.” He shifted forward slightly, leaning on the table. His thigh brushed Hux’s beneath it. Such a light contact, but Hux’s pulse spiked. He knew he should have moved away, but he pressed back, until their legs were flush. Ben shot him a look, his knuckles whitening where he held his pint glass.

“We’re going to be out late tonight,” Ben said.

“Most likely,” said Hux. “Past midnight at the least.” He lifted a brow. “You may return if you want to. It’s two miles’ walk, but it can be done if you’re looking to retire early.”

Ben rubbed his thigh subtly against Hux’s. “You could come with me.”

Hux swallowed. He was sorely tempted, but to leave alone with Ben could compromise them both. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“You could say you’re tired,” Ben continued determinedly. “Leave first. I’ll wait a while then follow. Nobody will know.” He dared to tug at the edge of Hux’s sleeve. Hux immediately pulled his hand away.

“No,” he said, firm. “It’s only been three days since we last…” He trailed off. Ben knew what he meant. “It’s too regular, too obvious.”

Ben frowned at him. “They’re going to drink until they can’t see. They won’t even notice. I’ll go out for a cigarette and just not come back.” He inched closer. “Please, Hux. I need—”

Hux wavered at the imploring tone, but checked himself. “You need to understand our position. I have already given you too much leeway. The shower we took… Unacceptable.”

“You didn’t like it?” Ben asked, eyes darkening. “I did.”

“Of course I—” Hux cut himself off. “This isn’t a matter of whether or not I wanted it. It’s not safe.”

Ben’s face fell. “I know,” he sighed. “I just can’t… I want to look.”

Heat unfurled in Hux’s gut, his body betraying him despite his good sense. He stifled it harshly. “You have to learn restraint, Ben. If you don’t, we’ll never survive this.”

“I understand,” Ben said. “I’m sorry.” Tipping his glass up, he emptied it. He pushed his chair back and rose. “Have a good night, sir.”

Hux watched him wind his way toward the bar, leave his glass there, and then disappeared out the door. When he was gone, Hux rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to ache with the noise of the pub, his good mood vanishing. He looked down at the half-full glass of beer, uninterested in finishing it. He glanced up at the men by the wireless and those at the tables in the shadowed corners. They were absorbed in their drinks and conversations, presumably as oblivious to anything else as Ben had said they would be. They would hardly noticed Hux’s absence. If he gave his excuses, he could go, and there was a slight chance that if he hurried, he could catch Ben up.

Standing quickly, he brought his glass to the bar. The barkeep eyed it and then him.

“Something the matter, sir?” the man asked.

“I’m afraid I’m knackered,” Hux replied. “I’m going to turn in early, I think.” Turning to Ward, Hux said much the same thing.

“Very good, sir,” he slurred, clapping Hux on the shoulder. “We’ll turn in in a while.” He grinned as another song he knew came on. His attention turned completely from Hux.

Hux slipped away toward the door and outside. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp and heavy. He gave the town square a cursory look, thinking Ben might be around, but it was empty. Cursing, Hux set off down the road at a jog.

The dirt track that led back to Wolcastle was soggy, sullying Hux’s freshly shined shoes, but he ignored it, slogging through it. Not accustomed to a steady run, it wasn’t long before he was out of breath, and there was a stitch forming in his side. Still, he went on, scanning the road for any sign of Ben. He was about to stop and rest for a spell, legs burning, when he spotted a figure maybe fifty feet ahead of him. He broke the quiet of the night with a call of, “Ben!”

The figure stopped and turned. Relieved, Hux jogged to him. Ben pulled his hands out of his pockets as Hux approached.

“Did you run all the way here?” Ben asked, watching Hux pant.

Hux nodded, leaning on his knees, bent at the waist. “You had a head start. I wanted to catch you.” Ben came to him, and Hux stood straight again.

A small smile crossed Ben’s face. “You changed your mind.”

“Yes,” said Hux. “You were right. No one paid me any attention. I just walked out.”

Ben reached out and touched the wings over Hux’s heart, where his chest was still rising and falling with heavy breaths. Hux caught his hand and pressed his lips to the palm.

“Walk with me?” he said, threading their fingers together. Joined hands hanging between them, they ambled on down the road.

“You spent most of the day at the hangar today,” Hux said after a while.

“Mmhm,” Ben hummed. “The riggers needed the help. The kites aren’t holding up well. It’s hard to keep them airworthy.”

“How much longer do they have?” Hux asked. “Is it a matter of months or weeks?”

Ben shrugged, lifting Hux’s hand with him. “Could be either. But one way or another we’ve got to have something new or we’re going to be lame ducks up there.”

“Bloody hell,” Hux grumbled. “I would say I could appeal to the wing commander, but I have, to no avail. I could bypass him and appeal directly to the vice air marshal, but Snoke wouldn’t like it. And it’s possible Fighter Command just doesn’t have the aircraft to spare.”

Ben said nothing in reply. Hux assumed there wasn’t much more to say anyway. They were stuck with what they had. Letting the subject lie, Hux turned his thoughts to other things: mainly Ben and what he had said about wanting to look at him, as much of him as Hux would allow. It was nigh impossible to find a place secluded enough to allow for it—the hangar was far too exposed—but as they walked, Hux spotted a small barn up ahead.

Tugging on Ben’s hand, he said, “Come with me.”

“Where—” Ben started, but as they stepped off the road and into the grass, he seemed to realize what Hux was about.

They hastened across the field to the side door of the barn. Hux pulled at it, and though it stuck, it opened just enough for them to get through. Inside it smelled like dried grass, a scent that reminded Hux of his father’s stables. He wondered if Ben had ever ridden a horse.

That thought evaporated, though, as Hux grabbed the lapels of Ben’s jacket and pulled him to his mouth. Ben’s arms encircled his waist, holding him close as they delved into each other. They remained there, lips parted and tongues together, for a good few minutes, until they were just as out of breath as Hux had been after his run.

“Take off your jacket,” Hux said against Ben’s skin as he kissed a trail up the column of his neck. He pushed Ben back just enough for them to get to the buttons, both of them fumbling with them until they were undone. Hux shrugged his over his shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby bale of hay. Ben’s landed on top of it.

They were back on each other seconds later, urgently touching through the thin fabric of their shirts. It wasn’t enough. Hux tugged his from the waist of his trousers and began to divest himself of it. Ben, mouth open, stared for a moment before he went for his own shirt. He hadn’t even gotten it completely off before Hux slipped his hands under it and against Ben’s chest. The muscles of his stomach tensed and then released.

Hux’s heart was beating hard as he greedily explored Ben sides and back, up to the wings of his shoulder blades. It was dark in the barn, but he could feel him, and both of them were trembling. Hux hadn’t touched a man like this in years, and not one who was built like Ben. His skin was warm and soft, his chest devoid of hair. Hux kissed his left pectoral, right above his heart. Ben gasped and clung to him.

Hux had wanted to ease Ben into this, guide him with care, but he was failing quite impressively. He was hungry for more, for all of it. His hard-won control of himself—that which he had insisted Ben cultivate—was gone as Ben drew him in at the small of his back. Hux arched into him so that their bare chests met. With a low groan, Ben sought Hux’s mouth again. He learned so quickly, so—

Hux started as Ben pulled him in by the hips; he could feel the hard ridge of Ben’s erection pressed against his own. He had been keeping his distance since they had first come together, unsure of exactly how far Ben wanted or was willing to take their intimacy. But from their state of undress and the hardness of him, Hux was more than aware of his arousal.

As he held Hux to him, he was shifting just slightly against him, giving himself a bit of friction. Hux wasn’t certain whether it was intentional or just an instinct, but Ben was making small noises into Hux’s mouth at each brush. Hux breathed them in, his cock aching against his fly. Backing them up to the wall, he rolled his hips into Ben’s, pressing them together in earnest. Ben pulled back from Hux’s lips, eyes wide. Hux immediately canted himself away.

“No!” Ben said, a little too loudly, as he tugged Hux back.

Hux hesitated, keeping them close, but not fully together. “Is that all right?” he asked. When Ben nodded fervently, he relaxed, moving against him. “It feels good?”

“Yeah,” Ben replied. “Yes.” When Hux pushed, he fell back against the wall, until they were connected from chest to groin.

Hux rolled steadily into him, their cocks side-by-side through their trousers. At first, Ben stood still, letting Hux move, but as they continued, he grew bolder. Lowering his hands to Hux’s buttocks, he crushed them together almost to the point of pain. Hux had no doubt he was seeking release, but there were far better ways to give him that than to rub off on each other clothed.

“Ben,” he said between wet kisses. “Has anyone ever touched you before?”

“You’re touching me,” Ben mumbled as he nipped at Hux’s lower lip.

“I am,” said Hux, “but what I mean is…” He slid his hand down Ben’s his stomach, and then pulled his hips back far enough to get it between them. He pressed his palm to Ben’s cock. “Has anyone ever touched you? ”

Ben stilled, tensing as he looked up and met Hux’s eyes. “No,” he said.

Hux gave him a light squeeze, feeling the thick hardness of him. “Do you want me to?”

Ben nodded again. “Yes.”

Hux hummed, planting a kiss on his lips. He had rather clever fingers, and managed to get the buttons and zips of Ben’s trousers open with one hand, but had to ask Ben to push them down just a little to properly get a hold of him. Though he fumbled some, Ben got them over his hipbones, exposing his standard-issue underwear. Before he reached into them, Hux traced the length of Ben’s cock with his fingertips.

Ben’s mouth fell open, and he shuddered. Hux’s own cock jumped at the reaction. Ben was so sensitive, responding to even the lightest of caresses. It was going to be exquisite to watch his ecstasy as Hux pleasured him.

Tracing his hands over Ben’s exposed lower belly, Hux hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Ben’s underwear and eased them down. The hair between his legs was as dark as that on his head, and soft when Hux touched it. Ben groaned as Hux wrapped his thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock. He couldn’t get them all the way around.

Ben was circumcised, all of him visible. Hux had heard that was the norm in America, but had never been with a man who was cleanly cut. It was an enticing sight. Hux could only imagine what it would be like to have him in his mouth.

“Is it...am I…” Ben stammered. “Is this okay?”

Hux realized he had been staring and making no other move to touch Ben. “Yes,” he said, finally wrapping his hand around him. He thumbed the underside and up to the tip, where there was just a bit of wetness. Hux spread it over him, and Ben made a quiet grunt in his throat.

Hux started slowly, uncertain if he would be hurting him without the foreskin to ease the strokes. Ben gave no indication of that, though, instead pushing himself further into Hux’s fist in blatant need. Hux tightened his grip just slightly and began to work him in earnest. The sounds that Ben made were stunning, but dangerous, so Hux kissed him to keep him quiet. Ben opened his mouth readily and accepted Hux’s tongue.

Hux wished that they were somewhere else for this, where he could see Ben properly, watch his expression as he hit his peak; but if this was the only choice they had, he would take it. He still vividly remembered the first time someone had lain hands on him, and it had been enough to shake him to his core. He wanted to give Ben the same.

“Faster?” he asked in Ben’s ear.

“Y-yes,” Ben replied. “Ah. Tighter.”

Hux did as he was bid, and Ben responded immediately with a broken moan. Hux raised his free hand and put it over Ben’s mouth. He was startled at first, but closed his eyes, sighing through his nose, as Hux twisted his hand around his cock.

He was warm and solid in Hux’s grip, and Hux could feel the beats of his heart as blood pumped through him. He slowed to enjoy it for a moment, but when Ben whined, he increased his pace once more.

“I’m going to release you,” Hux whispered. “As long as you can stay quiet. Can you do that?”

Ben blinked twice, and Hux took it for assent. He peeled his hand away from Ben’s face and moved it between them. Reaching into his underwear, Hux cupped his testicles. Ben’s head hit the wall with a thunk, but he bit down on his lip to keep himself from making a sound. Hux massaged him gently as he worked his cock, watching him screw up his face as he fought the urge to cry out.

He gave no warning as he went over the edge, simply doubling over, his head falling against Hux’s shoulder as tremors wracked his body. He spilled himself over Hux’s hand, warm in the chilly air. Hux stroked him through it, until the last of the shocks had gone.

Ben was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against Hux’s. With his unspoiled hand, Hux rubbed his back, letting him recover in his own time. Ben’s arms came around his waist again, steadying him. Hux continued to hold him as he went soft, careful not to touch him too roughly when he was so tender.

At last, he took a shaky inhale and breathed out, “God.”

Hux ran his palm over his hair. “Will you let me clean you up?”

“Oh,” he said, raising his head as if it weighed a great deal, eyes half-closed. “Yeah.”

Retrieving the handkerchief from his pocket, Hux wiped his hand and then dabbed at Ben to clean away the remnants of his release. He tucked Ben’s cock gently back into his underwear and then tugged his pants back up. He fastened them, too. Ben hadn’t moved once as he had done it.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Hux asked, genuinely concerned by his silence. Ben gave him a look of confusion, so he continued, “Are you dizzy? Was it too much?”

Ben stared at him for a few seconds, and then took both sides of his face between his hands. He kissed him long and hard. Hux went into it eagerly, hugging Ben to him and caressing the back of his neck.

“We should go,” he said when they came up for air some minutes later.

Ben frowned, bringing his hands around to the clasp of Hux’s belt. He tugged at it. “I want to touch you, too. Can I?”

Tempting though that was, it was nearing the time when the others would be making the trip back from town, and both Ben and Hux would have to be in their beds by then. Holding Ben by the wrists, Hux guided him away. “Another night.”

Ben’s shoulders rolled in in his gesture of resignation. Hux kissed his brow before releasing him to retrieve his shirt and jacket. When they were dressed again, they picked the bits of hay off of their clothes and went back out into the night.

Hux pulled out his cigarette case, and they paused briefly to light up. They walked and smoked without a word, letting what they had just done sink in. Now that Hux had seen and held him, it was going to be all the more difficult to keep himself away. He wanted to have Ben as often as he could, until he knew exactly how to touch him to make him come apart. And though he had refused tonight, he wanted to teach Ben how to bring him off in kind. There was far more to show him as well.

When they came back in sight of Wolcastle, they put a few feet’s distance between them. By the time they reached the barracks, they were at arm’s length. Hux hated it, but it was necessary.

He went to open the door for Ben, but Ben shook his head. “You go,” he said. “I need another cigarette.”

Hux had had his fill on the walk, but Ben could tolerate more, so Hux set his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t stay out too late,” he said.

“Worried I’ll catch cold?” said Ben, brows lifting in condescension.

Hux gave him a wry look. “I can’t have my pilots out of action because of a sniffle. So have your smoke, and then go to bed.”

Ben stepped a sight too close. “Want to come tuck me in?”

Hux clicked his tongue, chiding, but he didn’t move away. “We can never be caught in one another’s quarters,” he said. “There would be—”

“Talk,” Ben finished for him. “I know. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Hux felt the weight of guilt. Ben couldn’t even joke without Hux correcting him, but there was no way to avoid it. He had to learn and never forget that this life was not an easy one. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

“Okay,” said Ben. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one out. Hux left him there.

The corners of the newspaper pages Hux held curled as a light breeze blew around the corner of the briefing room’s building. He snapped the paper to straighten them, adjusting himself to block the wind. He was the only one of the squadron sitting outside that afternoon. It was cool enough to drive most of the Eagles inside, but Hux enjoyed the chill, even if his hands grew stiff.

It was nearing the end of October, a month and just short of two weeks since Hux had taken command of the 363. They had matured quickly and capably, becoming a cohesive unit. Hux would never be able to look back on Ben bringing down Poe’s kite with any fondness, but it could have ended far worse.

The print on the newspaper blurred slightly as Hux’s thoughts turned to Ben. They hadn’t met again since the night in the barn, and would have to endure the distance for another few days. They carved out some time to speak regularly, though never for more than a few minutes, and always within sight of the others. Going off alone during the day would intimate that there was a particularly close friendship between them, which had to be avoided. The charade was bearable, but only just.

The buzzing sound of incoming aircraft had Hux lifting his head to look up at the sky, his heart jumping. All three squadrons at Wolcastle were on the ground; anything incoming was more than likely enemies. But there had been no warning on the radar. He discarded the newspaper, rising as he squinted into the distance.

Though they were still far away, he could see five full flights spread out in a neat formation. It was far too many for a German sweep. As he watched, hand over his brow to shade it, they began a descent toward the runway. It was then at Hux recognized them: Spitfires, and just enough to re-equip a squadron. Going to the briefing room door, Hux stuck his head inside.

“Come out and see this,” he said.

The men scrambled up and followed him back outside. The two of the flights had landed, the others making their way down. Hux watched them taxi to the dirt track that skirted the runway. Hangars One and Two were to the left, but their hangar, Three, was to the right. Hux held his breath as he waited for them to turn. He grinned openly when they went to the right.

“Come on!” he called, taking off at a sprint toward the hangar. The Eagles charged after him.

They found Wing Commander Snoke standing next to one of the Spits’ pilots when they got there. Hux jogged up to them while the rest of the men went off to admire what Hux assumed were their new airplanes.

“Ah, here he is now,” said Snoke, gesturing to Hux. “Squadron Leader Hux, this is S.L. Townsend. He’s brought you a gift.”

Townsend offered his hand, and Hux shook it. “These are fresh off the line,” he said. “Heard you lads needed them.” He glanced at the abused Hurricanes nearby, brows raised.

“We do, yes,” said Hux. “I imagine you’re to fly them out?”

Townsend nodded. “They’re to be retired. And most deserved it seems.”

In part, Hux would be sorry to see them go, but the Spits would put them on equal terms for the newer German Fw 190s at last. They made up for what the Hurricanes lacked in speed, power, and agility.

“Will the other squadrons be receiving new aircraft as well?” Hux asked.

“Yes,” said Snoke, stiffly. “They’re to come in tomorrow and the next day.” He gave Hux a sly look. “Your old kites were in the worst shape, so I ordered your Spits brought up first.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hux, inclining his head.

Snoke gave a gruff acknowledgement. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Make the arrangements, Townsend. I’m sure you can see yourself out.”

Townsend saluted. “Yes, sir.” As Snoke left them, he turned to Hux. “Shall we leave these here, then? We should be able to move the Hurricanes away without trouble. Are all of them airworthy?”

“All save three,” Hux said. “They’re up in the hangar under the charge of the riggers. I imagine a lorry will have to be sent for them.” It wasn’t possible to transport the aircraft all together, but those that were no longer in service were disassembled and driven away. “I’ll put my best men on it.”

Townsend seemed satisfied with that. “I’ll see that it’s done. Could be a couple of days.”

Hux shrugged. “No matter. We’ll need them to get the kites broken down.” A brief glance to his left revealed that Thanisson and the other ground crew were already out of the hangar inspecting the Spits. The pilots were milling around as well, touching the fuselages, the wings, with broad grins on their faces. Hux spotted Ben in conversation with the pilot who had flown one of them in. He was speaking animatedly, perhaps more so than Hux had ever seen him do with a stranger.

“What’s that?” he asked Townsend, realizing he had spoken.

“These are the Americans, eh?” Townsend said as he eyed the men around them. “Are they a good lot?”

Hux was rather tired of hearing his fellow Englishman enquire as to the quality of his squadron. His reply was curt: “The very best.”

“Excellent,” Townsend, reading Hux’s irritation and deciding, intelligently, not to question him further. “I’ll gather my men, and we’ll take these old heaps off your hands.” He headed off, leaving Hux standing in front of the Spit he had flown. Hux touched its propeller blade with affection. He was going to be glad to get back into one of these machines.

“Hey, sir,” Poe said, stepping up next to him. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? Brand new Spitfires just for us. Think we’ll get up into the air with them today?”

“Absolutely,” said Hux, smiling. “We have to christen them before we take them out into combat. It would be bad luck not to.”

Poe cocked a brow. “You mean like breaking a bottle of champagne over the fuselage like they do on the hull of a boat?”

Hux laughed. “Nothing quite so messy. We just need to fly them and get a feel for how they’ll behave. They’ve got a different temperament than the Hurricanes.”

“No doubt, sir. No doubt.”

It took a bit over an hour to get the older aircraft cleared away and the Spits in place. Hux gave Townsend a last handshake before he jumped up into the cockpit of Hux’s Hurricane and called, “Contact!” The 363 stood together and watched as their first combat kites were flown away into the western horizon.

When they had finally disappeared, Hux came around to face his Eagles. “Well, gentlemen, let’s to the sky.”

The control panel on the Spitfire was slightly different than that of a Hurricane, but Hux remembered it well. He adjusted his seat and the rudder pedals to fit him—Townsend was quite a bit shorter—before strapping in. Flipping the master switch, he checked his gauges and flight systems. He manipulated the ailerons, rudder, and elevator, testing their responses and potential to stick. They were smooth, the mark of either a well-cared-for kite or a new one. There was a metallic tang to the cockpit’s air, and the glass over the instruments was still unscratched and shining. He circled the starter button once with his gloved forefinger before pressing it down. The Spit roared to life.

“363 Squadron,” he said over the radio, “this is Red Leader checking in.”

Each man reported in, making sure there were no faults in their communications apparatus. When that was complete, Hux began his taxi toward the end of the runway. He kept his eye on the radiator temperature, unsure of how the kite would behave, but it stayed within a reasonable level. As he approached the grass, he called to the tower for permission to take off.

“Granted,” said Rey. “Good hunting, 363.”

As Hux engaged the throttle, the airplane jumped forward, pulling harder and faster than his Hurricane had. He corrected for it, easing back just slightly as he gained speed. When he felt the wheels come off the ground, he smiled and began his ascent. The Spit sailed into the air, powerful Merlin engine rumbling. He circled the field as he waited for the rest of the squadron to join him, listening to their exclamations of surprise and exhilaration at the new kites.

“Blue Leader, Yellow Leader, you have free rein with your flights,” he said. “Ward, you stay with Red Flight.” Andrew was the thirteenth man, the odd one out from the four-plane flights. He acknowledged Hux and stayed with him as the others peeled off to go through their paces.

There was a great deal of chatter over the radio, but Hux managed to order his flight through several maneuvers. Poe stayed on his wing, quick and clever as always. In the end, Hux allowed them to break formation just to fool around on their own. They were exuberant as they explored the capabilities of the Spits.

Hux was just coming out of a roll when he spotted an aircraft off his port side. He tipped his wing in greeting, and Ben mirrored him. He gave no warning before diving down; he knew Ben would follow. Once they were together, they remained there, connected as if by a string.

“Those are some fancy moves you’ve got there, sir,” said Ward. “You, too, Solo. You boys could have your own show.”

They replied by going up into an Immelman and roll, hanging inverted for a few seconds before righting themselves again. It was executed in perfect tandem. Hux heard Ben’s deep, pleased laugh through the radio. He joined him as they went into another turn.

The squadron flew for three-quarters of an hour, until their fuel gauges warned them that only a fourth of a tank remained. Hux ordered them to form back up into their flights, though he was reluctant to part with Ben. Still, he welcomed Poe back to his wing as they returned to Wolcastle.

When they were back at the hangar, they spilled out of their kites excitedly, caught up in the moment. Hux was headed with them to drop their gear when Poe stopped him.

“Hux,” he said, a rare informality. “You need to reassign me.”

“What?” Hux asked. That was by no means what he had expected. “Whyever would I do that?”

Poe adjusted his parachute over his shoulder. “Because Ben Solo should be your wingman. You and him...the way you fly is amazing. And you know Ben leaves Shorty in the dust. Let me have him instead. I can carry him better than Ben.” One side of his mouth curved up. “Plus, I’ll have my own flight that way. Not to say I’m not happy to be on your wing, sir, but I wouldn’t mind leading for a change.”

Hux eyed him, but found only sincerity in his expression. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” Poe said. “It’s a better arrangement.”

Hux felt a rush of pleasure. He would never have put Ben on his wing of his own volition; it was Poe’s place as his second. But if Poe was requesting a transfer, there was nothing stopping him from doing what he wanted to do: be with Ben.

“All right, Flight Lieutenant,” he said, offering his hand. “Blue Flight is yours.”

Poe grinned as he shook it. “Thanks, sir. I can tell Ben, but...” He blinked once. “I’m sure he’d rather hear it from you.”

Hux didn’t exactly like the percipient look Poe was giving him; it suggested he knew more than he was letting on. However, Hux said, “I’ll tell him.”

With a last wave, Poe strode into the hangar. Hux lingered outside, looking back along the line of airplanes in search of Ben. When he found him, he was standing next to this Spitfire with the engine exposed, poking around inside. Tugging off his helmet, Hux made his way over to him.

“Is it much different than a Hurricane?” Hux asked as he came up beside him, dropping his gear on the grass next to Ben’s.

Ben continued to inspect the inner workings of the aircraft, not looking at Hux. “An engine’s an engine. I told you that before. I’ll be able to handle this one just fine.”

“Your abilities were never in question,” said Hux.

Ben did glance down then, the creases at the corners of his mouth appearing as he cracked a small smile. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t accusatory, but genuinely curious.

Hux laid a hand on the fuselage, still able to feel the heat of the engine. “I came to tell you that at Poe’s request, I’m changing the flight order.”

“To what?”

“He wanted Blue Flight.”

Ben scowled, turning to face Hux properly. “That’s my flight to lead, and you just gave it to him because he asked?”

It had been quite some time since Hux had been on the receiving end of Ben’s anger, and he had nearly forgotten how imposing he could be when his temper was on him.

“Yes,” was Hux’s reply. “It’s a good place for him. He’ll make a good leader.”

“Are you punishing me?” Ben demanded. “What did I do?”

Hux stepped closer, enough that he could lay his hand on Ben’s jacket. Ben backed down, though just slightly.

“He no longer thinks he’s the best man to be on my wing,” Hux said. “He believes that should be you.”

The flash of fury in Ben’s eyes disappeared.

Hux wet his lips as he slid his hand up from Ben’s chest to his neck. He rested his thumb against his jaw, holding his gaze. “Will you fly with me?”

The muscles in Ben’s throat worked under Hux’s fingers as he swallowed. “Always.”

Chapter Text

There was nothing quiet about fighter aircraft. They were meant to be powerful and nimble interceptors, not stealthy. From the cockpit of his Spitfire, Hux could hear and feel the rumbling of the engine as it pulled the airplane’s sixty-five-hundred pounds through the lightly clouded sky above northern France. Around him were seven of the other kites in his squadron, rather than the full complement of twelve. A quick and dirty sweep like this one didn’t require all of the 363, so Hux had chosen Blue Flight to join his own Red.

Poe Dameron led them at the head of the finger-four, with Shorty Putnam as his wingman. His element leader, who flew starboard and aft, was Clifford Stickland. Norman Crowe was on his wing. In Hux’s formation were Meltsa and Wexley as elements, but on Hux’s port side, where Poe had once been, was Ben Solo.

The squadron had taken the news of Hux’s new flight order well enough when he had announced it in the briefing room three days before, just after they had taken their Spits out for the first time. Hux had been matter-of-fact about it, but Poe had played off of him, joking that Hux no longer had to mind him like a nanny. The other men had chuckled at that and turned their teasing on Ben, who was now, presumably, the one who would be hiding under nanny’s skirts. Hux had expected him to take it poorly, as he did most other ridicule—even if it was toothless—but Ben had let it roll off his shoulders, sniping back with comments about each of their weaknesses in the air. Hux had smirked at their good-natured ribbing before herding them all off to dinner.

When they had assembled for their first sortie that next morning—a run with the 142 bombers—Hux had found Ben already standing beside his Spitfire. He was dressed for flight in his gloves, jacket, and helmet, his parachute over his shoulder. There was a pile of gear at his feet as well. He was fresh-faced and bright, full of the promise Hux had long ago lost himself. War sapped that kind of vitality, replacing the joy of flight with the callus of a veteran. Ben had not yet hardened around the edges, and it was brilliant to see. Hux wanted to preserve it if he could.

“Is that my jacket?” he asked when he had come to a stop a pace away from Ben.

“Mmhm.” Bending down, Ben picked up the fleece-lined leather jacket and held it out for Hux to put his arms through. “I brought it out for you.”

Hux reached out and took it away from him, swinging it over his own shoulders. “You’re my wingman, not my valet.”

“What’s a valet?” Ben asked, not looking in any way perturbed by Hux’s refusal of his help. He snatched up Hux’s helmet and tossed it to him. Hux just managed to catch it.

“A manservant,” he said as he tugged it on and fastened the buckle under his chin. “Something like a batman, but rather more deferential. A valet would help you dress and take care of your clothing.”

Ben looked dubious. “Who needs help getting dressed? Aside from little kids and old people.”

Hux pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at Ben's clear disapproval. “Having a valet is a sign of wealth and status, just like any other servant. If you can afford to hire someone to do something for you, you do, just to show everyone else how much money you have.”

“I’d hate that,” said Ben. “Too many people watching what you do. Don’t they ever want to be alone?”

“You get used to it if you were raised that way,” Hux said. “My father had a valet who had served with him during the war. I wouldn’t call them friends, but they were glad of each other. He returned to work for Father after the fighting ended. My mother is far closer to her lady’s maid, however.”

A deep furrow formed between Ben’s brows. “It’s a funny place here.”

Hux couldn’t hold back his amusement this time. “It has its peculiarities, but I’m certain your country does as well.”

“Maybe,” Ben said, “but it makes a whole hell of a lot more sense than valets and lady’s maids and whoever else you hire to suck up to you.”

He sounded truly indignant, which Hux found endearing. “Then don’t lower yourself to their status by bringing me my flight gear,” he said.

Ben grabbed Hux’s gloves and pushed them into his hands. “You could have just said thank you,” he grumbled.

Ten minutes later, they had been soaring side-by-side up to ten thousand feet. Hux had held his course steady, but if he made even the slightest deviation in heading, Ben came with him. As William Taylor had said after they had landed that afternoon, “He sticks to you like an Alabama tick, sir.” Hux wasn’t familiar with the state of Alabama, but he had spent his boyhood in the countryside and had seen his fair share of ticks. It wasn’t a completely inaccurate description of Ben’s place on his wing.

That was about to be put to the test, though, as they attacked their target: a German air installation about ten miles off the coast. In the days since they had started flying together, they hadn’t yet seen combat. Until today.

“363,” said Hux over the radio. “We’ll begin our descent here. I have the lead.”

Pushing forward on the stick, he eased the nose of his Spitfire down toward the ground. They had come up to twenty thousand feet to cruise across the Channel, but would have to descend to within a few hundred to hit the airfield. Hux guided the two flights through the clouds and lower, until the buildings in the surrounding villages looked less like dollhouses. The enemy airfield was five miles dead ahead.

“Permission to break formation is granted,” Hux said. “Take your shots and get out of the way. Circle back if you have to.”

He thumbed the gun button on the stick, at the upper left of the spade grip. It flipped in two directions: down to fire two of the four .303 Browning machine guns, up to fire the Hispano II 20mm cannons, and in the center to fire both at the same time. The cannons were new to him, having just been added to this Spitfire, the Mark VB, but he wasn’t afraid to use them, especially if they would cut through a Messerschmitt even better than the machine guns. They’d suit him for this sweep, too, when he targeted the grounded aircraft and buildings at the field.

Looking out through his gunsight, Hux saw the target coming into view. He dove down the last three hundred feet until he was lined up to fire. He could see the people milling around below, moving between buildings and aircraft. Though he didn’t believe in God as his mother did, he gave one passing thought to forgiveness, and then he pressed up on the gun button.

The cannons thudded more heavily than the rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns, though they still fired quickly. The magazine held only sixty rounds, but each one hit powerfully. For every strike on the grass below, there was an accompanying fountain of dirt. Hux flew by too quickly to see the real damage he had wrought, but Ben’s elated whoop suggested he had done something right.

“Hell yes!” Ben cried, voice crackling with radio static. “We hit a tanker.”

Hux smiled grimly under his oxygen mask. The most vulnerable parts of the installation were its fuel reserves and parked aircraft. Generally, one was very close to the other, and if Hux and Ben were lucky, they would compromise both in one pass.

Together, they flew out past the edge of the airfield before doubling back for another attack. Ben, whose place was actually aft of Hux’s port wing, came up beside him as they swooped down. Hux spotted the wreckage of the refueling tanker they had hit near one of the temporary hangars. It was burning brightly, giving off a black column of smoke that Hux and Ben cut through as they opened fire again. They were just coming toward a row of parked Messerschmitts when the first tail of a tracer round cut through the air ahead of them.

“Shit,” Hux snapped. “Look out. They’ve got Flaks on us.”

The Flak 38 was the Nazis’ preferred anti-aircraft gun. Easily mounted and moved, it was a deadly weapon against British airplanes. The 20mm rounds spewed tails of pyrotechnics behind them as they were shot to give the shooter a better idea of where his bullets were going. It meant the trajectory could be easily corrected to better take down an enemy aircraft. There wasn’t much of a defense against them save for flying a serpentine course, but that wasn’t practical when the Eagles were meant to do damage to the airfield. That left them little choice but to get out of range.

“We’ve got a couple of Jerries trying to get airborne,” said Meltsa as they did a last circle of the field, skirting the Flaks. “You boys want to invite them up to dance, or should we handle it here?”

The practical, textbook answer was to disable them on the runway, but Hux and his men were fighter pilots; they wanted the combat and the chance to shoot an enemy out of the sky.

“Pull up,” Hux said. “We’ll bring them up to six thousand.”

Taylor gave a sharp “Yeehaw,” betraying his Texas roots, as they disengaged and climbed to lie in wait for the German fighters. Six of them made it up in total, Messerschmitts all. Hux gave his men free rein as soon as they appeared.

“Let’s go, Ben,” he said just a fraction of a second before he turned and set his sights on an enemy.

The German pilot was quick, making Hux push his Spitfire to keep up with him. Hux kept his focus on his tail, knowing that if another enemy was coming at him, Ben would let him know. He was there to watch Hux’s back.

“He’s going to go up,” Ben said, a warning.

Hux eyed the Messerschmitt. From what he could see, the pilot would be more likely to dive down than climb. If Hux read it wrong, though, it would put him completely out of firing range.

“How certain are you?” Hux asked, still watching the enemy intently for any major change in altitude. He was, of course, weaving across the sky; to fly straight was asking to be shot.

“Just do it,” Ben replied. “Trust me.”

Hux ground his teeth, fighting his own instincts to dive. He tipped his nose up in anticipation, and it was just in time. The Messerschmitt shot upward, exhaust trailing as its engine pushed it forward. Hux yanked the stick back in response, ascending alongside the enemy pilot. As the Messerschmitt started to roll back and into an inverted turn, Hux adjusted his course and put himself right in line to fire.

“Take the shot,” Ben said, strikingly calm.

Hux fired the last few rounds from his cannons straight ahead. The bullets ripped into the sides of the Messerschmitt’s fuselage, leaving mangled, gaping holes. A few struck the rudder, nearly ripping it from its moorings. The aircraft wobbled lamely, and Hux knew he had won, but he wanted to be sure the pilot couldn’t bail out. Switching to machine guns, he peppered the fuel tanks with bullets. There were a few seconds of silence as the guns spun out, but then the Messerschmitt exploded.

“Yes!” Hux cried, steering out of the way of the remains.

Ben barked a laugh in response, making Hux’s pulse jump with a spark of elation.

“Let’s get another one,” Ben said.

Hux throttled back slightly. “You go. I’ve only got two guns left. I’ll cover you.”

“Yes, sir!” From beside Hux, Ben shot ahead. Hux followed on his tail, eyes peeled for unexpected attacks.

The other Eagles were shooting freely, twisting through the sky as they chased down their prey. Hux listened to the chatter over the radio, the animated voices rising and falling. Off of Hux’s starboard side, he saw another Messerschmitt go down. It was Wexley who crowed in victory.

“Three o’clock,” Ben said, calling Hux’s attention back to the sky around them. He turned to look out where Ben had indicated. There was a Messerschmitt flying parallel to them at about nine hundred feet’s distance.

“We won’t catch him,” said Hux. “Not before he sees us.” He paused for a beat, considering, and then continued: "We’ll have to bait him. I'll take a long shot off his tail and chase him to you."

"In the open?" Ben said. "No. You could get shot."

Hux snarled, "Do you want this kill or not? I'm going. Hold course and wait for me here." He pulled the stick hard to the right, veering away from Ben. He wasn't wrong to say that it would leave Hux exposed, but the opportunity was there and Hux was going to take it.

Coming up just aft of the Messerschmitt, Hux switched to his last two Brownings and let loose a burst of fire. The German pilot steered out of the path of the bullets, turning to port. Hux chased him on, shooting to distract and drive him into Ben's path.

"I see him," Ben said, voice low and laced with a threat. "Just give me another five hundred feet, Hux. Bring him right to me."

The rounds in Hux's guns were nearly spent, but he gave a final, driving shot, and the German dodged into the airspace where Ben needed him to be.

"Got you, you bastard," Ben growled as he fired his cannons.

Hux watched out of the side of his canopy as the Messerschmitt took the fire. Its prop stuttered to the a stop as the rounds pierced the engine, and then it began to fall. Ben dove after it, continuing to shoot, though now with his machine guns. Debris from the tattered fighter flaked off as it spun down. Ben was at nearly a thousand feet when he finally pulled up. The Messerschmitt plowed into the ground in a cascade of dirt and flames.

“Bloody well done,” said Hux by way of congratulation. Ben spiraled back up, though he held back from any celebratory aerobatics; they were still in combat. He took his place on Hux’s wing, settling in again.

“They’re running,” Meltsa said. “Look at the cowards go.” The remaining three Messerschmitts were indeed retreating. “Do we go get ‘em, sir? Bet you we can take them all down.”

Hux recognized the confident bloodlust in his voice—he felt a thrill of it himself—but their fuel was more than halfway expended, and it was unlikely that they could destroy or severely damage the other German aircraft without putting their own kites at risk. All told, they had done enough.

“Let them go,” said Hux. “We’re done here.”

He got his acknowledgements, reluctant as some were, and as a unit they veered back to the west and England.

The rush of battle was still humming through Hux’s veins as he taxied back to Hangar Three at Wolcastle. The euphoria would stay with him for much of the rest of the day, keying him up, his nerves on high alert. A kill affected him strongly, and two were even more potent. He and Ben had flown impressively, working together as they were supposed to do to take down their opponents. Poe had been a satisfactory partner, but when Ben had asked for his trust, Hux had given it to him without question, and they had brought down two enemies for it. That kind of success in a partnership was intoxicating.

Thanisson and the ground crew set the chocks under the wheels of Hux’s Spitfire as he cut the engine and slid the canopy back. He extricated himself from the cockpit, throwing his too-long legs over the side and standing on the wing.

“How were those cannons, sir?” Thanisson asked. “Looks like you used up your magazine.”

Hux sprang down onto the ground, his boots sinking just slightly into the wet grass. “They’re exceptional,” he said, earnest. “I don’t know how I did without them before.”

Thanisson grinned. “Well, we’ll get her rearmed for you, and she’ll be ready to go when you need her next.”

Hux thanked him with a clap on the shoulder before rounding the wing. He was just passing the nose when he spotted Ben jogging toward him. Affection surged as Hux saw the wide, toothy smile he wore. He all but radiated the same fervor Hux felt at their victory. Dropping his parachute, he caught Hux around the shoulders and pulled him against his chest.

“We got two ,” he said in Hux’s ear, thumping him on the back. “You and me. We got them both.”

Shocked, Hux stood still for a moment, trying to process what was happening. Ben’s arms were around him, tugging him as close as their thick jackets and helmets would allow. He was babbling more about what had happened, but Hux hardly heard him. His gut reaction was to embrace him in return, allow themselves to enjoy it, but his good sense overrode that impulse. They were in the middle of the field among the rest of the 363. Their closeness could be explained away, perhaps, by young Ben’s enthusiasm; however, it was not an excuse Hux wanted to give. Taking Ben by the arms, Hux pushed him back.

“Yes,” Hux said, loudly enough to be overheard. “Very good, Solo. You did very well.”

Ben’s expression hardened immediately. There was a flash of confusion, then anger. Hux glanced at the pilots around them and then back at Ben, giving him his best imploring look.

They’re watching.

Realizing his mistake, Ben backed hurriedly away, putting a yard’s distance between them. “Thank you, sir,” he said, just as clearly and calmly as Hux had. “Good flying with you.” Without a backwards glance, he grabbed his parachute and set off for the hangar.

A few of the men who were walking there as well shot him curious glances, but no one looked overly put off. Hux held in his sigh of relief. Tugging off the helmet that suddenly felt too small, he hastened over to Shorty and Meltsa, who gave their congratulations on his kill. He relaxed into the familiar conversation, trying not to focus too much on the potential repercussions of Ben’s misdemeanor.

Hux found Wexley just inside by the shelves for their gear, and he paused to shake his hand. “Well done today, Temmin,” he said. “Your first kill.”

Wexley beamed. “Thanks, sir. It was a hell of a thing. Sure makes you want to go out there and get more, huh?”

“It certainly does,” said Hux. “Would you like to do the honors of marking it down on the blackboard, or shall I?” They were still keeping close track of their record of kills on the front side of the blackboard in the briefing room. At the moment, Hux was ahead by two, though Poe was close behind him, followed by Ben.

“I think I’d like to do it, sir,” said Wexley. “I figure I’ve earned it now.”

They walked together toward the briefing room, where they rest of the squadron was headed to kill another few hours before they were disbursed again. Wexley stopped outside, however, gesturing toward a battered, rusty bicycle that was leaning against the wall.

“What do you think of her, sir?” he asked, chest puffed out. “I got her from Almond in the 129. He said he didn’t want her. Can you believe that?”

Hux actually could, quite easily. The cycle barely looked together enough to hold his weight, let alone be ridden properly.

“What do you plan to do with it?” he said.

Wexley rubbed the handlebars affectionately. “Fix her up and take her for a spin, I think.” He dusted the red from his palm. “Decent way to spend a couple of days, right? I can’t make those little wooden dogs like Ben does.”

Hux tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling the lining of the right one, in which he had, just the day before, smuggled the figure of Ben’s old dog Chewie from the briefing room to his quarters. Ben had finally finished it and had been absently fiddling with it while he talked with Hux about the differences he had noted in the way his Spitfire flew compared to his Hurricane.

“What are you going to do with that?” Hux had asked when the conversation had trailed off, tapping the figure’s head.

“I dunno,” Ben had replied. “Start a collection?”

Hux chuckled. “You don’t seem the collecting type.”

“Not when I used to travel as much as I did with my dad. We didn’t carry more than what we needed.”

Hux had had all manner of sentimental things when he was a boy, from model ships to a book of stamps his mother helped him curate. There was a great deal of room for those sorts of things in their home in Surrey, but he didn’t imagine it was the same for Ben and Han Solo, who lived on the road when they weren’t in the air. Hux had set aside all of his things when had gone away to Oxford, though, and had only kept the Histories around after he went to Cranwell.

“If I made something like this,” Ben had continued, touching the figure’s big paws, “I’d give it away to some little kid at one of our shows. Kids were hard up for toys back then. Something like this went a long way.”

“You could give it to one of the children in town,” said Hux. Unlike in London, the children in Wolcastle had been allowed to stay. It was not as dangerous in this part of the country when it came to frequent bombings.

Ben lifted one shoulder and let it fall again. “I’d probably forget it next time we go. It’d be easier to just toss it out and start again.”

“Don’t do that,” Hux said, taking it from his hand. “You spent so much time on it.”

“Then you take it,” Ben said as he met Hux’s eyes. His were wide and brown.

Hux looked down at the figure, into the dog’s carved face. “I think I will.” Closing his fingers around it, he had pushed it into his pocket. It had stuck out a little, but no more than a pack of cigarettes would have. It would go unnoticed. Now it sat at the corner of his desk, watching him as he wrote his reports.

“Sir?” Wexley said, looking at Hux quizzically.

Hux snapped back to the present. “Yes,” he said, gesturing to the bicycle. “It’s a fine project for you. If you need any grease or other such supplies, I’m sure the riggers and fitters have something that might suit you.”

Wexley grinned. “Hey, I didn’t even think of that. Thanks, sir. I’ll run over there now and see if they’ve got anything that can take off a coat of rust.” With a last duck of his head, he trotted away.

Hux watched him go for a moment before going around the corner of the briefing room’s building. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Sergeant Mitaka appeared, almost colliding with him.

“Bloody—I mean, excuse me, sir,” Mitaka said, recovering. He had a stack of letters in his hand, almost all of them marked with international postage.

“Post for us?” Hux asked.

Mitaka nodded, offering the letters. “They just arrived this morning. I thought I might deliver them.”

Hux plucked them out of his hand. “No need. I’ll see them distributed. Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Of course, sir.”

Opening the door, Hux strode into the briefing room. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve letters for you.”

The Eagles scrambled up to him eagerly. He handed out the letters as he read the names on them: Crowe, Ward, Mills and Mills, Strickland, and so on. There was one with a domestic return address, and that one Hux set down to read himself. It was from his mother. The last letter in the pile was marked Benjamin Solo, Wolcastle Airfield, Norfolk, England.

“Ben,” Hux said, glancing up.

As usual, he was hanging at the back of the room, though when he heard his name he looked up in surprise. Hux assumed he hadn’t expected to be called; he had never gotten a letter before. Setting down the block of wood he was just beginning to whittle, he rose and crossed to where Hux was standing. He took the envelope delicately between his thumb and forefingers, as if it was likely to explode if handled too roughly. He looked at the front of it, reading, before retreating to his chair in the corner. He cut the envelope open with his tortoiseshell-handled pocket knife and pulled out the folded letter inside.

Hux looked away, leaving him to his personal business, though the curiosity lingered. Perhaps it was a letter from his mother. It could be his father, but from the bits and pieces of information he had learned about Han Solo, it didn’t seem likely. It wasn’t his affair, however, so he picked up his own letter to read.

The news from Surrey wasn’t all that different from the last time Margaret Hux had written, though she did have more questions about Hux’s Eagles after his initial description of them. Some of those questions she said came from Hux’s father, but he doubted Brendol cared one bit about who Hux was commanding. If it wasn’t an army regiment, it would never be of value.

Hux was halfway through an anecdote about the most recent Sunday sermon when he heard a commotion from Ben’s corner. Ben slammed his chair back against the wall as he stood, kicked a desk out of the way, and stalked out through the door. The envelope had been left abandoned on the desk, but the letter was gone.

“Bad news, I guess,” Poe said as the door shut behind Ben.

The rest of the men dismissed it just as quickly and went back to their own letters, but Hux was uneasy. He wanted to know what sort of news would have set Ben off so violently, even if it wasn’t something about which he had any right to ask. He had always tried to keep himself from being overly nosy when it came to his fellow pilots, but Ben wasn’t just any one of those. If something was the matter, Hux would have like to have helped. And yet, he stayed where he was. Chasing after Ben now would be ill-advised, his concern obvious. Instead, he picked his mother’s letter back up and continued to read.

By the time the dinner hour came, there was no sign of Ben. The Eagles had all taken their places at their table in the mess and were passing bowls and plates between them. Hux took his food mechanically, eating by rote rather than out of genuine hunger. He listened to Wexley recount his harrowing tale from earlier in the day for the men who hadn’t been with them. Hux spared them his and Ben’s story, and no one insisted that he tell it.

When his plate was empty, he bid the squadron good evening with the excuse that he wanted to write back to his mother. In truth, he was bound for the hangar, Ben’s most common hiding place. He restlessly smoked a cigarette on his way there, sucking it down to the butt far faster than he usually did. He tossed it away as he reached the entrance; it skittered across the damp, flattened grass in a hail of orange sparks before going out.

The overhead lights in the hangar were turned off, as per regulation, but there were several lamps lit near the center of the building, where they would be mostly hidden by the half-closed doors. Hux heard the scrape of metal on metal as he approached the lighted area. He was relieved to find Ben standing on the wing of one of the remaining Hurricanes, working with a bolt extractor. He was wearing a grease-stained undershirt and an abused pair of regulation trousers. The bolt he was removing slid out with a screech and, plucking it from the extractor, he tossed it into a pile on the packed-dirt floor.

“Ben,” Hux said before he started in on the next bolt.

He turned his head to look down at Hux, his expression hard. “Come to check up on me?” he said.

Hux blanched at the coarseness; it was out of character considering the way Ben had treated him in the past few weeks. Cautious, he didn't directly answer the question, saying only, “You weren’t at dinner.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” said Ben, setting the extractor in place and working the next bolt loose.

Hux raised his voice to be heard over it. “May I ask why?”

Ben tossed the bolt down into the pile. It landed with a ping. “Sometimes I don’t want to eat. Is that some kind of breach of the rules?” His tone was mocking. “All pilots in His Majesty’s Air Force must eat or face severe reprimand.”

Hux frowned, irritation rising. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m fine,” Ben said.

“LIke hell you are,” Hux snapped. “You stormed off earlier, and now you’re working those bloody bolts like you hate each one of them. So I ask again: what’s wrong?”

Ben paused, setting the extractor down and straightening. From his pocket he pulled a crumpled sheet of paper. He held it out to Hux, glowering all the while. Hux stepped closer and took it from his hand. Unfolding it and smoothing out some of the wrinkles, he looked it over.

The handwriting was neat and boxy, printed rather than cursive. The paper was of decent quality, though not anything like the linen-laced stationery Hux’s mother used. The letter read:

Dear Benjamin,

It took a great deal of searching to find your address so I could get this to you. I had to write to the Air Ministry directly to request it. That took more than a month. Your mother has been beside herself since July, when you left her. Why haven’t you written, even if just to tell her that you’re alive and well? You should take that into consideration.

In any case, I will set that aside and relate to you what has been happening in the family. In addition to her constant worry, you mother has been seriously unwell. She developed pneumonia early in the fall and has been laid up in bed for several weeks. Your father is still off flying his circuses, so she sent me a telegram asking me to come from Berkeley to help her convalesce. Of course, I came right away, putting my semester lectures on hold. I’ve been here now for six weeks. She has improved significantly, but will have to find a new job, as she was let go from hers due to her illness. I have suggested she take a secretarial position at the university, and I believe she is on the cusp of accepting. She will have to learn to type and file, but she has always been quick to take on new things. If she does decide to take the position, I will move her into my campus home. The house in Oakland will have to be sold. I’m sure your father can find accommodations elsewhere for himself and his toy airplanes. After all, he spent little time at home anyway.

The details will be worked out in the coming few weeks, but I expect that when you return, you will have to come to Berkeley until you can find a job. How long do you expect to stay in England? Certainly not much longer. No doubt they have pilots enough to take your place. And your mother so very much wants to see you. I know you and I did not part on good terms when last we spoke, but I, too, would like to see you. For your mother’s sake, Benjamin, come home. I have enclosed a forwarding address to my house where I will expect you to send a letter soon. In the meantime, take care of yourself.

Uncle Luke

Hux folded the letter carefully, setting it on the wing of the Hurricane, where Ben could pick it up again. He didn’t.

“You’re upset that your mother is ill,” Hux said, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Like a little pneumonia could actually put her down,” Ben scoffed. “She had whooping cough when she was little. Chickenpox and mumps. She’s tougher than hell.”

Hux raised his brows. “Then it’s something else. Her intention to move to this Berkeley place with your uncle?”

Ben’s nose wrinkled with disdain. “That bastard’s been trying to get her to leave my dad for as long as I can remember. He hated it when she married him. But she wanted to, and she was already on the way to having me. It made sense.”

“I see,” said Hux. It wasn’t the first marriage made because of an unexpected pregnancy, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. However, when the bride’s family disapproved, it made it significantly harder. “Why didn’t your uncle favor the match?”

“He thought my dad wasn’t good enough for her,” Ben said, crouching down at the edge of the wing, closer to Hux. “Thought he was just a washed-up pilot with nothing to offer. Luke wanted her to marry some kind of lawyer or doctor who went to the college he teaches at.” He blew a contemptuous breath out through his nose. “He figured my dad couldn’t treat her right if he didn’t make a bunch of money. But she loved him. She always has.”

“So you’re angry with your uncle,” Hux said. “I can understand that.” He glanced down at the letter. “He said you parted on bad terms.”

Ben sat, folding his legs in front of him. “Yeah. I haven’t seen him since I was eighteen, right after I finished high school. He told me he had a place for me all lined up at college. I never said a damn thing about wanting to go there. He just did it.”

Hux took a step closer, tentatively reaching out to to touch Ben’s knee. Ben didn’t move away. “You fought about it.”

“You could say that,” Ben said. He hung his head slightly. “I told him I didn’t want to go, that I wanted to fly with my dad. Luke said that was a ‘waste of my intelligence.’ I’m not that smart. I did okay in school, but I never really liked it. I would have hated college.”

Admittedly, Hux couldn’t imagine Ben at Oxford, wearing tweed jackets and sipping tea at a café, chewing over Horus and Homer. He was better suited to a life in the air. It was understandable that his family might have wanted to push him down another path, but in the end the decision was his.

“What did your mother have to say about it?” Hux asked.

Ben sighed. “She sided with Luke, and it made me furious. She had fought so hard to be with my dad. Telling me I had to be better than him was…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t fair.”

Hux brought his other hand up to Ben’s ankle and rubbed it along his calf, offering what comfort he could. “What did your father say?”

“He wasn’t there,” said Ben. “He was off flying with the barnstormers.” He frowned. “Just like Luke said. But I didn’t care. I was getting ready to go out and meet Dad, but then Luke showed up with a car to take me to Berkeley. I told him to go to hell, packed up a bag, and started walking.”

“You walked to find your father?” Hux said, shocked.

“I only made it about ten miles before Mom showed up to get me. I figured she was going to take me back and make me go with Luke, but she brought me to the train station. She told me where my dad was and paid for my ticket.”

Hux squeezed Ben’s knee, feeling a rush of warmth toward this woman whom he had never met, and likely never would. “Do you know why she changed her mind?”

Ben shrugged. “Not really. She just said she wanted me to be happy. I guess that meant she would let me fly. But I haven’t seen Luke since. And now he’s got the balls to write and tell me to come to Berkeley just like he always wanted. I won’t do it.” He moved his hand down and took Hux’s. He brushed his thumb over the knuckles. “I don’t want to leave.”

Selfishly, Hux was soothed. He had, for a moment, feared that Ben might want to go to his mother and uncle. He would have understood if he did, but a sharp pain formed in Hux’s ribcage at the thought of him returning to America.

“Will you write that to him, then?” Hux asked.

“I don’t really want to answer,” Ben replied, “but I guess I have to. Just to tell Mom, really. I don’t give a damn about Luke.”

Hux nodded, empathizing. “Family is as complicated as anything. I didn’t have a stubborn uncle to contend with, but my father has never been an easy man to get along with.”

Ben tugged at his hand a little, sliding back toward where the wing met the fuselage of the Hurricane. “Come up here and tell me about him.”

He released Hux long enough for him to pull himself up one to the wing. It creaked a little, the bolts that held it on having been removed, but it held their combined weight well enough. Ben sat against the fuselage and spread his legs. Hux went into the space between them, leaning against Ben’s chest. Ben wrapped his arms around Hux’s middle and pulled him close.

“I suppose you can say my father was the one who wanted something else of me,” Hux said. “Like your uncle. He was an army man, and he wanted me to do the same after I left university. I told him I’d prefer the air force. He didn’t like it.”

“I guess you fought about it, huh?” said Ben, his voice vibrating deeply through Hux.

“To say the least,” Hux said. “The row nearly brought down the house. I yelled myself hoarse.”

“You? ” Ben sounded surprised and a little amused.

Hux huffed a laugh. “I’m known to yell from time to time, though it’s not common. However, that night I did, quite a bit. My mother nearly fainted from all the arguing. But she didn’t try to intervene. It’s not in her nature to fight.”

“Not like my mom,” Ben chuckled. “She’s fiery. Used to put my dad right in his place when they fought.”

“Is that where you get your temperament?’ Hux asked.

Ben hummed pensively. “I guess so. She never hit people, though. I, uh, did that a few times when I was a kid.” He set his chin on Hux’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. “Did you ever hit anyone?”

Hux leaned into him. “I had some boxing lessons for a few months, but I’ve never been in a proper fight. I think I’m a bit of a coward.”

“Bullshit,” Ben said, sharply. “You’re braver than any of the idiots I used to fight. They used to pick on the skinny kids and the kids with glasses. They’re the cowards, not you.” He plucked at the belt of Hux’s uniform jacket, fiddling with the buckle. Hux found it oddly calming, just feeling his hands move idly over his clothing.

“At least my father didn’t argue that I was afraid of the battlefield,” Hux said, setting his palm on Ben’s thigh and stroking down to his knee. “He’s not foolish enough to say that pilots are less courageous than foot soldiers. He knew the odds of survival in the air war were possibly less than those in a regiment. He couldn’t fault me for that.”

“Are you still mad at him for it?” Ben asked.

“No,” Hux replied, truthfully. “He’s a difficult man, and set in his ways, but I can’t hold a grudge. He’s my father, and I respect him.”

Ben trailed his fingertips up to the breast pocket of Hux’s jacket, circling the brass button. “Does he look like you?”

“Not particularly.” Brendol Hux was a broad man, thick around the chest and bulky. He had a full beard even though it wasn’t in fashion. “I take after my mother,” Hux said. “At least in features. I do have my father’s coloring, though.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ben said as he nuzzled the side of Hux’s neck.

Hux smiled absently, flattered. “Do you take after your father?”

“They always said I looked like a mix of both him and my mom. But I’m taller than both of them.”

“I don’t quite know how you fit in a cockpit,” Hux said. “I struggle with it sometimes, and I’m slighter than you.”

Ben tightened his grip on Hux’s waist. “I like that about you. You’ve got these long, skinny legs and arms. I think I could pick you up and carry you if I wanted to.”

Hux had to admit that there was something enticing about that prospect, but he said, teasingly, “Would you have me faint into your arms, then, and you could carry me to the sofa to rest until I recovered from the spell?”

“I don’t think you’re the kind to pass out,” Ben said.

“I fainted in church once,” Hux said. “I had my knees locked as I sang from the hymnal and wasn’t taking enough breaths between the phrases. I collapsed onto the pew behind me and hit my head.”

He had been ten years old then, home for summer holiday. His mother had almost fainted as well, when he crumpled. Mister Brookhaven, the burly solicitor who always offered compliments to her after the services, had been the one to pick young Armitage up and bear him outside to take the fresh air. That was the last time he could remember being carried by anyone.

“Were you okay?” Ben asked.

“Perfectly,” said Hux. “A little addled from the fall, but no worse for wear. I was up and about by that afternoon.”

Ben shifted slightly behind him, making himself more comfortable. “I knocked myself out cold one time. I was running through the woods playing tag when I ran right into a low tree branch. Blacked out completely. I woke up with a couple of boys leaning over me saying I was dead. I had to get five stitches in my forehead. Still have the scar.”

Hux turned. “Where?”

Ben pulled his hair back from the left side of his brow and pointed to a narrow, white line that went up into his hairline. Hux traced the exposed edge with his thumb.

“You can barely see it,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t shown me.”

“Yeah,” said Ben, letting his hair fall again. A strand caught in his eyelashes, moving as he blinked. Hux brushed it away. He held Ben’s gaze there, admiring the dark color of his eyes. He’d called Hux beautiful, but he had a loveliness of his own, a kind of softness at the edges of his face. Raising the hand that he had left fall to Ben’s shoulder, Hux traced his jaw. Ben closed his eyes on a faint exhale.

Hux’s head was cocked at a difficult angle, making his neck ache slightly, but he ignored it as he tipped his chin up to kiss Ben, light and close-lipped. Ben’s arms tightened around him, drawing him in. They went about the kiss leisurely, with no particular demands. Their noses brushed occasionally, the tips just slightly cooler than the rest of them. It wasn’t a warm night.

When they paused for a moment, Hux, touching Ben’s bare arms, asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

“I didn’t really notice,” Ben replied. He pressed his lips to the place behind Hux’s ear. “Do you need to go inside?”

Hux turned to him again, his “no” lost in Ben’s mouth. He started to turn onto his hip to find a better angle, and they were just beginning to deepen the kiss when Ben’s stomach rumbled.

“Shit,” he grumbled. “I’m starving.”

Hux held back a laugh as he drew away. “I’m sure the mess sergeants won’t mind if we sneak into the kitchen and find you something to eat.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” Ben pulled Hux in by the hips, drawing attention to the unexpected hardness between his legs. “But I don’t want to leave yet.”

Hux’s stomach turned over, his body’s interest piqued.

“You didn’t let me touch you before,” Ben said, low and dark. “I want to. I want to do what you did for me.”

Hux was very aware of how exposed they were in the hangar. It wasn’t private, as the barn had been, and therefore a far more dangerous place. But Ben was gently pushing his hips up against Hux’s backside, growing even harder. Hux’s cock responded, filling out in his trousers. It had been five days since he had last brought himself off, and when offered the chance to have Ben be the one to do it, he was inclined to take it.

“We have to be quick,” he said.

Ben chewed his cheek, clearly displeased, but he nodded. Hux pushed away from him far enough to turn. He guided Ben’s legs together and, swinging his right over them, knelt over his thighs. The metal of the Hurricane’s wing was hard against his knees, but he didn’t mind, not when Ben was releasing his belt and unbuttoning his jacket. Hux tugged at the sleeves to get it off over his shoulders and dropped it behind him. Ben went immediately for the fly of his trousers, flicking the button open and lowering the zipper.

“Can you get these down?” he said, tracing the waistband of Hux’s underwear.

Hux lifted himself up and pushed them over his hips. His cock sprang free, drawing Ben’s gaze. He was uncircumcised, unlike Ben, and paused to consider if Ben had actually seen someone uncut before. Slowly, Hux drew the foreskin back to reveal himself. Ben’s mouth formed an “O.”

With his other hand, Hux guided Ben to him, wrapping his fingers around his cock. Ben’s hand was large and warm, and Hux had to bite back a groan at his touch.

“So soft,” Ben said, mostly to himself. “But hard.” He gave a tentative stroke, though there was barely any pressure to it. As he reached the tip, he pressed his thumb there, massaging. Hux watched him explore, fascinated by the wonder in Ben’s face.

“How do you like it?” Ben asked as he eased his hand back down to the base of Hux’s cock, slightly harder this time. “I can do what I would for me, but you might...it might be different for you.”

Directing him to tighten his grip, Hux said, “Slow at first and then faster.”

“Okay.” Ben began steadily, but almost lazy, moving up Hux’s full length from root to tip.

Hux closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the sensation. He was usually so efficient about this that he didn’t really take the time to enjoy it, but now he couldn’t bring himself to rush Ben, not when it felt this good. His heart sped up with each of Ben’s pulls, the blood rushing down until he was almost in pain.

Ben’s lips were parted as he breathed through his mouth, watching raptly as he worked Hux’s cock. Bringing his arms up, Hux wrapped them around Ben’s shoulders; he needed the support as his legs began to shake with the strain of kneeling.

“That’s so good, Ben,” he said. “So good.”

Ben made a small noise, but it set Hux alight. He pushed himself into Ben’s fist, growing hungrier for more.

“Faster?” Ben said, looking up to meet his eyes. He was so eager to give pleasure; it made Hux burn.

“Not yet,” Hux said, half a pant. He could see the ridge of Ben’s cock pressing against his fly, and wanted to see him again. Sliding his left hand down Ben’s chest, he cupped him in his palm. “Take yourself out. There’s something I want to show you.”

Ben blinked at him, confused, but when Hux ground the heel of his hand into his groin, he groaned. With no small measure of reluctance, Ben released Hux and reached for his own trousers. He fumbled them open and, reaching inside, pulled out his cock. He gave himself a light, relieved squeeze.

Hux shifted minutely closer, until they were touching. Ben’s jaw dropped as he stared. It was crude, but Hux spat into his hand before wrapping it around both of them, pressing them together. Ben was solid and thick against him, just slightly wider at the base than Hux and a little longer.

“Oh my God,” Ben whispered.

“Is that all right?” Hux asked, though Ben’s shudder at his first stroke was answer enough.

“Y-Yes,” he stammered. “More. Please.”

Hux bit his lip hard enough to hurt as he forced himself to stay quiet. Ben’s need was so potent, it made him dizzy. Taking a firmer grip of both of them, he started to work them in earnest. Gasping, Ben dropped his head against Hux’s chest, holding him by the hips. Hux slid the fingers of his free hand into Ben’s hair.

The press of them together was torturous, warm and hard in Hux’s grip. His palm curled around his own length, his fingers tight around Ben’s. He was rocking his hips into the motion, pushing him even closer. He was being greedy, losing himself in his own pleasure, but he didn’t want to neglect Ben. Adjusting the tightness of his fingers, he twisted his grip on an upstroke. Ben moaned.

“Hush,” Hux said, gently admonishing.

“Sorry,” Ben breathed, though it was appropriately quiet. “It’s just too...good. Can you go harder?”

Hux had to fight his own urge to cry out. The simple request was affecting, making him tremble. He granted it gladly, pumping his hand with greater speed and tightness.

Ben fisted his hands in Hux’s shirt, rucking it up to expose his ass to the chilly air. If anyone were to walk by, the first thing they would see was that: pale skin over the barest hint of muscle. The thought terrified him, but it was laced with a kind of excitement, a thrill at doing something so utterly forbidden within shouting distance of an entire RAF wing and its ground crews. It was madness, but he was too caught up in the feeling of Ben clinging to him to stop now.

Within a few more strokes, Hux was getting perilously close to the edge of his control. His gut was starting to tighten with the first signs of climax, his testicles drawing up. Rubbing the back of Ben’s head, he said, “I’m almost there. What do you need?”

“Just keep going,” Ben pled. “Just a little more, Hux. Oh, God.”

That last invocation severed the last threads of Hux’s restraint. Face contorted in a silent cry, he spilled over his fingers and Ben’s cock. The blinding flash sent tendrils of sensation throughout his body, making each nerve ending tingle. He sucked in air between clenched teeth as the aftershocks wracked him with each pass of his hand over their cocks. It slid through the mess Hux had made, easing the last few strokes.

“I’m...right...there,” said Ben, grasping desperately at Hux’s waist.

Hux felt the heat of his release, the tremors as he peaked. Hux slowed his hand, easing him through the last, before stopping completely. He gently massaged the nape of Ben’s neck as they both came down. When Ben finally lifted his face again, Hux’s breath caught. His cheeks were burning, lips wet and bitten. There was a glassy sheen to his half-open eyes. He looked spent and gorgeous.

“May I let go?” Hux asked. Ben nodded weakly, so Hux pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and set to cleaning them up. He tucked Ben away first and then saw to himself, though he didn’t put his jacket back on right away.

“Was that good?” he said as he touched Ben’s heated face. Ben moved up to kiss him, though it was tiredly.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Ben said.

Hux wrapped his arms around Ben’s neck again, pressing their foreheads together. “There’s a great deal more I can show you, too. If you’d like that.”

Ben’s eyes were big and close. “I want to know everything.”

“You will,” said Hux, “in time.” Pulling back, he lifted himself off of Ben, wincing at the soreness in his knees. Moving to the edge of the Hurricane’s wing, he jumped back down to the ground. He turned and gestured to Ben. “Come on. We should get you fed before you waste away.”

Ben slid down quite gracefully and went to get his shirt and jacket. He pulled the shirt on, but left it unbuttoned. Hux was in no place or mood to chastise him for it, so they went together outside and toward the mess.

They didn’t find much that was already prepared, but Ben was able to unearth a couple of apples and some only slightly stale bread to go with the cheese they discovered in the icebox. Hux sat on the counter and watched him tuck in. They spoke only as much as required, as they were treading on the territory of the mess sergeants, who were, in fact, quite strict about who they allowed in their kitchen. When Ben was finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, coming up to Hux, parted his legs and stepped between them. He tasted like the fragrant cheese, which was not unpleasant.

Together, they snuck back to the barracks, parting ways at the top of the stairs. Ben took Hux’s hand a last time and squeezed it before turning toward his own quarters. Hux fell into bed sated and content, where he slept until morning.

Hux usually dreaded the last week of October, when even the stodgiest men at the airfield participated in the pranks and other shenanigans leading up to Hallowe’en. It never failed to get someone hurt and put out of flight rotation, and there was always some kind of calamity that befell the mess hall. Why the only communal space where all the officers gathered three times a day was an unfailing target, Hux would never know, but that was the way of it, and he couldn’t imagine that it would any different at Wolcastle.

The trouble began with a bang on Monday the 27th, when the men of the 222 woke up to three inches of water on the floor of their barracks. The first to splash into it had cursed up a storm, rousing the others. Together, they had charged off to find the 129, who had apparently driven one of the fire trucks up to the door and dragged the hose inside, filling the place. It hadn’t come to blows, but S.L. Chapman had had very stern words for S.L. Barlow, who could barely keep a straight face throughout the dressing-down. The 363 had watched it all happen in wonder and amusement, without having an inkling of what was coming their way over the next few days.

“Is this some kind of tradition in England?” Andrew Ward had asked that night after the dust-up between Chapman and Barlow had ended.

Hux had replied, “I’m afraid so. And I would watch your backs if I were you. No one is safe.”

“If they get us,” Strickland said, “can we get them back?”

“Retaliation is expected,” Hux said. The men had smirked, exchanging sly looks.

The next day, the 129 found their beds stripped of linens. The sheets were hanging limp and wet over the wings of their aircraft in the rain. They came at the 222, but those men shrugged and said they knew nothing about it. Pointed, furious glances were turned on the 363. The Americans tried and failed to stifle their laughs. Hux rubbed his temples, preparing for the worst.

When they went out to their kites on Wednesday morning, they found several still-wet paintings of various phalluses on the fuselages. They were in a hurry, of course, and weren’t able to get the paint thinner from the hangar before having to take off. The 142 bombers had quite a few questions for them when they rendezvoused over the Channel. They spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing the paint off and plotting revenge.

Before they could exact it, the 222 struck. They knew better than to tamper with anything that might actually affect their performance in the air, but they managed to sneak in and grease the edges of their aircrafts’ wings. Hux watched not one or two, but five or six of his Eagles slip right off and onto the ground. Ben was among them, and he looked utterly incensed when he picked himself up and dusted grass and dirt off the seat of his pants. Hux managed to avoid the grease, but just barely.

As they gathered in the briefing room after that particular flight, it was Ben who called them all to him. He pulled a chair over and sat over it backwards, leaning his arms on the back rest.

“Listen,” he said darkly. “We have to get those bastards back for this. I’ve got an idea, but it’s going to take all of us, and we have to do it tonight .”

“Tell us what you’ve got, kid,” said Poe.

Ben outlined a simple, but wicked idea: under the cover of darkness, the 363 would sneak out to the 222’s briefing room and get all of the furniture up onto the roof. It would require at least four men to climb up onto the roof to lift the desks and chairs that the men on the ground hoisted up. Fortunately, they weren’t particularly heavy and wouldn’t pose a terrible challenge. Meltsa, Taylor, Wexley, and Crowe volunteered to go up. The rest of them would be carrying it out of the room and handing it up.

Hux stayed conspicuously out of the planning, hoping to avoid a role in this completely, but Ben didn’t allow him to escape so easily.

“We need lookouts,” Ben said, eyeing Hux. “At least two.” When Hux shook his head in a silent no, he pressed on: “Hux and Lewis. You’ve got good night vision. Keep watch for anyone out there.”

Lewis gave his enthusiastic assent, and Hux had no choice but to accept his fate. He nodded once, curt, and got a smile in return.

They ate dinner with the rest of the officers, listening to the 129 recount how their riggers had stolen all of the 363’s ground crew’s spanners and buried them. They had, however, been kind enough to draw up a pirate-style treasure map to guide them to where X marked the spot. Thanisson had been spitting mad. Hux had to admit to the ingenuity of the entire affair.

The 363 began to trickle out of the mess along with the others as they left, not wanting to stick together and tip anyone off to their plan for the evening. Hux was among the last to leave, serving in his position as lookout. He lit a cigarette when he got outside and smoked it slowly until the lights in the mess were turned off. Only then did he begin his walk toward the 222’s briefing room.

He found Shorty and Brewster Mills already then when he arrived. They were bearing chairs out and stacking them by the side of the building to help the men who would be on the roof climb up. Hux snuffed out his second cigarette, hanging around by the corner to keep watch. It was fortunate it was a moonless night, the sky obscured by clouds.

The Eagles went about their business in near silence, whispers the only communication between them. They moved the furniture efficiently under Ben’s direction. Hux watched him out of the corner of his eye as he, stripped to his shirtsleeves, lifted the last desk up to Meltsa and Wexley. He shook his arms out as he released it, rolling his neck. He turned to catch Hux looking and flashed him a mischievous smile.

When the work was done, they scattered in every direction, some off to make a round of the field before they returned to the barracks. They could not, after all, go back all at once. Hux, out of habit, went toward the hangar. He didn’t particularly want another cigarette, so he breathed in the damp air, hands in his pockets. Stopping outside the mouth of the hangar, he leaned back against the door as he had the first night he had met Ben here, mimicking Ben’s position: one leg bent at the knee, foot braced against the metal.

Over the course of the week, the last of the Hurricanes had been disassembled and taken away on lorries to wherever they would be put to rest. Hux, who had been passing by on his way to the infirmary for tea with Phasma, had seen Ben standing atop one lorry’s bed tying down one of the wingless fuselages. Thanisson had been on the other side, tightening the ropes. Hux admired Ben’s affinity for the old aircraft. He had told Hux a few stories of learning to work on his father’s stunt planes, which he had taken to quite young. He had been tweaking engines, adjusting elevators and ailerons since he was eight years old. It made every plane he flew his own.

Since the Spitfires had arrived, Virgil Gilbert had set about marking them as the 363’s. It turned out he was quite a talented painter, and had stenciled and filled in a cartoonish blue and white eagle with red boxing gloves over its wings onto the port side of fuselage, just forward of the cockpit. He had put it on his aircraft first, but as soon as the others saw it, they demanded their own. Gilbert had spent almost all of his free time in the past few days painting. In some cases, he marked the pilot’s name beneath the eagle in elegant, looping cursive. Hux had been admiring his work just the day before when he had glanced down, paintbrush in hand.

“How about it, sir?” he had said. “You want one of your own?”

Hux had raised his brows, not having considered it before. After all, he wasn’t one of the Americans. “Do you think I should have one?” he asked.

“Of course I do, sir,” Gilbert had said with a bright smile. “You’re our bald eagle, our leader.”

Hux chuckled. "If you'd like to give me one," he had said, "then I'll be glad to have it."

When he had gone out to his aircraft the next morning, he had been surprised and a bit moved to see that his eagle wore a Distinguished Flying Cross on its breast. Beneath it was “S.L. Armitage Hux” in white script. Hux had gone out of his way to thank Gilbert, who had just shrugged it off, saying it was no problem.

Stepping away from the hangar, Hux wandered over to his kite. It was almost too dark to see the eagle, but his name stood out in the scanty light. He touched it lightly, tracing the letters with his forefinger. He hadn’t expected to belong to his Eagles. He had known he would be their commander and fulfill that role to the best of his ability, but the evidence that they had taken him in and made him one of them was emblazoned upon his aircraft.

Giving the eagle a last affectionate touch, he turned back toward the barracks and his bed.

He awoke the next morning, Hallowe’en, to angry, raised voices from the hallway outside his door. Despite being dressed in only his nightshirt, he rolled onto his feet and ventured out to see what the ruckus was about.

Several members of the 222 were standing in the corridor, shaking their fists at the few Eagles who had come out to face them. Crowe and Brewster Mills were taking the brunt of it, but neither of them looked in the least bit threatened. In fact, they were struggling to control their laughter.

“It’s going to take us half the bloody day to get it all down,” a blond-haired pilot snarled. “You fucking Yankee arses!”

“I’ll thank you to watch your tone,” Hux said, sharp. They came round to look at him, their eyes narrowed. “After the prank you pulled with the grease, this is hardly a problem. All’s fair.” He smirked. “I can only assume that you wish you had thought of it yourselves.”

The blond pilot continued to frown, but Hux had him there, so he grumbled a few choice expletives before making his way down the stairs with the others. As soon as they were gone, the Eagles—most of whom had now come out of their rooms—burst into cheers.

“Well said, sir,” Meltsa laughed, clapping Hux on the back. “You told them off right and proper.”

“That was only four of them,” said Hux. “I have a feeling we haven’t heard the last from them.”

Of course, that proved to be true. As soon as the 363 reported for breakfast, Hux found S.L. Chapman waiting to pounce.

“Hux,” he snapped. “I’d like to know who among your squadron is responsible for the ruining of our briefing room. I would see them formally reprimanded.”

Hux sauntered up to him in no particular hurry, affecting an expression of surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “What’s happened to your briefing room?”

Chapman leveled an accusatory finger at him. “You know perfectly well what. I know your men are responsible for it, and I’ll have them face the consequences.”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t been out to your hangar in several days,” Hux continued, ever innocent. “Could you describe it?” From behind him he could hear the Eagles snickering.

Chapman threw up a hand, clearly furious. “You might be ignorant of what they did, but look at their faces! They’re guilty.”

Hux turned to his men, all of whom were suddenly very focused on their food. Only Poe and Ben were still looking up. Dameron was giving Chapman an affronted look. Ben’s eyes were flashing, predatory.

“Well, let us ask them, then,” said Hux. He turned. “Mister Dameron, as my second, were you aware of any misdeeds of the nature S.L. Chapman described being perpetrated last night?”

“No, sir,” Poe replied. “But if I had, I would certainly expect the participants to be punished.”

“There,” Hux said, tipping his chin up. “I believe you are mistaken in thinking my men are the culprits.”

Chapman’s face screwed up in a moue of fury. “I’ll take this to the wing commander, Hux, I can promise you that.”

Appearing from behind him, S.L. Barlow said, “I’m sure Snoke has far better things to do than address a matter of simple conduct, Charles. How about this? I’ll help you do some investigating of the incident and together we’ll get it sorted out.”

“Don’t patronize me, Alistair,” Chapman said. “This is a serious matter.”

Barlow pressed his lips together, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’m certain it is. Hence my offer.”

Chapman shook his head distastefully. “The both of you can go to hell.” Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the mess.

“Managed to get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn’t he?” Barlow said to Hux, brows raised knowingly.

Hux gave him a one-sided smile. “Seems so.”

When he returned to the table, Lewis Mills clapped him on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle. The others grinned.

“Happy Hallowe’en, gentlemen,” Hux said, genial.

The morning after their meal was mostly uninterrupted. Hux spent the majority of it getting thoroughly trounced at poker. The men who leaned over his shoulder to watch him bet groaned when he played yet another poor hand.

“Your luck’s got to turn sometime, sir,” said Strickland, commiserating.

It turned out it didn’t. When Hux’s pockets were completely turned-out, he finally gave up the game and retreated to the back of the room to sulk with the newspaper. He hadn’t yet gotten through the headlines when the chair beside him scraped across the floor. Glancing up and over the top of the paper, he saw Ben sitting beside him.

“Come to gloat?” Hux asked. Ben had only recently picked up playing with the others, but he wasn’t a novice. After he had won three straight days in a row, Taylor and Poe had banned him from the table.

“I could give you some pointers if you want,” said Ben, leaning against the desk behind him. He looked almost feline, elbows propped on the surface of the desk and stomach stretched taut over a slightly curved back. For once his hair was tied back from his face, in a haphazard tail at the nape of his neck. And yet it was barely tamed; some thin sections were coming loose and hanging around his face. Hux should have demanded he see to it, but what he wanted to do was tug the tie out with his teeth and bury his nose in the fall of hair.

“Thank you,” Hux said, reining in his impulses, “but no. I’ve accepted that I’m never going to be a cardsharp.”

Ben shot him a look. “I don’t cheat. It’s all about strategy. Play the cards you have off the others’. It doesn’t take much, just—”

Hux held up a hand to stop him before he went further. “I didn’t ask for advice.”

“Fine,” said Ben, haughty. “Lose then, if that’s what you want to do.”

Snapping his paper up, Hux made a show of going back to reading. Ben huffed, but remained seated, his legs crossed at the ankle only inches away from Hux’s boots. He shifted in his chair in silence, and Hux continued to pointedly ignore him. Still, he didn’t go away.

Hux didn’t have to wait long for the tip of Ben’s boot to knock against his. He did nothing at the first tap, but when Ben did it again, he moved the leftmost pages of the paper out of way in order to eye him. Ben met his gaze, the corners of his mouth quirking up. He lightly kicked Hux’s foot again.

Hux cocked a questioning brow. “Yes?” he said, quietly enough that only Ben would hear.

“What are you reading?” Ben asked. His foot tap-tapped again.

“The news from France,” Hux replied. For the first time, he tapped Ben in return: three quick hits before he pulled away.

Ben’s face brightened at getting Hux to play along. Tap, tap, tap. “Anything decent, or is it still all bad?”

Hux scanned the page for the article he had been reading before Ben had arrived. The report was not a particularly good one, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Even the frequent bombings of German installations on the coast and inland weren’t damaging the occupation enough to weaken it.

“Much the same,” said Hux. “Our allies are still struggling.” He gave a half-hearted tap to the sole of Ben’s boot.

Ben, equally sober, nodded. “I wish there was more we could do.”

“As do I, but our duties are split between our own defenses and the offensive sorties.” Hux folded the paper and set it aside. “We must protect England above all else.”

“I know,” Ben said. He sat forward, setting his hands on his knees. “What’s the rest of England like?”

“It depends on where you are,” Hux said. “There are large cities in some places, ports and rivers; the countryside is farmed, the coast fished. It’s not a large country, but it’s rather diverse.” He looked at Ben askance. “It does rain a great deal everywhere, though.”

Ben's expression soured. “I miss the sunshine back home. Blue skies and big, white clouds. It’s real pretty.” Hux heard the wistfulness in his voice. “I’d like to take you there.”

Hux tensed, scanning the room for anyone who was paying undue attention to the two of them in their corner. Satisfied that they were not being overheard, he said, “To California?”

“Mmhm. But we’d have to go pretty much all the way across the country to get there. Any ship we took from here would go to New York. We could catch the train from there, but it would take a week, maybe more to get to California.” He leaned slightly over his thighs, looking up at Hux through his dark eyelashes. “We’d have to get couple of cots in the sleeper car. Or at least one to share. It’d probably be cheaper that way.”

Hux gave him a wry look. “I’m sure our salaries, meager as they are, can pay for two cots.”

“I’m not wasting mine on things I don’t need,” said Ben. “I’m saving up my wages.”

“For what?” asked Hux.

“My own plane.”

That gave Hux pause. As an RAF airman, he expected to serve until they deemed him unfit. He had never had to consider purchasing an aircraft of his own when His Majesty would provide them. Having grown comfortable with his Eagles, he had somehow begun to forget that they were not sworn to the Crown, and after the war was over, would have no positions in the air force. They would be sent home. If they did not join their own country’s armed forces or were, for reason of their service in England, prevented from doing so, they would have no way to fly other than to have airplanes of their own.

“That will take a great deal of monthly pay to purchase,” Hux said.

Ben shrugged. “Yeah, but what else do I have to do with it? We get three squares a day, standard ration cigarettes and chocolate, and a couple of sturdy uniforms. I don’t need much else. I might as well keep the money, even if it’s not that much.” He rubbed the shell of one of his prominent ears. “I wonder if I can change it over to American dollars later.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” said Hux. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “When you’re discharged.”

Ben’s gaze flicked sharply up, bewildered and searching Hux’s face for his meaning. Hux wanted to regret having said it, but it was true; Ben would go home eventually.

“It’s not something to be worried about now, however,” Hux said with affected levity. “You have your Spitfire for the moment.”

Ben opened his mouth to say something more, but he was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on the wall. Poe was nearest, so he picked it up.

“363 Squadron,” he said into the receiver. “Right. Understood. Thank you.” He hung the telephone back in its cradle. “A big run with the bombers, boys. The whole wing’s going up.”

Hux stood hurriedly, grabbing for his flight jacket. It wasn’t often that all three squadrons at Wolcastle were disbursed together. The target would have to be large if more than one flight of bombers was sent to attack. That much destructive power would be reserved for major Nazi installations inland. It would mean the Spitfires would have to be pushed to their limits, but if handled properly, they would stand up to it.

“Come on,” Hux said as he made for the door.

The noise and clamor of the airfield was heightened as each squadron prepared to get airborne. It appeared that the 222 had gotten the call first; their pilots were already taxiing their aircraft toward the runway. From what Hux could see of the 129, they were in their cockpits, waiting to start them until the 222 was away.

The ground crew was moving between the 363’s airplanes as Hux and the others arrived. A fueling truck was just pulling away from the last kite in line. That was sloppy work if it hadn’t been done earlier, but Hux would deal with that later. He went directly to his aircraft and, pulling on his helmet, jumped into the cockpit.

The wing rendezvoused in the air, with the 222 in the lead. They flew in flight formation, thirty-six Spitfires across the sky. Chapman hailed the leader of the bomber squadron as soon as they crossed over the Channel. The voice was familiar: Hampton of the 142.

“Good to see you, lads,” he said. “We’re looking for a smooth flight with you to escort us. Going deep for this one: thirty miles inland. It’s a staging center for occupation and reinforcement. We’re supposed to level it. Think we can manage that?”

“Should we expect company in the air?” Hux asked.

“Don’t know yet, but there’s no way they’re not going to see us coming, so I’d keep a sharp eye.”

“Understood,” said Chapman. “Let’s to work.”

There was little chatter over the radio frequency they shared as they flew over the water and into France. The fighter pilots knew to keep their heads on a swivel, watching for enemies, and the bombers were laying out a course and preparing themselves to drop their payloads. They were twenty-one miles from the target when the first Fw 190 appeared.

The bandits were coming in from the east, at least a full wing. Hux’s senses rose to high alert, attention zeroing in to the enemy. This was going to get messy very fast. The 363 was used to dogfights, but not on this scale, and swift and strong as the Spitfires were, they were nearly outmatched by the 190s. There was no way the Wolcastle wing was going to come out unscathed.

“Engage at will,” said Chapman. “Cover your bombers as best you can, but we have to take these bastards out. Good hunting.”

Hux waited for a space of a breath, and then he veered to port and away toward the incoming bandits. In this kind of battle, the flights were no longer important. Red, Blue, or Yellow: it didn’t matter when the real fighting started. Wingmen tried to stay together for the most part, but it was likely they, too, would be lost. It was too dangerous to fly close when there were so many enemies.

“Here we go, boys,” said a man Hux recognized as Andrew Ward. A moment later, the first bullets began to fly.

Hux set his sights on one of the outlying 190s. It had spiraled away from the formation and was on a course to intercept and attack one of the bombers. Hux opened up the throttle and went out to meet it. The German pilot managed to get in a few shots before Hux arrived with cannons at the ready, but by the time he realized he had someone on his tail, Hux was already firing.

The rounds sprayed across the back end of the 190, damaging, but not crippling it. It went into a tight spiral, rolling over and over again to avoid the barrage. Hux held his fire, but followed closely, clinging to the 190, determined to bring it down.

“Hux! Eight o’clock!” Ben’s voice, urgent. “Get down!”

Hux dove just in time to avoid the machine guns of an incoming enemy. He didn’t hear the tell-tale sounds of bullets hitting his kite, but a shadow passed over him in a brief flash: the 190 flying by. Hux pulled back up, rolling to re-engage.

The sky in front of him was littered with aircraft, all flitting by as shots were exchanged. He watched as one Spitfire took heavy fire just seconds before coming apart in a hail of flame. He didn’t have time to consider if it was one of his men; he had already sighted a new target.

This 190’s pilot was slower than the last, and put himself directly into Hux’s line of fire. Hux chose the Brownings at such close range, peppering the 190 from nose to tail. The pilot tried to steer out of the mess, but as soon as he dove, he was met with Ben’s cannons. His airplane belched smoke as it began to fall. Hux saw it only from the corner of his eye, but the canopy flew back and the pilot bailed out. It wasn’t a kill, but taking down the aircraft was enough.

“Ben,” said Hux. “Bomber under attack, eleven o’clock.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement, but turned to port and flew toward the besieged bomber.

“Nice of you boys to show up,” Hampton said as Hux began to fire at one of the three 190s that were circling the bomber. “We could use a hand.”

Hux tore into the enemy airplane, getting between it at the bomber. The enemy corrected for it and began to shoot at Hux instead. Hux held his position on the bomber’s wing, but turned to avoid the worst of the damage. He heard a few shots punctuate the rolls he performed. Cursing, he backed off the throttle and slowed. The 190 shot right past him.

“I’ve got him,” Ben said as he accelerated past Hux. His Spitfire roared, exhaust spilling from the silver pipes, as he shot at the 190. Some of the bullets made contact, but the 190 pulled away before they could hit home. Ben gave a loud, barked, “Shit!”

Hux ground his teeth, but he didn’t have the luxury of being frustrated over one lost Focke-Wulf. Hampton was calling mayday as his bomber began to lose altitude. The two other 190s were still stuck hard to it, firing the last of their rounds into the massive body of the aircraft. Holes dotted it already, and an ominous, dark cloud was floating from the starboard engine. Before Hux’s eyes, it exploded into flame.

“Christ,” he said. He could intercept the 190s now and hopefully take one down, but as the bomber began to list to starboard, he knew that nothing could be done to save it. There was a long pause on the radio, and then Hampton’s voice again:

“Been good flying with you, lads. Godspeed.”

Hux couldn’t look for long, but he saw the fire when the bomber’s second engine exploded, destroying the wings. It began the long fall toward the ground. He hadn’t known Hampton save for the brief exchanges they had over the radio, but knowing he would never do so again was a blow. But now was not the time to think of it.

The next minutes, few though they were, passed by at a crawl. Every second was spent either firing and chasing, getting out of the way or into it depending on Hux’s position in relation to the other fighters. Despite the constant, unpredictable motion, Ben stayed with him, watching his back. They had just taken down a 190 when they saw a lone Spitfire making a break away from the mess, followed closely by an enemy. Hux could see the boxing eagle on the side of his plane. Pulling up on the stick without a second thought, he moved to intercept.

The 190’s pilot was clever and fast, dodging through the air and staying just out of range of Hux’s cannons. He didn’t veer from his course tailing the Spitfire.

“Somebody mind getting in here to get this bastard off of me?” said Andrew Ward, tension in his words, as if they were forced through his teeth.

“I have you,” Hux said. “Just give me one more minute. Just one more—”

The 190, with a burst of speed, got into firing distance.

“Dive, Andy!” Ben cried. “Do it now!”

Ward steered down, but it only exposed the underside of his kite. The bullets hit home, striking the port petrol tank. Hux just managed to dodge the flames and debris as the Spitfire disintegrated.

Hux’s throat closed up, making it hard to breathe. Just minutes before, Andrew had been looking at him over his bent and well-worn playing cards, looking for tells. He had been quick to smile when he had taken the pot, green eyes bright and triumphant. The briefing room would fall into conspicuous silence without him to hum and sing bars from the squadron’s favorite songs. His loss would be felt immediately, and deeply, too. But Hux would mourn him when the battle was over. Without any other choice, he re-engaged.

“Goddammit, Ward,” Ben growled. “God dammit!”

“Focus,” he said to Ben, as much as it pained him. “We still have a fight to win.”

“Fucking bastards,” said Ben, but he heeded Hux and stayed on his wing.

Together, they returned to the fray, though both of them were running low on ammunition. Several other Spitfires were struggling, and another of the bombers was on its way down. They were closing in on their target, though, the installation visible. Even with the damage they had taken, they still had a mission to complete.

Hux listened to the bombers’ crews giving last-minute instructions. The Spitfires had successfully pulled the 190s away from them, clearing their path. Hux couldn’t see when the bombs began to drop, but he knew they had done what they had come to do as the bombers began their return trip toward the east.

The German fighters had, by then, begun to retreat. Their magazines were just as spent as Hux’s was, and there was no way to continue the fight unless they flew into each other. Determined as either side was to win, that strategy was not on the table. Over the radio, Hux heard Chapman and Barlow calling for their squadrons to form up again. He counted as they came together into their flights again: the 222 had lost two men, the 129 three.

“363,” he said with steely calm, “come into position.”

Eleven Spitfires fell into formation. William Taylor stayed back to leave a space for where Andrew Ward’s airplane belonged. The place remained empty as they returned to Wolcastle, and as each pair of wingmen landed, Taylor touched down alone.

Meltsa, who had rotated off for this sortie, was waiting for them by the hangar when they came out of their aircraft. Concern was written across his face as he approached Hux.

“Sir,” he said, “where’s the last man?”

Hux pulled his helmet off solemnly. “Pilot Officer Ward was killed in the line of duty.”

Meltsa went pale. “Andy? What happened?”

“They got his gas tank,” said Strickland, who stepped up beside Hux. His jacket was hanging open and he held his helmet over his heart. “Damn Jerries shot him right out of the sky.” He lowered his gaze. “At least it was quick.”

“Where’s Taylor?” Meltsa asked. “He can’t be doing too good right now.”

Hux glanced over his shoulder to see William bent over at the waist, being sick. Brewster Mills was standing beside him, rubbing his back. A few of the others were gathered close, but gave him enough space to breathe. At the far side of the group, casting a long shadow over them all, was Ben. His shoulders were hunched, hair hanging over his face to hide it.

Hux had learned to cope with the loss of a comrade and friend, but it was new to the Eagles. They would need two things tonight: as much beer as they could drink, and the time to remember Ward. A drink would be poured out for him, and every story they could think of would be told. Hux would raise his glass as he drew a single white line of chalk over his name on the blackboard roster.

When Taylor finally finished being sick, he shoved Brewster away and wended almost drunkenly in the direction of the barracks. He was still in full flight gear, but that could be dealt with later. Hux would see his things returned to their appropriate places when Taylor was passed-out that evening. As Taylor went, Poe started after him, but Hux caught him by the arm.

“Let him go,” Hux said. “He needs the distance for now. Some mourn alone. If he needs us, he’ll come back.”

Poe, his eyes red-rimmed, backed down. “What now, sir?” he asked.

Hux looked behind him at the others. They had straggled closer, until they were all within earshot, waiting for Hux to say something. Most of Hux’s squadron leaders had familiar words about sacrifice for king and country, but those sorts of things were no comfort to foreigners. He paused for a moment to search for the words, but then began: “We lost a good man today. Andrew Ward was a brave pilot, and a friend to all of us. His death is a loss from which we will not soon recover, but he died with honor, in the place where we would all make our ends: in the cockpit, fighting valiantly.”

He met the eyes of each of his men, reading their grief, seeing the wetness on some of their cheeks. “The wing won’t go up again today,” he said. “The others, like us, must mourn the fallen. All the pettiness and rivalries will be set aside. In this—in loss—we are united. Appreciate your comrades. Say the things to them you want to say. There might not be another chance.”

His gaze fell lastly on Ben and stuck there. There were no tears on his face, but it was drawn and the cheeks colorless. The vibrant delight that had suffused him after every flight before was absent, replaced by the understanding that Hux had been trying to impart since they had first taken to the sky: war wasn’t poetic or noble; it destroyed and it took without partiality or restraint.

More would die before the end, and Hux had long ago learned that the bonds he forged among his fellow pilots were temporary. He accepted that, understanding the reality, but as he looked at Ben, he felt a stab of dread deep in his chest. He had come to terms with death, and was prepared to give his life in combat, but in that moment he was struck by the fear of it. His heart sank as he realized he now had something to lose.

Chapter Text

It seemed that the more difficult the situation, the harder Wing Commander Snoke puffed away at his cigars. The air in his office was thick with blue smoke when Hux walked in, and Snoke was shuffling papers on his desk with the cigar stuck between his lips. He greeted Hux with a grunt, barely looking up.

“You asked to see me, sir?” said Hux, standing at attention. He had gotten used to a more lax bearing in the past weeks, but he never forgot himself in front of his commanding officer.

“Yes,” Snoke rasped. “We’ve the matter of your new pilot to discuss.” He mumbled a curse, leafing through the papers again. Finding the one he sought, he said, “We’re in a tight spot. Six men down across the wing, and headquarters isn’t in a rush to send in their replacements. Yours is a particular problem. There are Americans scattered across other squadrons in the country, but most of them are in No. 13. It’ll take more than a few days to get one down here, and no doubt you’ll have to train him.”

Hux hadn’t expected any less. Even if the new pilot was experienced, he would still have to accustom himself to flying with the 363. Hux had decided that he would be assigned as Taylor’s wingman, but for now Gilbert was flying there. They made a fair enough team.

There hadn’t been much talk among the men of replacing Ward since he had gone down yesterday. They had spent the evening imbibing in as much liquor and beer as they could find; Hux was certain the mess had run out of rations by the time it was over. Slurred toasts had been offered, and though the men did their best to hide them, there had been tears shed.

Hux watched it all, raising his glass, but drinking no more than the one. Poe kept his wits about him as well, making sure that the others dragged themselves back to bed unharmed. Ben had put down several pints and a double shot of scotch, which had left him unsteady and lethargic. He had kept his distance from Hux, but his gazes had lingered. Hux had wanted to go to him and hear him say he was all right, but he hadn’t. Even when they had gone back to the barracks, Ben had said nothing. Americans, Hux supposed, could be just as stoic in their grief as Englishmen.

“We have eleven good men in the air now,” he said. “We’ll do with them until the new one arrives.”

“Given you don’t lose anyone else,” said Snoke. He took the cigar from his mouth with his forefinger and thumb, tapping the ash into the tray. “The 129 is hard up. Three men down and only one reservist. We can’t get into another mess like that run for the next while or we’ll be a skeleton crew at this field.”

Hux nodded. “As you say, sir. We’ll keep our heads down.”

“Good,” Snoke said curtly, drawing hard from his cigar. “When I have the name and a timeline for your new man, I’ll send it along. Have you all your spare kites in working order?”

“I’ll enquire with Sergeant Thannison,” Hux said, “but he and his crew keep them in good shape for us.”

Snoke returned to his papers, sitting down behind his desk. “Very well. That’s all, then.”

Hux gave a brief salute before leaving the room. Two of the radio operators were out by the open back door, sharing a cigarette between them, but young Rey was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was in town. Hux could have done well with a trip there himself, if just to escape the airfield for half a day. He felt uncommonly stifled, itching to break the routine. Perhaps it was a desire to experience life beyond an airman’s mission-to-mission existence, but more than likely he was craving a moment alone. Or not exactly alone; he hadn’t been with Ben in more than a week, and the polite distance they were forced to preserve was getting to him. He was starting to grow used to being touched again, and held. Once one got a taste of that, it was hard not to want more.

A steady rain was falling when he got outside, beading on his uniform. He set off for the hangar to speak with Thanisson about the spare Spitfires. None of them had been out of service since they had arrived, but there were some that had been pulled in to have bullet holes or other wounds mended.

There was a radio playing tinny swing as Hux entered the hangar. A few men in grease-stained coveralls were standing in a corner laughing amongst themselves. It jarred Hux to see others in such a good mood while things among the flying men had been so subdued. Everyone spoke quietly and slowly, even at meals, when conversation was usually at its liveliest. However, the three fitters looked up, falling silent, when Hux appeared.

“Can we help you, sir?” said the slightest of them. He looked no older than twenty, though he was trying (and failing) to grow a mustache.

Hux was prepared to ask for Thanisson, but when he opened his mouth, what came out was: “Is Ben Solo here?”

The fitter gestured to the Spitfire parked nearest the back of the hangar. “He’s right over there. Been here all day.”

“Thank you,” said Hux, barely looking at them as he went past. If they cast any odd glances at his back, he disregarded them.

At first, he didn’t see Ben anywhere by the aircraft, but he heard his voice coming from the tail end. “The rudder’s loose,” he was saying to an older man, who stood beside him. “See?” He manipulated the metal, showing how it moved too freely. “It needs more tension.”

“All right,” said the man, gruffly. He didn’t seem altogether pleased to hear that his work wasn’t up to snuff, especially by one of the flyboys, who was supposed to leave the ground crew to their business.

Ben, picking up on it, frowned. “If you want me to take care of it—”

The rigger shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ll have it fixed up right away.”

“Fine,” Ben said. He didn’t move away, though. The rigger looked at him nervously for a moment before picking up his tools, resigned to being observed as he went about his work.

Hux was tempted to let the man squirm under Ben’s hard scrutiny for a few minutes, but he could find no acceptable reason to stand there and watch them. So, he came around the side of the Spit’s wing. Ben glanced up and, seeing Hux, his expression softened. He left the rigger where he was and came to him.

“Hi,” he said, stopping close, but not too close, to Hux.

Hux suppressed the urge to reach for him. “Hello.”

Neither of them said more for a beat, simply looking at each other. The right side of Ben’s mouth lifted into a half-smile, and he reached out for the wing just behind Hux’s shoulder. It brought him ever-so-slightly closer.

“Were you looking for me?” he asked.

“I was,” Hux replied. “I thought you might like to walk with me for a bit.”

Ben’s brows rose as he shot a look at the misting rain.

“Oh,” Hux said. “Not the most ideal weather for a stroll, is it? Well, perhaps a cup of tea then? They can always make a pot in the mess.” He had no particular desire to sit in the common area and sip at thin, lukewarm tea under the watchful eyes of the mess sergeants, but if it was the only option, then it would have to suffice.

Ben sucked his lower lip into his mouth, drawing Hux’s attention sharply to it. “Don’t you have tea in your quarters?”

He often did, generally over a delicious helping of reports and paperwork. “Yes, but—”

“Let’s have it there.”

It was Hux’s turn to raise his brows, but the surprise faded almost immediately, replaced by caution. He kept his voice low as he said, “You know we can’t. Being seen there together is not possible.”

“No one will see,” said Ben, moving the hand that rested on the wing in toward Hux. “Just order your one cup of tea, and I’ll come when Mitaka goes.” He huffed through his nose. “You know I don’t drink that stuff anyway.”

Most of the Americans had an aversion to afternoon tea, but Crowe and Brewster Mills were warming up to it. Mainly because of the biscuits that came with it, but it was progress.

“It’s not a good idea,” Hux warned. “We agreed that nothing would happen during the day.”

Ben was undeterred. “I’ll be quick, quiet. Nobody will know.” He gripped the wing hard, his knuckles white. “I just want to see you.”

Hux wet his lips, anxious. They had already taken so many risks, broken too many of his rules. To disappear behind closed doors in the middle of the afternoon was crossing a dark, wide line.

“No,” he said.

“Tell me you don’t want it,” Ben said, barely audible.

Hux looked over Ben’s shoulder at the rigger, who seemed unaffected by their conversation: he was focused on the rudder, spanner in hand. When Hux looked at Ben again, he hissed, “Don’t ask this of me. You know perfectly well we can’t.”

Ben pushed back from him and turned, running one hand and then the other through his hair. “Eight days,” he growled.

“What?”

Rounding on him again, Ben glared. “It’s been eight days since I last touched you.”

“Ben,” Hux said, desperately scanning the hangar for anyone who might have overheard them. “You can’t say—”

“No one is listening, Hux. No one is looking.”

Hux narrowed his eyes, leaning in to be heard. “Because they haven’t been given reason to. Discretion will preserve that. What you’re suggesting is impossible.”

Without warning, Ben slammed his fist into the side of the Spitfire, making Hux jump and the nearby rigger turn to them with wide eyes. Ben drew back, fury still apparent, and stretched his hand. The knuckles were bright red.

“Go away,” he said to Hux. “If you don’t want me, then leave.” His hair had fallen over his brow, and he didn’t push it back, as he did when he wanted to hide. The anger in him was quickly fading to hurt. He wouldn’t look at Hux again.

Hux swallowed around the lump in his throat. He had rejected Ben for the first time, refusing to yield to him, and it made him ache. But, there was nothing for it; this was one thing they could not chance. Taking a step to the side, Hux bid him a painfully formal “Good afternoon” and left Ben standing with his injured hand and bruises.

Hux bypassed the briefing room, uninterested in taking up poker or hearing about the girls at home the Eagles missed. Instead he went to the barracks to seek the refuge of his quarters. He would do just as Ben had said and order his tea to take while he looked over his reports. As much as he had wanted to get away from his routine just minutes before, he now needed nothing more than to bury himself it in.

He found Sergeant Mitaka in the common room on his way up the stairs and barked a brief order for tea. Mitaka nodded fearfully and scurried off to retrieve a tray from the mess. Hux ascended the stairs and, slamming the door of his quarters behind him, fell back against it with a thump. His felt as if his ribs creaked as he breathed, his chest tight enough to pain him. He knew that he shouldn’t have sought Ben out during the day. That in itself was ill-advised, but having an argument—a lovers’ quarrel, he scoffed—in the open had been far worse. They hadn’t behaved like officers disagreeing; it was clear the fight had been of a personal nature.

Hux lifted his head once before letting it drop back against the hard panel of the door. It intensified the pain that was already forming between his brows, the beginnings of a severe headache. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, pinching his eyes shut. Phasma had given him a bottle of headache tablets the week before, after he had come to ask her for doses one too many times. She had warned him not to tell anyone as she pressed the bottle into his palm.

Going to his desk drawer, he pulled it out and tapped three tablets into his hand. He swallowed them dry, though they stuck in the back of his throat, tasting acrid. With the bottle tucked safely away again, he shucked his damp jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows before sitting down. His ink pen sat heavily between his fingers as he picked it up to begin on his first report.

When he heard a knock, he didn’t bother to look up before bidding Mitaka come in. The door opened, there were two heavy footfalls, and then the door closed again. Hux expected the tray to appear on his desk seconds later, but there was nothing. Annoyed, he turned his eyes up. His mouth dropped open as he saw Ben standing just inside.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” Hux demanded, scrambling to his feet. He stepped behind the chair, placing it between him and Ben.

For a moment, Ben looked lost, but then he seemed to remember himself, and he took a long step forward. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Hux held hard onto the back of the chair. “For what?”

“Making you leave.” Ben inched closer, though he didn’t move to take the chair away. “I wanted to see you, but then you said we couldn’t…” He trailed off, seemingly changing his mind about what to say. “I didn’t mean to get angry, or make you go away.”

“It’s fine,” said Hux. “I couldn’t give you want you wanted, and you were upset with me. I don’t blame you for that.” He scooted the chair in just slightly. “But you need to leave now.”

“I will,” Ben said, stepping up to the chair and sliding it the rest of the way under the desk, “but give me one thing.”

Hux wanted to back away, but his body wouldn’t move. “No, Ben. Just go.” He didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

Ben pressed on, until he was in Hux’s space. He didn’t touch him, but he said, “Kiss me.”

Hux could feel his breath on his face, he was so close. All it would take was an inch, and Hux could give in.

“Please,” Ben added, hushed.

Hux closed his eyes, expelling a resigned breath. “Ben,” he murmured as he pressed their mouths together. It was meant to be a quick kiss, just a touch to satisfy him so he could leave, but Ben wasn’t having it. He grabbed Hux around the waist and pulled him against his chest, pushing his tongue into Hux’s mouth. Hux took him in, and all the restraint between them evaporated.

Eight days apart lent itself to desperation: messy, slick kisses with breaths barely fitting in between, and grasping touches that mussed clothing and hair. Hux hardly realized that he had released the buttons on Ben’s jacket and pushed his hands under it until he felt the softness of Ben’s shirt and the curve of his spine beneath his fingers. Ben sighed into their kiss as Hux caressed his back. Hux swallowed the sound, and it burned as if the noise had slid down his throat and into his gut.

Ben smelled like the inside of a cockpit—motor oil, leather, and exhaust—but he tasted of freshly smoked tobacco. He had probably had a cigarette on his walk over from the hangar. He couldn’t have been far behind Hux, though perhaps far enough that no one would suspect he had followed him. But Hux wasn’t thinking about who might know, who might find their closeness unusual; he had Ben alone and in his arms.

They were pressed tight together, and Ben was moving his hips in shallow pulses against Hux’s. Hux was almost ashamed of how aroused he already was; just a few kisses had him hard and yearning to feel Ben’s hands on him. Eight days was nothing to anyone else, but eight days in the life of a fighter pilot was a great deal of time. With death a daily threat, Hux found it difficult to resist the chance to take what he wanted in what little time they were allotted.

Grabbing the sides of Ben’s jacket, Hux pulled it, with no measure of gentleness, over his shoulders and off. He threw it on the bed. Ben’s eyes were open wide, his lips just parted in surprise. Hux gave no explanation; he reached for Ben’s shirt and began to tug it out of the waistband of his trousers. Ben caught on quickly and started in on the buttons, loosening his tie and pulling it from around his neck. It landed on top of his jacket.

Hux’s own tie was like to strangle him, so he set to removing it as he watched Ben take off his button-up. Ben pulled his white undershirt off by the back of the neck. Hux, shirt buttons half-undone and tie hanging crookedly from under his collar, spread his hands out across Ben’s chest. His skin was hot and dry, soft to the touch. Ducking his head, Hux kissed along his sternum. Ben made a sound, though it was stifled. He held Hux by the back of the neck, his fingers in the hair at the nape.

As Hux worked his way back up along Ben’s throat to his ears, he heard Ben’s breathing grow irregular. As he traced the shell of one ear with his tongue, Ben outright gasped.

“You like that,” Hux said quietly, lips still against Ben’s ear. He nipped at the top, soothing with his tongue.

“It’s…” Ben stammered. “It feels real good. Is it supposed to?”

Hux took the lobe between his teeth, biting down and pulling. “If you like it, then yes.”

Ben ran his hands absently up and down Hux’s back. “Do you like it?”

“Sometimes,” said Hux, moving to worry the other ear, but not before stopping at Ben’s mouth for a quick kiss. “But not as much as you do.” As he sucked at the lobe of the left ear, he rubbed his thumb across Ben’s nipple. He got a full-body shudder for his trouble. The hairs at the back of his neck rose in response, sensitizing his skin.

His hands went back to the buttons of his shirt, working them loose until he could get it off. It pooled on the floor at his feet. He was just reaching for the back of his undershirt when he heard the knock. Both he and Ben froze.

“Sir?” came a timid enquiry from outside the door.

Hux cursed inwardly. It was Mitaka with his tea. “Just a moment, please,” he said as he grabbed a half-naked Ben and shoved him into the small corner at the foot of the bed. He pressed his fingertips to Ben’s mouth: Don’t say a word. Then, he went to the door and cracked it open. Mitaka was standing outside with a full tea tray.

“Ah, prompt as always, Sergeant,” Hux said. “Thank you. I’ll take that from here.”

Mitaka gave a skittish flinch at the unusual request, but handed the tray over without protest. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“No, thank you,” said Hux as he started to close the door. “Good afternoon.” The latch closed and, balancing the tray, Hux turned the key to lock it. Shakily, he went to his desk and set the tea service down. The china clinked.

“Are those the ginger biscuits?” Ben asked, having stepped out of the corner.

Hux rounded on him, incensed. Ben only smiled crookedly, crossing the floor to pull him in again. Hux allowed it, and Ben stroked his disordered hair. Hux could only imagine what Mitaka must have thought about his wreck of an appearance.

“Will you never learn to do as I say?” Hux asked, softly. “I expressly told you not to come here, and yet you did it anyway.”

Ben nuzzled the top of his bowed head. “I couldn’t stay away anymore. I missed you.”

Hux sighed, looking up. “I didn’t mean for it to be this long between...well, between. Things haven’t been easy. The run...Andrew...”

“I know,” said Ben. Lifting Hux’s face, he kissed him again.

Feeling his way up from Ben’s waist to his shoulders, Hux pressed his lips to Ben’s neck. His head fell back to permit Hux to trail up the length of his throat to his chin, where he bit down lightly. Ben clutched at him, raising his undershirt. Hux might have had the good sense to stop things there, but he couldn’t muster the will. Together, they managed to get his undershirt up and over his head.

Ben leaned back to get a look at Hux’s bare chest, so much narrower than his own. He ran his hands along his lean sides, coming to rest at his hips. Hux watched him, curious at Ben’s clear admiration.

“You’re so beautiful,” Ben said, his face flushed. “Pale, but just a little pink.” He traced the edge of Hux’s right nipple. “Do you even have any scars?”

“Not really,” Hux replied. “Except this one.” He set his fingers on his bicep, where there was a small, circular scar from the smallpox inoculation he had received as a child. Ben brushed his thumb over it before kissing the spot tenderly.

“I want to see all of you,” he said when he raised his head.

Hux traced the dark hair at Ben’s navel, the many showers the squadron had taken in mind. “You already have.”

Ben shook his head. “Not like this. Not when I can touch.” As if making his point, he slid his palms down Hux’s stomach to the fly of his trousers. “Let me?”

Hux didn't stop him as he flicked the button open and began to lower the zipper. He traced the waistband with his fingertips before easing the trousers down over Hux’s hips. Hux touched his hair as Ben bent to push them all the way down to the ankles. The chill in the room nipped at Hux’s bare skin, making the wiry hair on his legs stand up. Ben smoothed it down with his hands as he felt along the skinny thighs. He touched Hux with a kind of care Hux had never enjoyed with another lover. It fascinated him; he had never been the object of such blatant reverence before.

Hux’s cock was standing out against the white cotton of his underwear, awaiting Ben’s attention. But he didn't move immediately there, instead touching the edges of the briefs up along Hux's legs to his buttocks. Ben held him there, kneading the muscles with sure fingers.

“I think about you like this so much,” he said, thumbing the top of the underwear lightly. “Naked, I mean. For me. With me.”

A jolt of pleasure shot through Hux, making him grab for Ben's arms just to hold himself steady. “Do you?” he said lamely, unable to think of anything better.

Ben slid his fingers under Hux's waistband, a needed contact, but not yet enough. “Mmhm. But I have to make up the details in my head most nights. I can't look at you in the day, and I can't see you in the dark. But I want to know what the creases of your legs look like, the shape of your back when you bend down.” He stepped in close, slotting a knee between Hux's. “Even the things like the caps of your knees and whether your toes curl when you...um…”

Hux regarded him through half-closed eyes. “When I come for you?”

Ben’s lips parted as he nodded.

“They do,” Hux said, “when it's good.”

Ben moved in to cup Hux's cock in his palm. “I want to make it good.”

“You do,” said Hux, pushing himself into Ben's hand. “I've thought too much about how it feels when you touch me. Sometimes I don't sleep for thinking of it.”

“I figured that might have just been me that did that,” Ben said. He looked down, flushing. “I'm glad to have my own room or I wouldn't be able to take care of what it does to me. But I wish it was your hands on me instead of mine.” He squeezed Hux's cock, stroking lightly. Hux nearly groaned. “I've almost come down here in the night three times. I know you'd turn me away, but I was barely able to close my eyes. I wanted you so bad.”

“I hate turning you away,” Hux said. “You know that, don't you? I don't do it because I don't want you.” He took hold of Ben's hair, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Tell me you know it.”

Ben blinked once, slowly. “Sometimes I think maybe you don't, maybe you've had better. I know I don't know much, but I want to learn.”

Drawing Ben's hand out of his underwear, Hux kissed the palm. “Then let me show you more.” Hux guided him toward the bed. He went willingly, shuffling back until his knees hit the frame. Hux stopped him before he could sink down onto the low cot. “Wait. Let me…” He saw to the zipper of Ben’s trousers, easing them down over his hips and around his ankles. Ben stood, uncertain, in his underwear, his cock half-hard inside them. Hux touched him there, massaging his testicles. Ben bit his lip, turning it white.

“I want to see you as well,” Hux said. “To look at you without thinking that someone could catch me out. I want you.” He laid his free hand on Ben's chest. “I want you more than I can ever have you, and that is excruciating.”

Ben touched Hux's face, his eyes open and dark. Hux held his gaze for the space of a breath before he glanced down again. He carefully slid Ben’s underwear away, leaving him completely exposed save for his feet. He was even more elegant up close: wide chest tapering to slim hips and a soft thatch of dark hair between his long legs. His cock stood out from it, equally handsome.

“Sit,” Hux said, pressing on Ben’s shoulders, and Ben obeyed. Hux held his head, guiding his face up for a kiss before he knelt between Ben’s knees.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked.

Hux look up at him hungrily, rubbing his thighs. “You know, don’t you? Surely you must.”

Ben swallowed. “I didn’t think it was true.”

“Oh, I promise you, it is,” said Hux, smiling. Leaning down, he blew lightly on Ben, and the muscles in Ben’s thighs seized. Hux brushed his thumbs on the insides to soothe him just before he drew the tip of Ben’s cock into his mouth. Ben clapped his hand over his own mouth, muffling the anguished sound he made.

The skin was smooth under Hux’s tongue, and heated. He explored every ridge along the underside, catching his teeth just lightly at the head. There was no way Hux could take all of him, but he threaded his way down until Ben’s cock hit the back of his throat. The feeling of fullness was satisfying, even if he had to fight not to gag around him. Hux stayed there, moving just slightly to stimulate him, until his lungs were burning for air. As he drew back, he hollowed his cheeks with a deep pull. Ben’s legs closed around his shoulders, trembling.

Teasingly, Hux popped him out of his mouth and dragged his tongue up the full length. Ben couldn’t completely muffle his groan. Hux looked up at him from the ground, lapping at him as he did. Ben was staring at him, mouth still covered, but eyes wild. Hux took him in hand and began to work him a slow strokes. Ben pushed his hips up into Hux’s fist, eager, and Hux obliged him by taking him back between his lips. The sound that elicited was barely contained.

Hux’s cock was pushing against the confines of his underwear, the pressure growing painful. He continued to see to Ben with his right hand and his mouth, but with the left he fumbled until he could free himself. He squeezed tightly on an upstroke, starting to move at the same pace at which he swallowed Ben down. He was clumsy about himself, but so sensitive by now that it didn’t much matter.

Ben was on the edge of frenzy, shaking and thrusting up, hitting Hux’s soft palate with the tip of his cock. Hux let him, reveling in his abandon. His chin and hand were wet with saliva, and there was a salty taste on his tongue from Ben as he got closer. Hux could feel his own impending release, but he wanted to see Ben pleased before he finished. He redoubled his efforts, sucking hard.

Ben tore his hand from his face and slammed it hard against the wall. His mouth fell open and eyes pinched closed as he dropped his head back in a fall of hair. He stayed silent, though, as he spilled into Hux’s mouth. Hux took what he gave him, taking it down in a single, practiced swallow.

He eased up in the aftermath, carefully giving a last few strokes before drawing back. Letting go of his own cock, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips and chin. It was tucked away again before Ben even opened his eyes.

Hux set his hands on Ben’s thighs, rubbing down to the knee. Ben slowly lifted his head until he could glance down. He looked intoxicated: bleary-eyed and flushed a burning red. A few strands of his hair were stuck to his damp brow. Hux reached up and touched his jaw. Ben covered his hand with his own, holding it as if to ground himself.

They made an unkempt pair: Ben bare and half-sprawled across the bed, and Hux with his underwear hanging crookedly off his hips, cock still out. Hux would to see to that in short order, but for now he was focused on Ben’s pleasure-weary body. He laid a hand over his heart until the beats had slowed. Gawkily, Ben lifted his arms to embrace him, cradling his head at the middle of his chest. Hux held him by the waist, comfortable despite the hard floor beneath his knees.

“I’ve never…” Ben started, voice thick. He cleared his throat and continued: “Never felt anything like that. I thought I was going to fly out of my skin.”

“Mm,” said Hux. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Ben ran his fingers through Hux’s hair before guiding him away so he could meet his eyes. “Will you teach me how?”

With his fingertips, Hux brushed Ben’s lips. “All right.”

Ben's gaze flicked down to Hux’s state of undress. His erection had flagged some, but twitched at Ben’s interest. Pushing himself up, he got awkwardly to his feet, one foot and then the other, until he was standing in front of Ben. He took hold of his cock and stroked once, feeling it fill out in his hand. Ben watched him, spellbound, until Hux began to speak.

“It can be difficult at first,” he said, “but only if you take it too deep.” He brought his fingers up to the space just behind the head. “Start shallowly, so you don’t choke. You can use your hand, too. It will be just as good.”

Ben licked his lips, a tantalizing preview of what it would feel like for Hux’s cock to be between them. He lifted his right hand, hesitating a bit. “Can I…”

“Yes,” said Hux, taking his own hand away. Ben’s long fingers came around him tightly, as Hux had instructed him the last time they had been together. His attention was solely on the places he touched, a look of concentration on his face.

Half aroused, half amused, Hux slid his hand to the back of Ben’s head and applied just a little pressure. “Open,” he said.

Ben did as he was told, parting his lips. Hux moved his hips in until the tip of his cock touched Ben’s lower lip. He waited there for Ben to move or to refuse. He shivered as Ben brought his tongue tentatively up and licked at him. He did it again, eyes turned up to Hux’s, questioning.

“Shallow to start,” Hux said, his voice ragged around the edges. “Lips and tongue. No teeth.”

Carefully, Ben slid Hux’s cock into his mouth. He swirled his tongue as Hux had done him, though inexpertly. It still felt good, and Hux told him so. That seemed to bolster him, and Ben dared to move a little deeper. Unsurprisingly, he gagged.

“Easy,” Hux said, scratching Ben’s scalp with his short fingernails. “You don’t need to rush, or take all of me. Even if you want to.”

Ben corrected himself, staying near the tip. He was holding Hux, but wasn’t moving his hand, struggling to do both at the same time. Hux wrapped his fingers around Ben’s and began to guide his strokes. It forced Ben to bob his head, sliding Hux into and out of his mouth. It was a slow rhythm, not near enough to bring him off, but he let Ben set the pace as he got used to the feeling.

“That’s good,” said Hux, releasing him so he could work Hux’s cock on his own. “Just a little faster.”

Ben fumbled, but managed to speed up, catching his stride. Pleasure began to spread steadily through Hux’s veins. It was heady, but more than that feeling, he was caught up in how Ben looked with his lips around him, Hux’s cock disappearing into his mouth. He may have yet to learn finesse, but there was a fundamental knowledge of the act that didn’t require it. Watching him discover this for the first time was startlingly lovely, and it was pushing Hux swiftly toward the edge.

“Just a little more,” he said. He bit down on his lip, willing himself to have the control he needed. “I won’t finish in your mouth. You needn’t do it now. Later.”

He tugged at Ben’s hair to urge him back. Ben didn’t go immediately, and Hux nearly lost himself, but with one more pull, Ben reared back. Hux slapped his hand away from his cock, taking hold of it himself. He barely had to stroke twice before he hit his peak. He bent over at the waist, gasping, as he caught the fluid in his free hand, lest it hit Ben’s chest.

The room around him slowly came back into focus, and he could feel Ben’s hands on his hips, steadying him. His knees felt watery and loose, his muscles lax. Satiation suffused him, making him want to collapse. Turning on his heel, he sank down onto the bed at Ben’s side. He hung his head, loose hair falling into his eyes.

He hardly recognized it when Ben pulled his own handkerchief out and wiped Hux’s soiled hand clean. He tried to put it back in his pocket, but Hux caught his wrist and took it out of his hand. He tossed it into the basket with his soiled linens.

“Hux,” Ben said, touching his rounded back, along the knobs of his spine. “Are you okay?”

Turning to him, Hux cupped his cheek. “Yes.” He kissed Ben’s lips. “You did so well.”

Ben leaned into his palm, eyes closed. Hux looked at him fondly, appreciating that he was here, both in the room with his bare shoulder against his, but also at Wolcastle, in England. It was so unlikely that their disparate circumstances would have brought them to this moment, and yet they were in this war together. It brought Plato to mind, the Symposium and the speech Phaedrus gave: 

And if there were only some way of contriving that...an army should be made up of lovers and their loves...when fighting at each other's side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world.

The dialogue extolled the virtue and honor that love imparted, and arguing that such affection made men better soldiers for the devotion they had to those they loved. Among them were Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander and Hephaestion: antiquity’s boldest heroes, all with their lovers beside them in battle.

But in the two thousand years since Plato had written his Symposium, those affairs had been twisted and hidden. Hux’s professors at Oxford had made a point to teach the comradeship between the heroes in Homer’s Iliad as devoted but not romantic, and Plato’s reading was not taught. Had Hux not sought it out after a recitation on his work, he might not have found that there were other, more intimate, interpretations.

He devoured those stories throughout the rest of the term. He felt less out of place amongst the classical thinkers and their heroes, knowing that at one time men like him had been accepted. His lover Arthur had dismissed his interest in the topic, telling him that those ideas had been mistranslated over the centuries, and that there was no substance to them. After all, how could modern society, which was arguably built on classical foundations, spurn them so completely?

Hux had let his interest fall by the wayside when he had entered the Royal Air Force. He had learned to behave as they prescribed, befriending and respecting his fellow pilots, but never letting that admiration bleed into affection. Or at least not before.

Reluctantly taking his hand away from Ben’s face, Hux said, “We should get dressed. We’ll be missed by the others.”

Ben, still touching the small of Hux’s back, leaned over to kiss his shoulder. “Okay.”

He went to stand, but Hux pulled him back down for a long, indulgent kiss. Hux stopped only when desire started to curl up in his stomach again, his body taking interest despite what had just happened.

As they parted, Hux said, “I’m glad for you. Even when you refuse to heed me.”

Ben smiled and nudged Hux’s nose with his. “It usually turns out pretty good when I don’t.”

Hux rolled his eyes. “Don’t make a habit of it. I don’t countenance insubordination.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben said, against his lips.

There was frost on the grass when Hux stepped out of the mess two days later; it crunched under his boots. The temperate weather of the weeks before was shifting toward winter, when it was just as cold on the ground as it was at ten thousand feet. He breathed warm air onto his chilly hands as he set off for the briefing room. The rest of the 363 trailed behind him, and for once, none of them complained about the cold. However, Clifford Strickland made for the stove as soon as they got inside, lighting the coal to warm the building.

“Hey, Virgil,” Lewis Mills called. “You ready to get beat at cards again?”

Gilbert made a rude gesture at him, and stalked over to a quiet corner of the room with his sketchbook in hand. It had arrived in the mail a few days before, a gift from his family at home in Albany, New York. Yesterday, he had given Hux a look at some of the drawings he had made in charcoal and pencil. On the first page was a Spitfire parked by the hangar, a few nondescript ground crewmen working around it. The next was a landscape that he said was a field by his old house. There were several other depictions of life at the airfield: Wexley with his bicycle, Gilbert's batman sewing a button back onto his jacket, English pilots in their shirtsleeves playing rugger. All of them were remarkably detailed and well done.

“I’m not sure I should show these,” Gilbert had said, a little red in the ears. He flipped the pages absently.

“You have no obligation, of course,” Hux had said, though it did make him curious.

Gilbert seemed to waffle for a few seconds, but then turned to reveal the next page. On it was a portrait of Shorty Putnam, captured as he grinned broadly. It was a remarkable likeness, down to the small cut he had gotten on his lip when he had stumbled and struck it on a stone. The next page was a rendering of Poe as he played cards. He had a look of deep concentration on his face, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“This one’s a bit...well,” Gilbert had mumbled. “I hope it’s not too bad.” He flipped to the next page, and Hux was staring at himself. He was dressed in his uniform and cap, with a cigarette between his fingers. He was staring ahead with determination, lips just curving slightly up in a cocky half-smile.

“You’ve made me look a bit heroic,” he had said. “I don’t quite deserve that.”

Gilbert had run his charcoal-blackened thumb along the ridge of the drawn Hux’s brow, smoothing the line. “I think it’s a fair picture, sir.” Taking the edge of the page, he had started to tear it out. “It’s yours to keep.”

Hux had taken it and thanked him, though he wasn’t certain what he was going to do with a picture of himself. He could hardly pin it up on his wall. He might have been accused of being vain before, but that was a step too far.

Leaving Gilbert to continue sketching, he had retreated to a chair by the stove. He had looked over the drawing again, flattered at the portrayal.

“That’s real good,” Ben Solo had said, appearing just behind Hux and peering over his shoulder. “Looks just like you.”

Hux didn’t bother to turn, keeping his eyes on the drawing. “It does. Virgil has quite a gift.”

“Can I see?” Ben asked. Hux handed it to him. He regarded it with a critical eye, as if he were judging its quality to hang in a gallery. When he glanced down at Hux again, he didn’t move to give it back. “I’d like to have it,” he said, low.

Hux’s stomach tightened with a thrill, and he shifted to see Ben properly. Ben was waiting expectantly, holding the paper with both hands.

“I’ll put it away,” he continued. “No one will see it but me. They won’t know I have it.”

Hux was struck, excited and charmed. Ben wanted a picture of him to keep. It was the kind of thing a soldier gave his sweetheart before he went off to the front; a lover’s token. Pleasure and a strange kind of pride burned in him.

“All right,” Hux had said.

A small smile had touched Ben’s lips as he rolled the drawing up and tucked it carefully into his pocket. He had said, loud enough to be heard, “Sure thing, sir. I’ll just go up now and get that book.”

“Thank you,” Hux had said before watching Ben and the hidden drawing disappear through the door.

As they stood in the briefing room now, Gilbert settled down with his sketches while Lewis snickered and pulled a tattered pack of cards from his breast pocket. He didn’t have to ask either Poe or Taylor to join him; he knew they would. Hux didn’t. He had brought with him the book Ben had actually given him after his trip to the barracks to stash the drawing away. It was a brand new volume on airplane mechanics that Ben had special-ordered from a catalogue he had found discarded by one of the other squadrons. Hux hadn’t known that, of course, until Ben had told him. The book was written in complex, technical prose and had a great deal of diagrams of engines, fuel systems, and fuselage designs.

“Have you read this?” Hux had asked when Ben had given it to him.

Ben had shaken his head. “I already know all that.”

Taking the book, Hux chose a seat and settled down to read. Greek and Latin came more naturally to him than the jargon in the volume, but he was determined to make it all the way through, even if Ben might have been able to tell him how all of it worked in a shorter time and with practical, hands-on instruction.

He was halfway through the chapter on fuel injection and horsepower when the door to the briefing room opened with a cool gust of wind. A stout young man in uniform stood at the threshold, a standard-issue duffel over his shoulder.

“Can we help you?” Poe said, getting to his feet.

The young man shifted his weight between his feet. “Is this 363 Squadron?” He had an American accent. “I’m looking for them, and Squadron Leader Hux.”

Hux rose. “You’ve found him,” he said.

The young man looked relieved. “Oh, good.” Stepping cautiously inside, he offered his hand. “I’m Pilot Officer Nathan Shea. I’ve been assigned to your outfit.”

Hux looked down at his hand with a measure of scorn—he should have saluted—but took it anyway, and shook firmly. “Welcome to the 363, Shea.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hux could feel the gazes of the men around the room focusing on him, taking stock and making their initial assessments of the new blood. The frostiness of it was palpable. The cohesion of a squadron was compromised when they lost a man, and the new pilot would never really take his place. The new man would take time to get used to the routines and peculiarities of their unit. It was especially challenging when the first replacement arrived; the 363 knew no other way to fly than with Andrew Ward among them. It would grow easier to accept new pilots as it became more common, but for now, it was not going to be completely painless for young Nathan Shea.

“You haven’t been assigned quarters yet,” Hux said to him. The duffel was proof of that.

“No, sir.”

Hux nodded. “Well, come along, then. I’ll take you there.”

He led the way out of the briefing room with Shea on his heels. Shea was nearly a foot shorter than Hux, and he took two strides for every one of Hux’s. He was the ideal size for a pilot, though: compact and sturdy. He would fit comfortably into the cockpit.

“Tell me, Shea,” Hux said as they walked across the cropped-grass track that led to the barracks, “where do you come from in the United States?”

“Waterbury, Connecticut, sir,” he replied. “Or at least the country outside of it. My uncle lives in town, but not us. That’s my Mom, Pop, and little sister, I mean. We have to drive in to do our shopping and visit friends. It’s not so bad a drive, though. Thirty-five minutes. We don’t have trains like you all do over here. That’s got to be a lot easier to get around, don’t you think?” He paused for a breath before diving into his impressions of the train ride from RAF Acklington in Northumberland to Wolcastle.

Hux cocked a brow as he prattled on. At least no one would want for conversation when he was around.

“So, I got into town here and there was a car waiting for me and everything,” Shea said in conclusion. “Pretty great, if you ask me.”

“We do try to be accommodating,” said Hux dryly. The RAF was certainly more hospitable than the army or the navy; more comfortable, too. Pilots had the kinds of freedoms that most other members of the military did not. All things considered, it was a comfortable life, save for the nerve-wracking flights several times a day.

The barracks were largely deserted when they arrived, but Mitaka and several of the other batmen were in their common room. Hux stopped there to ask after Ward’s former batman. A slip of a man with black hair and a tidy mustache stood forward.

“Sergeant Hamilton at your service, sir,” he said, saluting.

Hux inclined his head in response. “Hamilton, this is your new charge, Pilot Officer Nathan Shea. He’s just come from No. 13 Group.”

Shea held out his hand, which Hamilton, like Hux, balked at. After an uncomfortable pause, Shea pulled it back and ran it over his hair, playing it off casually.

“I’ll just take your things then, sir,” the batman said, gesturing to Shea’s duffel.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Shea. “I’ll take it up. I like to put things in order myself.”

A muscle in Hamilton’s cheek twitched, and Hux tried not to laugh. He wasn’t the first batman who had been dismissed by his charge. The Americans were notorious for asking as little of their batmen as possible, which only caused friction, as the sergeants felt listless without something to do.

“Perhaps a cup of tea for the both of us, Sergeant Hamilton?” Hux said.

Hamilton nodded, appeased, and went off.

“Shall we?” Hux said, ushering Shea up the stairs.

Ward’s former quarters had been emptied and prepared for the new arrival, so the bed was neatly made with fresh linens and the drawers and cabinets were vacant. Shea entered and looked around, dropping his duffel next to the desk.

“This is real nice,” he said. “Better than the cramped, wet rooms we had up north. Is this floor where everyone in the squad bunks?”

“It is,” Hux replied. “My quarters are just down the hallway if you require anything, but Taylor and Gilbert are on either side of you and can certainly help if you have questions about the accommodations here.”

“Sounds good, sir,” said Shea. His teeth were slightly crooked when he grinned, the front two prominent and stained the light yellow of frequent smoking. “Should I just get settled, then?”

Hux backed away a step, giving him space. “Certainly. I’ll leave you, though do expect a cup of tea within a few minutes. Assuming you take tea, of course.”

Shea shrugged. “I can take it or leave it, but if that Hamilton fellow is bringing it up, I might as well drink it. Could do with something warm, to be honest.”

“Understandably,” said Hux. “Would you mind if I joined you? I might like to hear more about your training and experience in No. 13, so I can arrange things for you here.”

“Can do, sir,” Shea said. “Let me just drop my gear, and then I’ll grab a seat and tell you all about it.”

Hux had no doubt that he would be listening to the stories in great, even unnecessary detail. He hoped Hamilton was bringing a large pot of tea and a few of those ginger biscuits to fortify him.

The engine of Hux’s Spitfire was steaming in the cool fog as he shut it down after parking outside the hangar. It had been pushed hard in their sortie that morning over France, running hot. Hux didn’t dare touch the exhaust pipes as he passed; he wasn’t inclined to burns that would require Phasma’s or Dr. Tarkin’s attention. He raised a hand to Thanisson, who had brought the fresh magazines for Hux’s Brownings and cannons, on his way to drop his gear.

He found Nathan Shea hovering around the shelves when he arrived, eager to hear an account of the sweep. Most of the squadron passed him by without saying much. Even five days after his arrival, they were still standoffish with him. Only young Wexley had made an effort to talk to him in the mess and the briefing room while they waited to be disbursed: he was likely the only man in the 363 who could match Shea for long-winded conversation.

As Hux stowed his parachute, Nathan asked, “How’d it go, sir? Did you shoot down any Jerries?”

“Not this time,” Hux replied, flatly.

Nathan made a disappointed noise. “You’ll get them next time.”

Hux nodded curtly, saying nothing else. He had spotted Wexley making his way over, and could leave Shea in his capable hands. Outside, Poe was waiting, and called to Hux.

“Hey, sir,” he said, bright. “I was going to ask to take Shea up again after lunch. He’s starting to look good, but the edges still need to be smoothed out. You think we’ll have the time?”

Hux had assigned Nathan to training for the first few days of his tenure with the 363: flying with both him and Poe one-on-one and spending several hours a day in the Link trainer. He was performing satisfactorily, but as Poe said, he still had a few bad habits they needed to break him of before he went into the regular rotation.

“I’ll make the time,” Hux said.

Poe tucked his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I was thinking we might send him up with Taylor, too. Let him get a feel for what it’s like on his wing.”

Hux had considered that as well, but if anyone was particularly indifferent to Shea, it was Bill Taylor. As far as Hux knew, he hadn’t said a word to him.

“Do it,” said Hux, “but send the Mills brothers with them to rehearse flying together.”

“Sounds good, sir,” Poe said. “I’ll take care of it.” He trotted off to the hangar.

Hux started toward the briefing room for another few hours with his airplane mechanics text, but he was intercepted by a harried-looking Sergeant Mitaka.

“Welcome back, sir,” Mitaka said, just slightly out of breath. “I’ve been asked to bring you to the wing commander. He has some news of importance.”

Hux cocked a brow, but said, “I’ll get there right away. No escort needed.”

Mitaka bobbed his head and retreated at a hasty walk. Hux was glad for him, but with the way he skittered about the airfield, Hux could imagine his heart beating with the same flutter as the domesticated rabbits they had kept at Charterhouse when he was a student.

At a somewhat more leisurely pace, he rerouted to the command tower, crossing the well-worn path in that direction.

“S.L. Hux,” said Miss Rey, cheerfully, as Hux entered the building. She always had a smile for him. “Come to see the wing commander?”

“I have indeed,” he said.

She stood from her chair by the radio switchboard, straightening her uniform skirt. “He’s just received a telephone call from headquarters, but I’m sure it won’t take terribly long. Would you care to wait over here?” She stepped in the direction of the back door.

Hux followed her gladly, going out onto the concrete slab just outside. “Have you been well, Miss Rey?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied. “I got a letter from Finn just yesterday. He says he’ll be permitted leave in January.” She beamed, cheeks pinkened. “He says he’s going to come visit me here.”

Hux smiled, close-lipped. That, of course, was contingent upon whether or not he survived long enough to see the new year. But that was true of all of them. He said, “I’m very glad to hear that. I would be quite honored to meet him.”

“I should think he’d feel the same,” said Rey. “I’ve written to him about you, and some of the talks we have. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Hux said. “I’m pleased you think they’re memorable enough to recount.”

“They are. I always look forward to them.” She paused to give him an admonishing look. “You should come more often.”

“I will certainly try.”

“Tell me how you are,” Rey said. “You’re looking well. Fresh from the air, I assume. You’ve that look about you.”

Hux chuckled. “Yes. We flew a sweep on the coast. Not terribly exciting, but there’s always the thrill of flight.”

“You flyboys are all the same,” Rey said, shaking her head, though with fondness. “You live for nothing else but flying. You know something...I’ve never been in an airplane.”

“Have you not?” said Hux, surprised. “A member of the RAF who hasn’t flown? For shame, Miss Rey.”

She laughed. “Not much space in a fighter’s cockpit for one man, let alone a passenger. I should think I’ll have to fly with one of the big bombers. They need radio operators, don’t they?”

Hux could see her at the console of a bomber; surely she would be good, if not better than the men who did the same work. She was brave enough to live at an airfield targeted by German bombings; it seemed only natural that she wouldn’t be afraid to join the men who flew.

“I will speak to Bomber Command on your behalf,” he said. “I’m sure they have a place for you.”

Rey raised her chin resolutely. “They had better. Otherwise I’ll have to become a fighter pilot myself. Would you take me in your squadron?”

Hux laid a hand over his breast with solemnity. “I would ground any man among them so you could fly with us.”

“Don’t do that,” Rey teased. “Your Eagles are so bold. I wouldn’t want to keep any of them out of the sky. Do you know that a few of them came over to visit just yesterday? Someone called Virgil and a Lewis. There was another, but I don’t recall his name. Bigger man with a frightfully heavy American accent.”

“That would be Strickland,” said Hux. “He comes from Texas.”

Rey tapped her temple. “That was it. I remember now. He was very charming, despite my not being able to understand a few of the things he said.”

“Their dialect takes some getting used to, but I admit that I hardly notice it anymore.” In fact, he found Ben’s broad manner of speaking calming. The sounds were more rounded than the clipped, prim British English, and slower. Hux had grown to like it.

“I’m happy to know you get on so well with them,” said Rey. “Perhaps this isn’t my business, but you seem downright cheery when you talk about them. And maybe a little fond.” She winked. “I do believe they’ve charmed you.”

Hux looked down, a bit abashed. “They’re good men.”

Rey laughed again. “I’ve embarrassed you. I didn’t think that was possible. My apologies.”

“No apology needed,” Hux said. “You caught me out.” He fumbled in his breast pocket for his cigarette case, craving the steadying effects of the tobacco. He held it up for Rey to see. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Checking the step for debris, she sat down, inviting Hux to join her. He did, smoking steadily. He was careful to blow the smoke away from her.

“It’s a blessing to be happy in the midst of this war,” she said after a moment. “It’s not always easy.”

Hux took a drag and exhaled. “That’s very true. But you manage to keep in good spirits.”

“I try,” she said, “for the sake of the other girls. Set a good example and all that. But I have my days where I think none of this is going to end, and that I won’t ever see Finn again.” She wrung her hands in her lap. “I’m scared for him every day. I love him so much; I couldn’t bear to lose him.”

Hux ashed his cigarette to the side of the concrete, growing tense. “I understand how you feel,” he said.

She glanced up at him, a mix of curiosity and surprise in her face. “There’s someone special you’re waiting for, too?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said, looking down at the half-smoked cigarette. “I’m not really waiting. This...person is not so far away as your Finn, but is fighting, too.”

“Oh,” Rey breathed. “I’m sorry.”

Hux tipped his head to the side, dismissing her pity. “I should count myself lucky that I don’t have to wait for letters as you do, but there are other barriers.”

Rey nodded. “There always are, aren’t there?”

“Yes,” said Hux. He stubbed his cigarette out and flicked it away.

From inside, one of the other radio operators called to Rey: “The wing commander is ready now.”

Hux and Rey rose together, but before they went back across the threshold, she leaned in and, under the auspices of kissing his cheek, whispered in his ear: “Keep your sweetheart close while you can.” Then, she hurried inside to her station, leaving Hux standing outside.

Forcing himself to recenter his thoughts and prepare to face Snoke, he entered his office. The wing commander was seated and, for once, without his cigar. He gestured for Hux to sit, and Hux did.

“Well, Armitage,” Snoke said, “it seems you and your Americans have done something to impress someone out there. The Daily Mirror is sending a writer up here from London to do a story on the 363 and their exploits.” The bare ridges above his eyes rose. “I don’t want you getting any ideas of preferential treatment from this, but something about the Eagle Squadrons makes the press scramble for stories. There’ll be a photographer, too, to take some pictures. I expect you all to be properly turned out for it.”

Hux blinked, taken aback. When the first of the Eagle Squadrons, 71, had gone into service, there had been a flurry of stories about them, but that had calmed down some in recent months. The Eagles were fairly old news, even if they were keeping up with the other RAF squadrons in records of kills. But no one had covered the fourth Eagles, and Hux was proud to say that they did have an impressive combat record.

“Well, sir,” Hux said, “that’s quite an honor. I’m sure the men will be glad to hear it. They can send the clippings back to their families at home. Do we know when this writer will be arriving? I’d like to give the squadron time to prepare.”

“Tomorrow morning,” said Snoke, “if all goes as planned. Is that time enough?”

Hux didn’t have much choice, so he said, “Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me know. If that’s all, I’ll go break the news.”

“It is. Good afternoon, Armitage.”

Admittedly pleased with this development, and knowing his men would be too, Hux left the office. He cast a quick glance at Rey on his way out, and she flashed him a smile. He returned it, with gratitude.

When Hux arrived at the briefing room, the men were scattered around, as was the norm. A few of them looked up when he came in, but most went about their business. That was until Hux clapped his hands.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please,” he said. Faces turned up, inquisitive. “The wing commander has just informed me that we are to be the subject of a story in the Daily Mirror.”

“The newspaper?” Norman Crowe asked, laying down his playing cards.

“The very one,” Hux replied. “They’ve noticed our exemplary flying, and have expressed interest in writing about our squadron as they have the other Eagles.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Bill Taylor. “That’s a hell of a thing, boys. We’re going to be famous.”

The others exchanged grins and a few excited exclamations.

Hux relayed what Snoke had told him about the timeline, making it clear that he expected full uniform or flight jackets, if that was what the photographer wanted.

Shorty, running a hand over his hair, said, “I’d like a trim of this mane if I could get one beforehand. You think we’ll have time to run into town, sir?”

“I’m afraid not,” Hux replied. They didn’t have liberty until the weekend. “However, there’s likely someone at the field who could clean us up. I’ll enquire.”

“Sounds good, sir,” said Shorty, with a smile.

Hux left them to “chew over,” as Strickland put it, what would happen tomorrow when the journalist arrived. On his way out, Hux cast a glance at Ben. He was whittling a few seats away from the others, seemingly unaffected by the buzz. He caught Hux’s eye for a brief second before Hux walked out, and Hux felt a flash of warmth, fending off the chill of the air outside.

It took two hours to track down a man who was capable with a pair of scissors, but it turned out to be a Corporal Clerk Hoskins from the administrative department.

“It was my father’s business,” Hoskins said when Hux was pointed to him by the batmen. “I learned the rudiments before I joined up with the air force.”

Hux raised a brow. “Just the rudiments?”

Hoskins shrugged. “A military man’s trim isn’t so complicated, sir.”

Requesting that the young man be permitted to leave his post for an hour or so, Hux led him to the 363. He brought with him a folded canvas cape and a leather pouch of combs and scissors. The whole affair looked remarkably professional. Upon their arrival, Taylor carried one of the chairs from the briefing room out into the grass outside and sat down first.

Hux had been selfishly relieved to have Hoskins test his skills on one of the others before Hux himself took his place in the chair. Taylor came out with a neat, even stylish cut. There had been a bit of a clamor for Hoskins’ attention after that. Hux waited for them to be finished before he sat. Hoskins fasted the cape around his neck. He heard the sharp clip of the scissors close to his ear, but Hoskins was careful, and his hands were steady.

“There we are, sir,” he said, stepping back. He had no mirror, but Hux was willing to trust him. He ran a hand over his head, having not slicked it down with pomade before it was cut.

“Thank you, Corporal,” he said as he removed the cape and handed it over. “We’re all looking quite sharp because of you.”

Hoskins smiled shyly. “It was no trouble, sir.” He folded the cape and tucked his scissors back into their sheath. “I’ll just be going, then…”

“Wait.”

Hux and Hoskins turned to see Ben standing a pace away from them. He was holding his hands in front of him, uncomfortable.

“I should probably get mine done, too,” he said. “It’s not supposed to be this long.” It hung down over the back of his neck, just short of his shoulders, which was far from both regulation and style. But it suited him, and Hux had a hard time envisioning him with it clipped short.

“I can do that,” said Hoskins. He set about getting his tools out again. Ben went to the chair and sat, allowing Hoskins to drop the cape over him. “How would you like it, sir? I can take off as much as you like. It might look well trimmed to part at the side.” With a comb, he moved Ben’s center part to the left, as Hux’s was.

“Okay,” Ben said, chewing his cheek.

“No.” It was out of Hux’s mouth before he could think to stop it. Both Ben and Hoskins glanced sharply up, Hoskins’ scissors frozen at the ends of Ben’s hair. Hux swallowed, realizing he had spoken quite out of turn, but he continued: “That wouldn’t be fitting.”

Ben’s brows knit. “Why not?”

“It’s just…” Hux hunted for the words. “Don’t cut it.”

Ben regarded him steadily, while Hoskins’ gaze bounced uncertainly between them.

“Put it back the way it was,” said Hux.

Hoskins picked up his comb and ran it back through Ben’s hair, until it settled into the style in which he usually wore it.

“Just a trim,” Hux said, feeling a distinct flare of disapproval at Hoskins’ hands running through it. “Clean it up a little. Nothing more.”

“Of course, sir,” Hoskins said. He pushed his fingers through the hair, trying to decide how to proceed. To Ben: “If you could just tip your head down, sir.”

Ben did, holding still as Hoskins began to cut the ends, raining dark trimmings down the front of the cape. Hux stood, watching for a moment. Ben turned his eyes up to him.

“Is there something else you needed, sir?” he asked.

Hux snapped back to himself. “Ah, no. I’ll just...go.” He caught sight of Ben’s wicked smile as he turned to leave.

It was nearing seven o’clock and the dinner hour when the 363’s telephone rang, calling them out for disbursement. There had been a flight of German fighters detected on radar, and headquarters needed a squadron to counter them. There was barely any light left in the sky by the time they got airborne, and they had to fly largely on instruments; Hux was concerned , as a night attack was rare in this part of the country, and the Eagles weren’t accustomed to nighttime combat.

His fears proved to be unwarranted, though. They flew out to the coast to intercept, but there was nothing there when they arrived. They swept along the white cliffs and out a few miles over the Channel, but they encountered no one. Hux insisted they stay out for another half hour to ensure the Messerschmitts wouldn’t materialize out of the darkness with machine guns at the ready. When, at last, he was satisfied that it had been a false alarm, he ordered them back to Wolcastle.

Dinner was already over by the time they got to the mess, but the sergeants served them their portions. They ate quickly and with little conversation. Half of them were yawning by the time they were finished. Hux himself was feeling the weight of exhaustion, but he was in no rush to go to his bed. He was expected at the hangar, and was impatient to get there.

Ben had disappeared a quarter hour before, a cigarette already hanging from his lips as he walked out of the mess. Hux kept his focus on his plate, picking at the potatoes and overdone corned beef he had no interest in eating. He forced half of it down, but gave in there, pushing his plate away. He was making to get up when Shea intercepted him.

“A word, sir?” Nathan asked, tugging at the tight tie around his neck.

Hux paused before replying, more cordially than he felt, “Of course. What is it?”

Nathan cleared his throat, drawing his shoulders back in preparation for a speech Hux anticipated he had prepared. “It’s been nearly a week since I’ve got to this outfit, sir, and I’m still flying practice maneuvers. I’m not a greenie, fresh out of training. I’ve got combat experience, and I’m ready to fly with the rest of the squadron. I’d like to ask to be put into the flight rotation straight away.”

Hux regarded him steadily. He understood Shea’s situation, and would have felt the same had he been relegated to training when he had previously been in action, but Poe’s report from his flight with Bill Taylor and the Mills brothers earlier in the afternoon did not bode well. Bill had ridden him hard, laying into him for every small misstep. He had spent more time criticizing the poor boy than working with him as a wingman. Lewis and Brewster had held their tongues, but both had come to Hux afterward with the unfortunate details of the flight.

If Taylor was going to be recalcitrant and unwilling to work with Shea, Hux would have to reconfigure the entire flight order. That would make things chaotic for another few days as the men got used to their new partners. Hux wanted to avoid it, so he planned to have a stern talk with Taylor before he considered sending Shea up with him.

“I appreciate your willingness to come to me with this,” said Hux to Shea, “but there are certain considerations that must be addressed before I can give you an active assignment.”

Shea chewed his cheek. “Like what, sir? If it’s something with my flying, I can fix it.”

“It’s not that,” Hux said. “It’s something I must deal with. If you can wait just another day or two, I will see to it that you get your assignment.”

Shea looked uncertain for a moment, but then nodded. “I can do that, sir. But, if I can have your word on that...” He tipped his chin up again.

Hux had to admire his forthrightness. He had pluck, and he looked out for himself. That couldn’t be said of every man Hux had ever flown with.

“Yes, Pilot Officer Shea,” Hux said. “You have my word. Two days at the most.”

“Thank you, sir.” He didn’t go to move away, and Hux lifted a questioning brow.

“Is there something else?”

“Oh no,” Shea replied hurriedly, backing away. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to keep you if you’ve got something to do. Is there something pressing to take care of before lights out?”

Hux dodged the question as best he could, saying simply, “I have some matters, yes. If you’ll excuse me.” Turning, he went for the door. He could feel Nathan’s eyes on his back as he retreated, but didn’t dwell too long on it. He hesitated outside the mess just long enough to light up a cigarette and make sure he wasn’t followed before setting off for the hangar.

The darkness inside was familiar now; it made his heart speed up just looking at the shadow-cast building. He knew what was waiting for him there, and he was conditioned to respond.

He had barely crossed the threshold when Ben appeared and, latching onto his wrist, pulled him into the murky half-dark beyond the door. He was pushed hard against the corrugated metal as Ben came at him, demanding, hungry. There was nothing tender or reserved about his kiss. Ben bit at Hux’s lips until he parted them, sucking the lower into his mouth and worrying it between his teeth and tongue.

Hux hadn’t expected such violence, but he was quickly caught up in it, grabbing at Ben’s freshly-trimmed hair and fisting his fingers in it to the point of pain. Ben made a growled sound and pressed his hips into Hux’s, pinning him to the wall. Ben was already hard, grinding himself against Hux in search of friction.

“What’s gotten into you?” Hux managed to rasp around slick kisses.

“Wanted you all day,” Ben mumbled as he pressed his lips down along Hux’s neck. “All I’ve been thinking about.” He pulled back just enough for Hux to see his eyes properly. “I want you in my mouth again. I thought about it every night when I…” He trailed off, knowing Hux could fill in the rest.

Hot satisfaction rose up in Hux’s chest. Ben’s fierce, forthright desire was enough to make him burn. Reaching up, he touched Ben’s lower lip with his forefingers, giving him a second to prepare before he pushed them inside. Ben sucked at them eagerly, running his tongue over and between them. Hux pushed them in to the knuckle and, to his surprise, Ben didn’t gag. He depressed the back of his tongue lightly, testing, but Ben held firm.

“What have you done?” Hux asked, slowly withdrawing the fingers.

Ben licked his red lips, holding up his own two fingers. “Practiced.”

Hux’s jaw went slack with shock even as his cock jumped, wanting. Ben had sat in his quarters with his fingers in his mouth to prepare himself for taking Hux’s cock. Hux had never even considered that himself when he was learning to pleasure a lover.

“Christ, Ben,” Hux groaned, taking the hand Ben held up and kissing the fingertips. “Are you trying to torture me?”

Ben trailed his fingers down Hux’s chin to his throat. “I want to do everything to you that you can do to me. The way you make me feel...I want to make you feel that way.”

Hux held his face, studying him. He was utterly earnest, offering everything he could. Hux, stunned, pressing a hard kiss to his lips. “Kneel.”

Ben sank down onto his haunches and then rolled onto his knees, bringing his face just to the juncture of Hux’s thighs. Hux looked at his upturned face as he unfastened his trousers and pushed them down. His cock bobbed free, nearly hitting Ben in the nose. Ben didn’t pull back; instead he leaned in and brushed his lips along the tip. A drop of fluid clung to the lower as he pulled back, and Hux sucked in a breath.

“Exquisite,” Hux said, petting the back of Ben’s dark head. “You’re so lovely.”

Ben’s eyes shone up at him, rapt. “Say it again,” he said, quiet and deep.

Hux brought his hand to Ben’s cheek. “You’re so good for me.”

A shudder that even Hux could feel passed through Ben. He leaned into Hux’s touch, but with his left hand, he cupped Hux’s testicles, rolling them softly. Hux hummed, approving.

“Press just behind,” he said. “I like that.”

Ben pushed his fingers against the sensitive skin behind Hux’s testicles and the muscle beneath. Hux breathed “Yes” as he did it, an encouragement. It wasn’t quite the feeling he might have gotten from the same fingers inside of him, but it was pleasant.

“Your mouth, too?” he asked, strangely polite for such a sordid request.

Ben, keeping his fingers in place behind Hux’s testicles, braced his right hand against Hux’s thigh. Then he opened and took Hux’s cock between his lips.

The heat was shattering compared to the chilly night air, and Hux could barely restrain himself from pushing deeper into it. Even if Ben had prepared to take him, he would do it in his own time. Hux would make no demands of him.

Ben worked him shallowly at first, teasing the tip with his tongue, but slowly he began to move down, until Hux was hitting the back of his throat. He tensed there, and Hux held perfectly still, letting him do as he wished. Hesitantly, he swallowed, the muscles tightening around Hux’s cock.

“God,” Hux hissed, teeth clenched against the pleasure of it. He put a slight pressure on the back of Ben’s head, but didn’t force him down. Ben made a small humming sound as he pulled back.

“Is that right?” he asked, wrapping his fingers around Hux and stroking the full length.

“Yes,” Hux replied. “That’s just it. But spare your throat for now. It will start to hurt after a while. Just…” Ben slid the foreskin up over the tip of Hux’s cock and then back down to reveal him. He pressed his thumb there. “Just keep doing that.” He nearly faltered at Ben’s grin just before he took Hux back into his mouth.

Hux leaned back and let Ben work, enjoying each swipe of his tongue, the searing warmth of it. Ben had taken his fingers away from the place between Hux’s testicles and his ass to stroke Hux’s cock, leaving him craving more. It had been years since he had dared put anything inside himself, always taking care of his body efficiently and without indulgences, but the prospect of a pair of fingers in addition to Ben’s attention was difficult to resist.

He brought the forefingers of his right hand to his lips, wetting them inside his mouth. They glistened as he removed them. Reaching behind him, he moved them down the cleft of his ass to his entrance. He took a breath to relax the muscles long untouched and then pushed a finger inside.

The first was easy, a comfortable intrusion, and Hux pushed it in up to the third knuckle. He crooked it, searching for the place that, when pressed, sent shocks through him. He nearly moaned as he found it, applying pressure that made his stomach clench.

Steadily, he slid his finger in and out, working himself open enough for two. There was a slight burn at the stretch, but it was right, good. Ben was sucking hard at him now, speeding his pace as he stroked with his hand and mouth. Hux couldn’t completely stifle the sound he made as he eased the second finger inside. He arched into it, fervent as he began to fuck himself with them.

Christ , he thought. It had been too long since he had done this. He had almost forgotten how much he loved it, how the fullness of penetration made his entire body hum like a live wire. His first lovers had shown him how to take them, and he had burned for it ever since. Twisting the fingers inside himself, he let his head fall hard against the wall behind him. His free hand he buried in Ben’s hair greedily.

From there, it didn’t take long for Hux to build up to his peak. He was barely coherent, but as he approached it he warned Ben quietly: “I’m close. I’ll finish from here.” Ben looked up at him through his lashes and shook his head just slightly. Hux bit his lip. “Are you sure?” He got a slow blink in response. He sighed “All right” and let himself slip into the sensation. One minute, perhaps less, and his testicles were pulling up as he climaxed.

Ben’s movements stuttered to the stop, his eyes going wide. Hux could remember being more than a little disgusted by the taste of it that first time. He had managed to swallow just a little and spat the rest out in the nearby lavatory sink. But Ben pulled back until Hux was free and, pinching his eyes closed, swallowed heavily.

Careful, Hux pulled his fingers from himself and saw to his trousers, tucking himself away. Though he was still reeling, he said to Ben: “Come. You should have some water. It’ll wash it away.”

Ben put his hand in Hux’s and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He trailed after Hux to the spigot outside in silence, bending down to cup his hand under the water when he turned it on. He drank several handfuls. When he was finished, Hux rinsed his fingers clean. He turned off the spigot and turned to where Ben stood.

“You don’t have to do that again if you don’t wish to,” said Hux. “It’s not expected.”

Ben wiped his mouth. “It’s not so bad.” A pause. “Well, it’s not great.”

“I know,” Hux said, with empathy. “One gets used to it with practice, but you needn’t do that. It makes no difference to me.”

Ben touched the lapel of Hux’s jacket—which he had not removed—absently. “I liked it when you did it, so I’ll learn.”

Affection swelled in Hux. Ben was singular, remarkable. Hux took his hand and squeezed it. “You amaze me, Ben Solo.”

It was too dark to see the color in his cheeks, but Hux knew he was flushed. Drawing Ben with him, he went back into the hangar. The demanding passion of their earlier embraces was gone, but Hux still wanted to see Ben pleased, so he reached for his fly.

Ben caught his hand. “What were you doing before?” he asked. “When I was...we were…”

Hux balked. He hadn’t thought about what Ben might think of him fucking his fingers. It was, in essence, sodomy, which was something that not all male lovers did when they were together. To some it was distasteful; a step too far. Hux had not considered that Ben might be one of them.

He chose his words carefully. “I gave myself my fingers. Two. It’s not uncommon. There’s pleasure to be had in it.”

Ben’s brows came together, but there was no malice in his face. “You put them inside of you?”

“Yes,” said Hux. He hesitated, but then added, “I enjoy it.”

Ben chewed his lip thoughtfully as Hux waited, not breathing. He was prepared to be condemned, but instead was met with another question: “It doesn’t hurt?”

“Not with your fingers, no,” Hux replied. He decided not to mince words. “A man’s cock can be uncomfortable at times.”

Ben looked, as expected, astounded. “You really do that?” he said. “I mean...it could fit?”

Hux nodded. “It does, though it takes some effort to prepare yourself for it.” He glanced briefly down at Ben’s crotch. “For you, I’d have to spend a little longer than most others.”

“For me,” Ben said slowly. “You’d want me to do that to you?”

Hux moved his hand until he could thread his fingers with Ben’s. “If we were afforded the opportunity, yes, I would. Very much.”

Ben rubbed his thumb along the side of Hux’s hand, looking down at it. “If you want to, then I will. As long as it really doesn’t hurt.”

“I promise it doesn’t,” said Hux. “And it will feel good for you. It’s quite unlike anything else.”

“Can we do it here?” asked Ben.

“No,” Hux said, sharp. “Never at the field. There are levels of indecency that we might be caught at and forgiven for, but that one is the most egregious. Some things could be overlooked. Not that.”

“So, we never will.”

Hux was loath to admit it, but he said, “It’s unlikely. But it’s all right. There are many other things we can share.” Leaning in, he kissed Ben’s lips. Between their bodies, he went once again for his trousers.

Before long it was Ben against the hangar wall and Hux on his knees at his feet.

Hux took a few extra minutes with his appearance the next morning, setting his uniform to rights and combing his hair. The journalist from the Daily Mirror was expected at nine o’clock, and he was not going to look slovenly. When he arrived for breakfast, he found Ben and Poe already at their table, both of them neatly turned out. Ben’s hair was clean and glossy, Poe’s pomaded stylishly.

“Morning, sir,” Poe said with a grin as he raised his coffee cup in greeting. “You’re looking smart. You think we’ve done a good enough job?”

Hux didn’t need to scrutinize him closely—there was no doubt his batman had taken the utmost care with his uniform—but he let his gaze travel over him and then drift to Ben. Ben met his eyes, his brown ones soft. To Hux they were dear, and he hoped his own reflected that.

“You look very well,” he said to Poe. “You won’t put us to shame.”

Poe chuckled. “I sure hope not. But you know something? I haven’t seen a photograph of myself in years. Not since my high school portrait.” He rubbed his chin. “I bet I look a bit more dashing in his jacket than I did in my shirt and bowtie.”

Ben wrinkled his nose. “A bowtie? Really?”

“My dad insisted it looked distinguished,” Poe said, shrugging. “Don’t know that I agreed with him, but I wore it anyway.”

Hux had always thought bowties looked more foolish than distinguished, unless they were worn with a tuxedo. The last time he had had his on was his birthday dinner the day he turned twenty. It probably still hung in his wardrobe at the house in Surrey; he wondered if it would still fit him. His physique hadn’t changed much since he was that age, but it had been six years.

“Does that portrait hang in your parents’ home?” Hux asked.

Poe set down his cup. “It sure does. Did you have a picture made when you graduated, sir?”

“I did. Framed and placed in the gallery on the second floor, I’m afraid.”

Poe hummed in acknowledgement, taking another sip of coffee. Hux went to work on his porridge, bland as it was.

“What’s it like to have a picture made?” Ben asked.

Hux raised his brows. “You never have?”

Shaking his head, Ben said: “Couldn’t afford to buy a camera, and I didn’t get a photograph taken went I left high school. Nobody did.”

“Well,” said Hux. “You have to stand still for it, and most often you smile.” He hadn’t for his college portrait. He could never force that expression. “It doesn’t take more than a second. You just wait for the bright flash, and then it’s over. Simple as that.”

“Huh.” Ben rubbed the handle of his coffee cup idly. “And do you get to see the photograph right away?”

“No,” Hux replied. “The film has to be developed in a darkroom with some manner of chemicals. I don’t know what they are, but it takes some time. It’s unlikely we’ll see the ones taken of us until they’re printed in the newspaper.”

Poe clapped Ben on the back. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll look just fine. You’re no uglier than me.”

Hux rolled his eyes. Poe was among the most handsome of the pilots, even if he didn’t play it up. He had a striking smile and bright eyes, a strong jaw. Hux imagined that he would photograph extremely well.

Ben didn’t have the same look about him, but there was no denying that he was attractive. He was shy about it, though, hiding under his hair and hunching his shoulders. He thought he was plain, but he was far from it and would do well to be reminded of that. The way he had responded to the praise Hux had given him as they made love in the hangar the night before betrayed how much he craved being told he was handsome.

“I’d say we’re the best-looking squadron at this field,” said Hux, lightly. “We’ll make the other Eagles look tawdry in comparison.”

“That’s the spirit, sir,” Poe laughed.

Ben didn’t seem convinced, going back to his breakfast without saying anything more. Hux, unable to let him go like that, extended his leg and tapped Ben’s shoe with his. Ben looked up, grip on his spoon tightening. Hux moved up just slightly, brushing his ankle.

It’s all right.

Some of the tension in Ben’s frame released. Hux gave his calf a last touch before moving back.

The rest of the squadron trickled in over the next few minutes, getting their food and sitting down to chatter about their interviews. Strickland claimed that he would have the best stories, while Crowe told him he’d have to lie to make that true. Strickland flipped him his middle finger. They took their time about eating; they wouldn’t be disbursed unless it was an emergency.

The men of the 222 and 129 shot them a few disgruntled glances as they filed out of the mess, but the 363 wasn’t affected. Shorty even waved, batting his eyes coyly as two of the 129 frowned at him.

“Have a good morning, gents,” he said with a wink.

By half past eight, they had finished their food, but were lingering at the table, sipping at the cold coffee the mess sergeants had left over. Hux had fetched another cup of tea while Brewster Mills had been talking about exploring the Arizona desert. Lewis occasionally chimed in with his own additions or corrections, saying the he had to half-carry his brother back to their camp after he had been bitten by a (thankfully) non-venomous snake and his ankle had swollen to twice its size. Brewster didn’t appreciate that detail being mentioned.

As they finished their occasionally conflicting account, Ben got to his feet. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket and stuck it between his lips. Meltsa got up too, asking, “Can I have one of those?”

Ben tossed him the pack across the table. Theo caught it deftly. He took two smokes out, one for now and one for later, which he tucked behind his ear. He flashed a grin at Ben.

“Shall we, Benny?” he asked.

Ben gave him a dark look. “Don’t call me that,” he rumbled.

Theo held up his hands apologetically, and, around his cigarette, said:  “My mistake, Ben. Didn’t mean no harm.”

Ben plucked the cigarette from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. “Come on, then.” He started off for the door, Theo hurrying to join him with quicker, shorter strides.

Hux wasn’t one to smoke in the morning, so he stayed in his seat and drank down the rest of his tea. Young Nathan Shea was just about to speak up with his own story when Meltsa came barreling back in.

“They’re here,” he said. “The writer’s here, and he’s asking for us!”

The scraping of benches filled the room as the 363 hastened out into the sunshine—rare for this time of year. Hux came last, keeping his composure.

Outside, Wing Commander Snoke was in conversation with two men, one blond and skinny in his long, tan coat and the other short and dark. He held a large case which likely contained his camera. The Eagles were gathering close around them, waiting excitedly. Hux cut around them to where Snoke stood.

“Squadron Leader Hux,” Snoke said, gravelly, “may I introduce you to Ambrose Fennyman and Jacob Armistead?”

“Good morning,” said Hux, offering his hand. Fennyman, presumably the writer, shook it first.

“A pleasure, Squadron Leader,” he said in a bright Cockney accent. “You’re in charge of 363 Squadron?”

Hux inclined his head. “Indeed. Since its formation in September.”

Fennyman produced a small notebook and a pencil. “Well, I’ll have some questions for you, but I think I should get to know your men first.” He looked over at them, smiling. “Would that be all right with you?”

“Of course,” Hux said, gesturing to the gaggle of Eagles straining to hear every word. “I’m sure they’re quite eager to speak to you.”

Fennyman stepped past Hux and started making the rounds of the men. They introduced themselves one by one, each more chipper than the next. Save Ben, who mumbled a greeting as he shook the journalist’s hand.

“Well, lads,” said Fennyman, “I’d like to talk to each one of you. Is there a place we can do that?”

“Your briefing room should serve,” Snoke said to Hux, who nodded.

Fennyman adjusted his hat so it sat cocked just so on his head. “I’ll just follow you then, Squadron Leader.” He fell in stride with Hux as they made their way across the field, peppering him with questions as they went. “So tell me, sir, what made you want to take the reins of an American squadron?”

Hux answered honestly: “I was assigned to them. The choice was not my own.”

“Is that so,” Fennyman said, scribbling in his notebook. “Was that a problem for you?”

“No,” said Hux, unwilling to admit his initial disappointment at being given the Eagles. “I was happy to take command of my own squadron no matter their nationality.”

“It’s your first command, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“You’ve certainly proven you’ve got the chops for it now,” said Fennyman. “Your record of kills versus losses is truly impressive. Among the best in England. Did you expect that when you heard you’d be in charge of Americans?”

Hux shot him a sidelong look. “Is that an implication that American pilots are not as proficient as English ones?”

“I don’t think anyone could argue that looking at your combat record, Squadron Leader,” Fennyman said. “These men are quite the team.”

Hux’s hackles lowered. “They are. We’ve learned to fly well together. I’m more than pleased with their performance.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” Fennyman made some more notes. “Were there any culture clashes at the beginning? Particularities to sort out?”

“They accustomed themselves to British life fairly quickly,” said Hux. It was mostly true. “We’ve been able to learn a great deal about each other’s countries over the past months. There are differences, of course, but we’ve found common ground as well, being in the air first and foremost. There are no national boundaries in the sky.”

“‘No national boundaries in the sky,’” Fennyman said, scribbling furiously. “That’s great. May I quote that?”

“Certainly.”

As they got to the briefing room, Hux opened the door for Fennyman and Armistead, the latter of whom had been walking silently beside them.

Fennyman looked around the building. “This is quite a nice setup.” He spotted the blackboard with its record of kills. “Jacob, get a picture of this.” To Hux: “Mind standing next to it, Squadron Leader?”

Hux ran his hands down the front of his jacket, tugging the hem to make sure it hung straight, before stepping up next to the board. The photographer set his case onto a table and lifted it open. He pulled out a large camera and screwed in a flash bulb. Holding it up to his face, he said, “All right, Squadron Leader. Three, two, one…”

The flash blinded Hux for a moment, making him blink as soon as the brightness had faded away. He hadn’t been smiling.

“Good place to start,” Fennyman said. “Now let’s have a talk with these flyers.” He pointed to Gilbert and gestured him forward. Virgil strode up with his chin high.

Hux listened to each of the men tell Fennyman about themselves and what brought them to England. They all gave stories about wanting to fly and caring about the war. None of them mentioned how the United States was still remaining neutral or how they weren’t officially sworn to the service of the Crown. Hux hadn’t prepped them for the interviews, but he was proud to see that they spoke with dignity and circumspection when it came to more delicate subjects. They proved to be excellent ambassadors for both the RAF and their country.

Fennyman was just finishing with Bill Taylor when he called Ben up. Ben shuffled out from the crowd and took a seat, his hands resting on his knees.

“Good morning,” said Fennyman, eyeing Ben’s rank insignia, “Pilot Officer. What are you called?”

“Benjamin Solo,” Ben replied, muted.

“And where do you come from, Benjamin?”

“Oakland, California.”

Fennyman perked up at all. “California? Near the famous Hollywood?”

“Give or take three hundred miles,” said Ben.

“Gracious,” Fennyman said. “I forget how large the United States is. So, what brought you to England to fly for His Majesty’s Air Force?”

Ben bit his lip anxiously. “Fast planes, really. I wanted to fly a Spitfire.”

Fennyman smiled. “That’s a common story among your squadron. And now you have that chance. How do you like yours? Have you shot down a few Jerries?”

“Five,” Ben said.

“My, my,” said Fennyman, brows lifted. “That’s just shy of the top score in the squadron.”

Ben frowned, grumbling, “Just shy, yeah.”

Fennyman didn’t seem to pick up on the irritation in Ben’s voice, plowing on: “What position do you fly in?”

Ben’s eyes flicked to Hux, who sat near enough to listen, and then back to Fennyman. “I’m Squadron Leader Hux’s wingman in Red Flight.”

“Ah,” Fennyman said, making a note. “And how do you like that?”

“He’s the best pilot I’ve ever flown with,” said Ben, sitting up straighter. “And best leader we could have. I’m damn proud to be on his wing.” He looked at Hux properly then, features set determinedly.

Hux regarded him steadily, hoping to convey that he felt the same. He slid his hand just minutely forward, to the edge of the table. Ben spread his fingers on his thigh, an answer, and Hux’s heart constricted.

“Sounds like you lads really respect your commander,” Fennyman said. “You wouldn’t prefer to have an American leading you? The other Eagle Squadrons have had Americans in charge for a few months. At least 71 has.”

“I’d fly for another American, I guess,” said Ben, “but I’d put up a hell of a fight before I let Fighter Command take Hux from us.”

“Hear, hear!” Poe called from the back of the room. He landed his fist on the desk. The others followed suit, pounding out their approval. Hux ducked his head in gratitude.

“Well, that’s all the questions I have,” Fennyman said, “but I’d like to get some proper photographs before we head back to London.” Standing, he joined Armistead. “Let’s get the whole squadron together for one, eh? It would look best out by your airplanes, don’t you think? Let’s go there.”

Hux rose to lead them out to the hangar, where their kites were lined up. Armistead wrangled the group and arranged them as he pleased, getting the taller men at the back and the shorter at the front. They crouched down, resting their elbows on their bent knees. Hux and Ben, the tallest of them all, were placed side-by-side. As they were jostled together to fit all of them into the frame, Ben brushed the back of Hux’s hand with his fingertips. A shiver snaked down Hux’s spine at the contact.

“All right, gents,” said Armistead. “Hold still right there and look here.” He wiggled his fingers just above the lens of the camera. The flash exploded. “Excellent! Now, could I have some with you all around your airplanes?”

He picked out a few of the pilots to stand next to Shorty’s Spitfire, their flight jackets held nonchalantly over their shoulders. He chose Gilbert to pose beside the boxing eagle he had painted on his own kite. He grinned broadly as Armistead snapped the photograph.

Hux remained to the side by his own kite, letting the Eagles take center stage as Armistead wended his way through them taking more pictures. He leaned back against the fuselage and tipped his head back to look up into the blue sky above. There wasn’t much heat in the sun, but he enjoyed the brightness of it.

He listened to the busy hum of voices until one stood out, clear and nearby. “You haven’t been in any of the pictures.”

Ben.

Hux kept his gaze trained up. “I have. One. But I needn’t be in any others. This is not about an Englishman, but you and your fellows.” He looked down, brows lifted. “Why are you here dodging them?”

Ben shifted his weight between his feet, arms hanging at his sides. “I don’t need to be in the newspaper. I just want to fly.”

Hux huffed a laugh. “Yes, I know. I’m not particularly interested in it, either. Though they had a bit of footage of me in a newsreel once.”

It had been filmed when he and five others had received their Distinguished Flying Crosses, presented by the king himself. Hux had stood proud at the center of the group, though his features were grainy when they had been displayed on the film screen. His name had been printed in the papers as well, which had been the talk of the Surrey countryside when his mother and her gossiping friends had found out.

“Was it strange to see yourself like that?” Ben asked.

“A little,” Hux replied. “Is that why you’d prefer not to be photographed? Don’t think you’d like what you see?”

Ben moved in to lean against the wing of Hux’s kite. He didn’t answer the question exactly, instead saying, “I told Gilbert not to draw me. He’s doing everybody else.”

Hux’s mouth turned down as he leveled his gaze at him. “I would like to see that portrait. And a photograph as well.”

“Why?” Ben said, tucking his hands into his pockets and letting his hair fall over his eyes.

Hux dared a step closer, lowering his voice. “You have my portrait. I’d like to have something of my own to keep close.”

Ben glanced up, as if he didn’t quite believe him. A kind of hurt needled at Hux, an unanticipated flash of disappointment. He wasn’t always free with his affection, but had he thought he had made it clear by now that he felt strongly for Ben.

“I—” He was interrupted by the brightness of a flash bulb illuminating the area. He and Ben turned together to see Armistead grinning at them.

“Thought I might get a couple of candid shots,” he said by way of excuse. “That was a good one. Thanks to you both.” He left them there.

Hux ran a hand over his hair as the photographer walked away. Ben’s expression was dark, angry.

“It’s just a photograph, Ben,” Hux said. “They probably won’t use it in the paper. They surely have others that are better.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Ben grumbled.

Hux fell silent, biting back what he might have said before he had been cut off. It wasn’t a topic to address in the open, after all. Falling back against the fuselage again, he crossed his arms over his chest.

They stayed there in the shadow of Hux’s Spitfire until Armistead and Fennyman had declared themselves finished. As Armistead began to make for the briefing room to retrieve the camera case, Hux darted away from Ben and intercepted him.

“May I make a request?” he asked, stopping the man at the door.

Armistead cocked a brow. “Depends on what is it, sir. What could I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I might be able to get copies of those photographs for the men. They would very much like to have them for posterity, I can imagine.”

“Well, sure,” said Armistead. “That’s easy enough to do. Why don’t you just write down where to direct them, and I’ll make sure they get back to you. Could take a few weeks.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Hux said. “Thank you.” He got a piece of paper from the pile in the briefing room and wrote out his full name and his address at the field. Armistead tucked it into his pocket.

Fennyman was bidding the Eagles goodbye when they went back outside, and Snoke had returned. He was standing tall with his hands behind his back. The sunlight brought his scars into sharp relief.

“I surmise you have all that you require now, Mr. Fennyman,” he said.

“Indeed we do, Wing Commander,” said the journalist. His notebook had once again disappeared into his jacket. “These are some fine men you have under your command. We’ll make sure to send over an extra batch of papers for you all when they story’s finished. Should be just a couple of weeks. We’re running it for the American Thanksgiving holiday.”

Hux had heard a bit about Thanksgiving since the beginning of November, mostly wistful stories of tart cranberry sauce and something called cornbread stuffing. He knew they ate turkey, which was common there but rare in England. He himself had never tasted it.

“In that case,” Snoke said, “they might as well pick up their copies in London. They’ll be there anyway.” The Eagles gave him curious looks, so he continued: “All four Eagle Squadrons are being given leave for the holiday. You are all to go to London to visit the American Eagle Club.”

“What’s that, sir?” asked Temmin Wexley.

“It’s a haven for any American soldier in England,” Snoke replied. “A home away from home of a sort. I hear there’s to be a traditional Thanksgiving dinner served. And the other squadrons will be there, so you can make their acquaintance.”

“Well, that’s some news, sir,” Crowe said. “I’m itching to get there already. When do we go?”

“You’ll leave on the twenty-seventh and return the thirtieth,” Snoke replied. “It’s not a long leave, but it will be a good one, I’m sure.”

Hux stepped forward. “Thank you, sir. A leave in town will be much appreciated by all of us.”

Snoke sniffed, almost haughty. “I’m sure it will, S.L. Hux. I’m sure it will.” He bid Fennyman and Armistead follow him to the car that would take them back to the train station, leaving the Eagles standing together.

“That was a fine thing,” said Shorty. “Never thought I’d be in the newspaper. Or go to London.”

There were murmurs of agreement among the others.

“How do you reckon we’ll get to London, sir?” Wexley asked.

“The train,” Hux replied. “The line runs from Wolcastle to London without too many stops. Shouldn’t take more than five hours and we’ll be there.”

Taylor spoke up: “We’ll have the run of the city, huh? Get to see the sights and all that?”

If this leave was anything like every other one Hux had taken in town, they’d spend most of their time in clubs dancing and in the cinemas or theaters. The mornings and early afternoons were usually reserved for sleeping off the nights before. But if it was a tour of London the Eagles wanted, Hux would be able to oblige.

“Whatever you’d like to see,” he said. “There are buses to take you most anywhere. We’ll likely have to ride one from King’s Cross to Charing Cross anyway.” He would have to get the exact address of this American Eagle Club before they set off. He hadn’t the slightest idea what they would find there, but he was admittedly curious about the other Eagle Squadrons and their pilots. Putting fifty-two Americans in one room would be something to experience.

“I’m sure you can find a guide amongst your fellow Eagles as well,” he continued. “They’ve no doubt been to town before. They likely know all the best spots.”

“You don’t know your way around?” said Nathan Shea. “You’ve been there before, though, right?”

Hux nodded. “Yes. I’ll show you around if you’d like, but I imagine you’d rather make your countrymen’s acquaintance.”

Shea grinned. “It sure would be nice to get to know them. A little taste of home, I guess.”

“Indeed,” Hux said.

Poe came up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll love turkey and stuffing, sir. It can’t be as good as my mom’s, but I’d take anything at this point.”

Hux looked down at him, uncertain. “I don’t expect I’d have a place in an American Eagle Club. And I wouldn’t want to infringe upon your holiday celebrations.”

“What are you talking about, sir?” Poe said, dismayed. He pointed to the patch on Hux’s shoulder. “You’re an Eagle, same as us. You’re welcome wherever we go. Isn’t that right, boys?”

“Damn right,” said Shorty.

Hux smiled. “Thank you. All of you.”

“Come on then, sir,” Poe said, affable as ever. “It’s lunchtime. Let’s get some grub.”

Lunch was a regular affair, undisturbed by the glares of the 222 and 129. The latter had been disbursed and weren’t yet back at the field, and the 222 seemed unaffected. The 363 was grounded for the rest of the day, though Poe requested permission to take Shea up for another practice run. Hux gave it. He had not been flying training as much as Dameron had. That was maybe neglectful, but Hux found that having anyone but Ben on his wing felt out of place. The few times he had gone up with Shea, he had been short of patience at his clumsy attempts to mirror Hux’s maneuvers. As a commander that was unacceptable, but he didn’t force himself to do it as he might have just a few months before. Poe seemed to enjoy the training, so Hux left him to it.

Hux spent a good part of the early afternoon in his quarters filling out mission reports, but by two o’clock, his eyes were crossing, and he was craving a cup of tea. Pulling his jacket back on, he went to the infirmary in hopes of finding Phasma and her hidden Earl Grey. The break room was empty when he peeked inside, so he went back out into the hall to see if he could find anyone.

The main ward was beyond a door with a glass panel, through which Hux could just see. Most of the beds were empty, but there were a few sleeping soldiers in them. One man with a bandage over his left temple was reading a book, propped up against a few pillows. Hux didn’t recognize him. There were no nurses about, however, so he left to explore the other end of the hallway, where the offices were. Dr. Tarkin’s door was firmly shut, but the one next to it was open. There was a chalkboard hanging from a tack at the center that read: Matron. Hux rapped on the doorjamb.

“Come in,” Phasma said from inside. She was sitting at a white desk at the back of the room with several files spread out in front of her, twirling a pen deftly between the fingers of her left hand. “What is it?” she asked brusquely.

“If I’m intruding, I can go,” Hux replied.

She looked up, her eyes widening and then narrowing. “Well, well, S.L. Hux. Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t expect you to come fraternize with the lowly enlisted when you and your Eagles are celebrities now.”

Hux’s lips twisted wryly. “Yes, I felt like seeing how the other half lives.”

Phasma laughed. “Good to see you, too. Come for some tea? I could do with a cuppa  myself.” She got to her feet, beckoning him to join her in the hall. “How did your big interview go?” she enquired as they walked. “Everything you expected and more?”

“It was rather informal in the end,” he said. He gave a brief account of the morning for her as she fixed the tea.

“Sounds like your men enjoyed themselves,” she said, carrying the pot over to the table. “How about you?”

Hux paused to consider. “It was well enough, I suppose. Though I do hope they don’t use the photograph of me by the blackboard. It’s altogether too self-important.”

Phasma gave a one-sided shrug. “What’s wrong with a little self-importance from time to time? Especially since you’ve led the 363 to be one of the best squadrons in the country. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or more of them gets a Flying Cross by this time next year.”

“Perhaps,” said Hux. He hadn’t expected to hear in October that three Eagles had been awarded the honor by the king. They were not the Crown’s citizens, but they had received one of the highest recognitions in the Royal Air Force. They had deserved it, of course, for their aerial victories, and yet it had still come as a surprise.

“You’re too modest about them, you know,” Phasma said. “Seems to be your way, since you’re modest yourself, but you should brag a little and let them hear it.”

He shifted in his chair slightly, crossing his right leg over his left. “I think I might have just that opportunity. We’re to have leave in London at the end of the month along with the rest of the Eagle Squadrons. If there’s any time to talk up the 363, it’s there. No doubt there will be kills compared ad nauseam. Pilots do have, if anything, bravado to spare.”

Phasma smirked. “You had better include yourself among them. You may not have an arrogant air, but you wear confidence as plainly as that jacket.”

“I have reason to,” said Hux.

“Exactly,” she laughed. “That’s what I want to hear. You’re the most decorated squadron leader at this field. Not matter how big Chapman talks, he’s got half your kills, and hasn’t gotten many more since he came here. You’ve done far better.”

Hux lifted a brow. “You really do have an ear to the ground, don’t you?”

She sat back in her chair, lifting her teacup to her mouth. “What would you say if I told you I was just a little sentimental about your squadron? Every time they’re here, they’re the best behaved and the most polite.”

“Are they?” said Hux, disbelieving. “I heard Norman flirts incessantly with one of your nurses.”

“Oh, yes, but she gives it right back,” Phasma said. “I think if they both gave it a second look, they’d realize they’re sweethearts.”

“Hm,” Hux said. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

Phasma picked up a biscuit and chewed it, swallowing before she spoke. “There isn’t. Tensions run high around here. It can be healthy to blow off a little steam, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know,” Hux said, doing his best not to let his thoughts wander to Ben and how his mouth had felt around his cock.

“Don’t worry,” Phasma continued. “We hand out prophylactics here. I’d like to think your men are smart enough to use them.”

Hux hoped so, though he had never thought to discuss it. Such things weren’t really talked about, especially in Britain. But a barber did sometimes, after a shave, ask if his customers needed “a little something for the weekend.” Hux had always turned them down, but a few of his schoolmates had taken the proffered condoms and tucked them into their pockets.

Hux had never used them with his lovers, as they were mostly intended to prevent the spread of venereal disease between women and men. In all his years, he had never heard of a man contracting such a disease from another man, so he had forgone the protection. He had heard that it could inhibit the pleasure of the act as well. If that was the case, he was glad they weren’t a requirement between men.

“I’d imagine they are,” he said to Phasma. “Though, have any of them come for such supplies?”

“Not from me specifically, but Dr. Tarkin’s had a few requests.” She rolled her eyes. “To imagine that grown men are too shy to ask a nurse for a condom.”

Hux poured her another cup of tea. “Men aren’t always the most sensible creatures, as I’m sure you know.”

Phasma shook her head. “Sometimes I think you’re all hopeless, but then I meet a few good eggs and my faith is renewed.”

“I should hope I fall into that category,” said Hux.

“You do.”

“Ah, good.”

They drank in silence for a moment, Hux dunking a somewhat stale biscuit into his tea and watching a few crumbs drift down to the bottom. He bit into it, the soggy part sloughing off onto his tongue.

“So,” Phasma said, “you’re to have leave. Are you looking forward to it? How long’s it been since you were in town?”

“I was in Uxbridge before I came here,” he replied, “but I haven’t been elsewhere since spring. I’m looking forward to it very much. Though it’s going to be something of an adventure.”

“Is it?”

He recounted what he knew about the American Eagle Club and Thanksgiving dinner.

“Well, that’s certainly something different,” said Phasma. “I don’t know what I’d think of turkey. And what the devil is cornbread?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Hux said. “But I’m sure I’ll get to sample it. It seems to be dear to Strickland especially.”

“Hm. I wish your stomach luck, then.”

Hux chuckled. “I hope I come out of it alive.”

Phamsa circled her finger around the rim of her teacup. “Where do you plan on staying? I know a place near Charing Cross. The Alderaan Inn. It has a nice atmosphere, and the upper floors go for cheap, since they’re the first to go if the Germans decide to drop bombs on us again.”

“Charming,” said Hux.

“I stayed there last time I was in town. It really won’t be too much cost for you or anyone else who wants to stay. You can send a letter for them to hold a room for you, or the whole squadron if it’s necessary.”

Hux took a sip of tea, thinking of how rowdy the entire squadron would be in a single hotel. Not that they would be there for any other reason than to sleep. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, but if Hux was going on leave, he wanted to get away from the bustle of the barracks and find a room that was relatively quiet, where he could have some solitude.

He caught himself at that, remembering quite suddenly what he had said to Ben in the hangar last night: if they were afforded the opportunity to be alone away from the prying eyes at an airfield, they might have the chance to go to bed together, properly. In a hotel, he could have Ben to himself. They would have to rent separate rooms, of course, but they needn’t open the door to the second one if they didn’t require it. They could make love and sleep in each other’s arms without the pervading fear with which they contended every day at Wolcastle. Hux felt the blood in his stomach drop to his groin, his pulse jumping.

He said to Phasma, “I have a feeling most of the others will want to stay where their American brethren are. I, however, would prefer some quiet. I think I might just write to the innkeeper at the Alderaan. Do you have their post address?”

“In my office,” she said. “I’ll go get it. Will you clean up here?”

Hux gathered up the dishes and washed them in the sink, but he hardly saw them. He moved mechanically as his mind raced through all the possibilities of three nights in London with Ben in his bed: slick bodies against each other, fully bare for the first time; blankets shoved aside as they explored one another; Hux’s lips all over Ben’s skin before he lay on his back and waited for Ben to fill him. It had Hux’s heart thundering in his chest. But it was all contingent on whether Ben wanted to be with him there. Hux would have to ask him. They weren’t going to be at the hangar again for several days, but he had to know sooner. There had to be a way to draw him away from the others for a private conversation. He—

“Here you are, then,” said Phasma, appearing again. She held out a slip of paper, which Hux took and slid it into his pocket.

“Thank you,” he said. “I very much appreciate this. I’ll write straight away.”

“Not a problem. Just bring me something back, will you? Chocolates or caramels.”

Hux nodded solemnly. “I’ll not fail you in that. I owe you for all the tea.” He was about to bid her good afternoon and take his leave, but he stopped, realizing that there was something he would need before the trip if Ben was to spend it with him. He swallowed heavily, searching for the most convincing falsehood he could find. He began with, “May I ask you a favor, Phasma?”

She set a hand on her hip. “Depends on what it is.”

“Well, I have a bit of a personal concern that I’ve been suffering with for a while,” Hux said. He braced himself to lie as best he could. “I have a bit of a chafe from the cold up there, and it’s been rubbing my skin raw. I was hoping you might be able to give me something for it. Petroleum jelly or the like?”

Phasma’s white-blond brows rose as high as they would go. “A chafe from the cold?”

Hux bit his lip, heat in his face. “Yes. In the legs, I’m afraid.”

“Mmhm. I see.” She eyed him, clearly unconvinced. “Well, we’ve just run out of petroleum jelly, but I do have something that might work for you. Come with me.”

She led him out to the nearest supply cabinet, unlocking it with her key. She ducked inside and rifled through the shelves before producing a tube about the length of Hux’s hand. She held it out to him. On the side it read: Medical-Grade Lubricant.

“This should ease the chafe,” she said. “Just don’t use too much. It tends to make a mess.”

Hux took it and shoved it hurriedly into his pocket. “Thank you.”

Phasma pursed her lips. “If the problem doesn’t go away in the next few days, come see me, will you?”

“I will,” he said. “Thank you for the tea. Good afternoon.”

Hux kept his pace measured as he made his way back toward the barracks to hide the lubricant. It was heavy in his pocket, making him very conscious of what he wanted (and hoped Ben would as well).

“Hux!”

He came to an abrupt halt, looking for who had spoken. Ben was jogging across the grass in long, loping strides.

“Ben,” Hux said as he skidded to a stop in front of him. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yeah,” Ben replied. “Since lunch. Where did you go?”

“To take care of some things and then to visit with Matron Phasma. Is there something you need?”

Ben licked his lips. “Well, not really. I just…” He sighed. “You know what I need.”

Hux blinked at him, warmth spreading through his veins. “Walk with me.”

They were still a fair distance from the barracks, so Hux set an ambling pace as Ben came up next to him.

“I have something to ask you,” he said.

Ben gave him an inquisitive look.

“When we go to London, I’m going to be taking a room at the Alderaan Inn. It’s not far from the Eagle Club, but a smaller establishment. I was wondering if you might join me there.”

“Okay,” said Ben. “I’ll have to stay somewhere. Is there anything special about this place?”

“Not particularly,” Hux said, “save for that we would be there together.” They were walking too far apart for Hux to touch him, but he stopped and rounded on Ben. He said, low, “I’m asking you to share my bed.”

Ben’s mouth opened in astonishment.

Hux regarded him for a moment, trying to make sense of his reaction. When he could not, he asked, “Do you want that?”

“Yes,” Ben replied, without hesitation. “I...yes.” He took a slow step closer. “I really want that.”

Hux balled his fists to keep from reaching for him. “As do I.”

Ben gave him a measured, but earnest smile, and Hux felt the effect of it all the way down to his toes.

Chapter Text

The clacking of the train on the rails accompanied the animated chatter of the Eagles as they rode from Norfolk into London. They had boarded the train at Wolcastle Station promptly at nine o’clock that morning, having been driven into town in the back of a canvas-covered lorry. Hux had stowed his duffel—packed for four days’ leave—in the luggage rack above his seat in the second class car. The rest of the squadron had followed, arranging their baggage and finding places to sit. There had been a scramble for the window seats, as almost everyone wanted to look out at the countryside as they traveled. Hux had seen it before, so he settled for an aisle seat and opened his book on airplane mechanics.

He was nearly finished and had every intention of applying his knowledge when he turned the last page. He planned to take Ben along with him, at least for a while. Theory was one thing, but actually getting into an engine was another.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Ben, who sat across the car in a window seat. He was facing away from Hux, held captive by the scenery; he had taken off his cap, and it rested on his knee. In profile Hux could follow the line of his nose to his lips and chin, the curve of his jaw. Hux knew them so well now, had touched and explored them. He had kissed every mark on Ben’s face, and thought he might have been able to find them even with his eyes closed. He lowered his lids now, breathing around the fullness in his chest that came with Ben’s presence.

They had been apart for the past five days, unable to find the time to meet in their appointed place, and Hux felt Ben’s absence acutely, pained by the distance they were forced to keep. His skin tingled with awareness if Ben so much as passed within a few feet of him. He had never experienced that before, and it had, at first, been jarring; but it had become familiar now, as if he had always known it, even if no other lover had ever brought it on.

Opening his eyes again, Hux forced himself to focus on his book. He was still conscious of how often and how long he looked at Ben when they were with the others, knowing how much they saw and could assume. A tremor passed through him as he thought of the nights he and Ben would spend together in London, without the prying eyes of their comrades. Such freedom was rare and precious, and Hux longed for it with vehemence. But he tamped down the yearning in that moment and turned the page of his book to start a new chapter.

At eleven o’clock, they changed trains in Ipswich before continuing on to the city. They were bound for King’s Cross Station, and when they pulled into it two hours later, all of the Eagles were craning for a view of the numerous platforms. Ben was practically pressed against the window, entranced.

“London,” Shorty Putnam sighed from his place next to Hux. “This sure is exciting, sir.”

Hux, closing his book, had to agree. It had been too long since he had had a proper leave in town, and this one...well, it would be significant. He rose as the train lurched to a stop and retrieved his duffel, swinging it over his shoulder.

“If you’ll follow me, gentlemen,” he said, loud enough to be heard, “we’ll catch the bus to Charing Cross.”

The engine of the train was spewing steam as Hux got onto the platform. The other passengers were hurrying along, picking up luggage if they had it or making their way out with their heads down. It wasn’t raining, but it was overcast and chilly. Fortunately, the 363 had left the biting winds of Norfolk behind. It was a welcome respite.

The Eagles gathered near Hux as he counted them, making sure there were no lost stragglers. They were gazing around, taking in the bustle of the station. Most of them came from smaller towns, Hux knew, and London was going to be quite the experience.

There was a bus—red, with two decks—to catch outside the station when they stepped out onto the pavement footway beside the road. The driver was about to close the doors, but Hux waved him down. The man, older and bearded, grinned as Hux ascended the stairs.

“RAF, are you?” he asked gruffly. “Took a bunch of you just a few rides ago, but they were Americans. Can you believe that?”

“We sure can,” said Poe, peeking around Hux’s shoulder to grin at the man.

The driver laughed. “You lot, too? Well, welcome to London. Come aboard. No fare.”

Hux thanked him and stepped inside. There weren’t many seats to be had, but several were offered as he passed by. He shook his head and took a handhold near the center, choosing to stand. His mouth bowed up into a smile as Ben took the place next to him, pressed close to save space. Ben smiled back, but then turned his attention back to the city around them as the bus began to move.

The ride took a little over twenty minutes, and by the time it was over, Hux was glad to get back out into the fresh air. He glanced at the addresses on the buildings. They were in the one hundred block and would have to walk to Number 28.

The wreckage of the Blitz had long since been cleaned up, the damaged buildings repaired or at least boarded up against the weather. Any debris had been cleared and the traffic was moving swiftly along. London was, if anything, resilient.

The streets were busy, but pedestrians, when they caught sight of the Eagles’ uniforms, parted to make space for them. They got more than a few bright smiles and nods. One young boy of no more than six, dressed in a smart little suit, tugged on his mother’s hand and pointed. Gilbert paused to crouch down and say hello, taking off his cap to set on the boy’s head. The mother, flushed, stammered a string of thanks. Gilbert nodded to her and shook the boy’s small hand before taking his cap back.

Meltsa tossed an arm over his shoulder and said, “Planning on making of few boys of your own when you get home, Virg?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or maybe before, if you can find an English girl willing to take you?”

Gilbert shot him a sidelong look. “I don’t think with my pecker like you do, you asshole, so no.”

The rest of the squadron laughed while Melsta shrugged. “What can I say, boys,” he said. “I’ve got priorities.”

Hux shook his head, one side of his mouth lifted. As men in the RAF were required to be unmarried, it wasn’t often that children were brought into the mix; however, slipups were inevitable. Hux had seen a few of the female ground crew resign in delicate conditions, with engagements in order. Other pilots had circumvented the rules by marrying after they had already been in the air. It wasn’t common, but it happened. Hux hadn’t spared much of a thought for what arrangements would have to be made if one of his Americans found himself a father during his tenure with the 363. Perhaps that was something they would have to discuss when they returned to the airfield.

“Look!” cried Norman Crowe, pointing ahead of them. “There it is!”

Hux cast his gaze up half a block, to where the stars and stripes of the American flag hung above an inset door.

“That’s a welcome sight,” Lewis Mills said. “I heard they have real Coca-Cola and Hershey’s bars in there.”

“God Almighty,” said Clifford Strickland as he laid a hand over his heart. “I’m never leaving this place if they do.”

Hux had heard of Coca-Cola, but had never tried it, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what a Hershey’s bar was. He supposed he was about to find out. Only a sight apprehensive at walking into a place where he did not quite belong, he fell in step with his men as they approached their Eagle Club.

The door was closed when they got to it, and the flag was set in the intricate moulding above the doorway. The stone below it read: The American Eagle Club.

Shorty, who had taken lead of the group said, “Ready, boys?” as he reached for the handle and swung the door open. Lewis led the way through, nearly bounding up the stairs just inside to the landing that was just visible beyond. The others charged after him, though Hux lingered at the back, hesitant. Ben, who stood on the first step, turned back to look at him.

“You don’t have to hide, you know,” Ben said.

Hux’s face warmed. He generally had no problem entering new rooms with new faces, but there was something off-putting about treading on what was, in a way, American soil. Perhaps it was how the Eagles had felt when they first came to England. If that was the case, they were braver than Hux was just then; they hadn’t balked at the strange country.

Ben came back down a step, coming around to face Hux properly. “No one’s going to throw you out for being an Englishman.”

“The only Englishman,” Hux said, albeit sheepishly. The commanders of the other Eagle Squadrons were Americans now.

Ben shrugged. “What does that matter? It anyone’s got a problem, you’ve got twelve men who will fight for you.” He cracked the knuckles of his left hand and then his right. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a fight, but—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hux said, only half joking. “I’m sure you’re right. I may stand out a little, but that shouldn’t be an insurmountable challenge.”

“Then let’s go up,” said Ben. He set off up the creaking stairs, leaving Hux to follow, sedately.

At the top of the stairs was a reception desk, where two young women in plain but neat dresses stood. They smiled broadly as Hux and Ben appeared.

“Good afternoon,” said one, a blonde. She had an American drawl. “The others said they’re with the 363 Squadron RAF. We’ve been expecting them. Are you with them as well?”

To Hux’s surprise, it was Ben who replied, “Yeah, we are.”

“Excellent,” said the other girl, brown-haired with a pair of round spectacles on her pert nose. “You’re most welcome. You can drop your duffels in the storage room, but don’t forget to put a tag on yours so it doesn’t get mixed up with someone else’s. Dinner will be served at four o’clock, but in the meantime, there are drinks and some nuts and crackers in the lounge.”

Ben thanked them. The blond-haired girl gave him a lingering look, and Hux thought she might have batted her lashes. Ben seemed unfazed, though, turning back to Hux. “Come on,” he said. Hux, as drawn to him as ever, went along at his side.

There were already a good number of standard-issue duffels in the storage room, each of them sporting a paper tag with a name written on it. Hux took one of his own and scribbled his name down with the pencil hanging by a string from the wall. Ben did the same, and then set his duffel down. He held out his hand for Hux’s, dropping it next to his. Hux wiped his perspiring palms on his trousers. Ben, eyeing him, took one hand and rubbed his thumb along the side.

“Relax,” he said. He stepped closer, and for a moment Hux thought he might kiss him, but he just reached up and tugged at Hux’s tie, pretending to straighten it. “Let’s go find the rest of the boys.”

It wasn’t difficult; all they had to do to find the lounge was follow the loud laughter and voices. It was the central part of the club, it seemed, with a billiard table and several smaller tables scattered around. There was a makeshift bar at the back of the room, serving bottles of just what Strickland had wanted: Coca-Cola.

Clifford himself was standing with a group of men Hux didn’t recognize, all of them in their shirtsleeves. They were talking rapidly in a mix of varied accents, Clifford’s being the deepest.

“Ben, Hux!” he called over the din. “Come over here. You need to meet these boys.”

They wended their way to them, drawing some curious glances as they went; they were almost a head taller than everyone else in the room.

“George Miller, Leo Mirsch, and Ervin Nomis,” said Strickland, “meet our squadron leader, Armitage Hux.” He clapped Ben on the back. “And this is Ben Solo, pilot officer. George and Ervin here are with the 133, and Leo flies with 71.”

“Pleasure to meet you, gents,” George said, offering his hand.

“Likewise,” said Hux as he shook it. He braced for a comment about his accent, but none came. He was greeted by the others just as Ben was.

“So, you boys are the greenest squad,” said Ervin, sipping at his Coca-Cola. “We were pretty pleased when they brought you all up. We need all the Eagles we can get, if President Roosevelt keeps minding his own business.”

“We’re not green,” Ben said, terse.

“But we are the youngest squadron, yes,” Hux added, softer. “We have yet to see as much action as the 133 has.” He nodded to Leo. “Or 71 Squadron. You’ve seen a great deal.”

“You’re right about that,” said Leo, grinning. “But I hear you boys have seen your share. You have some aces in the making.”

In England, no one received the designation of “flying ace,” but Hux had learned it was common in America. The title was bestowed upon a man who had five aerial kills.

“We have three already,” Hux said with no intention to be modest. He cocked a brow playfully. “If you count me, of course.”

Ervin eyed him, but said, “Of course. And who else?”

“My flight lieutenant, Dameron, has six kills,” Hux continued, “and Ben”—he turned to him—“has five.”

“I’ll be damned,” said George, raising his half-empty bottle of cola toward Ben. “Congratulations. That’s nothing to scoff at.”

Ben, for once, didn’t lower his eyes. He held his ground, chin high and face bared. “I know,” he said.

Leo laughed, albeit tensely. “Well, hats off to you. I’ve only got the one, but it was a damn exciting day that it happened.”

Ben said nothing, clearly unimpressed. Hux wanted to pinch him, tell him not to brag so openly, but he was too far away, and Hux really had no right to scold him for being proud of his record.

A change of subject was in order, so Hux jumped in: “What is that you’re drinking, George? I can’t say that I’ve seen it before.”

George looked down at the bottle and then back up at Hux, aghast. “You’ve never had a Coca-Cola? You’re missing out, Hux. You only get one since they don’t have a whole lot, but it’s a little taste of home. What do you say?” Before either Hux or Ben could respond, he was across the room picking up two more bottles. They were cold and a little wet when he pressed one into Hux’s hand.

Hux looked it over, from the greenish glass bottle to the red label, before taking a cautious sip. He had to fight not to screw up his face at the revolting, syrupy sweetness of it. Ben, though, took a long drink and licked his lips at the taste.

“Good, huh?” George asked Hux.

“Mmhm,” Hux replied, forcing down another mouthful. He would find a way to pawn the rest of it off on Ben once he was finished with his own.

“So,” said Leo, “where do you hail from, Ben?”

The conversation turned to the geography of the United States from there, as the five of them compared the merits of their hometowns. Hux was pleased enough to listen to it for a while, but soon enough his attention wandered. He spotted Meltsa and Crowe playing billiards with two men from another squadron. They seemed to be having a good time. The Mills brothers were over by the bar, chatting with the man behind it. The rest of the 363 was scattered around the lounge, all mingling with the men of the other Eagle Squadrons. Hux was absently watching Shorty deal a hand of cards when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see a burly man with wavy black hair standing next to him.

“You’re Hux, right?” the man asked. He had a squeak to his voice and an accent Hux hadn’t heard before.

“I am,” Hux replied. “Who asks?”

“S.L. Cadman Nee, 133 Squadron.” He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Hux shook it, the grip firm.

“I was hoping you’d be here today,” Cadman said. “Me and the other squadron leaders were hoping to talk to you, share some know-how, if you will. You took a bunch of yahoos right out of training and made them into one of the best squads in the air force.” He pointed a finger at Hux’s chest. “We might be able to learn something from you. Care to come meet Wier and Stepp?”

“Certainly,” said Hux. He didn’t bother to excuse himself from the other group; they were too deep in their own conversation to notice his leaving. All save Ben, who followed Hux with his gaze until he was halfway across the room.

John Wier, 121 Squadron, was a narrow man with a shock of blond hair, and he stood even shorter than Shorty Putnam. He was all smiles, though, making his dimples stand out. Frank Stepp, 71 Squadron, was sterner, broad across the shoulders, and had a mustache.

“Glad to know you,” he said as Cadman introduced Hux. “Heard a lot about you and your boys.”

“That seems to be the trend,” said Hux. “Word must get around between all of our squadrons.”

Wier nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “We tend to pay attention to each other, hold ranks. Some of our flyers have been transferred between squadrons, too. We keep in touch.”

“Haven’t heard much for you yet, though,” Stepp said, without venom. “Only what we read in the papers.” He winked.

Hux’s brows rose. “You mean the Mirror? Is that article published?”

“As of this morning,” said Cadman. “You haven’t seen it yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” Hux replied. “Is there a copy to be had here?” He looked cursorily around for a discarded paper. He wanted to see the article, but more than that, he wanted to show it to his men.

“I think there’s one,” Stepp muttered. “Let me just go see…” He meandered over to a nearby table and, pulling out a chair, picked up a newspaper from it. It was slightly wrinkled, clearly having been read, but that hardly mattered as it was handed to Hux and he got a glimpse of the front page. The headline read: “‘Soaring Eagles! American RAF Squadron 363 Flies to Victory.’”

The picture of the whole squadron assembled was splashed across the center of the page, the faces of each of Hux’s Eagles clearly printed. The article started below it:

To British ears, the name Eagle Squadron is now familiar. Since ‘39, bold American volunteers have been serving in His Majesty’s Air Force to aid the war effort. This autumn, a fourth squadron was brought up by Fighter Command to join the ranks. They are 363 (Eagle) Squadron, twelve men under the command of Squadron Leader Armitage Hux. This reporter had the honor of visiting with them at their home airfield in Norfolk earlier this month, and learned more about these brave flying men from across the pond.

There was another photograph printed below it, this one of Shea and Wexley standing beside the nose of one of their kites.

Though the Eagles are new to English soil, they seem to have acclimated quickly. Here, two of them stand ready to dash into their aircraft at a moment’s notice, springing to the defense of our nation. “The uniform fits just fine,” says Flight Lieutenant Poe Dameron of his trousers and jacket. “Feels no different than something we’d wear at home, except for the color. But blue suits me.” The other Eagles feel much the same, agreeing with Squadron Leader Hux when he says, “There are no national boundaries in the sky.” We couldn’t agree more, sir! We’re glad to have the Eagles on our side.

Next to the column of text was yet another photograph, this one of Gilbert by his boxing eagle. He was grinning from ear to ear.

363 Squadron has had a truly impressive showing since its formation in September, successfully bringing down seventeen German aircraft over France and the Channel over the span of three months. Few can boast such a record. “It’s because we fly as a team,” says Pilot Officer Lewis Mills. “We look out for each other no matter what. That’s how we do it.” And it’s certainly worked!

The following photograph was of Lewis and Brewster in their flight jackets, with their arms over each other’s shoulders. The family resemblance was very clear.

The Eagles of the 363 come from all over the United States, from the shores of New England to the deserts of Arizona and hills of California. But they all ended up here, together as a unit, flying the quick and powerful Supermarine Spitfire. “There’s no machine like it,” says Pilot Officer William Taylor as he pats the wing of his aeroplane. “I trust her with my life every day, and she’s always come through.” Indeed, Pilot Officer!

The last photograph on the page was Taylor, helmeted, in the cockpit, with the ground crew getting ready to unchock his wheels. He looked focused, gazing into the middle distance ahead of him.

 As the war continues to rage, these Eagles will keep up the good fight, along with their brethren from the other three Eagle Squadrons. This reporter has no doubt that they will fly valiantly into the fray, protecting our skies and shores with their lives. We could not want for better allies in this battle. Here’s to Squadron 363 RAF!

 As Hux reached the end of the article, he was burning with pride. “I should show this to the others,” he said to the squadron leaders. “Make the rounds with it.”

“There’s surely enough to go round if you visit a newsstand,” said Wier. “There’s one not far from here, if you’d care to take a walk.”

Hux folded the paper in half again. “I believe I shall. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll see you when we reconvene for dinner.”

Stepp gave a curt nod. “We’ll see you then.”

Cutting across the room with the newspaper in hand, Hux found Poe. He handed the paper over. “I think you’d like to see this,” he said. “I’m going to pick up more.”

Poe quickly read the headline, and exclaimed, “All right!”

“They quoted you in it,” said Hux, amused.

Poe puffed his chest out. “Damn right they did. Hey, Meltsa!” he called. “Shorty, get over here and see this!”

Hux backed off, letting them gather around. He watched their delighted reactions for a few moments before leaving them to it and heading toward the door. He was intercepted, though, by Ben, who caught him by the bicep.

“You’re leaving?” Ben asked, brow furrowed.

Hux extricated himself from Ben’s grip, putting space between them. “I’ll be back shortly. I need to run an errand.”

Ben closed the distance again, staying close. “I’ll come with you.”

“Stay,” said Hux, shaking his head. “It won’t take me more than a few minutes.”

Ben didn’t looked at all pleased, but he relented: “Okay.”

Hux didn’t dare reach out for him, but he tried to reassure him with a look. “I’ll be back soon.”

Ben made way for him, and Hux brushed his shoulder as he passed him by. He heard Ben sigh before he crossed the threshold into the hallway.

The air outside of the club was bracing, but not unpleasant. Hux hadn’t realized how warm the press of bodies in the lounge had been. What sweat had formed under his arms turned cold as he walked along the pavement in what he hoped was the direction of a newsstand. He hadn’t thought to ask Wier for proper directions.

“No matter,” he said to himself, tucking his hands into his pockets.

The solitude of his walk was welcome after the a day of travel in close company. It brought to mind his last trip to London, when he had gone to No. 11 Group Headquarters at Uxbridge to receive his new command. He’d entered Vice Air Marshal Leigh-Mallory’s office expecting an assignment in the same group, where he could shape his new squadron into a mean fighting force in the most actively assaulted part of the country. But he had gotten the 363 and a posting in Norfolk instead. How disappointing it had been then, when Hux had sat alone in a pub drinking weak tea and bemoaning his lot. That sentiment was long gone now.

In fact, as Hux had stood with the American squadron leaders, he had felt rush of nerves. There was a possibility that the 363 could be taken from him, turned over to one of their countrymen. Hux accepted that transfers were made to suit the needs of Fighter Command, but he wasn’t ready to give them up. He fisted his fingers into the lining of his trouser pockets, fighting the rising fear. If they went, so did Ben.

Hux stopped in the middle of the pavement, pain in his gut. Other pedestrians went around him as stream water did a rock, but he barely marked them. It felt as though he had been struck, and his insides echoed with an emptiness he hadn’t known in months. The void—present since he’d left his final lover at Oxford—was brimming now with his affection for Ben. Try though he might to deny it, it was growing more potent by the day. He was becoming all but dependent on it.

“Oh, God,” he breathed.

“Are you well, young man?”

Hux looked sharply up to see an matron in a shabby dress and crooked-brimmed hat looking at him with concern. She carried a small handbag on her arm, which was poised at her round middle.

“Is there something the matter?” she pressed. “You’re white as a sheet. Can I help you?”

Hux swallowed the lump in his throat, managing to say, “No, nothing’s the matter.” And then: “Well, I suppose I could be better.”

“Poor dear,” the matron said, reaching out for Hux’s hand. She patted the back of it. “Is it exhaustion? Have you just come from your station?”

Hux’s head was muddled, his tongue thick. “Today, yes. On the train.”

“I see, I see,” she said. She tugged him over to the side of the pavement, next to a building. From her handbag she took a narrow, silver flask. “Have a sip of this. It’ll bolster you.”

Hux didn’t make a habit of drinking liquor offered by strange women, but he unscrewed the top and drank. Gin . It burned down his throat, leaving a piney taste in his mouth. As it hit his empty stomach, his daze began to recede.

“Thank you,” he said as he handed the flask back to her. “I believe I needed that.”

She flashed him a crooked-toothed smile. “Seems you did. Your color’s coming back up. What’s your name?”

He almost gave her his surname, but decided instead on: “Armitage.”

“What a proud name,” the matron said. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance. I’m Bea.”

Hux made to hold out his hand, but she simply pushed the flask back into it. He took another sip. He much preferred the gin to Coca-Cola. He had left his bottle on a table in the lounge, having forgotten to give it to Ben to enjoy.

“That’s a heartsick look if ever I saw one,” said Bea. “Is that what plagues you? Someone do you wrong?”

Hux pressed his lips together, rubbing the rounded edge of the flask with his thumb. “Rather the opposite,” he said. “But the matter is complicated.”

“Mm, yes,” Bea hummed. “Young love is never a simple thing in times like these.”

“Love,” said Hux, quiet. “I don’t think I know what that is.” He cared for his parents and supposed that was love, but what he had felt for the men with whom he had shared a bed was nothing so profound as to bear that title. He didn’t mourn the loss of those lovers with any real sorrow.

Bea clicked her tongue at him. “Of course you do. Everyone does.” Taking the flask, she drank. “It mixes you right up, makes you think the world spins backward.”

“I can’t say that’s happened to me,” Hux said. “The world still turns as it always has.”

“Hmph,” Bea grumbled, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Not for long, I think, if you keep needing a bite of gin to get you through thinking on someone.”

Hux accepted the flask again, tipping it back to keep from replying.

“You don’t have to hide from it,” Bea said, reminiscent of what Ben had said to Hux as they waited to enter the Eagle Club. “It makes the hardship of war more bearable, believe me. It was just so when my Neville was in the trenches.”

“Did he come home to you?” Hux asked.

Bea shook her head. “He’s buried somewhere in Belgium. I like to think it’s under a tree, where he can have shade in the summer.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Hux.

“So was I,” she said, “but I was glad to have him when I did. Those memories are the dearest to me.” She touched Hux’s forearm gently. “Don’t let your head get in the way of your heart, young Armitage.”

Considering Hux’s circumstances, his head always had to rule him, if he was to protect himself. There was no way he could do as she bid him.

“Thank you for the drink,” he said, giving her the flask. “I do feel much better.”

Bea smiled. “I’m glad I could do something good for you. You take care of yourself now.” She raised a hand by way of goodbye as she resumed her walk down the pavement.

Hux lingered by the building for a spell, trying to gather himself. The gin was sloshing pleasantly in his stomach, and it warded off the discomfort of his previous thoughts of losing the Eagles. This was hardly the time for that; they were waiting for him back at the club. He continued on his way to find a his newspapers.

It turned out he had chosen the right direction, as he discovered a small stand just three blocks away. A young woman in an apron, her fingers stained with ink, was inside.

“Afternoon, sir,” she said. “Get something for you?”

Hux scanned over the papers lined up along the stand’s counter. He pointed to the Mirror and said, “Twenty copies, if you please.”

The woman gave him an enquiring look, but crouched down to produce more copies of the paper. As she counted them out, Hux took out the money to pay her. He had brought a good amount, knowing he would need if for nights out in the clubs of the city. Not all drinks were on the house, as they commonly were in Wolcastle.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said the woman, handing over the papers in exchange for Hux’s payment. He tucked them under his arm: the left, where his Eagle Squadron patch was stitched.

It was nearing half-past three when he got back to the club. This time he hurried up the stairs and past the two ladies at the reception desk. The lounge was still packed and stifled, and as Hux entered, a few faces turned up, brightening as they saw him.

“Sir!” Wexley said, waving.

Hux hastened over to him, pulling out a paper from the stack. “For you,” he said. “Fresh from the press.”

Wexley held it up over his head triumphantly, though Taylor snatched it out of his hand. Wexley snapped a curse; Taylor only laughed. Hux produced another copy for Temmin.

The others began to appear from various corners of the room to pick up their own papers. Most had read the article by then, but they still talked amongst themselves, pointing to the photographs and grousing if they weren’t featured prominently. When Hux handed one to Ben, their fingers brushed. Hux tasted gin.

“Mom’s gonna love this,” Lewis Mills said, slapping Brewster on the shoulder. His brother agreed.

Before they could say more, a bell rang from the doorway. Conversations trailed off as the Eagles turned to see the two girls from reception standing there.

“We’re going to start seating for dinner now,” the blond girl said. “The dining room is on the second floor, if you’ll follow us.”

The four squadrons shuffled up the narrow staircase and found themselves in a large room with high ceilings. Four long tables were lined up across it, set with plates, utensils, and glasses already sweating from the cold beer. Hux expected the men to mix freely, but almost immediately they separated into their squadrons and chose tables. Hux held back a laugh as he followed the 363 to their table. He took a seat between Gilbert and Strickland. Across from him was Poe.

For the meal, they had all put their jackets back on, buttons fastened. Hux could remember their disheveled appearances when he had first taken command. They had come quite a long way since then.

At the head of 71 Squadron’s table, Frank Stepp rose and motioned for quiet. “Good afternoon, boys, and welcome to the Eagle Club.” He paused for applause and whoops. “According to British custom, it’s way too early for dinner, but for us it’s Thanksgiving, and that means we start in early.” He raised his glass. “A toast to the American Eagles here tonight, and those we’ve lost since we came here.”

With Andrew Ward in his thoughts, Hux toasted and drank.

“Without further ado, then,” said Stepp, “let’s eat!”

A set of doors at the end of the room swung open to reveal a line of servers carrying whole roasted turkeys and seemingly endless bowls of side dishes. They distributed them to the tables, two turkeys per. There was a bit of a fight between the men of the 363 over who would carve each one—it was an honor, Hux was told—but they finally settled on Meltsa and Crowe. They cut generous slices and divvied them out to every man.

“Here you go, sir,” said Strickland as he passed a bowl of yellowish, crumbled something to him. “Cornbread stuffing.”

“Ah, yes,” Hux muttered. “The mystery is solved.” He spooned a small helping onto his plate, cautious after his experience with the cola.

After the stuffing came a bowl of creamed spinach dotted with sautéed shallots. A gelatinous cranberry sauce followed, and then cooked, sugared carrots and warm mashed potatoes. Last was a boat of fragrant brown gravy. Hux watched Poe douse his entire plate with it, even the carrots. Trying not to grimace, Hux took a much more conservative amount to put over his slice of turkey. That seemed to be the most common place for it. Tentatively, he took up his knife and fork and began to cut into it.

The meat of the turkey was more flavorful than chicken and had a grainier texture. The gravy tasted of pepper and rich seasoning. To his surprise, Hux found it delicious.

“Good, huh, sir?” Poe said around a mouthful of potatoes. “Best food you’ll eat all year, I promise you that.”

“It’s very good, yes,” said Hux as he set in on another bite of turkey.

“Try it with the cranberry, sir,” Strickland urged, showing Hux his own fork, which had a piece of turkey and a generous helping of purple sauce on.

Hux did. It was strange to have the cold sauce with the warm meat, but it had an excellent blend of sweet and tart that he very much enjoyed.

“Put gravy on it after that and you have the perfect thing,” Poe said. He swiped his loaded fork across the plate to pick up more gravy before opening his mouth wide for it.

Hux didn’t quite think he was inclined to mixing all three flavors, but he did alternate between topping the meat with cranberry sauce and gravy.

“Great stuffing,” Gilbert said, chewing. “Tastes like home.”

Venturing to try the unusual concoction, Hux discovered that despite a soggy bread texture, it tasted good. “How is this made?” he asked.

“Well,” Gilbert replied, “the way my grandma made it, you need a good helping of cornmeal and flour, some chicken stock, celery and onions, a whole load of butter, and a couple of eggs.” He mimed pouring ingredients into a bowl and stirring it. “You mix the whole lot around, and then stuff it right up into the turkey to bake.”

Stuffed fowl wasn’t beyond Hux’s ken, but it was usually filled with plums or other fruits, not raw bread mix. “You cook it all together?” he said.

Poe, taking a sip of his beer, replied, “Sure do. You get more flavor that way. And the stuffing on the outside gets a little crispy. Delicious.”

Hux studied the yellow stuffing on his fork. Strange though it was, he took another bite.

The Eagles put down more food in an hour than Hux had ever seen anyone do. They took seconds and even thirds as they reminisced about Thanksgiving meals in their homes. Everyone had a different kind of side dish they preferred, and they argued about which was best and what made for the finest turkey. It was decided that a butter-basted one was the tastiest.

“But the real question, boys,” said Crowe from down the table, “is what the best kind of pie is.” Murmurs of agreement made the rounds. “If you ask me,” he continued, “it’s pecan.”

“Then you’d be wrong,” Ben countered, speaking up for the first time in a while. “It’s pumpkin.”

Hux’s brows rose. “You make a pie out of a pumpkin?”

“Of course,” said Ben, as if it was known to everyone. Perhaps among the Americans, it was. “With cinnamon and nutmeg and a crust you can taste the butter in.”

“Butter?” Strickland scoffed. “You make it with lard.”

Ben shrugged. “Either or.”

Curious, Hux asked, “Do you think they’ll have such a thing for dessert tonight? I’m afraid we don’t have many pumpkins in this country.”

“If they could get cornmeal,” said Ben, “they can find some pumpkins.”

As if summoned, several servers appeared from the kitchen carrying pans of what had to be pies. They set them down all along the table with serving knives with which to cut them.

“Told you,” Ben said, haughty, as he pointed to the pie in front of him. It had a toasted orange look about it and a fluted crust around the edge. “You want to try it?”

Hux took the smaller dessert plate in his place setting and handed it down the line to where Ben sat. Ben cut a larger piece than Hux would have cut for himself and slid it onto the plate. It arrived back in Hux’s hands a moment later.

The Eagles watched him closely as he picked up his fork and cut into the pointed tip of the slice. He eyed it cautiously, but reasoned that it was in for a penny, in for a pound. He popped it into his mouth. It was sweet and a little gritty, but tasted, just as Ben had said, of cinnamon and nutmeg.

“What’s the verdict, sir?” Poe enquired, brows raised.

Hux rolled the flavors around in his mouth before replying, “It’s very good.” He received twelve approving smiles. He warmed at them, the feeling of being a foreigner on their soil gone. Tonight he was just another Eagle, sharing in a tradition that raised his spirits just as high as those of his men.

“Try the pecan next, sir,” said Wexley.

Hux held out his plate.

After dinner was cleared from the tables, the servers produced more beer. Food was sitting heavy in Hux’s stomach, leaving him to sip at his glass lightly, but the Americans seemed undaunted. They drank and laughed as jackets came off and ties were cast aside. A number of men returned to the lounge for cards and billiards, and others set off to spend the rest of the night at the pubs. Hux and most of the 363 remained, though, as they had to check into their hotels before their reception desks closed for the night.

They had all arranged for accommodations in the area, but Hux had made sure that he and Ben were the only ones at the Alderaan Inn. Most of the squadron was putting up at the Tatooine Hotel, just round the corner from the Eagle Club.

Meltsa and Lewis Mills were the first to leave, gathering their duffels from the storage room at nine o’clock. Crowe and Taylor called them grandpas, but they brushed it off; Meltsa flipped them both his middle finger as he shouldered his duffel and disappeared through the door. Hux watched them go, tension in his shoulders. Ben was across the room from him, winning at poker, but Hux caught his eye.

When can we go?

Not yet.

Ben, stony-faced, turned back to his game. Hux took a long drink of beer, willing the night to be over.

By half past ten, the crowd in the lounge was thinning out. The squadron leaders had bid Hux good evening several minutes earlier—they had been exchanging stories by the empty fireplace—but most of the 363 was still present. Hux was standing with his hand on the mantel, somewhat lightheaded with drink, when Ben appeared at his side.

“Hux,” he said, leaning close. “Say goodnight.”

A shiver passed through Hux, both apprehension and excitement. “You go first,” he said, quiet. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Ben’s hand curled around his wrist. “No. You’re coming with me.”

Hux turned to him, bringing their faces all but two inches apart. Ben blinked at him, the hand at his wrist tightening, imploring. Hux, resigned, gave a single, short nod.

“All right. We’ll go.”

Ben didn’t immediately release him, instead tugging him away from the mantel and toward the center of the room, where a group of Eagles—Wexley, Shea, and Brewster Mills among them—sat. Hux pulled himself free as they approached, though the feeling of Ben’s touch remained.

“Well, gentlemen,” Hux said, brighter than he truly felt, “it’s time for me to retire.”

“So early, sir?” Brewster asked, looking disappointed. “Thought you might want to go have a drink out with these other boys.” He gestured to the other pilots around him, none of whom Hux recognized.

“I thank you, but no,” said Hux. “I’ll leave that for tomorrow night.”

Wexley perked up. “You think we can go out dancing, sir? The London girls must be beautiful.”

Hux set a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t see why not. We could make the rounds of the clubs and stay out until morning, I promise you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Wexley said, grinning. “Goodnight then, sir.” His gaze flicked to Ben, who hovered just behind Hux. “You going, too, Solo?”

“Yeah,” Ben replied.

When he said nothing else, Hux cleared his throat. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Tell the others that we’ll meet here in the morning, if they’d like to come with us around the city tomorrow.”

“Can do, sir,” said Shea with a mock salute. “Night.”

Leaving them to their business, Hux went to the door, Ben shadowing him. They didn’t talk as they retrieved their duffels and went down the stairs, waving silently to the tired-looking girls at the desk. Hux opened the door onto the street, prepared for the cold wind that hit him as he stepped onto the pavement. The door shut sharply behind them.

“It’s not far to the Alderaan,” Hux said. “Just a few—”

Ben grabbed him by the upper arm, backing him into the dark doorway of the building next to the club. Hux hit the wall hard.

“Why did we have to stay so long?” Ben demanded, his arm barred across Hux’s chest. “For hours.”

Hux swallowed, the shock of being handled roughly quickly turning into hunger for more. He struggled against Ben’s hold, if only to feel the immovability of it. “We have to keep up appearances.”

Ben scowled, but pressed in closer, until his lips were brushing Hux’s. “Not here. Here you’re mine.”

The blood in Hux’s gut dropped immediately to his groin, setting him alight. Still, he laid his palm on Ben’s cheek to push him away—they were standing in an alcove in the middle of the street, empty though it was—but Ben stayed resolutely in place, nuzzling Hux’s nose and pressing dry kisses to his mouth. Hux made a noise in his throat as he grasped at Ben’s hair. When he knocked Ben’s cap askew, Ben pulled it off and held it up to shield their faces as he tongued Hux’s lower lip. Hux opened for him gladly. The wind whistled around the alcove, concealing the sounds of their kisses.

“We have to go,” Hux said in Ben’s ear, sucking the lobe. “Take me to bed, Ben.”

“God,” Ben groaned, clutching at Hux’s sides. “Yes.” He pulled back and, threading his fingers with Hux’s, tugged him back out onto the pavement.

They nearly ran the three blocks to get to the hotel, and both of them were panting when they stumbled through the door. A man in a tweed suit was standing behind the desk just inside.

“Good evening,” he said, “and welcome to the Alderaan Inn. Do you have a reservation?”

Hux stepped forward, willing his breathing to slow. “Yes, for two rooms. Under the name Hux.”

The man traced a finger along the page of the ledger on the desk. “Ah, yes, I see it here. You’ll be in rooms 410 and 412.” He reached into the key box and produced two brass keys. Hux took one and Ben the other, tucking it into his pocket.

“Payment will be due upon checking out,” said the innkeep. “You’re here for three nights?”

“That’s correct,” Hux said.

The innkeep nodded. “Very good. If you require anything, my name is Bail.”

“We won’t,” Ben said, “but thanks.” He shot Hux a look which brooked no argument and headed for the nearby staircase. Hux offered a curt “Good evening” to Bail as he hurried after Ben.

The fourth floor had ten rooms, five on each side of the hallway. Hux assumed the lavatories were not shared, as there were none at the ends of the hall. That was a blessing; he and Ben would have their own space.

They stopped abruptly at room 410, and Ben waited expectantly. Pleasure rushed through Hux, knowing he didn’t intend to enter his own room. Hux fumbled some with the key, but managed to get it into the lock and turn it. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

A single lamp was burning on a bedside table as Hux led the way inside. The bed was wide enough to sleep two, though they would have to be close to fit. His pulse jumped.

“Will this do?” he asked.

Ben didn’t reply, going instead for the strap of Hux’s duffel and pushing it off of his shoulder. He was already pulling Hux to him by the time it hit the carpeted floor.

Knowing they were finally alone for the first time since they had come together outside the hangar six weeks before, Hux threw himself into the embrace without fear. He wrapped his arms around Ben’s neck and pressed his body urgently against him. Ben held him by the waist, clutching and releasing as he slid his tongue into Hux’s mouth. Everything around them faded in the astonishing vividness of the moment, until Ben was all Hux could perceive.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t leave sooner,” Hux said as he kissed Ben’s jaw and down to his neck. “I wanted to, Ben. Believe me, I wanted to.”

“I know,” Ben said, stroking Hux’s back. “I know. But I could hardly bear it. I never can.”

Hux burned. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled aimlessly. “I’m sorry.”

Ben took his face between his hands, making Hux look at him. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He touched the tip of his nose to Hux’s. “Show me how to be with you.”

Hux kissed him hard, overcome. He was so good, so dear; he stole Hux’s breath.

“We should wash up first. I won’t do this smelling of smoke and a day on the train.”

“Okay,” Ben whispered, pressing his forehead to Hux’s.

The lavatory was shared between the two rooms, they discovered, and small, with a curtained shower in the corner, a toilet, and a pedestal sink. A mirror hung over it. There was a small rack with clean towels stacked on it, both body towels and washcloths. Hux eyed the shower, but decided he wasn’t inclined to one. He just wanted to wash the reek of a day’s travel from his skin.

As he approached the sink to turn on the water, Ben came up behind him and began to unbuckle the belt on his jacket. Hux allowed him to undo it and the buttons before lifting the jacket from his shoulders. He dropped it unceremoniously to the side, and, for once, Hux didn’t care.

With his fingers, Hux tested the heat of the water, stoppering the sink as Ben unbuttoned his shirt. He was clumsy about it, so Hux guided his hands away and finished the job himself. Left in just his undershirt, he reached for a washcloth and set it on the side of the sink. Catching Ben’s eyes in the mirror, he said, “Undress.”

Ben landed a kiss on Hux’s shoulder before he moved back and stooped to untie his shoes. Hux saw to his own, too, stuffing his socks into them and setting them aside. When he was finished, he turned off the water and, leaning against the sink, watched Ben as he pulled his undershirt up and away, leaving him bare-chested.

Hux looked him over, struck by the smoothness and beauty of his pale skin. In the yellow light of the lavatory lamp, his nipples were dusky and standing out in the cold. Hux wanted to suck on each one until they were dark and bruised. Marks might be excused by leave; they could have been earned in a woman’s bed. So much restraint could be forgone in this place, away from everything at the airfield.

Ben waited, silent, as Hux appraised him without touching. Their opportunities to truly see each other had been so few, and now neither was hurried, letting the minutes drag without concern. Ben’s belly moved in and out as he breathed, all but an invitation for Hux to set his hand there and feel each indrawn breath, each exhalation. But he held back, instead reaching for the washcloth he had laid over the rim of the sink. The edge had been hanging into the water and was half-soaked already. Hux took the rest and pushed it under, wetting it entirely. The water was warm as it trickled between his fingers. Beckoning Ben closer, he brought the cloth to his chest to wipe across his right pectoral. Despite the heat, gooseflesh rose along Ben’s skin, but Hux didn’t pull back. He continued to bathe Ben from chest to shoulder until he was damp enough to clean with soap.

Hux took the small, floral-scented bar from the side of the sink and lathered his hands. He set them on Ben, spreading the soap over him and under his arms. The hair there was dark and soft. Hux washed it carefully, almost laughing when Ben flinched.

“I imagined you being ticklish once,” Hux said as he ran his soapy hands up to Ben’s neck. “Touching the places that would make you writhe.” He flicked his eyes up to meet Ben’s. “Having you under me, at my mercy.”

Ben’s pupils widened and contracted again. “Is that how we...with me under you?”

Hux, finished with the soap, rinsed his hands and retrieved the cloth to wipe Ben clean. “It can be done that way,” he said. “And in several others.”

“Oh.” Ben sucked his lower lip into his mouth. “Will you tell me?”

“I’ll show you,” Hux said as washed the soap from him with gentle hands. “We have a great deal of time. Tonight, tomorrow, the night after.” He ran the cloth down the center of Ben’s chest to his navel. “I plan to use all of them.”

Ben’s muscles tightened beneath Hux’s hands. “Are we going to sleep at all?” he asked.

Hux was tempted to tell him “Only as much as necessary,” but he chose a more conservative reply. “Of course,” he said. “This is leave. You’re meant to rest.”

“Tell that to the others,” Ben grumbled.

Hux chuckled. “My former commanding officer used to say that sleep was for the dead. I had never known a man to drink and dance more than him.” He rinsed the soap from the cloth and finished cleaning Ben up. “The rest of us had to muster a great deal of energy to keep up with him. We rarely succeeded.”

“Tomorrow we’ll stay out longer,” Ben said. “But I don’t know if I want to. I just want to be with you.”

Hux, feeling much the same, kissed him, pulling back and then moving back in in brief presses. Ben opened his mouth to lick at Hux’s lips, but Hux didn’t indulge him. He drew away, setting the cloth down. Lightly, he touched the waistband of Ben’s trousers, just at the fly.

“Take these off. I’ll wash you up.”

Ben lowered the trousers and his shorts to his ankles, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side. As he stood straight again, his lifted his brows at Hux. “You’re still dressed.”

Hux smiled, touching Ben’s hip. “When I’m finished, you’ll do this for me.”

“Okay.”

Hux went back to the sink, dampening the cloth. He squeezed it over Ben’s groin to wet the hair between his thighs. It beaded off in some places, dripping onto the mat at his feet, but neither of them paid that any mind. Hux wiped the creases of his legs and then down around his testicles. He was careful with them, but thorough in his cleaning, paying perhaps a little more attention than was strictly necessary.

There was no mistaking Ben’s response to the touch: his cock was hardening, filling out handsomely. When Hux ran the cloth over it, Ben groaned.

As Hux withdrew, Ben, whether consciously or not, moved his hips to chase him. Hux dropped the cloth and went again for the soap. Ben watched him with hazy eyes, making another deep sound as Hux began to wash him.

Hux didn’t intend to bring him off, but he spent time stroking his cock and around it until Ben was thrusting into his grip. Hux kissed his shoulder up to his ear, nipping the shell.

“Hux,” Ben said, strained.

“Had enough?” Hux asked teasingly. “Feeling clean?”

Ben reared back and slid his fingers into Hux’s hair, mussing it. “Hand me that washcloth and take off your clothes.”

Amused, Hux backed off. Ben snatched the cloth from the sink and brusquely washed the soap from himself. It bordered on abuse after the careful way Hux had touched him. Hux let him do as he pleased, though, seeing to his own shirt and trousers. As soon as he was out of them, Ben was on him, pressing his lips to his collarbone and chest.

“Ben,” Hux said, admonishing. “Not here.”

Ben didn’t look happy when he stopped, but he did it, retrieving the cloth. Hux expected him to make quick work of it, but when he started to wipe him, he did it slowly, as Hux had done. The material of the cloth was soft, not as coarse as the towels at the airfield, and felt good against Hux’s skin.

“Hux?” Ben said after a few minutes of silent bathing.

Hux replied with a lazy “Hmm?”

Ben kept his head down, his gaze trained on Hux’s stomach as he washed it, but he asked, “Why do you want me?”

Hux balked. “What?”

“I just…” Ben started, though he paused to sigh. “What do you see when you look at me, that makes you want to do this? I’m not half as smart as you; I barely made it out of high school. I grew up in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere, not some estate like you did. You should want someone who’s like you, not me.”

Hux, taken aback, lifted Ben’s face. “Where is this coming from? Have you thought this all along?”

Ben glanced away, still trying to hide. “Maybe not all the time, but it’s in my head, and I can’t shake it. It doesn’t make sense. You’re so incredible, and I’m just—”

“No,” Hux said, sharp. “Don’t say any more.” He tightened his hold on Ben’s jaw, rubbing his thumbs along his cheekbones. “I won’t listen to this, not when I know how remarkable you are.”

Ben chewed his cheek, dubious at best. Hux, annoyed that he didn’t see what he was, wouldn’t allow him to doubt either himself or what he felt for him.

“Listen to me,” Hux said. “I don’t care where you came from. Well, I do, but only because I want to know you. It doesn’t matter to me about your schooling, or that your parents aren’t landed. I care for you, not any of that.” His heart was thrumming deeply in his breast. “What do you feel when we fly together?”

“Like it’s me that has the wings,” Ben said. “Like I can do anything. Like I’m not alone.”

Hux stroked his cheek. “You aren’t alone. And if you’re given wings, then so am I, and the sky is ours.”

Ben’s eyes shone, his face hot. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do,” Hux said, kissing him gently. “You’re exceptional, and I’m tremendously lucky to have you.” Ben breathed out, the air warm on Hux’s skin. “Come,” Hux continued, “let’s be done with this. I want to lie with you.”

Ben finished washing Hux before abandoning the washcloth in the murky, soapy water. Neither of them bothered to drain it, simply leaving the lavatory and their discarded clothes behind.

“Will you turn on the heater?” Hux asked, when they had come back into to the bedroom. As Ben flicked on the electric heater in the faux fireplace, Hux went to his shaving kit and retrieved the tube of lubricant he had packed. He set it on the bedside table, within reach, and then sat on the mattress. Ben, nude, walked over to him, standing just in front. He stroked Hux’s hair, cradling his head. Hux leaned into it, his eyes closed. Blindly, he reached out to brush his fingertips up Ben’s thigh to the cleft of his buttocks. Ben flinched.

“You are ticklish,” Hux said, fond.

Ben frowned down at him, but there was no malice in it. He tugged softly at Hux’s ear. “Don’t you dare tell anyone.”

Hux kissed his belly. “I promise not to. Now come here.” He steered Ben by the hips until he came to kneel on the mattress. Hux slid back to make space for him, lying across the duvet. Ben sprawled out on his side, and they faced each other.

“What happens now?” he asked, trailing a finger down the length of Hux’s arm.

Hux caught his hand and pressed his lips to the palm. “Any number of things. We needn’t rush into anything.”

Ben looked down over of Hux’s body and back up to his eyes. “You still want me to…” He trailed off, averting his gaze.

“Fuck me?” Hux finished for him.

Ben turned a vibrant shade of red.

Smiling, Hux chucked him under the chin. “Yes, I still want that. Is it what you want?”

“Yes,” said Ben.

“Then that’s what happens now.” Sitting up, Hux reached over Ben to take the lubricant from the table. Ben watched him attentively as he lay back down with the tube in his hand. As Hux unscrewed the top, he asked, “You remember what I did before?”

Ben nodded, his flush just beginning to fade. “Your fingers.”

“That’s how you start,” Hux continued, holding them up. “I must be loose before I can take you. I’ll show you how it’s done, but you can try if you like.”

Ben mumbled a shy, “Okay.”

Hux was utterly charmed by his mix of curiosity and embarrassment. He remembered being taught all this the first time, but was certain he had not been quite as abashed. Perhaps a little more passion was called for before Hux gave him a lesson.

Sliding over, he kissed him, plying his mouth open and taking his time exploring the inside. Ben responded readily, tugging Hux to him until Hux could feel him hardening. His own arousal was apparent, his cock swelling. He moved his hand between them to wrap around Ben.

“You’re going to feel so good inside me,” he said, stroking. “I’ve been thinking of little else. I was in my bed just last night with my fingers there, wishing it was you.” Ben gasped against Hux’s neck, where he had tucked his head. “Do you come with my name on your lips, as I do yours?”

“Every night,” Ben murmured. “Every night. Hux.” He pushed his cock into Hux’s hand as if to mimic what he did to himself.

Hux inhaled the clean scent of his hair. “Darling boy,” he breathed into the soft strands. Ben’s hold on him tightened, his body trembling. Hux let him cling for a time, memorizing the way his larger body covered his own, enveloping him. He still held Ben’s cock, but didn’t move his hand; he didn’t want this to end before he had gotten Ben inside him.

Hux said his name gently. “There’s more to do. Unless you’d rather just rest.” Ben lifted his head. He looked drowsy, eyes glazed and lids half-closed. Hux asked, “Are you too tired?”

“No,” Ben replied, coming more awake. “No. I want you.”

Hux kissed his lips, saying, “All right,” before he drew away and took up the lubricant again. Ben remained on his side, observing, as Hux squeezed a generous portion of the gel onto the forefingers of his right hand. It was cool, but warmed as he smoothed it around.

“You didn’t have that before,” Ben said. “In the hangar. Is it better with it?”

“Yes,” said Hux. “And taking you would be impossible without.” He shot a pointed glance at Ben’s cock. Ben followed his gaze, concern in his expression. Hux reassured him: “With this, it will be perfect.”

Lying back against the pillows at the head of the bed, Hux spread his legs and moved his wet fingers to his entrance. He circled them there, teasing himself, as he liked. “You can come here and watch,” he said to Ben, who was craning his neck to see, his lips slightly parted.

With only a brief hesitation, Ben scooted down until he was positioned between Hux’s legs, his view now unhindered. Arousal rushed through Hux. He had never put himself on such blatant display before, and he found that it affected him strongly. Taking a shaky breath, he eased the tip of his pointer finger inside. The lubricant made for an easy slide as he began to move it in and out to massage the muscles until they relaxed.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Ben he had fucked his fingers for the past few nights. He had wanted to go to Ben without having to spend an inordinate amount of time opening himself up, after years of going untouched. He had taken three last night, working them wide and fast as he bit down on his pillow to keep from crying out. Like a teenager, he had only had to press his cock against the bed below him to climax. He had made a mess of his sheets, and had slept on a towel to avoid changing them. He had been too spent to put in the effort, and could only imagine what it would be like in the aftermath of being with Ben. The thought made him moan now, sprawled out on the hotel bed.

“It’s good?” Ben asked him, hushed, as he wrapped his hand around Hux’s ankle.

“Very,” Hux replied. “And better in just—ah.” He sighed as he pushed the second finger in and spread them both. “There.”

Ben’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Amazing.”

For his benefit, Hux drew the fingers out just as far as the rim and opened them there to show himself off. He could feel Ben’s hand twitch on his ankle.

“Do you want to try it?” Hux said.

Ben swallowed visibly, but nodded.

“Kneel just here,” Hux instructed, patting the space between his knees. Ben obeyed, crawling up and sitting back on his heels. Hux gestured to the tube of lubricant with his free hand. Ben took it and squeezed out a little too much. It made no matter, though; he would need it when he gave Hux three fingers.

“Just one first?” Ben asked.

“Two,” Hux replied. He watched, rapt, as Ben laid the pads of his fingers at his entrance. He encouraged him: “Go on. It’s all right.”

Slowly, Ben slid into him, his mouth falling open as he felt the silky heat inside. “Goddamn,” he whispered.

Hux, smiling, let his head fall back against the headboard of the bed. Ben’s fingers were larger than his own and stretched him well. Once he had gotten all the way up to the knuckle, Ben stilled.

“What—”

“Pull them out and then push them back in,” Hux said. “No need to be gentle.”

Ben looked uncertain, but did was he was told.

“Faster,” Hux continued, voice tight with pleasure. “And you can spread them apart. I have to be wide for you.” He arched into it, gasping, as Ben scissored his fingers open.

Ben immediately snapped them back together. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no. It’s good, Ben. Do it again.”

Hux contained his reaction this time, to keep Ben from stopping short. He gave a few instructions, all of which were followed. By the time Ben was fucking him steadily, he was hard and panting.

“I need the third finger now,” he said. “Just take the others out and then…” He didn’t even finish; Ben was already pushing into him again. “Oh, God.”

His heels were digging into the mattress, his legs beginning to shake with the effort of holding still, when all he wanted to do was get onto his knees and let Ben take him. But that wasn’t the right place to start. He wanted to see Ben’s face as he slipped into him for the first time, watch his expression as he came into his body.

Ben was more confident now, opening his fingers and Hux with them. Hux fisted his hands in the duvet, telling him, “That’s right. Oh, yes, just like that.” Unable to bear it any longer, he took his cock in hand and started stroking himself. Pleasure coiled deep in his belly, building up to the breaking point in little more than seconds.

“I’m going to come like this,” he gasped. “I have to...go first. It will be better for you if I do. Just keep going. Yes .” He twisted his grip on his cock as Ben pushed into him, and, with a deep groan, went over the edge. He spattered his chest with his release, the fluid hot on his skin.

The first thing that came back into focus when his vision cleared was Ben. There was color in his face again, but not from embarrassment. He was staring at Hux fixedly even as he continued to work his fingers into and out of him.

“Enough,” Hux said, catching his wrist. “I’m ready. Just let me get cleaned up.” There was no towel to be had, so he pulled one of the cases off of a spare pillow and wiped his chest. He was lax with pleasure, never more ready to take Ben. Picking up the lubricant, he pushed it into Ben’s hand. “Slick yourself,” he said.

Ben anointed his fingers before wrapping them around his cock and spreading the lubricant over it. As he set the tube aside, he blinked at Hux, waiting.

“Come here,” Hux said, holding his arms open. “Lie down on top of me.”

Ben eased himself down until he was stretched out over Hux, bracing his weight on his hands on either side of Hux’s head. “Like this?”

“Just like that.” Hux rose up to kiss him, moving his hand between them to grasp Ben’s cock as he did. “I’m going to guide you, but when I say, push.”

“Okay,” Ben said, eyes darting nervously.

“Look at me,” said Hux. “Right at me.” Raising his legs, he brought them around Ben’s backside and lined Ben’s cock up to enter him. When he felt the blunt tip against his rim, he said, “Push.”

Ben rolled his hips, and he slid into Hux’s body. “Oh. Oh my God,” he stammered.

Hux had to clench his teeth against the stretch—Ben was not a small man—but he clutched at Ben’s back and told him, “Deeper. Let me have all of you.”

The sounds Ben made were almost pained, but he continued to move until the hair at the base of his cock was pressed against Hux’s ass. He paused there, breathing raggedly.

“You’re all right,” Hux said, soothing. “Is that good?”

Ben dropped his head, hair falling around his face. “There’s no...no words.”

Hux, full of him, brushed the dark hair back. “Then don’t speak. Just move.”

Surrendering, Ben began to draw his cock out. Hux groaned at the drag of it, though the sound was cut sharply off as Ben drove back in. There was a flash of pain, but it faded swiftly into pleasure. There was so much to be had, and Hux reveled in it. He was split open and laid bare, hanging onto Ben desperately as he started to thrust in earnest.

The bed, thankfully, did not creak as he worked, pinning Hux under his substantial weight and fucking him with a virgin’s unselfconscious abandon. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, both crude and erotic.

“Kiss me,” Hux said.

Ben did, wetly, around his grunts of satisfaction. Hux devoured him, biting his lips and sucking on his tongue. It was messy and demanding and utterly perfect.

“Hux, I’m so close,” Ben ground out. “I’m so—ah!” He gave a last, powerful thrust and came with a shout. His body remained taut and trembling for a moment, but then he collapsed, boneless, onto Hux.

With tender hands, Hux rubbed his back until his heartbeat had slowed. When his ribs were starting to ache with Ben’s bulk, he whispered, “Ben, I can’t breathe.”

“Huh?” Ben said, bleary. “Oh. Sorry.” He rolled off of Hux, withdrawing from him as he did, leaving him empty.

They lay side by side for a few breaths, recovering, before Hux turned to kiss his shoulder. “I’ll go fetch a towel.”

There was a wetness between his thighs as he walked into the lavatory. He wiped it away with the cold cloth from the sink, but warmed the water before taking the cloth back out to Ben. He cleaned the lubricant off of him, careful not to be too rough. Ben watched him as he did it, unspeaking. Hux didn’t press him, just finished cleaning him up. He turned to go back to the lavatory to leave the cloth, but Ben latched onto his wrist.

“Come here,” he said, quiet. “Please.”

Hux tossed the cloth onto the discarded pillowcase and crawled back into bed. Ben folded him immediately into his arms, peppering his face with light kisses. Hux let him do as he pleased, simply enjoying his touch.

“Did I do okay?” Ben asked, after a while.

“Mm, better than that,” Hux replied sleepily. “A truly good lay.” Ben had finished quickly, but that was to be expected his first time. By the end of the next two nights, his stamina would increase.

Ben tipped his head down to meet Hux’s eyes. “I’m a ‘lay?’”

Hux huffed a laugh. “Never heard that, have you? Just a saying for what we did. There are more than I can count, I’m sure.”

“So, it’s not called sex?” said Ben, thumbing Hux’s nipple idly. “Or is that just with women?”

“No, it’s sex,” Hux said. “And lying together. And making love.”

Ben tapped Hux’s collarbone, which made a hollow sound. “Making love,” he mused. “That sounds like something out of one of the novels my mom used to read.”

“It’s a rather romantic term,” said Hux. He cocked a brow. “Did you read those novels, too?”

Ben screwed up his face. “One. That was all I needed to see.”

“I had much the same experience with my own mother’s favorite literature,” Hux chuckled. “I lost interest at the heaving bosoms, I have to admit.”

Ben snorted. “Yeah, I think I like this better.” He nuzzled Hux’s flat chest.

Hux slid his fingers into Ben’s hair as he kissed a trail up to Hux’s chin. He nipped there, making Hux smile.

“You have an exquisite form, you know,” Hux said. “After I saw you in the showers that first time, it was rather difficult to get out of my head.”

“You have no idea,” Ben sighed, propping his head up on his hand as he lay beside Hux. “It was like you were burned into the backs of my eyelids. After you left, I had to…”

Hux swatted Ben’s shoulder, scandalized. “In the showers?”

Ben had the good sense to look contrite. “No one else was there.”

“But anyone could have walked in,” said Hux, shaking his head. Even as a boy in school, he had never masturbated in the open — not that he hadn’t wanted to. The bodies of young boys often betrayed them at the most inconvenient times.

Ben shrugged. “They’ve probably seen worse.”

“God only knows,” Hux said. Reaching out, he rested his hand over Ben’s belly, his thumb dipping into his navel. “You asked before why I wanted you. May I ask the same?”

Ben shifted, moving his knees to where they could meet Hux’s. Pulling him with his foot, Hux drew his leg between his own, tangling them together.

“Well,” Ben started, timidly, “it’s a lot of things, I guess. At first it was just because you’re beautiful. I thought so from the minute I saw you. Red and pale and...graceful? Especially when you dance.” He set a hand on Hux’s thigh, caressing. “I stared at you that whole night at the assembly hall.”

“I know,” said Hux. “I could feel it. And I was...putting on a bit of a show for you.”

Ben smiled, slow and pleased. “You were? I really like knowing that, that you wanted me to see you. I wanted you to see me, too.” He reached Hux’s hip, tracing the crest of the bone. “I don’t mind if people don’t pay attention to me, but not you. I needed you to see me, and you did, when I flew.”

Hux moved his hand from Ben’s belly to his sternum. “You are stunning when you fly. I couldn’t ignore you even if I had wanted to, which I didn’t.” He kissed Ben’s nose. “Is that all, then? You want me because I’m pretty?”

“No,” Ben said, almost sullen. “Of course not. It’s...everything: how you walk, the way you move your hands when you get angry, the way you told me off when I didn’t listen to you.”

“Hardly,” Hux muttered.

Ben laid a finger over his lips to quiet him. “It’s your voice, too, and the way you lead us. Your flying, your courage. There isn’t a thing about you I don’t want.”

Hux opened his mouth and brushed his tongue against Ben’s finger. “And you can have it,” he said. There was very little, he realized, that he would not give Ben, if he asked for it.

“Then…” Ben paused, looking down. “Then can we...again...?”

Hux, affection burning in his chest, said, “Yes,” and then he pulled Ben to him again.

The 363 assembled outside the Eagle Club the next morning at ten o’clock. Hux and Ben weren’t the first to arrive, instead meeting Poe, Meltsa, and Shorty on the pavement.

“Morning, sir,” said Poe, with a grin. “Ben. You both get some rest last night?”

“I did, yes,” Hux answered. He shot a look at Ben. “And you?”

Ben nodded, without meeting Hux’s eyes. “Yeah, it was fine.”

They had indeed slept, but it was after one o’clock in the morning when they had finally stopped talking. Hux had woken first, at six o’clock by habit, a little sweaty and tangled up in the sheets. The duvet had long since been cast aside. Curled around each other, they hadn’t needed it.

Having to piss, Hux had managed to slip from Ben’s embrace, get to the lavatory, and get back without waking him. He was snoring lightly, his mouth open and hair covering his brow. Hux lay beside him and watched him sleep for a time, until he himself was able to drift off again.

When he was awakened next, it was to Ben touching his face, saying his name quietly.

“Good morning,” he said, voice rough from sleep.

“Hi,” said Ben. His brown eyes were clear and bright, and Hux assumed he had been awake for a while. “Sorry to wake you up, but it’s nine. We have to get going soon.”

Hux groaned, stretching his legs out and bowing his back. A few of the vertebrae cracked pleasantly. “Yes, I suppose we must.” Laying his fingers on Ben’s chest, he added, “Unless I can convince you to stay in bed with me all day.”

Ben shook his head. “I want to see London, and so do the others. But…” He slipped his hand beneath the sheets to curl around Hux’s morning erection. “It won’t take us a full hour to get ready.”

Hux had all but tackled him.

When they were showered and shaved, they stopped by the breakfast room in the hotel to pick up something to eat. Bail, the innkeeper, brought them toast and eggs, which they devoured before heading back up the street to the club.

“Where are we going to start today, sir?” Shorty asked, bringing Hux back to present. “There’s so much to see. I don’t have the first clue about how to get a real tour.”

“Well,” Hux replied, “I thought we could go first to Buckingham Palace. It’s only a short walk. Twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Is that where the king lives?” said Meltsa, eager.

Hux said, “It is, when he’s in residence.” There was no way to know if that was the case at the present moment, but it wasn’t as if they would be calling on him. They would likely pass by the gates, perhaps watch the changing of the guard, and then be off to their next destination.

The Eagle Club was well-placed in the city, within just a few minutes’ walk of the Palace of Westminster, the banks of the Thames, Trafalgar Square, and the numerous clubs of Soho, where they could dance the night away. They could venture farther afield, of course, but Hux reckoned that drink and good company were the greatest allures of leave in town.

“And what’s after the palace?” Poe pressed.

“Another one, of sorts,” Hux said. “The Palace of Westminster, where the Houses of Parliament convene. It’s quite impressive and shouldn’t be missed. That’s where you’ll hear the ringing of Big Ben.”

Poe whistled through his teeth. “I was hoping we’d see that. I’ve only looked at pictures in books from home. Is it real loud?”

“If you stand close, yes.”

Shorty smiled toothily. “I can’t wait, sir.” He glanced down the pavement. “Hey look, here comes Lewis and Brewster.” He called to them, “Figured you two would be late.”

Lewis made a face at him. “It’s not even ten yet, Putnam. Fuck off.”

The others laughed.

The rest of the squadron trickled in over the next few minutes, until all twelve of them, and Hux, were standing outside. Several puffed away at cigarettes, Ben included, but Hux held off, instead clapping his hands to get their attention. He told them, in brief, what he had planned in terms of an excursion: they would spend the day sightseeing, with him as their guide, even taking an afternoon cruise up the Thames from Westminster to the Tower of London. By evening, they would find somewhere to have dinner before venturing out to the clubs. Hux expected he wouldn’t see the inside of his hotel room until after two or three o’clock in the morning.

“Shall we, then?” he asked when he was finished. The replies he got were enthusiastic, so he led them all off toward Buckingham Palace.

He was peppered with questions there and after, as they walked through Trafalgar Square. They didn’t go into the National Gallery, but stopped outside to appreciate the edifice. There was a man with a stall selling postcards nearby, where Wexley and Taylor stopped to buy a few to send to their families. Gilbert offered his back for them to write on as they quickly scrawled out their messages before dropping the cards into a postbox.

They almost got struck by a car or two as they ran across the road, but just managed to do so unscathed. They laughed about it all the way down to the Horse Guards Parade. They ducked into a small café for lunch around one o’clock, nearly overwhelming the proprietor with their orders, given in rapid American English. The man could barely keep track of them all, but they managed to get served both food and beer.

They arrived at Westminster just in time to hear the bells toll two. Hux spent some time explaining how Parliament operated, and got a lesson in the three branches of the American government in exchange. He found it all rather quaint.

A few minutes later, they were to meet with their boat to take them up the river. The Mills brothers told Hux that they had never been on a boat before the one they took to get to England. Arizona, it seemed, was not the kind of place for sailing. They leaned on the gunwales of the small riverboat and looked out over the brown water, chattering excitedly and pointing. Strickland was a bit more subdued, even green around the gills. He had apparently been quite sick throughout the journey from Canada to England, and was not relishing another cruise on the water.

“It’s much calmer,” Hux told him by way of consolation. “But you don’t have to come along if you’d rather not toss your lunch over the side.”

Strickland shrugged. “I’d rather go. I don’t want to miss anything.”

Crowe, Gilbert, and Shea went up to the prow to look out over the river. It was busy, as always, with both pleasure vessels and shipping boats. Hux was pleased to see that the rest of the Eagles, too, seemed taken with the Thames. It wasn’t the most beautiful river, perhaps, but Hux liked they were as delighted by a float along it as he was.

As the boat chugged along, Hux took up a place on the rail and lit a cigarette. It was standard-issue, but while he was here in town, he would have to find a tobacconist and buy something better. He would have much preferred a smoother smoke.

“How’s it going, sir?” said Poe, appearing at Hux’s side. He leaned his elbows on the rail, lacing his fingers together. “Enjoying the day?”

“I am,” Hux said, honest. “I’m fond of London. How do you find it?”

Poe glanced out over the cityscape on the bank of the river. “Big. It just keeps going on forever, seems like. I used to think Portland was big, but this is something else. I don’t know if I could live someplace where I knew I wouldn’t ever see all of it.”

Hux blew out a stream of smoke. It caught on the wind and swirled away. “And you could do that in your town.”

“Sure could,” Poe said. “There are three stoplights in all of Jakku, Oregon. You don’t even need a map to get around.”

“Do you miss that?” Hux asked.

Poe tipped his head to the side, contemplating. “I guess so. I probably would’ve just ended up working on a farm, though, if I’d have stayed. Not saying there’s anything the matter with that, it’s just...better doing this over here.”

“And would you go back there from here?” said Hux, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Or go somewhere else?” He paused, but then added, “Or stay.”

“Huh,” Poe said. “I hadn’t thought much about it, really. I guess if I’ve seen what I’ve seen here, there’s no way I could ever just go back to Jakku. But I don’t think I’d stay. Meaning no offense, of course.”

Hux waved a hand. “None taken. You have no obligation either to like or to want to remain in England. I only wondered.”

“Ben’s talked about it before.”

Hux glanced sharply up, dropping the butt of his cigarette. “What?”

“Ben’s talked about staying in England,” said Poe. “After the war, I mean. We got to talking about going home once, and he said he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t. Said he’s got nothing there for him.”

Hux’s heart stuttered. They had only spoken once about what might happen after the war, and Ben had said then that he wanted to buy an airplane of his own. Hux had assumed that meant back in California. Ben had never said anything to him about staying on after the fighting was over.

“He has family there,” Hux managed to say. “That’s something.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he’s close to ‘em. Never really writes or talks about ‘em.” Poe turned to Hux. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone up and left their family for wanting something more.”

Hux felt the heat rising in his face and fumbled for another cigarette to hide it. “Well, he is a gifted pilot,” he said around the smoke, as he struck a match. “It’s not unthinkable that he would want to stay here to fly.”

Poe regarded Hux steadily. “There’s that, but maybe there’s something else, too.”

Hux’s hand shook as he ashed the cigarette. He said, purposefully obtuse, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Poe sucked his teeth, but then shrugged one shoulder. “Not sure I do, either. Kid isn’t really forthcoming. He just said he might like to stay. Never gave a real reason. Maybe he just likes it here.” He winced. “Not that that’s hard to do.”

“You really won’t offend me if you don’t care for the English weather, Poe,” Hux said, taking the opportunity to shift the conversation. “I’m sure it’s more favorable in Oregon.”

“Well,” Poe began, taking a breath. “There was this one time…”

For the next few minutes, Hux listened to a story about a winter storm in a forest where Poe and his friends had been camping as youngsters. It was quite a harrowing tale, really, and Hux was intrigued. He was also glad to put the previous topic aside. As a fighter pilot, he wasn’t accustomed to thinking much further ahead than the next sortie. He could very well die in it, and it didn’t do well to lay plans that would never come to fruition.

“And that,” Poe said in conclusion, “is how we started calling ourselves the Mountaineers.” He wagged his eyebrows. “We even had a motto and everything: ‘To the peaks.’”

“And yet you weren’t even in the mountains,” said Hux.

Poe laughed. “Nope. Not even close. But that hill sure was a doozy.”

“You know,” said Hux, “we don’t have a motto of our own. The squadron, I mean. It’s tradition to choose one when a new squadron is formed. We haven’t done that yet.”

“Is that so?” Poe said. “Well, we’d better get on it. You have any ideas?”

Hux rubbed his knuckles under his chin. “Not many, but my old squadron’s was ‘To the hunt.’”

“Hm. Not sure how I feel about that one.”

“It suited them,” Hux said, “but not us. We require something more tailored to the nature of our squadron.”

Poe lifted his brows. “How do you mean?”

“Something that captures that we’re Eagles. Something with, well, an American flavor.”

“There are a whole lot of flavors in America, sir,” said Poe. “If you mean foods, of course.”

Hux shot him a sidelong glance. “I don’t mean foods, no. It should simply be something that represents us well.”

A particular anecdote Bill Taylor had added during their earlier conversation about the government of the United States came to mind. He had told the story of the cracked Liberty Bell, and as Hux was well aware, their Revolutionary War had been fought to liberate them from English rule.

“It should include ‘liberty,’” he said.

“Hey, I like that,” said Poe. “But I can’t just be that, right? There’s gotta be something else to fancy it up?”

“I suppose we could put it in Latin,” Hux said, “if you want it to be ‘fancy.’ It would be libertas.”

Poe turned around, leaning back against the gunwale. “Seems like it’s missing something, though. What about something with ‘bravery’ in it?” He lifted his chin. “I mean, we are brave.”

“No one doubts that,” said Hux. “We could, perhaps, do that. Maybe ‘together, brave?’”

“Not bad, but it’s still not quite right. Maybe something more like ‘bold?’”

Hux suggested, “‘Valorous?’”

“Oh, that’s a good one. ‘Valorous and brave?’” Poe bit his lip. “That sounds like we think pretty highly of ourselves, though. We might want to tone that down a little.”

Hux nodded. “Very well. If not ‘valorous,’ perhaps simply ‘valor?’” He paused and translated: “Virtus et libertas. ‘Valor and liberty.’”

Poe grinned. “I think that’s it, sir.”

“We’ll ask the others to approve,” said Hux. He didn’t expect many objections, but it was possible one of them was more of a poet than he was, and could provide them with something better.

The wind was coming up by the time they docked back near Westminster, and Hux was looking forward to a warm pub and a pint. He had no particular favorite in the area, so he picked the nearest and led the Eagles inside. They got a few curious looks from the patrons, but when their uniforms were recognized, they were welcomed. Hux took up a seat at the center of the room and, for the next two hours, drank and exchanged stories with his men.

His head was swimming agreeably, his steps just a little unsteady, as they left the pub to walk the mile or so to Soho. Shorty was in the worst shape by far, leaning on Meltsa and Taylor after a round of whiskey shots to which Brewster Mills had challenged him. Hux had told him very sternly not to be sick on the dancefloor at the Abernathy, where they were bound. He had gotten a sloppy salute in acknowledgement.

The music could be heard from outside the club as they arrived, heavy on the brass and drums, and perfect for dancing. A doorman in a smart tuxedo held the door for them. The floor inside was wide and not yet full, but there were several couples taking advantage of the open space to really perform. One man threw his partner over his shoulder, sending her skirts flying. Another pair was spinning around each other, stepping in and out to the lively beat. Hux got a good look at a few of the young women lingering near the bar looking for partners. The Eagles were outnumbered, which suited Hux just fine. Happily drunk, he could dance for hours.

Shea and Taylor didn’t even bother to give a bar a look before setting off to find a partner. Lewis Mills and Strickland stopped to get a drink, taking up stools to survey the landscape. Hux passed them by, stopping in front of a young lady with a freckled face. She wore a pretty green dress and smiled when she set eyes on him.

“Good evening,” he said, holding out his hand. “Would you dance with me?”

She nodded and slipped her fingers into his palm. He led her onto the floor and spun her into his arms. She giggled brightly, falling into step with him. They didn’t exchange names or say much at all as they danced. Hux held her gaze when they were close, but as they were making their turns, he glanced out into the shadowed corners of the club until he alighted on Ben. He held a half-empty pint, and while it was difficult to see him in the darkness, Hux knew he was watching him; it drove him harder into the performance.

When the song came to an end, Hux thanked the girl and sent her on her way. He didn’t hesitate to find another and draw her out. He removed his jacket about a half hour in, hanging it on a chair nearby where Ben was still lurking. Hux had prowled up to him from across the floor, unbuttoning the jacket as he went. He slid it over his shoulders when he stopped a pace away. Ben’s free hand curled into a fist at his side.

“You should dance,” Hux said, tossing the jacket aside. “There are ladies who need a partner.”

“I don’t want them,” said Ben, sharp.

Hux tugged his tie loose. The five pints from the pub were still humming through his veins, so he stepped close. “Play the part. Pretend.” When Ben scowled, he said, softer, “Let them teach you the steps, but in the end you’re still with me.”

Ben’s eyes flicked down and away. Reaching out, Hux took his beer from him and set it down on the table. He tipped his head toward the dancefloor, and, thankfully, Ben followed.

Hux spotted the first girl he had danced with; she was speaking to another young lady in a brown skirt and blue top. He put on his warmest smile and approached them.

“Well, hello again,” the girl in green said. She looked Ben up and down. “Brought a friend with you?”

“I was hoping you might be able to teach him a few things,” said Hux. “He’s American, and new to dancing.”

Her brows rose, but she recovered quickly, extending her hand toward Ben. “It’d be my pleasure. What’s your name, love?”

Ben took her hand and told her, “Benjamin.”

Hux shot a look at him. He didn’t generally use his full name.

The girl grinned. “My favorite name. Come along, then, Benjamin. Let’s see what you can do.”

Hux watched her lead him onto the floor and take up a basic position. He looked distinctly unsure as he adjusted her hands in his, but she started him just as slowly as Hux had at the dance in Wolcastle all those weeks ago. They had been all but strangers then, not yet aware of what was to come.

“Shall we dance, then, too?” said the second girl, the one in the brown skirt, pulling his attention back to her.

Hux nodded. “Of course.”

As they swung around the floor, he kept his eye on Ben and his partner. Ben seemed to remember the basics of the steps and from there caught his stride. He had managed to take the dance up to full tempo after a few songs. When he stumbled once, Hux saw the girl laugh and Ben smile. Put at ease by it, Hux focused on his own partner.

When the band paused for a break, the Eagles converged on the bar for refreshment. Hux, at Brewster’s request, drank a shot of whiskey before he started in on his next pint. He savored the biting taste of it, letting it slide down into his stomach. Beer in hand, he made his way over to a table. He leaned on it and sipped contentedly, thinking ahead to the next day.

He had no particular agenda, but he had decided to turn the Eagles loose on the city. They would be their own masters, leaving him to find a way to occupy himself. He could see a film or go to the theater, but neither appealed to him. Despite the allure, he wasn’t willing to hold Ben captive in their hotel room, either. There was the option to take the train to Surrey to visit his parents, but seeing as they had no warning of his coming, they would likely be otherwise engaged. For a city as big as London, he should have been able to find something suitable, and yet... He took a long drink of his beer as his gaze wandered to his discarded jacket. Seeing the wings above the heart, an idea formed in his mind.

Scanning the room, he found Ben at a table with Norman Crowe and Wexley. Taking his drink, he went to join them.

“Hey, sir,” said Crowe. “Hell of a party in here.”

“Indeed,” Hux said, taking up the chair beside Ben. Almost immediately, he felt the press of Ben’s thigh against his. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”

Wexley’s reply was slightly slurred. “Sure are, Hux. Sir.”

Hux held up his glass to toast them. As Norman raised his, it proved to be empty. He cursed and said, “Best get a new one. You boys want something else?”

“Another pint of the ale,” Wexley insisted.

Norman eyed him. “You’ll get it only if you can walk up to the bar. Fall down on the way and you don’t get a thing.”

Wexley pouted, but got to his feet and wove his way after Norman toward the bar. Hux watched them go, but when he felt the weight of Ben’s hand on his knee under the table, he turned.

“Hello,” he said, laying his own hand over Ben’s.

Ben flipped his hand so he could thread their fingers together. “Hi.”

Hux said, “I want to take you somewhere tomorrow.”

“Where?” Ben asked, cocking a brow.

“Bentley Priory, where Fighter Command is headquartered. It’s a rather remarkable place. An old estate turned air force installation. I’d like you to see it.”

“Just me?” Ben said.

“Yes. It would just be us.” He squeezed Ben’s hand. “If that’s all right with you.”

“I’d go anywhere with you,” Ben said. Hux’s chest constricted. “What can we see there? Just the buildings, or can we go in?”

“I’m not sure,” said Hux. “We can enter the grounds, of course, but if we don’t have express permission to be there, I’m not sure we can just drop in on the staff and ask for a tour.”

That might make the trip a bit of a waste, he thought, but they might be able to talk their way into the main building. He would have called ahead had he thought of it earlier, but he no longer knew anyone stationed there. They would just have to go and try their luck.

“I’d like that,” said Ben.

Hux smiled. “As would I.”

Beneath the table, they stayed joined, holding on tightly until Norman and Wexley reappeared with fresh pints for both of them. They clinked glasses and drank.

By two o’clock in the morning, Hux was well into his cups. His undershirt was damp with sweat, and his hair was disordered, but he kept dancing until the crowd in the club began to thin out. The girls with whom he and Ben had danced earlier gave him a last wave as they left, jackets around their shoulders. The bedraggled 363 was gathered in a corner, strewn between tables and walls and chairs, nursing their drinks. Only Poe and Hux were still on the floor, enjoying the last few dances before the band finished for the night.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the band leader at last, “thank you for joining us this evening. We’re going to play one last number. This is Mr. Benny Goodman’s ‘Sing, Sing, Sing.’” Picking up his trombone, he signalled the drummer to tap out the beat.

Hux’s last partner, a stocky girl about half his height, begged off, leaving him in search of someone else. Unfortunately, the others were already paired off and beginning to move with the music. Hux shot a look at Poe, who was similarly bereft. He was about to resign himself to sitting this last one out, but then Poe jogged over to him and, grinning, offered his hand.

“How about it, sir?” he asked, bending at the waist for dramatic effect. “I can follow.”

Hux stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’re bloody drunk,” he managed to say.

Poe lifted his brows, making a come-hither gesture. “Sure am, so come on and dance with me.”

“Go on, sir!” called an equally inebriated Lewis Mills from the Eagles’ corner. “Make him look like the fool he is.” A few other whoops of support were made.

Hux wet his lips, fearful, but at yet another catcall from his men, he gave in and put his hand in Poe’s.

Poe tugged him in, saying, “I’ll follow your lead, sir.”

“God preserve me,” Hux muttered, and then he swung into the step. The Eagles cheered.

Poe was very light on his feet and could indeed follow quite well. He spun out and shimmied when it was called for, ducking lithely under Hux’s arm for the turns. In solidarity, Gilbert dragged a wobbly Shorty out onto the floor with them. They were not half as graceful as Hux and Poe, more than once cursing at each other when they stepped on each other’s feet, but they managed. Meltsa and Taylor followed, but refused to hold hands, doing only the steps. The rest of the squadron howled their approval, clapping and stomping their feet. Caught up in the complete outrageousness of it all, Hux laughed. Poe did, too, as they triple-stepped in time.

He was just coming around for another turn when he nearly collided with Ben. Both he and Hux ground to a stop, turning to him. Poe gave him a curious look, but then began to smile.

“He’s all yours, Solo,” he said, backing off and leaving Hux standing across from Ben.

The cymbals crashed along with the rolling beats of the drums as Hux took Ben’s hands in his.

“I can only lead,” Ben said.

Hux gave a curt nod. “I know. Count it off.”

In three beats they were off. Ben had come a long way in one night, and while the pattern was still simple, he had a strong lead, carrying Hux along with him. The room around them whirled dizzyingly, but Hux was grounded in Ben, moving into and away from him as they danced. Ben raised his arm and turned Hux under it, catching him by the waist. Hux put his weight into it, swinging them both around until they were face-to-face again. Ben was flushed and bright-eyed; a single drop of sweat rolled down his temple.

The music built up and up until it was just the drums again before a blast of brass, and then it ended. Hux and Ben came to a slow stop, but didn’t let go right away to join the applause. Hux looked into his face, studying the features. His gaze was drawn to his mouth, but he forced it back up.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said, falling back a step, “Benjamin.”

The corner of Ben’s mouth turned up. “Armitage.”

Together, they went to join the others, who were exchaging barbs about who was the better “girl” in their pairings. It was decided that Poe had the most grace, but when the topic of a leader came up, eyes turned to Ben. But he shook his head, and the conversation was steered elsewhere.

The barman finally had to turn them all out at two-thirty. In high spirits, they ambled back toward their hotels. Hux and Ben left them as they were singing their way down the street, waving and leaning on each other. When their voices had faded, Hux and Ben began their journey back to the Alderaan. There were only a few souls on the pavement with them, but too many to chance a touch.

They didn’t do much more than walk shoulder-to-shoulder until they got into their room. There, Hux pulled Ben to him and cupped his cheek.

“You were beautiful tonight,” he said.

Ben leaned into his touch. “So were you.”

Hux smiled into their kiss. It was meant to be brief, but it quickly became more. Soon enough, they were pulling at their clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor as they tumbled into bed.

“Hux.”

He heard his name through the fog of a half-dream, the edges blurry. He wanted to ignore it, but the voice was familiar and imploring. It came again: “Hux.”

“Hmm?” he mumbled, eyes still closed. Something soft pressed against the well of one and then the other.

“Wake up.”

Groaning in protest, he reached for the sheet and pulled it up over his muddled head. He heard a short laugh, and then felt a touch that sent a shiver of pleasure through him. Awareness slowly began to seep into his mind as the strokes of his cock grew more purposeful.

“Are you getting me up to get me up, Ben Solo?” he croaked.

Kisses on his face again.

“Are you telling me not to?” Ben said. He paused in his movement, leaving Hux in the lurch.

“Don’t stop,” Hux pled, pushing his hips into Ben’s grip. Another laugh, but the strokes resumed. “What time is it?”

“Seven,” said Ben.

Hux sighed, even though he was now fully erect and waking steadily as Ben squeezed the base of his cock. “We don’t have to catch the train until eleven.”

“I know, but…” Ben pressed close enough for Hux to feel that he was hard. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Heat spiked through Hux. “I see that.”

“Your eyes are closed.”

Opening them, Hux gave him a wry look. Ben was tucked under the sheet, too, his hair a mess around his head. His eyes were already dark with want.

“You’re very demanding,” Hux said, despite the fact that he was very swiftly warming to the idea of giving himself to Ben yet again.

Ben caressed Hux’s cock from root to tip, holding tightly enough to make Hux moan. “You don’t mind.”

Hux said, “No, I really don’t,” and kissed him hungrily.

The sheet was thrown aside as they fell into each other, running their hands over as much skin as could be reached, nipping and sucking at it, too. There were already several marks along Ben’s throat, but Hux left another at his shoulder, for good measure, before rolling onto his stomach.

When Ben gave him a look, he said, “On top of me.” He lifted his hips in invitation.

Ben picked up the lubricant, squeezed some onto his fingers, and slid them into Hux’s body. Hux, still sensitive from last night, grabbed the nearest pillow and wrapped his arms around it. Ben opened him carefully, until he had three wet fingers in up to the knuckle.

“Come on, then,” said Hux. “I’m ready.”

Ben withdrew, and though Hux couldn’t see it, he knew he was slicking himself up. “Are you sure about this?” Ben asked. “I’m going crush you.”

Hux scoffed. “You won’t. I like the weight.” It was more the feeling of being covered and fucked into the mattress, but he didn’t think that needed explaining. He opened his legs so Ben could kneel between them. “Get in, and then lie down.”

Ben seemed to waffle for a moment, but then Hux felt the tip of his cock against his entrance. He buried his face in the pillow as Ben pushed in. The long, slow drag was delicious.

“Down now,” said Hux, gentle.

Gingerly, Ben lay across Hux’s back, molding himself to him and bringing his cock deep. Hux took his left hand in his, moving them together until Ben was carrying the weight of his upper body on his elbow. The right hand Hux guided around his shoulder to his chest, until he could press the palm to his collarbone.

“Is that all right?” he asked. “Comfortable?”

“Mmhmm,” Ben hummed in reply. “Do I just move from here?”

Hux nodded, knowing Ben could feel it. “It’s not fast, but it’s deep. Do you feel it?”

Ben pressed his lips to Hux’s shoulder, biting down a little. “Yeah. You’re so warm, tight.” Feeling wicked, Hux clenched around him, making him hiss. “God, Hux.”

Hux released him, but shifted his hips to stimulate him. “Go on. Move.”

Letting his head fall beside Hux’s, Ben began to thrust. Hux’s eyes fluttered closed, his mouth opening. Ben ground his pelvis into the muscles of Hux’s ass as he worked, his testicles resting softly in the cleft, just above Hux’s.

They made little noise other than quiet exhalations of pleasure. Hux wove his fingers together with those of Ben’s left hand, holding it between his palms. The arm Ben had around his shoulders and neck drew up tight as he pulled Hux to him.

Hux didn’t stay hard with his cock crushed against the mattress, but he hardly cared. Just having Ben inside him was enough. Caught up in the sensations, he turned to seek Ben’s mouth. They kissed crookedly, the angle off, but it was right. Joined as they were, everything else in the world faded away.

“Hux,” Ben said after a time. “Can I lift you up?”

Half-dazed, Hux tried to process the request. “Onto my knees?” he asked.

“Yeah. That’s something you do, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then, can I—”

“Of course.”

Ben began to lift himself up and off, until he had drawn out of Hux completely. Taking Hux by the hips, he pulled him almost roughly up onto his knees. Hux bit his lip, his sleepy desire igniting to burn more potently. He braced himself on his hands, hungry to be filled again.

“I like you like this,” said Ben, running his fingertips down the swell of Hux’s buttock to the join of his thigh.

“Then have me,” Hux said, voice rough.

Ben made a low sound as he lined up again and began to slide in. Hux groaned, pushing back until they were flush.

“You can go hard,” he said. “Don’t hold back.”

“Okay,” Ben said on an inhale. As he breathed out, he thrust deep, making Hux cry out. This time he didn’t pause to ask if Hux was all right; he just pulled out and drove back in. Hux scrabbled for purchase in the sheet below them.

“Jesus God, yes,” he spat as Ben took him powerfully. There was no tentativeness now, only greed and avidity. Ben held him tight enough to bruise, making him shake with the intensity of it. “Ben, ah! More.”

With a grunt of effort, Ben sped his pace. Hux nearly lost his balance, crumpling down to support himself on his elbows out of necessity. The nails bit into his palms as he fisted his hands. His eyes began to water.

“Close,” Ben groaned. “So close, Hux. God, you feel so good. I can’t take it. Oh, yes.” With a final hard thrust, he spilled himself into Hux. Hux dropped his head to the mattress, gasping, as a fat tear rolled down his cheek. He wanted to collapse, but managed to hold himself up for a little longer.

He all but shouted when Ben pulled out of him and flipped him onto his back. He shoved Hux’s legs open and got between them. Hux didn’t have a moment to breathe before Ben had his cock in his mouth. He bowed up into it, burying his fingers in Ben’s hair and pulling. Unfazed, Ben took him deep into his throat. Hux gave a strangled moan, toes curling; it was almost too much, but he wasn’t about to demand Ben let up.

Ben was grasping at Hux’s inner thighs, pushing his legs farther apart. Hux could feel the stretch in the muscles, unused to being so splayed, but he gave gladly in to it. Every part of him was vibrating with need as he began to build up to his peak. Ben was working with dedication, taking him nearly all the way with each stroke. He barely resembled the uncertain boy in the hangar.

“That’s right, yes,” Hux said. “You’re brilliant, Ben. Just a little longer.” He looked down over his stomach to watch as Ben swallowed him down. The sight of it drove him over the edge. Barking a cry, he climaxed, filling Ben’s mouth. Ben took it all, neatly.

Hux lay there in the aftermath, astounded. Ben remained where he was, petting Hux’s calves and lightly kissing his thighs. When Hux could finally think again, he extended his hand toward him.

“Come here,” he said.

Catlike, Ben crept up the length of him, until he was hovering above. Hux brushed the dangling hair out of his face and kissed him, tasting his own release. They were both covered in sweat, and Ben’s arms were starting to tremble.

“Lie down,” Hux said, touching the place on the bed beside him. “Here, next to me.”

Ben flopped onto his back, expelling a breath as he rested his hands on his chest. Hux mirrored him, both of them staring up at the ceiling. Hux could feel soreness coming on now. He hoped he could avoid limping as they traveled to Bentley Priory.

“I think I’d like to have a shower,” he said. “Will you join me?”

“I don’t think I’ll fit in there with you,” Ben replied. “You go.”

Hux did as he was bid and rolled up to the edge of the bed. He took a few seconds to collect himself before rising. He winced at his first step forward, but managed to recover for the next few. In the lavatory, he ran the water until it was warm, and then stepped under it. Unhurried, he washed himself, making sure to be gentle where he was tender. His skin was pinkened by the time he stepped back out onto the bathmat, and the mirror over the sink was fogged. He wiped it with a towel so he could shave.

When he came back out, Ben was curled up on his side, sleeping. Hux left him there as he dressed and put on his shoes. It was just a little past eight o’clock, and they had ample time before they needed to make their way to the Northern Line of the Underground. Slipping out quietly, Hux closed the door to the room and went down to find some breakfast.

Bail served him a full meal of toast, beans, and sausages. He drank tea on the side, tarrying by the hearth to watch the crackling fire, until the clock on the mantel read nine thirty. Thanking Bail for the meal, he returned to his room.

The bed was empty when he entered, and he could hear the shower running. Absently, he sat in the straight-backed chair by the wall and picked up his book. It wasn’t long before Ben came out of the lavatory, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair dripping. He made straight for Hux and kissed him.

“Sorry I fell asleep again,” he said as he dressed. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine,” said Hux. “You clearly needed the rest.” He shifted in his seat, feeling a twinge of pain in his backside. He grimaced.

Ben’s brows knit. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You didn’t. I’m all right.”

Ben eyed him skeptically for moment, but finished getting ready. They went down to the dining room again, and Hux took another cup of tea while Ben ate.

The Northern Line of the Underground wasn’t actually underground, but it was a part of the system that ran through the city and its environs. They purchased their tickets outside the station before boarding and choosing seats. Ben watched out the window as they left London proper and started out toward Bentley Priory.

The trip took just under an hour, but from Edgware Station, they had to catch the bus. The rest of the trip took only thirty minutes. They walked the last leg of it, up to the gates of the compound. A lanky man in uniform was sitting in a hut there, and came out to greet Hux and Ben when they got to the barrier.

“Afternoon,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Hux. “I’m Squadron Leader Hux, 363 Squadron, and this is Pilot Officer Solo. I had hoped we might take a turn about the grounds.”

The gatekeeper scratched his chin. “You don’t have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in letting you in, but don’t get in the way of the operations, mind.”

Hux inclined his head. “We won’t, and thank you.”

The gatekeeper lifted the bar to allow them to pass through. “Come by when you leave.”

The road leading to the priory buildings was covered in white gravel, which crunched under their shoes. A hundred feet ahead, Hux could see the clocktower that marked the main building.

“Do you know what a priory is?” he asked Ben as they walked.

“Not really,” Ben replied.

“It’s a home for friars. I believe those here were Augustinian. If I’m not mistaken, this priory was founded in the twelfth century.” Hux tucked his hands behind his back, calling up his history lessons. “In the sixteenth century, the monasteries were dissolved and the priory sold off. I believe at one point it belonged to King Henry the Eighth.

“The building here isn’t the original construction, of course. It was torn down in the eighteenth century and rebuilt by a man called Duberly. He didn’t have it for long, though, before it was sold off to the Marquess of Abercorn, who refurbished the place. Over the next few hundred years, it was a residence to the Dowager Queen Adelaide, a hotel, and then a school for girls. The RAF bought it in ‘26.”

“Everything here is so old,” Ben said. “Nothing like it is at home.”

“It’s an old country,” said Hux. “Yours is quite young in comparison. Though I imagine there are still buildings around from the early years of its founding.”

Ben shrugged. “Haven’t seen many.”

There were a number of men and women milling around the lawn in front of the main building, and none spared a glance for Ben and Hux, as they blended in in their uniforms.

“The big wigs of Fighter Command are here, huh?” Ben said. “I kind of thought it might be an airfield.”

“No,” Hux said. “But this is where our orders come from. All of the observers and the radar signals are sent here. Plans are laid and then orders are dispatched to the group headquarters and each sector, and then to our individual fields. A rather ingenious system devised by former Commanding-in-Chief Hugh Dowding. Without it, we wouldn’t have won the battle last summer.”

Ben continued to glance around and up to the clocktower as they stopped just outside the building. “It’s a sight.”

“To be sure,” said Hux.

Just a few paces from them, a door swung open, and from inside came a number of airmen. At the center was a small, stout man in full uniform and cap. His aides skittered around him, holding clipboards and files as they tried to get his attention.

“Christ,” Hux muttered. “It’s Douglas.”

“Who?” Ben asked.

“Sholto Douglas, the Commanding-in-Chief. He’s the head of Fighter Command.”

A car was pulling up to the drive behind Hux and Ben, presumably for Douglas and his entourage. Hux was about to latch onto Ben’s arm and pull him out of the way, but the Commanding-in-Chief caught his eye. Hux froze.

“These are just the kind of men I’m talking about,” Douglas said to one of his aides. “The regular airmen who make this operation run. They’re the kind we need to showcase.” He came striding over, clearly intending to talk to them. “Gentlemen,” he said by way of greeting.

Hux snapped to attention, saluting, and Ben followed suit. “Air Chief Marshal, sir.”

Douglas gave them a relaxed salute in return, allowing them all to stand at ease. “Are you two on staff here?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Hux replied. “We are just passing through on leave, and we wished to see our headquarters.”

Douglas gave them a curious look. “Really? How interesting. Where do you come from?”

“Wolcastle, in Norfolk. 363 Squadron.”

“363,” Douglas mused. “That’s one of the Eagle Squadrons.” He cocked a brow at Hux. “But you’re not American.”

“I am,” said Ben, before Hux could. “Pilot Officer Benjamin Solo, sir.”

Douglas turned a smile on him. “Indeed you are. How remarkable. You said you two were just visiting? Have you been inside?”

“No, sir,” Ben replied. “We didn’t think we could get in without permission.”

“Well, you may have it,” said Douglas. He gestured to one of the aides next to him. “Walder, why don’t you take P.O. Solo and…” He looked expectantly at Hux.

“Squadron Leader Armitage Hux, sir.”

Douglas continued, “And S.L. Hux for a short tour? I’m sure they would like to see the filter room.”

Hux, amazed, said, “We would, sir. It would be an honor.”

“Then it’s decided,” said Douglas. “Walder will show you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” He offered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

Hux shook first and then Ben.

“Good day, sir,” Ben said as they stepped out of his path to the car. They both watched as he ducked inside and shut the door. The car rolled off and away down the drive.

Hux was still trying to wrap his head around what had happened, but the aide, Walder, cleared his throat, drawing his gaze.

“Well,” Walder said, “I suppose we’ll just go in, then. If you’ll follow me...”

It was warm inside the building, and just as bustling as it was outside. Hux and Ben had to follow Walder single file to keep from bumping into the various men and women making their way down the hall. The décor was a mix of eras, quite sumptuous and colorful. The ceilings were moulded intricately and there were stained-glass windows set into a few archways they passed through.

“You’ll have to be quiet in here,” Walder said as they approached a door, “so as not to disturb the work.”

Hux nodded.

Turning the handle, Walder opened the door. Voices rose and fell from inside, the staff clearly in the midst of their work. Entering the room, Hux and Ben found themselves on a balcony, of sorts, overlooking a large table on the floor below. Ten people were circled around it, both women and men, moving marker pieces around with sticks.

It seemed a remarkably simple setup, but it was so very important to every operation in Fighter Command. Hux felt a wave of pride at being part of this great effort to defend his country. So many thousands of people were working together to keep Britain safe from its enemies, and every time he flew, he would do well to remember it.

“Wow,” Ben said, hushed.

Walder was standing behind them, but Hux chanced a touch at the back of Ben’s hand. “You are a part of this,” he whispered. “You protect us even though you’re not from this place.”

Ben hooked his thumb around Hux’s pointer finger. “I want to protect you.”

“And I you.”

Together, they watched as their fellow airmen commanded squadrons to get into the air and others to land. They stayed for nearly twenty minutes before Walder finally tapped Hux on the shoulder and ushered them out.

He showed them around a few other parts of the compound, but seemed to lose patience after a while. He was visibly relieved when Hux told him that they had appreciated it, but had to be going. He showed them back to the main door, where they had entered, before disappearing back inside. Hux and Ben meandered back out onto the lawn, pausing to take a last look at the building.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Ben said, turning to Hux.

“I’m glad you wanted to come,” said Hux. “Would you like to walk just a little more before we return to London?”

Ben nodded. “Sure.”

Together, they made the rounds of the priory grounds, until both decided they were getting hungry enough to venture back into the city.

“What shall we do after lunch?” Hux asked as they boarded the bus and found two seats.

Ben appeared to consider for a moment, but then said, “Want to go back to the hotel and take a nap?”

Hux lifted his brows. “You want to sleep?”

Ben’s smile was wide and predacious. “I want to go to bed, but I don’t want to sleep.”

“Very well,” said Hux, warmth blooming in his belly. If they only had the rest of this day, he was happy to spend it in Ben’s arms.

Chapter Text

A square of watery sunlight cut across Ben’s chest as he lay on his back in bed, illuminating the place where Hux’s fingers raked his skin. His mouth was open, his eyes wide, as he held Hux by the waist, guiding him as he rode astride his hips. Hux was panting with the effort, but he took Ben fervently.

It was barely past six o’clock in the morning, but they had to catch the early train back to Norfolk, so Hux had woken Ben with insistent kisses on his face and down his body. Ben had come awake readily at the attention, wrapping Hux in his arms and pinning him to the mattress. Hux let himself be ravished for a few minutes before insisting that Ben let him up. As Ben watched curiously, Hux swung over top of him and slid down on his cock.

Ben seemed stunned to lie still as Hux used him for his own pleasure. At first he rode Ben slowly, clenching around him until he was groaning, but then he went harder, faster, making Ben gasp his name and God’s.

Hux kissed him. Ben came up into it, rubbing Hux’s back in long, possessive strokes. Each brush of his palms made Hux shiver, at once sated and needing more.

In the four days they had been together, Ben had grown bold, and even skilled. Where, in the beginning, Hux had had to tell him what he wanted and how, Ben now had an uncanny ability to read what Hux needed. He picked up on minute sounds, little hitches of breath and low moans, that made clear what felt good.

He knew Hux liked to be handled firmly at times and softly at others. In the evenings, when they were both tired and more than a little drunk, Hux would let Ben put him on his back and take him slowly, but in the mornings, Hux’s desire burned fresh and strong, making him hungry for fierce coupling. Ben’s energy never seemed to waver, but he was willing to accommodate what Hux wanted. It was an intoxicating generosity.

Hux made sure Ben was pleased in kind, gauging his shudders and cries for what would drive him to climax. And he was beautiful when he peaked: eyes screwed shut and mouth rounded in a silent howl as his whole body trembled and he raised his hips to bury himself deeper. Hux caressed him through it, kissing and touching what skin he could reach. Ben stayed inside as he came down from the high, sometimes until he softened and slipped out. He would always let out a long sigh when he had recovered, and pull Hux to him.

But that wasn’t yet what they needed. Hux still had him between his legs, rising back up to ride steadily on his cock. Ben was watching, awed, as he disappeared into Hux, and, playing to that, Hux threw his head back and sank down, taking all of him.

“Oh God,” Ben growled, tightening his hold on Hux’s waist. “Stay there. Please. Just for a minute.”

Filled and stretched, Hux did as he was asked. Beneath him, Ben looked ruined: hair tangled in a knotty halo around his head, face flushed, bitten lips red and full. Hux stared, memorizing his appearance like this. Satisfaction bloomed in him as he realized that he had taken the bashful young man he had first met apart and built him anew as a lover.

Reaching down to Ben’s cheek, he traced it. “I’m proud of you,” he said.

Ben’s eyes lit up at the praise, but he asked, “Why?”

“Because you’re remarkable,” said Hux. As he dragged his thumb across Ben’s lower lip, Ben opened and took it into his warm mouth. Want, sharp and forceful, shot through Hux. He finished, “And you’re so very good for me.”

Ben moaned, sucking at Hux’s thumb. Hux depressed his tongue with it, to feel the soft give of it under his touch. He held Ben’s gaze as he did it, caught up in how the brown of his eyes was swallowed by black pupils.

“So lovely,” Hux said, before lifting his thumb away.

Moving his hands from Hux’s waist to his lower belly, Ben said, “Can I touch you?” At Hux’s nod, he wrapped his right hand around Hux’s cock. He was hard and sensitive, receptive to Ben’s grasp. Ben continued, “Do you think I could make you…” There was a hint of familiar shyness. “Could I make you come like this?”

Up to that point, Hux had either finished before Ben penetrated him or after Ben had come, but never while he was inside. Attempting both at the same time made it difficult for Hux to reach his peak. It had happened once or twice in his life, but it wasn’t common.

He might have said no, but Ben looked alluringly determined, and he was willing to let him try. “I will if I can,” Hux said.

Ben licked his lips and took a firmer grip of Hux’s cock. He started with just that, stroking Hux deliberately, and Hux tried to relax into it. He was tense, and the quiet of the room was stark.

“Talk to me,” he said.

Ben blinked up at him. “What should I say?”

Hux wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted to hear, either, but he replied, “What do you see when I’m like this for you? What does it feel like?”

There was a pause, and Hux was certain he wouldn’t be able to do this, but then Ben started speaking: “I want to watch you like this forever. I know I can’t, but even when you’re back in your clothes, it’s what I’ll think of.”

An approving spark snaked down Hux’s spine. To imagine Ben sitting in the briefing room at Wolcastle, impassive, but all the while imagining Hux straddling him, was delicious.

“Good,” Hux said. “More.”

“I love how narrow you are, everywhere,” said Ben. With his free hand, he trailed down Hux’s arm to his wrist. “Here.” Up to his shoulder and his neck. “Here, too. I thought I might hurt you when I took you to bed, but you’re stronger than I thought. And the way you can bend…” He twisted his grip on Hux’s cock, though not harshly. “I folded you in half last night, your knees at your chin. It’s incredible, and it’s…”

Hux made a deep, approving sound. “You like that?” he said, the words coming out on a labored breath.

“Yeah,” Ben said, low. “Yes. A lot.” He made a tentative shift of his hips, moving his cock inside Hux.

Hux expected to feel the beginnings of pleasure that had been coiling in his gut disappear at that, but instead they flared. Testing, he rolled his own hips, pushing himself into Ben’s hand while rising slightly up on his cock. The sensation spread.

“What else?” he prompted.

Ben stroked Hux more purposefully as he began to push up into him. “You’re so soft inside, and burning hot. I can’t get enough of it.”

Sinking his teeth into his lower lip, Hux groaned. His body was heating, sweat prickling his skin as he began to build up under Ben’s ministrations. “It feels right to have you there,” he said. “It’s never been like this before.”

Ben’s breathing stuttered, his grip on Hux tightening. “Like what?”

Hux’s head was starting to swim with the beginnings of climax, but he looked down at Ben tenderly. “Absolute. There’s nothing but you when we’re here.”

“ Hux ,” Ben said, grasping at him desperately. “Please.”

Hux wasn’t sure what he was asking for, but he took a firm hold of his thighs, arching his back and taking Ben deep.

Ben pled, “I’m so close. Hux, God. Please come for me.”

Hux rose and fell on him one last time, bring them both to the precipice. Ben’s hand worked furiously over Hux’s cock, nearly too much, but as Hux opened his eyes to meet Ben’s, he broke. His world inverted, everything drawing in to a blinding singularity before exploding before his eyes. He couldn’t hear his own voice, but he knew he was crying out, his muscles clenching as he spilled himself across Ben’s stomach. He was jarred up by the power of Ben’s final thrust before he, too, was lost.

The room seemed full as they descended, the air thick with the smell of sex and charged with crackling energy. Hux realized he was shaking all over, barely able to hold himself up any longer.

“Come here,” Ben bade him, guiding him down to his chest. Hux went willingly; he disregarded the mess between them as he lay with his head tucked under Ben’s chin. “You did it,” said Ben with a mix of sleepy satisfaction and reverence.

“Because of you,” Hux said. He mouthed at Ben’s pectoral in a weak imitation of a kiss. “There are so many things I’ve done because of you.”

Ben tightened his hold around him. “You break your rules for me.”

Hux nestled into the embrace, keeping his face hidden. “Almost every one,” he admitted. All his promises to himself, his oaths to stay apart and concentrate on his flying and his career, had been set aside for the sake of the American boy who had brought him to his knees.

“Do you regret it?” Ben asked.

Hux didn’t hesitate to reply: “Never.”

They stayed there for a few more minutes, silent and holding each other, until the beam of sunlight had moved onto the headboard of the bed. A glance at the clock revealed it was approaching seven. Hux stirred first, rising up just enough to land a kiss on Ben’s brow. Ben caught his chin and drew him to his lips.

“Come clean up with me,” Hux said. The shower was still too small for the two of them to share, but he would shave while Ben was in it.

They were both trained to wash quickly and be done with it, so they were in and out of the lavatory within twenty minutes. They packed up their duffels with melancholic sluggishness, side-by-side next to the bed. Hux took a long final look around the room before shouldering his duffel and heading toward the door. Ben stopped him just before he could reach the handle.

“We can’t do this again, can we?” Ben asked, quietly.

Hux, hurting already, touched his jaw. “Not unless we can get away from the field. Things will have to go back to how they were before.”

Ben laid his hand over Hux’s against his face. “I’ll be sick with it. It won’t be enough.”

“I know,” Hux said. “I’m sorry.”

Ben’s eyes flashed. “I’m never sorry for you. We might have to pretend and hide, but I’ll bear it, if it means I can keep you.”

Hux kissed him hard, holding him close for a last time, before they stepped back into their roles in the charade.

They stopped for breakfast in the dining room, greeting Bail and telling him how they had enjoyed their stay. The innkeeper was pleased to hear it, and told them he would be glad to have them back if they returned to London.

“Stay safe in the air,” he said as Hux paid for their rooms.

They thanked him and left.

The 363 convened at Charing Cross to catch their bus back to the train station. All of the men were bemoaning their return to Wolcastle, though Hux knew they would be glad to get back to their airplanes. Leave was enjoyed, but they lived to fly, and couldn’t be kept away for long.

Their car on the train was far emptier than the one to London had been, and there were plenty of window seats to be had. However, they sat clumped together, talking instead of watching the scenery. Hux and Ben had parted ways at the steps up into the car. Hux was sitting near the middle with Meltsa and Taylor beside him, and Brewster Mills across the way.

Apparently, while Hux and Ben had been at Bentley Priory, half of the squadron had gone to the theater to see a show and the other half had started drinking by noon. There was one story of poor Shorty slipping on the cobblestones and busting his nose. He had a bandage over the bridge now, and it was swollen to twice its size. Gilbert had apparently been sick not twice, but three times over the course of the day, but had rallied after each. Hux couldn’t comprehend how he had managed it; he was only a year older than Hux, twenty-seven. Hux rarely drank himself to sickness anymore, and if he did, he felt it for the entire day after.

A few of the men had returned to the Eagle Club to meet up with the other American pilots, and Hux heard that several of them would have new friends to write to or see again when next they were in the same city. It made Hux think, briefly, of the men of his former squadron. They had gotten on well, but he couldn’t imagine writing to them after he was reassigned. He wondered if Ulster, his wingman, was still with them. He had been a good sort, but none could match Ben. Hux cast a look in his direction, but Ben was absorbed in a conversation with Gilbert and Shea.

When they arrived back at Wolcastle Station, they found a lorry waiting to take them back to the field. A few other passengers stepped out onto the platform with them, one a pretty young girl with whom Wexley had been talking during their ride. She had round cheeks, and her brown hair was fixed up in a simple style; she was all smiles for Wexley, who was clearly charmed. She shook his hand as she left to join an older man in a farmer’s Sunday suit on the platform, presumably her father. She hugged him tightly. Leaving the scene behind, Hux sprang up into the lorry and took a seat next to Poe on the rightmost bench. The engine turned over with a rumble, and then they were off down the road toward the airfield.

Nothing was out of the ordinary as they arrived back at the barracks. A few aircraft were taking off down the runway, two-by-two. Hux watched them soar over, the itch to get back into the cockpit returning. He would have to catch up on what sorties the other squadrons had flown in the 363’s absence, especially if the status of certain enemy installations had changed. Returning to duty felt much like coming home, falling back into the comfort of routine. That did something to temper the ache that had hung inside his chest since Ben had left his side.

He filed up the stairs to their quarters with the rest of the men, their footfalls heavy on the wooden steps. They scattered to their various rooms, many seeking a nap before dinner; they wouldn’t be called up to fly for the rest of the day, so there was no reason to be at attention.

Hux went to his own quarters and shut the door behind him, taking in the usual cut-wood smell of the room. He dropped his duffel on the cot and began to unpack. When he was finished—his soiled clothes tossed into the hamper and his duffel folded and tucked away—he removed his jacket to stretch his arms above his head. Though they had only been traveling for five hours, there was a lethargy he couldn’t shake. Perhaps he might lie down for a short nap after all.

He was bending down to take off his shoes when a stack of paper on his desk caught his eye. He stopped, reaching out for it. There were a few folders of what he assumed were reports, and a handwritten note from Mitaka, but next to them was a thick envelope marked with his mailing address. There was no name on the return address, but it was a London postcode. Intrigued, he picked it up, cutting the top with his letter opener.

Inside was a stack of photographs and a folded note. Hux removed the note first:

Squadron Leader Hux — Here are the pictures you asked for. Hope you liked the article.

It was unsigned, but it didn’t matter anyway. There was only one person from whom the photographs could have come.

Setting the note aside, Hux pulled out the pictures. There were fifteen in total, some of which he recognized as having been used in the Daily Mirror article on the 363, but there were others, too, that he had not yet seen. He thumbed through them, pleased to see the grins and proud expressions his men wore. He was about to take the whole stack down to dinner with him to show them, but he stopped at the very last image.

There was Ben, in his uniform, leaning against the wing of a Spitfire. He was looking intently at the man across from him: Hux. The picture had been taken candidly, when they had been talking together. They were facing each other, in profile for the photograph. Hux had his hands at his sides, but one was just slightly extended toward Ben.

Hux pulled the photograph from the stack, setting the others down. It had been a private moment, and yet here it was, captured permanently. He felt suddenly protective of the image, unable to put it back among the photographs to show the men. It was something that belonged to him and Ben alone, and he knew he wasn’t going to share it. Turning the photograph over, he set it face-down on his desk. He picked up his pen and, bracing his palm to steady it, wrote on the back, in neat, block letters: Armitage Hux and Benjamin Solo, 9 November 1941.

He blew lightly on the ink until it had dried, and contemplated leaving it on his desk, but instead he reached for his jacket and pulled it on. He unbuttoned the left breast pocket and dropped the photograph into it.

The men passed the other photographs around at dinner later that evening, excited to see the ones that hadn’t been printed. There were a few arguments over who would get which one, but in the end, they were distributed evenly, with one to spare: the group picture. That one, they agreed, they would pin to the blackboard in their briefing room. It was entrusted to Hux, who would see it home after they were finished eating.

The usual mess hall fare left quite a bit to be desired after the meals they had had in London, but Hux ate it all the same, with a glass of wine to go along. He hadn’t been listening much to the conversation near the head of the table, but he had noticed that Shorty and Crowe were leaning over to speak with the men from the 129, who sat at the neighboring table. Their chatter had been growing more animated over the past few minutes—Crowe tended to gesture wildly when his dander was up—and it drew Hux’s attention.

“To hell with that,” Shorty was saying. “ We’ve got the best S.L. at this field. No better flyboy in the whole air force.”

The man to whom he was speaking snorted disdainfully. “I don’t think so. Alistair Barlow is a tremendously skilled pilot. He’s got a spotless combat record.”

“Please,” Crowe scoffed, rolling his eyes. “He hasn’t got half of Hux’s kills, and he doesn’t have a wingman like Ben Solo.”

Hux’s brows shot up, his dinner forgotten. He hadn’t the context for the conversation, but there was no mistaking that they were bragging about him, and Ben, as well. He strained his ears to listen.

“You mean the one who shot down one of his own kites?” another 129 pilot said. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten about that disaster. And now your squadron leader lets him fly on his wing? Alistair would have had him grounded and sent back to training.”

Shorty scowled. “That was a long time ago. Things have changed.” He tipped his chin up with a touch of arrogance. “You’ve seen our record.”

The pilot, a man with a narrow mustache and sly green eyes, didn’t look amused. However, the numbers were not something he could deny. “That doesn’t make your S.L. the best.” He sat back, smirking. “There’s only one way to decide that.”

Crowe crossed his arms over his chest. “And what is that?”

“A competition, of course,” the pilot replied. “A test of skill. Our squadron leaders, all three of them, and their wingmen, pitted against each other in a series of maneuvers. They’re judged for faults and technique.”

“By who?” Crowe asked. “You? I doubt you know your rudder pedals from your stick.”

The pilot wrinkled his nose, but kept his calm. “A panel from all of the squadrons. You can even choose your judges.” He lifted a condescending brow. “Think you’re up for the challenge?”

“It’s not up to us,” said Shorty. “It’s up to—”

“I’ll do it,” Hux said, cutting him off. Three pairs of eyes turned to him. “I’ll fly against Barlow and Chapman, if they’re up for the challenge.”

Shorty’s smile was razor sharp. “Then it’s a deal, boys. When can we do it?” This question was posed to Hux.

He shrugged. “Whenever it can be arranged.” To the pilot from the 129: “I suppose you should speak with your superior and see if he’ll agree to this as well. And I will ask my wingman.”

Crowe huffed a laugh. “Ben isn’t going to turn down an opportunity to show off, sir.”

Hux smiled. “I believe you’re quite right about that.”

The pilot from the 129 nodded and turned to man beside him to pass the word along. Hux was not yet halfway done with the rest of his food before he heard Alistair Barlow’s booming voice: “If those lads want to take me on, then I’m all for it!”

Hux chuckled and raised his glass to him. They drank their wine down together.

Chapman was less open in his delight at the opportunity to school his fellow squadron leaders, but by the end of the meal, he and the man who was, presumably, his wingman came over to the 363’s table. Hux stood to greet him.

“Well, Armitage,” he said, clasping his hands primly behind his back, “I believe we should wager something on this competition. It only seems appropriate.”

Hux inclined his head. “Very well. Name your terms.”

Chapman sucked his teeth, but then said, “If I win, my squadron gets yours’ next leave day in the village, and your men pay for our drinks.”

Hux heard some grumbles from behind him, where half the 363 was loitering, but he agreed. “Fine. And if I win, the 222 learns American football and plays against my men.”

This was met with approving exclamations. Ever since their first game weeks ago, they hadn’t had the opportunity to play again, and neither had they done so with a full complement of eleven players per team. With the 222 to play against, they would have that.

Chapman’s brow furrowed, but he said, “Very well, then,” and held out his hand.

As Hux shook it, he asked, “Will Barlow be a part of this wager?”

“I don’t think so,” Chapman replied. “This is a gentleman’s business.”

Hux’s hackles rose. It was common knowledge that Barlow didn’t come from the gentry, but had been commissioned anyway. It was getting more common, but there were some officers who still looked down upon those who didn’t come from landed families. Hux wasn’t one of them, but Chapman clearly was, and it rankled him.

“Well,” he said, terse, “I’m sure he’s above this kind of pettiness anyway.”

Chapman frowned, but said nothing to the contrary. “We’ll hold the trial in two days. Two o’clock in the afternoon, barring any last-minute calls to action. Are you amenable?”

Hux nodded. “I am.”

“And your wingman?”

Glancing to his left, Hux saw Ben rise and stalk over to stand beside him. He was several inches taller than Chapman, who had to look up to meet his eyes.

“If Hux flies, I fly,” he said.

Hux’s chest filled with mild elation, but he didn’t look at Ben as he wanted to. “Then it’s decided,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll send two of my men to serve as judges. You and Barlow will do the same. They’ll formulate the pattern for us to fly, and we’ll all have a day to learn it. But no one can practice. It has to be done only on the day we compete.”

“Agreed,” said Chapman. “Until tomorrow, then, Armitage.” He turned on his heel and strode off to the door, his men straggling along behind him.

Hux had barely come around to face his own squadron when he was peppered with questions about who would be judging and what they were going to tell the ground crew. Hux hadn’t thought that this would be an event that anyone else beyond cocky pilots would want to watch, but considering that it was, in its way, an air show, it made sense to have an audience.

“Are any of you particularly keen on serving as a judge?” he asked, in response to Strickland’s question about it.

“I wouldn’t mind, sir,” Bill Taylor replied. “And I think I’ve got the chops for it. I mean, I can come up with something good and hard for you two to fly.” He flashed his teeth. “We want you to win, but don’t think we’re going to make it easy for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” said Hux. “If we’re going to prove ourselves, it’s best to do it spectacularly.” He glanced over at Ben, who offered a small smile, his eyes soft and trained only on Hux.

“Amen to that, sir,” Strickland said. “And if Bill’s gonna do the judging, we’d better send Poe with him to make sure he doesn’t embarrass us.”

Taylor made a rude gesture, but Poe stepped up and said, “I’ll do it, sure. Long as that’s all right with the rest of you boys.” He got no protests. “Good deal, then. Let’s put these English assholes—um, sorry, sir—in their place.”

Hux, shaking his head, said, “Yes, let’s do that.”

The routine for their competition was delivered, as agreed, by midafternoon the next day. It was outlined on a single sheet of paper handed to Hux by Poe. Ben, who had been sitting nearby with his whittling, came over and took the chair beside him. Their knees just touched.

They looked over the maneuvers together, making notes on how to perform them flawlessly. Most of the routine was to be done in tandem, one aircraft after the other or side-by-side, but near the end was a coordinated loop from opposite directions. It was nothing different than what they had flown together before, and would hardly even pose a challenge.

“We’re going to win this,” Ben said, smiling slyly.

Hux ran his hand over the paper, smoothing it down on the desktop. “And we’ll make it look easy, too.” He looked up, catching Ben’s gaze as he tapped his ankle with the toe of his boot. Ben moved his fingers toward Hux’s, but he took the paper rather than his hand.

The following day, the airfield was alive with excitement for the event. It was cool outside, but as it approached two o’clock, personnel from across the field came out onto the lawn next to the runway, laying out blankets to sit on and producing hot chocolate, which the mess sergeants had generously rationed out.

Hux, dressed in full flight gear, stepped out from the hangar to see three of the ladies from the control tower seated in the grass nearby. Miss Rey was at the center, holding a cup of chocolate between her gloved hands.

“S.L. Hux!” she called as he approached, waving him over.

He stopped at the edge of the blanket, smiling. “Good afternoon,” he said to all of them, though his focus returned to Rey.

She beamed up at him. “And to you. This is all so thrilling. Are you looking forward to your flight?”

“I am,” he replied. “Ben and I feel that we’re prepared. We’re quite confident we’ll come out on top.”

Rey nodded. “My money’s on you as well, although they”—she gestured to the other ladies—“are more inclined to S.L. Chapman.” Taking a prim sip of chocolate, she gave them an imperious look.

“Do you have a wager on the results?” Hux asked.

“A small one,” said the brunette who sat to Rey’s right. “Pocket change and a few lipsticks.” She pursued her lips slightly, to draw Hux’s attention to them; he didn’t take the bait.

Rey, who wasn’t particularly made-up, said, “I bet a pair of stockings. They’re hard to come by these days, and these girls covet them.” She bumped her shoulder against the girl to her left, who rolled her eyes.

“Well, I do intend to make sure you keep them, Miss Rey,” Hux said.

From the head of the runway several hundred feet away, he heard the throttling-up of engines. It was presumably Alistair Barlow and his wingman, as they had drawn the lot to fly first. Hux turned to watch as they rose up into the air together, one just a few feet behind the other. It was a graceful takeoff, and their ascent was smooth.

The first combination was a series of tight turns and spiraling dives down into low altitude. The judges had apparently wanted to ensure the spectators got their show. The controllers in the tower wouldn’t like it as they buzzed past, but if there were only two aircraft in the air at once, it would be excused. Barlow and his wingman went into the maneuver without hesitation, performing the turns exactly to specifications. When they dove, though, the wingman came out a little ahead of Barlow, ruining the symmetry. They recovered well enough, but Hux knew that would be a point off in the judging. He grinned to himself, confident that he and Ben would put the others to shame.

The crowd cheered and waved as Barlow flew overhead. The rest of the performance was quite impressive, but Hux could pick out a few faults that would continue to bring down their score. Barlow’s wingman followed him well, but when they flew side-by-side, he slipped up more often.

They landed to applause and congratulations from their comrades in the 129. They were across the field by their hangar, but Hux saw Barlow jump out of the cockpit and get a few slaps on the back.

“Was that well done?” Rey asked from her seat on the blanket. “It looked so to me, but I can’t say I know the finer details.”

“They did fine,” Hux replied, “but not perfectly.”

Rey gave him a knowing grin. “Certainly not like you’ll do it.”

Hux inclined his head. “I don’t purport to do things perfectly, but—”

“I do.”

Hux glanced up to see Ben standing a few paces away, on the other side of the radio operators’ blanket. They craned their necks to see him, surprised.

He, too, was dressed to fly, but his leather jacket was hanging open, revealing his blue jumper beneath. His hair was pulled back into a tail, though the wind pulled strands out and around his face.

“Miss Rey,” said Hux, “have you met Ben Solo?”

She set her empty cup down and got to her feet, dusting off the front of her skirt. “I haven’t,” she said, holding out her hand. “But I’ve heard a great deal about you, P.O. Solo. Your commander likes to brag.”

Hux cocked a brow at her, amused, but he didn’t deny it.

Ben shook her hand, his large one enveloping hers. “You can call me Ben. I know your voice from the radio, but it’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. Turning to the other girls, she introduced them. They didn’t stand, but nodded their greetings. “You’re last to fly, then? Good to get a sense of what you’re fighting against.”

“Doesn’t make a difference,” Ben said, shrugging. “We’re the best.”

“Ben,” Hux admonished, shooting him a look. Ben stared right back at him, wholly undeterred.

Rey glanced between them inquisitively, a half-smile on her lips. “No doubt you make a fine pair,” she said. “I can’t wait to see you together. Should you be getting to your airplanes soon?”

“Not yet,” said Hux. “We can stay and watch Chapman embarrass himself.”

Ben chuckled, while the two girls on the blanket frowned.

They turned their attention back to the runway as another two aircraft took off. They got up to altitude faster than Barlow and his wingman had, increasing the level of difficulty when it came to staying together. It was a showman’s move, and just the kind of thing that would impress both the judges and the audience.

Their first few maneuvers were executed with extreme precision, not a flaw to be seen. Hux could feel himself tensing up, but as he watched, Ben came around to his side of the blanket and set a hand at the small of his back.

“Look at their turns,” he said in Hux’s ear. “They’re off by a few seconds.”

Hux squinted up at the airplanes as they went into a series of rolls. There was a small offset between them, but he wouldn’t have noticed it if Ben hadn’t pointed it out. He had the keenest eye for minute discrepancies in performance that Hux had ever encountered. But the judges certainly didn’t have that ability, which meant Chapman likely wouldn’t be marked off for it.

“They’re still good,” Hux said.

Ben pressed his hand harder against his back, and Hux could feel the puff of his breath as he said, “No one flies like us.”

A full-body shudder passed through Hux, which he knew Ben could feel. He had to strain every muscle to keep from reaching for him and pulling him in for a searing kiss. But he kept his face upturned toward the sky, settling for a quiet, “Yes.”

They didn’t catch the tail end of Chapman’s routine, having to excuse themselves from Rey and the others and make for their aircraft. Thanisson was next to Hux’s when he got there.

“Have a good run, sir,” he said with a salute.

Hux got onto the wing and then into the cockpit, strapping on his harness and pulling his helmet over his head. He didn’t bother to connect his oxygen; they wouldn’t be flying high enough to require it. Instead his left his face bare, as he might have as a cadet in training, or as one of Ben’s barnstormers could have. Calling the all-clear, he fired up his Spit’s engine.

They taxied down to the runway, where they had to wait only briefly for Chapman and his wingman to land before they could take off. They passed close enough for Hux to see Chapman’s smug expression, and, tempted though he was, he didn’t offer him the two-finger salute.

“Wolcastle control,” he said into his radio, “this is Squadron Leader Hux, requesting permission to take off.”

The response came immediately: “You’re cleared, Squadron Leader. Good hunting.”

Hux paused with his hand on the throttle to ask Ben, “Are you ready?”

“Do it.”

Hux pulled back on the throttle, giving the airplane power. He started down the runway, watching the nearby crowds out of the corner of his eye. But he put them out of his mind as he centered himself, and led Ben into the sky.

Their radio frequency was empty save for them and control, so they were free to communicate as needed, but as they went into the first turns, they said nothing; it wasn’t needed. Hux could see Ben mirroring him, the tips of their wings a scant two feet apart. When they leveled out again, they locked eyes through their canopies.

“I’ll count off the rolls,” Hux said. “Three, two, one…”

They spun together and down, noses perfectly matched as they dove. The ground rushed toward them in a blur of colorful clothing and green grass. Hux gave the order to pull up at five hundred feet, and Ben obeyed. They flew over the runway and the hangars, passed the tower, and then pulled up again.

The next maneuver was an Immelmann turn in tandem, which they executed without faults. Hux’s heart was beating loudly in his ears with each change in position and altitude. Ben was never away from him, and they found they could exchange a few glances as they came up next to each other again. When Ben smiled broadly, exhilarated, Hux felt it down to his toes.

The final combination brought them together as they soared to the east. Hux took a last look at Ben. “We have this,” he said.

Ben nodded. “I know.”

At precisely the same moment, they veered away from each other, to the north and south, preparing for a double loop and inverted dive before leveling out again, lined up with the runway. It was a complex maneuver, and was where Barlow (and with hope, Chapman) had been weakest. If Hux and Ben managed to pull it off, they would surely win.

Hux counted thirty seconds before he spoke again. “All right, we’re going up. You count it off.”

Ben began a steady countdown from five. At four, Hux tipped the nose of his Spitfire down to sight along the ground, giving him a point to return to when his loop was finished.

And then Ben called, “Go,” and Hux was pulling up into the blue-gray sky, leaving the horizon behind. The engine roared as it drove the airplane vertically and then into the inversion at the apex of the loop. Hux saw Ben’s aircraft only for a split second as he flew past, but he let out a whoop of joy. They had met right at the top, passing each other in a flash, but in perfect sync.

As Hux came out of the loop, he saw Ben coming head-on at him. They held their course for a few seconds before Hux banked hard to port and Ben to starboard. Their wings tipped up to a peak as they turned and lowered in tandem. The runway was dead ahead.

At that moment, Hux didn’t care whether they had won or lost the competition. There was nothing that could recreate the euphoria of flying like this with Ben, not even what they had shared in their bed in London. There they were intimate and connected, but in the air, they were perfectly matched.

“Take us down, Hux,” Ben said over the radio. Hux could hear the soft affection in his voice, and his own swelled.

Steadily, he guided them back to the ground, until they bumped down on the grass together. He led them to Hangar Three, where they parked their aircraft and cut the engines. The Eagles gathered around them as they jumped to the ground.

“Unbelievable!” Bill Taylor exclaimed, grasping Hux’s forearm with surprising strength. “I knew you two were good, but god damn. I’ve never seen flying like that in my life. You blew everyone else right out of the water.”

“No joke,” said Strickland, grabbing Ben around the shoulders and pulling him down to his level. “You’re all right, kid, you know that?”

Ben managed to get out of the near-headlock. “Thanks, Cliff,” he muttered, running a hand over his disordered hair.

Shorty Putnam jogged up, cheeks pink from a run. “Everyone’s getting together with the judges at the head of the runway. Come on!”

The 363 followed him at brisk pace, Hux and Ben shepherded along by those in front and behind. They passed Rey and her friends as they went; she was jumping up to wave at them. Hux raised a hand to her.

When they arrived at the appointed place, they found the judges sitting in six chairs in a circle, arguing amongst themselves, although they weren’t close enough to hear them. Chapman and his wingman were standing nearby, both of them with their arms crossed over their chests and stern looks on their faces. They did not acknowledge Ben and Hux’s arrival, and neither did they look at Barlow and his wingman, who were laughing together with a few of the other men from the 129.

“It can’t take that long to figure it out,” Crowe said from next to Hux. “We all know who the best pair was. It’s obvious.”

Hux watched and waited, edgy. It was a point of pride to win such a competition, especially against Chapman, ass that he was. His stomach fluttered with nerves as the judges finally stepped back and motioned for the competitors to approach.

“Well,” said Poe, taking the lead, “it was a close game between S.L. Barlow and S.L. Chapman, and we were sure it was going to come down to a tie, but then came Hux and Solo.” He flashed them a toothy grin. “They flew the entire routine without a single mistake. Boys, the undisputed winners are these two from 363 Squadron.”

The Eagles roared their approval, jumping and clapping Hux and Ben on the back. Barlow came up to shake their hands and offer his congratulations, which Hux accepted happily. Chapman’s pinched, distasteful expression as he shook Hux’s hand stiffly was a reward in itself.

“I suppose your men will have to come to our briefing room tomorrow to learn the rules of American football,” Hux said. “I’m sure it will be quite the game between them.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Chapman grumbled. He released Hux’s hand, piercing him with his gaze. “I don’t bloody know how you did it, but showmanship does not a combat pilot make.”

Hux snorted dismissively. “Have a look at our record of kills, Charles, and rethink what you’ve said.”

Chapman’s scowl twisted his face. “Go to hell, Armitage, and take that”—a gesture at Ben—“Yankee trash with you.”

Red-hot fury tore through Hux, quelling the good humor. Bastard. Elitist prick. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but before he could open his mouth, Ben sprang forward and drove his fist into Chapman’s cheek.

The noise around them dropped off, voices falling into shocked silence. Hux himself was speechless.

“Take it back,” Ben snarled at Chapman, whose cheek was already turning red. When Chapman said nothing, he repeated himself, enunciating each word between clenched teeth: “Take it back.”

Chapman spat, pink-tinged. “I take nothing back.”

Ben lunged again, but Hux threw his weight against him, catching him around the waist. “Enough,” Hux hissed. “His like isn’t worth it anyway.”

A harsh laugh from Chapman. “Well, I do hope this little display was worth it, because I’ll see you both formally reprimanded for this. Striking a superior officer. Tsk.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Ben snapped.

Hux said his name sharply, forcing him to back down. When Hux could trust that he wouldn’t do anything else foolish, he let him go. From behind him, Taylor and Brewster Mills laid their hands on his shoulders as insurance.

“Gentlemen,” said Barlow, stepping in, “I’m sure this can be sorted out without bringing the wing commander into it. Charles, while striking someone is a breach of regulations, you offered considerable insult to Mister Solo.” He scratched his full chin. “Both of you should make your apologies, and we’ll put this matter behind us.”

“It’s a little too late for that, Alistair,” said someone, craggy-voiced, from behind them. Every man in the vicinity winced when they spotted Snoke standing just beyond the group.

“Sir, I believe I can explain,” Hux started.

Snoke cut him off with a raised hand. “I’ve seen enough to know what happened.” He stepped into the circle, taking up a position between Hux and Barlow, across from Chapman. “I don’t condone fighting at my airfield, especially among my officers. All of you know better than this.

“I allowed this competition under the assumption that it was friendly,” he said, “but clearly that is not the case. If you cannot behave civilly, I will have to see to it that nothing like this happens in the future.” He raised his brows. “I’m not impressed with any of you today.”

The pilots hung their heads, chastised.

“Sir,” said Chapman, “I insist that this pilot officer is punished. What he did was unacceptable.”

Snoke narrowed his eyes at him. “If he has to face consequences, Charles, then so do you. You should learn to hold your tongue when you’re beaten fairly.”

Chapman’s expression darkened further, which Hux hadn’t thought was possible.

“Apologize to the boy, Charles,” Snoke said, firm.

Ben remained where he was, glowering even when Chapman said, “I apologize.”

Snoke tipped his head toward Ben. “And you.”

Ben swallowed heavily. Hux knew he didn’t regret for a second what he had done, but he implored him with a look.

“I’m sorry,” Ben ground out. Hux let out his held breath.

Snoke clapped his hands. “Very good. The matter is put to rest. I trust this will not come up again, or I will see to it that those formal reprimands are handed down.” To Ben and Hux: “As you proved today, however, you are two of the best pilots at this field, and taking you both out of combat would be a detriment to all of us. I expect you to comport yourselves appropriately from now on.” He looked longest at Ben, who nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Snoke turned from him to address the rest of the pilots. “Now, I’ve ordered the kegs opened for the night, so I suggest all of you get something to drink and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. We’ve received no dispatches from sector headquarters.”

The response was subdued, but it was unmistakably warm. Snoke led the way back toward the mess, and a number of the men trailed off after him. Most of the 363 remained, staring down those of the 222, who remained at Chapman’s back.

“We’re not finished here, Armitage,” he said.

Hux could feel the wave of anger rolling off of his Eagles, but he waved them back, saying, “On the contrary, I believe we are quite finished. Unless you’re prepared to slander any more of us and start a proper brawl.”

Chapman worked his jaw, flinching as he touched the swollen spot on his cheek. “You’ll get your comeuppance, I promise you that.”

Hux smirked. “I look forward to the day.”

The 222 left them there, allowing the Eagles to form up around Hux and Ben. Hux held out his hand expectantly, and Ben put his wounded one into it. The knuckles were red, but the skin hadn’t split.

“How hard did you hit him?” Hux asked.

“Not as hard as I could have,” Ben replied.

There were a few chuckles and curses aimed at Chapman from the rest of the Eagles.

Hux spoke to all of them, though he held Ben’s gaze: “If you’re ever disparaged like that again, I’ll be the first one to strike. You’re the finest men I’ve ever flown with, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let an arrogant prick like Charles Chapman talk down to you.”

“Same goes for you, sir,” said Strickland. “We defend our own.”

Hux met as many eyes as he could. “We certainly do.”

The encroaching winter spared them its worst for the next two days, and in the afternoon, Hux found himself sitting in a canvas chair in the shadow of his Spitfire, with a cup of tea in his bare hands. Tendrils of steam were rising from it, blown away by his breath as he raised it to his mouth. He had the day’s newspaper with him, but he had discarded it in favor of watching Ben work on the engine of his own kite. He had his back to Hux, and stood on a wooden step stool. As he leaned in to work on some part or another, Hux could follow the taut stretch of his trousers over his thighs and curve of his buttocks. Hux swallowed his tea down, letting his gaze linger.

“Well, well, well,” said a woman from near him, “I thought I might see you for a cuppa, but here you are sitting alone. Feeling the need for solitude?”

Hux shaded his eyes with his left hand, turning up into the sun to see Phasma standing beside him. She wore her usual nurse’s whites, but with a grey coat overtop. It hung open, the untied straps of the cloth belt dangling down around her knees. Her hands were tucked into the pockets.

“No particular need,” Hux said. “I’m just enjoying the fine weather. Would you care to join me?” There was no other chair to be had, but Hux stood and offered his. Phasma tucked herself neatly into it, shifting it so she didn’t have to look into the sun to see him.

“Haven’t got a spare cup, do you?” she asked.

“In fact, I do,” Hux replied. On the small table beside the chair, he had a nearly full pot of tea, swaddled in a knitted cozy, and a second cup and saucer, which he had brought for Ben. Of course, it had been spurned; Ben rarely drank tea. Picking up the pot, he filled the cup and handed it to Phasma. She inhaled the fragrance of it before taking a sip.

“Not bad,” she said. “Pick this up in town, did you?”

Hux nodded, stepping one foot back and transferring his weight to it. “That, and some decent cigarettes, and”—he tipped his head toward her—“and a box of chocolate caramels for a certain friend of mine.”

Phasma grinned. “You remembered. How good of you. I assume you don’t have them on hand.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, “but I will bring them to you this evening. A special trip. I’ll even come to your barracks if I must.”

Phasma clicked her tongue. “You know men aren’t allowed in the women’s accommodations, even ranking officers.” She sighed heavily. “Could you even imagine what nonsense would transpire if that was permitted? It would be too much for me. I’ll fix up bullet holes and set bones, but damned if I’m delivering a baby.”

Hux chuckled. “That, of all places, is where you draw the line?”

“Hmph,” she grumbled. “I’m a field nurse, not a midwife. The whole business is abhorrent. Blood, screaming, cutting cords...no.”

Hux refreshed his cooling cup of tea with a dash from the pot. “No interest in being a mother yourself, then?”

Phasma shook her head. “I like my work, and even if this war ended tomorrow, I’d find myself a hospital to work in.” She lifted a white-blond brow. “What about you? Interested in settling down with a wife and six children?”

“Six?” Hux said. “I should think not.” He got on with children when he needed to, but had no desire to raise a pack of them himself. His mother, he knew, would be gravely disappointed, but the decision had been made long ago, when he had kissed a boy for the first time.

“I admit,” Phasma said, “I don’t see it for you, either.” She shot a look over Hux’s shoulder, to the nearest airplane in the line; the one on which Ben worked. “Your priorities are elsewhere.”

Hux paused with his cup halfway up from the saucer, eyeing her darkly. “If you mean my flying, then yes.”

“What else would I mean?” she asked. She reached out to touch the propeller blade of Hux’s Spitfire, but she didn’t look away from him.

Hux did his best to keep his hand steady as he drank from his cup.

Taking some tea herself, Phasma’s eyes shone a little with mischief. “How’s that chafe feeling? Did the lubricant help?”

Hux nearly choked on his tea. He coughed, saying, “It’s much better, thank you.” The tube of lubricant she had given him had been left, empty, in a bin in London.

“So you won’t be requiring any more?”

Hux was quick to reply, “No. I believe everything is in order now.”

Phamsa refilled her teacup, nonchalant as ever. “Well, good. We can’t have our best pilot distracted by ill health, now, can we?”

“I do hope that’s not what they’re calling me,” said Hux. “I’m certainly only one of the better airmen at the field.”

“You proved it, though,” Phasma said. She cradled her cup in both hands, focused on Hux’s face. “You and your wingman are by far the most skilled team here. One might stand you two up against some of the finest pilots in the air force.” She leaned around Hux, gesturing with her cup. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hux said. “Ben.” It was difficult to keep the fondness out of his tone, and by the way Phasma looked at him, he had an inkling she heard it.

Over the years, there had been women in his acquaintance who had seemed almost immediately aware of his preferences. How was beyond him, as he believed he was better than most at concealing it, but still, they were able to pin him down right away. It was disconcerting, and certainly dangerous in his current circumstances.

“May I meet him?” Phasma asked.

“Of course,” said Hux. He set down his tea, and went across to where Ben was standing. Softly, he said his name.

Ben turned, looking down. “Hi,” he said, his expression brightening. He had a smear of grease across his cheek, and his hands were completely besmirched. Hux was charmed.

“Would you come over for a moment?” Hux said. “There’s someone who’d like to meet you, and whom I’d like you to meet. She’s a friend.”

Ben jumped down from the step stool, bringing him eye-to-eye with Hux again. They stood close; too close. Stepping back, Hux led him toward Phasma, who had risen.

“So you’re the sharp American who can keep up with Hux here,” she said. “A pleasure.” She held out her hand, but Ben showed his, begging off. “Right,” Phasma said. “You’re good with mechanics, then?”

“Pretty good,” Ben said. “Thanisson and his crew are better, most times. I just work on my kite.” He tipped his shoulder toward Hux. “And maybe his.”

“How endearing,” Phasma said, impishly. Hux frowned at her. “Does that help you both fly as you do? So well, I mean.”

“Not really,” said Ben. “We’d fly like that together in any plane. The machine doesn’t make the difference; we do.”

Phasma smiled, slow, and altogether too perceptive for Hux’s tastes. “That’s a rather sentimental notion you have there, Ben Solo. I didn’t expect that, when this one”—a hitched thumb at Hux—“is so practical. An unusual match.”

Ben looked between her and Hux, a mix of confusion and concern on his face. What does she know?

Hux blinked at him slowly, reassuringly. I trust her. And he realized that he did. Even if she had guessed at what might be between them, he did not think she would betray them. There was a strange comfort in knowing that someone might understand, but not condemn.

“We may be different men on the ground,” said Hux, “but it doesn’t affect things in the air.”

“Whatever it is you do,” Phasma said, “it’s clearly working.” She rubbed her hands together. “Well, thank you for the tea. And I’ll expect those chocolate caramels later, Hux.”

He laid a hand on the wings over his heart. “I promise you’ll have them by day’s end.”

She gave him a mock-salute and retreated, the hem of her coat swinging around her legs.

“I didn’t get her name,” Ben said as she disappeared around the corner of the hangar, “but she knew mine.”

“Yes,” said Hux, coming around to face him. “I’ve told her about you before. She’s the matron of the infirmary, Phasma. And I do believe she likes you.”

Ben rubbed his thumb on his chin, leaving another smear of grease. “Huh. I guess that’s good?”

Hux smiled at him. “I believe it is.” They paused there, just looking at each other, before Hux said, “Do you want tea?” The question had already been asked once before, but Hux could think of nothing else innocuous to say, to keep him close for another few minutes.

“Okay,” Ben said. He followed Hux over to the table, where Hux filled his own cup and offered it to him. Ben took it. “Sit. Talk with me.”

Hux, unable to refuse, sank into the chair. Ben chose the spot on the ground at his feet, sitting cross-legged there. He drank some of the tea, only grimacing a little. Hux said, “You don’t have to drink it.”

“I figured I should get more of a taste for it,” said Ben, “if I’m going to be living here longer.”

Hux’s stomach flipped over in his gut. He was thrown back to the conversation he had had with Poe on the riverboat on the Thames, implying that perhaps Ben would want to stay in England even after the war. Hux wasn’t sure what to make of that, if it were true. He didn’t want Ben to go, but to have him stay — certainly it would mean they would remain associated. Hux had never enjoyed the company of a lover for longer than a few months. He might have assumed that he and Ben would tire of each other after a time, but thinking of an ending cut through him like a hot knife.

“Long enough to see the war through?” he asked, voice low. “That could be years.”

Ben looked down at his tea, his face reflected there. “I know it could, but I came here to fight it. I won’t just run away later because I’m homesick.” He met Hux’s eyes. “I’m not.”

“You said once you miss the sunshine in California,” said Hux. “Surely there are other things, too.”

Ben wrapped his hand around the ankle of Hux’s boot. “Not much.”

Hux took a cursory look around the field, and, finding that no one was paying them any attention, ran a hand over Ben’s hair. “I want you to be happy here.”

“I am,” said Ben, pushing into the touch, and Hux could barely breathe for wanting to pull him into his arms. But as he always did, he had to take his hand away.

He told him, “You should finish your work. I have some reports to write before dinner.”

They had flown several runs over the coast of France in the past two days, and Hux had noticed some German activity there that needed sending to group headquarters.

“Will you meet me tonight?” Ben asked.

Hux nodded, light with gladness. “Of course.”

Letting go of him, Ben quickly downed the rest of the tea and handed the cup back to Hux. He got to his feet. “See you at dinner,” he said as he headed back over to his kite.

Hux collected his tea tray, carrying it back to the mess. He passed by several groups of enlisted personnel, all of them turned out in their uniforms and caps, some smoking, others talking energetically. They were all young, early twenties at most, and had one put them in civilian clothes, they would have looked no different than the students with whom Hux had attended Oxford.

Even after years of living at airfields, it still struck him how, in the midst of war, life continued on in a semblance of normalcy. People were changed by conflict, but in some fundamental ways, they were unaffected. There were still trivial disagreements, discussions of the newest music, stories told over pints, friendships formed and broken, love affairs. It was the same as in peacetime, but made more frantic by the persistent undercurrent of fear.

The same decisions were made, just with less forethought or consideration of the consequences. And society was more forgiving of missteps made by the war-worn youth than it would be under other circumstances. That leeway was greedily taken, amplifying feelings, actions, words. Hux had thought himself untouched by the fever of it all, but the ferocity with which he had taken to Ben was undeniable.

They had come together urgently, putting aside inhibitions with startling haste. Hux hadn’t held back in giving his body or taking Ben’s. In that was the frenzy he had tried to avoid, a vain attempt at keeping his head in the midst of the most devastating conflict the world had seen since the Great War. He remembered why he had striven so determinedly to stay removed from the freedoms wartime afforded young men and women, but in putting it aside, he wasn’t becoming weak-willed or distracted. Maybe if he had taken a lover who didn’t understand his dedication to flying, his focus might have suffered from their association; but Ben knew him as few did. Their passion was shared.

Hux delivered his tray to the mess, with a murmur of thanks to the sergeants, before wending his way back to the barracks and his reports. When he sat down at his desk, his eyes flicked to the papers, but instead of picking them up, he reached for the wooden figure of the dog that Ben had whittled. He held it in his palm, running a finger down its back to where the tail hung at half-mast. He could feel Ben’s hands on it, hear the scrape of his pocketknife. Several weeks had been spent carving it, amounting, perhaps, to more time than Ben had ever spent touching Hux.

Hux closed his eyes, wrapping his fingers around the figure to clutch it in his fist. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened, but his world had begun in turn in reverse; and instead of trying to set it right on its axis, he was content to let it stay the course, until he was realigned to where Ben would be.

In the next two hours, he composed several dispatches, and went to deliver them, neatly folded, to the control tower to be wired to headquarters. It was on his walk from control to the mess hall for dinner that he encountered Sergeant Mitaka.

“Good evening, sir,” Mitaka said. He held a packet of envelopes in his right hand, many of them marked with colorful international postage. “I have mail for the squadron. Would you like me to take it to your quarters to distribute after dinner is over?”

“No,” said Hux. “I’ll take it now. They’ll want to see them right away.”

Mitaka handed them over. “Here you go, then, sir.” He turned to go, but Hux called to him: “Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to thank you for all that you do,” Hux said. “You’re an exceptionally efficient and capable man. I appreciate your service.”

Though it was dim outside under the mix of yellow lamps and moonlight, Mitaka’s cheeks darkened. “Thank you, sir. It’s been my pleasure serving you.” He hesitated. “But you’re not saying this because you’re leaving, are you? Have you been transferred?”

“No, no,” said Hux. “I just thought I might mention it. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“Oh,” Mitaka said, clearly relieved. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. I’d rather not have a new charge, if I have the choice. I don’t take well to change.”

Hux didn’t imagine he did. Getting used to a new officer would likely mean a significant shift in attitude. A man like his father would be far more demanding and shorter of temper than Hux was. He couldn’t see Mitaka doing well with a squadron leader who was harsh with him.

“I don’t foresee that being a problem,” Hux said. He touched Mitaka’s shoulder. “Thank you, Sergeant. I won’t detain you from your own dinner.”

Mitaka bobbed his head and retreated into the shadows. Hux resumed his walk, thumbing the edge of one of the envelopes. He paused by the door to shuffle through them, and counted eight. One of them was for him (presumably from his mother), and one was postmarked from Berkeley, California and addressed to Ben. Hux hoped the news was better than the last time, when it had sent him into a sulk. Putting the letter at the bottom of the pile, Hux pushed the door open and entered the mess.

He waited until most of the Eagles had abandoned their empty plates, some three quarters of an hour later, before pulling out the letters. He called out the names on each: Crowe, Shea, Wexley, Mills, Putnam, and so on, as the men passed them down to their owners. At last, when Hux reached the final envelope, he said, “Solo.”

Ben rose, stepping over the bench, and coming around the side of the table where Hux sat. He took the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Thanks,” he said. He stayed for just a few seconds, invitation in his expression.

Hux had thought he might forego their meeting to give him time to read it, but there was no mistaking his intentions. As he always did when he meant to take a walk to the hangar after the meal, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and stuck one between his lips. With a last, meaningful look at Hux, he produced his silver lighter and started toward the door.

“Well, I’m off, then,” Norman Crowe said once Ben had gone, pushing back from the table. He held up his letter. “Have a good night, gents.”

Hux lingered as the others trickled out, until only he and Nathan Shea, who ate the slowest, by reason of talking too much between bites, remained. In London, the Eagles seemed to have finally brought him into the fold. They treated him as they did anyone else, and even Taylor, who had been cool with him for weeks, finally deigned to talk to him. And they flew well together. The squadron was as cohesive as Hux could have wanted.

“Where does your letter come from, Nathan?” he asked as he drank the last of his wine.

“My brother,” Shea replied. “He lives in Tallahassee, Florida, with his wife and their three boys. He’s older, of course. Tim’s his name.”

“And are you close?” said Hux.

Shea nodded. “We were best friends growing up. Not to say we didn’t fight like cats in a bag sometimes, but he’s a good kind of brother.”

Hux hummed. “Indeed. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“You going to read your letter, too?” Shea said.

“Yes,” Hux lied. He would go straight to the hangar, leaving his mother’s church news for the next day. “Goodnight, Nathan.”

“Night, sir.”

When he got outside, Hux’s breath misted around his head like smoke. He didn’t bother to light up a cigarette; he wasn’t in the mood. Instead, he walked briskly to the hangar, and his fingers were tingling with cold by the time he got there. Blowing onto them, he stepped inside, searching for a light. He found it hanging from the open underbelly of a disabled Spitfire. Ben sat beneath it, legs crossed in front of him. He had his letter in his hand.

Hux said nothing as he ducked under the airplane and took his place at Ben’s side. Ben transferred the letter to his right hand, putting his left arm around Hux’s shoulders and pulling him against him. He made no effort to hide the letter, so Hux began to read:

Dear Ben,

We got your letter just yesterday, and were so glad to see it! We hadn’t heard from you since you arrived in England, but you said you got Luke’s message. I’m happy we have your address now. You’ll see our new one on the envelope. I’ve come to stay in Berkeley with your uncle for a while. We’ve put the house in Oakland up for sale, but we’ve had no bites as of yet. The market still isn’t very good. We keep hoping, though. Things are good in town, here. I’m getting to know the city and the university. Luke’s been showing me around. The house is very big, and I’m still getting used to having so much space to myself. There are four bedrooms, if you can believe it. Luke says he has one ready for you, but I know you, and if you’re going to stay anywhere, it’s where the fast planes are. How is it flying for the Royal Air Force? Do they take good care of you? If they don’t, I’ll come have a stern word with your commanding officer.

Hux smiled. He would very much like to see what Ben’s mother might have to say to him.

You said a little about Wolcastle (what a strange name!), but hardly enough. Are you near the city or in the country? How many airplanes do they have? Has to be a good number if they’re a full wing. You’ll have to explain that to me. I know my show planes, but nothing like one of those fighters. You must be living for it. I didn’t say it before you left, Ben, but I’m very proud of you. It’s a brave thing you’re doing, and even if I’m scared for you every day, and pray you’ll come home safe, I admire you. I think that’s what every parent wants: to admire the good things their children do. And I do, I really do.

Hux paused, rereading those last lines. Having pride in one’s children he could understand, as it was the crux of what his parents expected of him, but to admire them was something quite different. It implied that you wanted them to go beyond what you had achieved, to be greater. That was not the case with Brendol Hux. He had wanted his son to follow in his footsteps and do just as he did, no more, no less. Hux could actually imagine that if he had, indeed, gone into the army, and surpassed his father’s achievements, Brendol would have begrudged him that. He was, Hux realized, a very petty man, and Hux envied Ben this mother of his.

He turned back to the letter:

I had a telephone call from your father last week. He’s in Omaha at the moment, doing a few shows before they move on. He said to tell you that your old Falcon is still in good shape, and that she’s waiting for you when you come back. I say he should put that antique out to pasture. It probably barely flies anymore, no matter what Han says. He won’t part with any of his heaps, though, as you well know. I bet he misses your hand with the engines, though. He’s never had the knack for it that you do. He sends his love, of course, as does Uncle Luke. We miss you. Please write soon. I love you.

Mom

Hux focused on the signature, studying it. The letter was informal, far less rigid than Hux’s own mother’s correspondence. And there was tangible affection in the words, written in a slanted hand. Hux felt a strange warmth toward this woman he had never met, if only for her love for her only son.

“She seems to be well,” he said, breaking the silence. “Are you glad to hear from her?”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “I didn’t know if it was her who would write back or Uncle Luke.” His mouth turned down. “But she’s in his house now, just like he said.”

“And you don’t approve of that,” Hux said.

Ben traced the edge of the paper. “It doesn’t matter what I think.” He stopped, but then added, “I just can’t really see her in some kind of big, rambling house like Uncle Luke’s. Ours wasn’t much; just two bedrooms and a kitchen, and it was always enough. I guess I’m glad she’s not alone, though. She used to have me while Dad was gone, but…” He trailed off, brows drawn.

Hux set a hand on Ben’s thigh, rubbing lightly. “Is Omaha far from Berkeley?”

“Oh, yeah. Halfway across the country. I bet he hasn’t been home in three months.” Ben chewed his lip. “Well, back to Oakland, anyway. I don’t know where he’s supposed to live now. He can’t go to Luke’s. He’d throw him out. And there’s nowhere to keep the planes.”

Hux, dismayed, said, “Your father is effectively homeless?”

Ben huffed. “He used to call it ‘itinerant,’ but yeah, he pretty much is.”

“And he’s comfortable living like that?” Hux asked. “With nowhere to come back to when his shows are done for the season?”

“He doesn’t really have an off-season,” Ben said. “He goes up north in the summer and down south in the winter, following the good weather. He’ll do okay without having to come back to Oakland.” He took Hux’s hand, interlacing their fingers.

Hux brushed his knuckles with his thumb. “But he won’t see your mother.”

“Probably not.” Drawing Hux’s hand up, Ben kissed the back of it.

“I can understand,” Hux said, “but you said they loved each other very much once. Is that not true anymore?”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t really know. I think they still do, but they just kind of...drifted apart. Dad had his life on the road, and Mom had me for most of the year. They seemed okay. I don’t think I could do it, though.”

Hux turned his head so he could see Ben’s profile. “Do what? Live apart?”

“Mmhm. It doesn’t make sense to me. Or maybe I’m just selfish.”

“Selfish?” said Hux. “How?”

Ben tightened his hold around Hux, almost crushing him to his side. “I don’t want to let go of something once I have it.”

Hux should have recoiled at the possessive implication in that, but he didn’t. It wasn’t frightening; he liked it. Reaching up, he touched Ben’s cheek, guiding him down until he could meet his eyes. “That’s not so selfish,” he teased.

Ben’s lips curved up, but he said, “Could you do it?”

Hux considered. In his parents’ social circle, it was common enough. Partners in a marriage eventually grew tired of one another and went to pursue their own interests. Sometimes that was simply seeking a different circle of friends, but other times there was physical distance involved. Hux had never objected to it. In fact, he found it a form of respect for each partner’s individuality. But he would never be trapped in the bonds of matrimony, so the point was moot for him. If he and his lover found too many differences between them, they could just part ways. If the distance was forced by other circumstances, however, and not of his own making, he was certain he would be less willing to let go.

“I suppose I could tolerate it, if needs be,” he said, “but I don’t think I would prefer it.” He squeezed Ben’s hand. “Call me selfish, too.”

Ben gave him an affected stern look. “So selfish,” he mock-scolded. “So greedy.”

Hux’s grin was predatory. “That, I very much am.” He pushed close and kissed Ben’s lips, insistently tonguing them until he was granted entry. Ben turned him in his arms, so that he was all but sitting in his lap. Hux braced himself against Ben’s chest, feeling the solidness of him under his hands.

The only sounds for the next few minutes were the sweet, slick noises of their mouths coming together. It was far too cold to undress, but they held each other tightly, fingers in each other’s hair and running over whatever exposed skin was available. Hux stared, overcome, as Ben kissed and sucked on his fingers. When Hux removed them, the warm saliva cooled immediately.

Hux’s mind was fuzzy with desire, but as he glanced down to where Ben had discarded the letter from his mother, he saw the corner of a photograph peeking out from the envelope. “She sent you a picture,” he said.

“Hmm?” Ben enquired between presses of his lips against Hux’s neck.

Hux released his hold on Ben’s shoulder to retrieve the photograph. He held it up so he could see it: a woman in a plain but well-fitted dress, standing next to a bearded man in a suit. Behind them was a two-storey home with a pretty brick staircase leading to the front door. He studied the woman’s features, petite and delicate; her eyes he recognized. They were the same as Ben’s.

“This is your mother,” Hux said, making an attempt to guide Ben away from him by his hair. “And your uncle.”

Ben’s eyes were dark and unfocused, but he glanced over at the photograph. “Yeah. Leia and Luke Skywalker.”

“She didn’t take your father’s name?” Hux asked.

“It’s a long story,” Ben sighed, ducking back in to kiss him.

Hux pulled back, just out of range. “Tell me.” Ben pouted, clearly disappointed, but at Hux’s “Please,” relented. He moved Hux out of his lap to sit next to him again. He took the photograph and looked down at it.

“It starts with the Skywalkers, I guess,” Ben said, “of Seattle, Washington. They were fishermen at first, but made a pretty good living at it, and got a few more boats, until they had Skywalker Fisheries. It’s pretty well-known in Washington, and they were proud of the name. My grandparents wanted Mom and Luke to get out of the business, though, and move up in the world. So, they sent them to college.

“Luke did best there, and everyone knew he’d go on to be a professor, but Mom wasn’t caught up in it. She wanted to see places, do different things. She was the one who dragged them both to one of Dad’s airshows. To hear her tell it, she fell in love right then and there — with the planes, that is. She had to sweet talk Dad into giving her a ride, but she did, and that’s when she fell for him.”

Ben stroked Hux’s upper arm. “She quit college the next day and took off with him. Her parents were furious, but that was it. They spent six months on the road. It was when they were in Oakland that Mom found out she was pregnant. They got married there, but Mom didn’t want to shuck the Skywalker name, so she kept it. I’m pretty sure they fought about it, but Mom always won in the end. And she got Dad to take a year’s break from the road so they could buy a house and have me.”

“That’s very romantic,” said Hux, and it was. Far more so than his parents’ formal courtship.

“I guess so, yeah,” Ben said. “They were crazy, if you ask my grandparents, or just about anyone else.”

Hux chuckled. “But it makes for a good story.” He turned back to the photograph. “You look a bit like her, but perhaps more like your father?”

Ben grabbed for the envelope again, producing another photograph. This one was of a rugged-looking man, in a leather flight jacket, posing next to a biplane. Hux could see the resemblance right away, though it was clear that some of Ben’s features came from his mother, as well. Han Solo was undeniably handsome, but more narrowly built than his son, and, Hux thought, shorter. Maybe Ben got his height from his grandfather.

“They’re lovely,” Hux said. “I see both of them in you. In appearance, but also personality.”

Ben glanced over at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you love to fly like your father, and you’re a little rash like your mother. I don’t assume you thought overlong about coming over to England when you were offered the chance.”

“No, I didn’t,” Ben said. “It was probably the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”

Hux smiled, touching the tip of his nose to Ben’s. “Your mother was charmed right away by a pilot. You have that in common with her, too.”

“You bet your ass I do,” Ben laughed as he kissed him.

Hux took him in happily, losing himself in the embrace again for a time. Ben was all around him, filling all of his senses. Hux knew the shape of him, and how he liked his scalp scratched while they kissed. He liked attention paid to his ears, but not too much, if Hux didn’t want to end up under him as they fumbled with each other’s clothes. He wanted Hux to catch his lower lip between his teeth and suck it into his mouth, until it was plush and red. And Hux was glad to oblige.

“You should send a picture back to them,” Hux said when they paused for breath. “So that they can have something of you here.”

Ben rested his forehead against Hux’s. “I don’t have one, really. I will send them the article from the Mirror, though.”

Hux stroked his hair back from his face. “Mm, yes, of course. But there’s no photograph of you there, save for in the group shot. They should have one of you .”

“I don’t have one,” said Ben, “unless you want to send the personnel photo they took when I joined up.”

Hux actually had quite a vivid memory of that photograph. It was in Ben’s file, which had come to him when he had first been assigned to the 363. In it Ben was turned out in his uniform, with his hat on his head, but looked very displeased to have the picture taken. He was taciturn and hard-eyed, and yet striking as ever.

“No, I don’t suppose that would do,” Hux said. Putting some distance between them, he unbuttoned his breast pocket and took out the photograph he had hidden there. “You could send this one.”

Ben took it from him, looking it over. “You didn’t have this one before,” he said, “with the other pictures.”

“I did,” said Hux, a little sheepish, “but it was in my pocket. I didn’t intend to show it to anyone.”

“Not even me?” Ben asked, one brow raised.

Hux touched the corner of the photograph. “You said you didn’t like seeing yourself in photographs, so I didn’t think you’d want to see it. And I…well, I’m not a sentimental man, but”—he made himself meet Ben’s eyes—“I wanted it for myself.”

Ben blinked once, long and slow, and then, opening Hux’s hand, pressed the photograph into it. “Did you just happen to bring it tonight, or have you had it in that pocket for five days?”

Hux swallowed, heat in his cheeks. “I’ve been carrying it.” He might have said he simply forgot to take it out, but he couldn’t lie. There was no point in that, when he had already gone so far as to keep it with him for so long already.

“Why?” Ben said.

Hux breathed out, preparing for this kind of admission. “I used to fly with men who tacked photographs of their sweethearts on the panels of their kites. I can’t do that, but I thought I might have it with me anyway.”

Ben put his hands on either side of Hux’s face, looking intently at him, but saying nothing.

“What?” Hux asked, hushed.

Ben brushed his thumbs along Hux’s cheekbones. “I said coming here was an easy choice. It was, but it was the best one I ever made. You...you’re just…” He didn’t finish, instead kissing Hux again with need they could both taste.

“Keep the picture, Hux,” he said.

Hux didn’t object. He slipped the photograph back into his pocket, and then slid his arms around Ben’s neck.

“That’s the hand, boys.” Poe swept his hands across the table, pulling the pile of coins, cigarettes, and various other currency toward him. He had been cleaning up at poker since after lunch, much to the consternation of the revolving door of men who had been playing against him. At the moment, it was Meltsa, Wexley, and Brewster Mills, all of whom groaned at another Dameron victory.

“Hey, Ben,” Brewster called. “You’ve got to come over here and school this bastard. At this rate, you’re the only one who can beat him.”

Poe smirked, counting out his winnings. “I’m on a roll. I don’t think even Ben could take me down at this point.”

Ben, who sat in the corner with his whittling, sat forward. “Is that a challenge?”

“Sure,” Poe replied. “Take a seat, and let’s see what you can do, kid.”

Hux watched Ben lay down his knife and the half-carved chunk of wood, and make his way across the room to the card table. He pulled a chair over with a loud scraping sound and sat heavily.

“I’ll deal,” he said. Meltsa handed the cards over, and Ben began to shuffle them.

Hux had been reading, but he stuck a finger into his book and closed the cover. This would, no doubt, be a good show. The rest of the squadron was gathering around, too, but they didn’t get to start the game, as the door to the briefing room slammed open, and an out-of-breath Shorty stumbled through.

“The goddamn Japs,” he gasped. “The Japs have...they’ve attacked us.”

There was a beat of silence, punctuated only by Shorty’s labored breaths, and then Strickland asked, “What the hell are you saying, Putnam?”

Shorty replied, “It was just on the radio. This morning in Hawaii, the fucking Japanese attacked a naval base called Pearl Harbor. They’re starting a goddamn war!”

In a second, half the men were on their feet, demanding details. Shorty didn’t have much to offer, only that in the early hours of the morning, the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor had been bombarded from the air by a large Japanese force. They didn’t know about the casualties or the damage, but there was agreement amongst all of them that President Roosevelt couldn’t let the incident go unchallenged. And that meant a formal declaration of war.

Hux hadn’t been paying much attention to the conflict in the Pacific, but he knew that Japan had been invading neighboring nations in search of resources to feed their military. They were bold, apparently, but he hadn’t thought them foolish enough to start a direct conflict with the neutral United States. But now they had done so, brazenly.

“What is this supposed to mean for us?” Norman Crowe asked. “If we’re going to war against the Japs, surely they’ll need pilots.”

“The Army Air Force will start recruiting for sure,” said Taylor, hands on his hips. “They’re gonna need all the men they can get.”

Meltsa thumped his fist on a nearby desk. “You’re damn right. We owe those Japs a walloping for what they did. Rat bastards.”

A few of the others agreed, nodding and muttering affirmations.

“We’ve got to find out what they’re gonna need,” said Wexley, “and get on board. If there’s gonna be a war, we’re all gonna fight.”

Hux was standing back, watching them speak amongst themselves, with a sinking dread in his gut. Of course they would want to fight for their country; of course they would want to go. It was only natural. However, it would necessitate them deploying halfway around the world to fight on a different front. They would have to leave England, and likely soon.

Lewis Mills stepped forward, raising his hands for quiet. “Just wait one minute, boys,” he said. “I know you’re mad as hell, and I am, too, but we can’t just up and leave. We didn’t sign up for this outfit through the Army Air Force. We’re RAF. They’d have to let us go before we could go back home and join up.” Glancing among them, he found Hux at the back of the crowd. “You think they would do that, sir?”

Hux’s voice was caught in his throat, but he cleared it, managing to say, “I’m afraid I don’t know. There are no guidelines for this. It would have to go up to Fighter Command for consideration.”

Snoke would know nothing. Any decisions made about the Eagles came from senior command. They were considered operational squadrons, same as any domestic one, but their circumstances necessitated orders from the top.

“Well, we’d better get on the horn with them,” said Crowe. “I’m not about to sit here and let the Japs get away with this.”

A bitter breed of anger welled up in Hux at that, even if it was unwarranted. He had thought his men loyal to His Majesty’s Air Force, to their wing, and to him, but those things were so easily cast aside in favor of their allegiance to the United States. To begrudge them that was unfair in the extreme, but Hux couldn’t stop himself. In that moment, he hated the Japanese just as much as they did, though for him it was because they were tearing the hearts of the 363 from Wolcastle.

“We will do nothing until we know more,” Hux said, sharp. “I will speak to the wing commander to make sure we are kept abreast of any developments, but in the meantime, you have a duty to fulfill.” He looked around at each of them, gaze hard. “You are RAF, and you will be expected to fly until the point, if it comes, when you are released from your obligation by Fighter Command. I am sincerely sorry to know that this attack has taken place, and that American lives were lost, but this is your place for now. Is that understood?”

Some expressions stiffened. Hux could see the conflict in their faces: loyalty versus duty. They were in a difficult position—he would be the first to admit that—but they could not run to a boat tomorrow. They would have to wait and see what was to become of them. Whatever that was, however, Hux knew it was likely the end of the Eagle Squadrons.

“We understand, sir,” said Poe, speaking for the group. “We’ll be ready to fly no matter what. Just...take our concerns to the wing commander. This is our country that was attacked, our people that have died. We’ve got a right to want to fight with them.”

Hux pressed his lips together, but nodded. “You do. I promise you I will find out as much as I can. It will be relayed to you expediently.”

Poe inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.” He rubbed a finger along his chin. “If we have your permission, could we bring a radio down here and listen to the updates?”

“Yes, of course,” said Hux.

Shorty and Taylor scurried off to find one, leaving the others milling around the room. The tension rolling off of them could be felt.

Hux was suddenly in need of air. Turning sharply, he strode over to the door and shoved it open. The cold buffeted his face as he inhaled deeply. His skin was crawling, his hands shaky. Craving the steadying smoke of a cigarette, he fumbled his silver case out of his jacket and lit one up. The first drag, too much, made him cough, and he barely heard the opening and closing of the door behind him. He started when he felt a warm hand wrap around his.

Ben.

He didn’t speak right away, simply standing there and holding onto Hux while he smoked heavily.

When Hux had burned the cigarette down to his fingers, he flicked it away. “Why didn’t you join the air force in America?” he asked. “You could have.”

“I guess so,” Ben said, “but there was no one to fight there.”

Hux rounded on him, gaze flicking over his face. “But now there is, and you want to take your fight to them.” He sounded brackish, but he couldn’t make himself temper his tone.

Ben shook his head slightly, making his hair swing around his collar. “I should, and I do, but I don’t, either. If the rest of them want to be transferred home, though, I don’t think that command would let me stay.”

“No,” Hux said. “I don’t imagine they would.” He went for another cigarette, but Ben took the case from him. He opened it with steadier hands than Hux’s and lifted two out. He lit them, both in his mouth, before handing one to Hux, as if Hux couldn’t manage the task himself. As Hux took the cigarette, he wasn’t actually sure he could’ve.

“Nobody could have seen this coming,” Ben said. “It’s gonna make things hard.”

Hux blew out a stream of smoke. “When were they ever easy for us, Ben? When would they ever be?”

Ben took a long drag. “Most things that are worth doing aren’t easy.”

Hux stepped close to him and took his hand again. “No, they’re not.”

The squadron spent most of the rest of the day gathered around the wireless, listening for news from Washington, D.C. There were a few broadcasts, but few concrete details. By dinner, word had got around the airfield, and there were a number of pilots from the 129 and 222 who came to offer condolences. The Eagles were mournful, but there was far more anger in them than sorrow. After the meal, they returned to the briefing room to listen more. Hux left them to their business, choosing to take to his bed.

It was in the evening of the next day, December the eighth, that President Franklin D. Roosevelt declared war against Japan in a powerful speech addressed to the Congress and broadcast across the globe. The Eagles cheered. Hux would have to speak to Snoke, as he had promised, and begin the process of liberating the 363, so that they could return to America and fight their own war.

Chapter Text

Daybreak on the morning after the declaration of war was no different from any other in the early winter: a grim sky and crisp air that nipped at noses and lips. But Hux could feel the shift in attitude throughout breakfast. The Eagles were agitated and pushed their food around their plates in sedate disinterest, conversing little, save to wonder aloud what news would come from home that day.

Hux ate his own porridge with determination, scraping the bottom of the bowl as if taking  an ordinary meal would preserve the normalcy he had come to know. It was a poor attempt, and it changed nothing. The thick porridge just sat heavy in his stomach, a physical discomfort to pair with the unease in his mind.

He had slept fitfully, dreams filled with broken and gloomy images of the things he knew: the airfield, but the buildings were abandoned and crumbling with rust; empty streets in Wolcastle village, the pleasant tinkling of the fountain the only sound—but the water was dirty, leaving trails of grit down the rabbit fountainhead’s sides like flecks of blood. He watched as the paint on his kite boiled away, the metal peeling back to reveal the bones, one of which snapped with a mighty crack that startled Hux awake. He couldn’t sleep any more after that, getting up and going to the basin Mitaka had filled with water before Hux had gone to bed. He splashed it over his face and neck, cold droplets striking the floor and the tops of his feet with soft pats. He had dressed by rote and gone out to watch the light spread sallow and muted across the eastern horizon, toward France and, many thousands of miles farther on, Hawaii, where his men sought to go.

Taking a sip of his weak tea at the breakfast table, he ventured a glance at Ben, who sat sequestered in his usual place at the far end, face hidden by the fall of his hair as he looked down at his half-full cup of black coffee. He hadn’t spoken to Hux the night before, after the declaration, instead lingering at the back of the huddle of Eagles as they gathered around the wireless. He sat with his big shoulders hunched and his hands hanging between his knees. From Hux’s place near the door, where he stood out of sight, the distance seemed far greater than the ten paces across the scuffed floor of the briefing room. Hux wanted to cross it and take him by the hands until he commanded his full attention. But Ben’s focus remained resolutely on the wireless, so Hux slipped unnoticed out into the night.

“Sir?”

Hux turned to see Mitaka hovering at his back, wearing his usual mousy expression. His gaze darted to those Eagles who had looked his way, then back to Hux, at whom he blinked twice, waiting.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Hux said. “What is it?”

“The wing commander would like to see you, sir,” said Mitaka. “Just as soon as you’re able.”

Hux might have expected this; if Snoke hadn’t summoned him, he would have gone to him anyway, to address the matter of the American entry into the war. Setting down his teacup, he pushed it an inch or so away, discarding it, and rose to his feet. “I’m on my way,” he said. “Thank you for the message, Sergeant.” To the Eagles: “I’ll expect you all in the briefing room when I return.” He didn’t wait for a response; an order like that didn’t require one. Striding past Mitaka, he made for the door.

The radio operators were sitting at their stations in the command tower when he arrived, but their headphones hung unused around their necks. No one was flying at this hour, and it seemed unlikely that they would even later. Hostilities had simmered down to a low boil in the past few weeks, when the weather was bad and tempers were low. For now there was a listlessness to the pilots and their crews, but it wouldn’t last. They didn’t do well when they weren’t in the air, and would get into all manner of trouble to pass the time if they were grounded. Wolcastle village didn’t need two hundred men loitering about en masse in search of drink and companionship; nothing good ever came of bored soldiers.

“Good morning, S.L. Hux,” said Rey from her place nearest the back door. She had a bright smile for him, though her eyes were dull, shadows beneath. “Terrible news about Pearl Harbor. Are the boys all right?”

“They’re not happy,” Hux replied, diverting to speak to her, “but they’re keeping their chins up.”

She fiddled absently with the braided cord of her headphones. “Did they know anyone there? I hope they didn’t have family.”

Hux shook his head. “Thankfully, no. But they feel the loss acutely. And they’re angry.”

“Of course. I would be, too.” She looked toward the open door of Snoke’s office. “Did you come to speak to him about them?”

“I believe so,” he said.

She sighed just slightly through her nose. “Well, my thoughts are with them. Tell Ben that, will you?”

Hux looked down at her, surveying her earnest, open face, and realized he had grown very fond of her. “I will,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Rey.”

When he entered Snoke’s office, he found the wing commander standing with his back to the door, a paper in hand. He came sharply around as Hux closed the door, plucking the cigar from his mouth and coughing to clear his throat. “Armitage, good. I’ve just had a wire from Fighter Command.”

Hux, dread hanging over him, clasped his hands behind his back and forced himself to hold his shoulders square, betraying nothing. “I assume it’s pertinent to my men.”

Snoke nodded. “Indeed. It seems that a few of the Americans in the other Eagle Squadrons filed a petition to be released from duty and allowed to go the Pacific to fly against the Japanese.”

“That was quick,” said Hux.

“Are you really so surprised?” Snoke asked, only a tinge of derision in his tone. “They came to fly here because they couldn’t fly elsewhere. Now they have the opportunity and the cause to do so under their own country’s colors. Would you not do the same?”

Hux didn’t hesitate to reply, “I would, sir. I understand their desire. Was the petition approved, then?”

Snoke held out the paper he had been looking over, but before Hux could read the first line, he said, “It was not.”

Scanning the text on the page, Hux read: All of the RAF Eagle Squadrons are to remain in service until the end of the year. Their dissolution will be discussed at Fighter Command, but for the moment, these men are to fly as ordered. All grievances can be submitted to group headquarters and logged, but any dereliction of duty will incur regulation punishment.

The rush of relief came with guilt. Hux’s men would likely not take this well, and it might affect their performance, but it meant that he had, at least, the rest of the month of December as their commanding officer. That was a shallow comfort.

“I’ll take this to them, then, shall I?” he said.

“Yes,” said Snoke. “I trust you’ll handle the matter diplomatically. I’d prefer not to contend with any problems over this.”

Hux folded the dispatch in quarters and tucked it into his breast pocket. “I don’t think that will be an issue, sir. 363 Squadron is as willing and able as ever. We’ll be ready to get into the air when we’re called upon.”

Snoke regarded Hux with steely interest for a moment, holding him in place. “You’ve done extremely well by those men, Armitage. Not every Englishman would have handled them so adroitly. I’ll make a note of it when I reply to command. You should be commended.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hux, “but it wasn’t difficult. I respect and admire them.”

Snoke stuck the cigar back into his mouth and took a deep pull. As he exhaled, he said, flatly, “I was asked before to transfer them.”

Hux tensed. “By whom?”

Snoke offered a barbed smile that made the scars on his cheeks twist. “Oh, I believe you know.”

“Chapman,” Hux spat. “He has no right or authority to force a transfer.” Hux had known vindictive men in his life, but to run to the wing commander and cry for a whole squadron to be relocated because of a childish rivalry was openly malicious.

“No, he doesn’t,” said Snoke. “And that’s why he was refused.” Pulling out his chair, he sank down onto it. “I’d tread lightly, but you won’t have to contend with him again for a while. The 222 will remain on the ground today, but your squadron’s to fly a sortie in short order.”

Hux raised his brows. “Where?”

“The Germans are gathering forces outside of Bruges, and Fighter Command wants to hit them early.”

“Belgium,” Hux said. “They haven’t been staging operations from there in some time. Why resume now?”

Snoke tipped his head in a kind of shrug. “What difference does it make? Command has the intelligence; we fly the mission. Your squadron assembles at eleven o’clock. Brief your men.”

Hux saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed, Squadron Leader.”

Hux left the command tower at a quick pace, cutting across the trodden grass toward the briefing room. No need to tarry with this news; best to just get it over and done with. It had begun to mist, and the wool of his uniform was beaded with wet when he got to the door. Most of the men looked up from their cards, newspapers, and conversations when he entered. Taking advantage of their attention, he pulled out the dispatch and said, “Gentlemen, we have orders from the top about your continued role here. Poe, would you care to read this?”

Poe rose from his seat and made his way across the room to take the paper. His expression remained mostly impassive as he looked it over, before starting to read aloud. Hux watched the Eagles’ reactions: they varied from open disappointment to concession. When Poe was finished, he set the dispatch down on the table in front of him.

“Well,” he said, “this is good news, I say. The Germans are allies of the Japs, so every time we shoot one of them down, it’s a victory for America and England.” He glanced at Hux. “Don’t you think so, sir?”

Hux chose his words carefully. “Well put, Dameron. However, if any of you do take issue with this, you may speak to me privately.” He paused, letting that sink in before continuing: “In the meantime, we’re being disbursed to Belgium at eleven o’clock. Report to the hangar at a quarter to. I will be in my rooms for the rest of the morning if any of you would like to meet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Poe.

Hux dared a quick look at Ben, whom he found seated at the back of the room with his whittling in hand. He met Hux’s eyes for a moment, unfazed, but then returned to his work. Hux tried not to let it affect him, and failed. He said, “Excuse me,” and left the building.

His quarters were, thankfully, warm and dry, allowing him to remove his damp jacket and run a towel over his hair. He combed it neatly after, though he didn’t linger at the mirror, knowing already what he’d see: hollow eyes, the drawn expression of the poorly rested. In need of a distraction, he decided he would reply to his mother’s latest letter, which he had been neglecting. It had arrived a few days ago, and she had once again urged him to come home on his next leave. She would not be pleased to hear that he had just had one in London and had not come to Surrey for a day. He thought about omitting it completely, but it made him seem like a guilty child, hiding his misdeeds to avoid his parents’ disapproval. Sitting at his desk, he picked up a sheet of paper and his fountain pen, and he began to write:

Dear Mother,

Thank you for your letter. I am glad to know that all is well with you and Father, and with your friends as well. You will have heard by now that the Americans have entered the war. They are, perhaps, not on this front, but I feel that it won’t be long before they have to face the reality that is the alliance between Germany and Japan. If the rest of them are at all like the men I fly with, they will be valuable allies. I just recently had a bit of an introduction to their culture in the form of a holiday called Thanksgiving…

He recounted, in great detail, the meal at the Eagle Club, going so far as to explain the ingredients in cornbread stuffing in an effort to impress upon his mother how unusual but flavorful it had been. He chuckled to himself at the thought of her attempting to make it herself and serving it in the family silver. No doubt his father would spurn it.

Avoiding heavy topics, as always, he went on to recount the flying competition, in which he and Ben had done so well. He realized he had never named one of his wingmen in a letter to his mother before, and yet there on the page was Ben’s full name. And moreover, Hux began to tell her about him:

His name is Ben Solo, and he comes from a place called Oakland, California. He’s been flying since he was a child, and is, perhaps, the most gifted pilot with whom I’ve ever flown. He’s told me of his home, and I have spoken to him of mine. Since you have implored me to come to Surrey when next we have leave, I might like to bring him with me. He’s seen very little of England, and I would like to show him. I’m not certain when that will be, but I will write to you when I know. As always, I wish you well, Mother, and send my affection.

He signed it with his first name, blowing on it to dry the ink. The desire to take Ben to his parents’ home was an unexpected one, but Ben had once said he would like to show Hux California. Surrey was quite a bit closer, and spending a few leisurely days there, taking Ben to the places he had explored as a child, would please him a great deal. That was, of course, contingent upon whether or not the 363 was disbanded before the new year.

He had alluded to it in his letter, but he was beginning to think more and more that the Americans would not be able to avoid joining the wider conflict in Europe. Germany and Italy had united in their efforts at military conquest in ‘39 with the so-called Pact of Steel, and Imperial Japan had joined them in the Tripartite Pact in September of ‘40. If the United States was an enemy of Japan, it also made them one of the Italians and the Germans. If one or the other, or both, chose to formally declare war on the United States as an effort to support the Japanese, it would surely result in the Americans allying with Britain and the Soviets—the latter were new to the fight as of June.

The war was straining England, Ireland, and Scotland even more now, and with the fall of France the year before, American intervention could turn the tide of the war, maybe even end it sooner. Hux didn’t allow himself to hope for that, but it wasn’t impossible; with a so-far- untouched ally, whose people were still strong and land unmarred by years of fighting, they might have strength enough to win. And maybe if the Americans came to British shores, the Eagles wouldn’t have to go halfway around the world to fly for their country. Maybe—

Hux started, jarred out of his thoughts, as he heard an insistent knock at his door. Slipping the letter under a pile of other paperwork and shaking off the melancholy, he said, “Come in.”

The door swung open, revealing Poe standing at the threshold, one hand casually in the pocket of his trousers. “Hey, sir,” he said. “Do you have some time to talk?”

“Of course,” Hux replied, getting to his feet. “Please, come in. I’m afraid I don’t have another chair, but this one is yours.” He turned it to face the cot, sitting on the mattress and gesturing for Poe to take the chair. Poe sat, resting his palms on his knees. “What can I do for you?” Hux asked.

“Well, you said we could bring our concerns to you, so here I am.”

Hux was prepared for this, but, in all honesty, he hadn’t expected it from his second. “Ah, yes. You are unhappy with the situation.”

“It’s not exactly that,” Poe said. “I’m here on behalf of everyone, really. We’ve been talking about it, and a couple of the guys are sore, but they’re not going to cause trouble for you.”

“I didn’t expect trouble from them,” said Hux. “Discontent, maybe, but—”

Poe cut him off: “You’re worried about us, sir, and we can tell.” He offered a small smile. “Crowe was the one who said that we’d want take you right along with us if we ever went anywhere. It’s not that we don’t like it here or that we’re not proud of all the fighting we’ve done. You know that.”

Hux nodded. “I do. I would want the same if I was in your place.” He meant it, too, as much as it stung.

Poe rubbed his hands along his thighs, looking a sight insecure for the first time since Hux had met him. “The RAF’s been good to us, and we’re still gonna give it our all when we fly today and tomorrow and the next day. Until we go, we’re ready to do our duty. We wanted you to know that.”

Pinpricks of disappointment still tingled down the back of Hux’s neck, but he was grateful, too, for this gesture of reassurance. He had hoped his mood hadn’t been so transparent to them, but they knew him well now, and it was hard to hide when he felt it so deeply.

“Thank you, Poe,” he said, slowly. “I appreciate you bringing the message. I assume that no one else will be coming, then?”

“They might,” said Poe, “but I don’t think so. We’re still going to go out there and put down some Jerries, and that’s what matters.” He rose and took a step toward Hux, bringing him close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for understanding, sir.” With a light squeeze, he released Hux and left.

Hux stood in the silence for a time, caught between consolation and discomfort. He had been transferred between squadrons seven times over the course of his career, and he was used to letting go. He should have been buoyed by the weeks they still had left, but instead, he felt a profound sense of abandonment.

Get a hold of yourself, he chastised himself harshly as he forced himself to return to his desk and retrieve the letter he had written. He folded it crisply and tucked it into an envelope to post in the morning, leaving it beside the figure of the dog Chewie. For once, he didn’t stop to pick it up, but brusquely took the chair and turned it back to face the desk, the legs scraping across the floor. It creaked under his weight as he sat to feign interest in his reports.

The grey-green water of the Channel winked in the scant sunlight as the 363 soared over it toward Belgium. There were no bombers to accompany on this run; just twelve Spitfires in neat formation across the sky. The Germans were installing themselves on the coast near Bruges, and the Eagles were to lay eyes on the operation and disable what equipment they could manage with their machine guns and cannons. In the end, what mattered was getting a look at the place to decide if Bomber Command needed to see to it; there was only so much damage a fighter could do outside of a dogfight. Bruges was too urban to have a nearby airfield, but that didn’t mean the squadron couldn’t be detected and countered before they reached the city. But so far it looked as if they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“Red Leader, this is Blue Leader; do you read?” Poe’s voice over the radio.

“I read you,” said Hux, his oxygen mask covering his face. “What do you need?”

“Just checking in,” Poe said, ever-cheerful. “What’s our position?”

Hux glanced down at the map book resting on his right thigh, its edges curling with wear. The city proper was nine miles inland, but their target was closer to the shore. He could see the beach in the distance, a white strip of land just at the horizon. “Two miles off the coast and closing,” he said. “Well within range of enemy radar, so keep a sharp eye. Yellow Flight, you’re to keep to the north, Blue to the south. Red will hold the center line. Let’s get to eight hundred feet. Keep to your positions and watch your backs.”

Tipping the nose of his Spit down, he began the descent, listening to the steady rumble of the engine. During his training, he had been required to shut it off completely mid-flight and glide back to the airfield unaided. The sudden quiet had been startling, but when he had adjusted to it, he had slid back the canopy of his aircraft and listened to the whistling of the wind. The exercise drew into sharp relief the power of flight: such a heavy machine was riding the currents thousands of feet above the countryside below without anything to keep it airborne but the design of the craft. He forgot, in that moment, that his kite was a weapon, focusing only on the privilege he had to pilot it.

Nearing Belgium now, he thumbed the trigger on the spade grip as a reminder of what he was there to do. Through the gunsight he could see the buildings taking shape along the coast, the piers and scattered boats on the water. They would have one safe pass, maybe two, before the Germans got their Flak 38s armed and targeted from the ground. In the best case scenario, each flight would make their pass, do their best to memorize the layout of the installation, take a few good shots, and then retreat to Wolcastle without scathe. But that was the best case.

“All right, gentlemen,” Hux said. “Let’s to work.”

Peering through his mirror, he watched the rest of Red Flight—Ben, Meltsa, and Wexley—follow him down the last few hundred feet, until they could see the people dotting the streets on the shoreline, some of them stopping to watch as the Spits thundered over. It was possible they were assumed to be Germans flying an exercise; civilians couldn’t always distinguish friendly aircraft from hostile.

The houses and winding coastal roads flicked by under them, until they saw the beginnings of the installation on the outskirts of town: sandbags and barricades blocking the way, the black shadows of tanks and antiaircraft guns, personnel milling between commandeered buildings. It wasn’t a big operation, from what Hux could see, but there was a building presence that might become something in the next few weeks.

“Meltsa,” said Hux, “what do you see?” Though they all had good vision—every pilot was screened for it when they went through their initial physical—Theo had eagle eyes, over twenty-twenty.

“Room for five hundred men,” Meltsa replied, “maybe more. Heavy artillery.” He added a thoughtful, “Can’t imagine why. The Jerries have owned this place for a year.”

Hux had to agree. It didn’t make much sense to build up a presence at this location, unless they were defending something significant. “Could be they’re bringing shipping here. Resupplying by sea.”

“Might could be,” said Wexley, “but the navy has a good handle on the waterways, don’t they?”

“Not against U-boats,” Ben said, matter-of-fact.

Hux hadn’t any real intelligence about what the navies, German and English, were doing. No. 13 Group covered most of the shipping routes in Britain with their Seafires, and didn’t communicate much to the rest of the groups; their business was their own.

“We’ll have time to speculate later,” he said. “For now, let’s get this job over with, before they take notice.” Banking slightly, he got a better view of the ground, committing as much to memory as possible. He led Red Flight over the widest point of the installation, turning as they reached the country on the other side, and then returned for another pass.

As they flew, Ben asked, “They’ve got at least six Flaks down there, and they have to know who we are by now. Why aren’t they shooting?”

“Ain’t that just the question of the day,” said Strickland across their shared radio frequency. He and Blue Flight were within sight off of Hux’s starboard side, flying southwest. “Do you want us to head down and see if we can get them to play along, Red Leader?”

Hux glanced at his fuel gauge, making sure he still made more than half a tank—they had to get home—but then he said, “Make it known we were here, gentlemen. Guns free, all flights.”

“Here we come, Jerry,” growled Taylor as he led Yellow Flight into machine gun range on the north side of the installation. They dipped out of Hux’s view long before they started shooting, but he remained on course for another few seconds, letting the others get the first shots off, before giving a macabrely cheerful, “Off we go, then, lads,” and diving down toward the central buildings and opening fire.

The personnel on the ground scattered for what cover they could find as the Eagles’ bullets cut through the air and buried themselves in brick, soil, or flesh. Roof tiles exploded on impact, and geysers of dirt spouted up where the ground was hit. Hux fired in short bursts, the sound of the guns sharp and ringing even over the noise of the engine. He saw only snippets of the chaos he left behind him, moving too fast over the landscape to judge if he had done any real damage. But in the end it didn’t matter if he had hit anything in particular; the point was to intimidate. If the air force really wanted this installation gone, they would send Bomber Command for it.

Still, as he reached the far western side of the compound, he came around for a proper look. Half a mile off of his position, he saw Blue Flight diving sharply down and emptying their magazines onto the ground. Dark smoke billowed up from a shot-up structure, presumably fuel or ammunition burning off. Yellow Flight was, Hux guessed, behind him, where they couldn’t be seen. As he was aiming through his gunsight again, he spotted the first of the manned Flak 38s swiveling around to line up for a shot.

He said, “They’ve got our number now, gentlemen. Break formation and get out of range.” But the warning didn’t come fast enough. He felt and heard the pop of a round in his wing before he had even pushed the throttle for the ascent. “Damn!” he cried. He turned to port, getting away from the nearest Flak, but didn’t move to pull up. Instead he primed his cannons and came around to try to decommission that gun.

He registered that there was another Spit beside him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight. In the crosshairs were the Flak gunners, and as he came down within range, he peppered their sandbagged position with bullets. They were out of sight in the flash, but Hux was already banking again, preparing for another pass.

“I’m coming around behind you,” Ben said, his voice cutting through those of the others on the frequency. “If you don’t get them, I will.”

“No,” Hux said sharply. “We’ll draw their fire.” Two kites in close proximity were a bigger target than just one, and more likely to be hit as the gunners fired rapidly.

Ben countered, “They won’t get us,” with undue confidence.

Hux ground his teeth to keep from cursing his stubbornness. They were coming around too fast for him to order Ben away now, and that was even if he expected to be obeyed, which he didn’t. Thumb on the trigger, he targeted the Flak’s position and came in with cannons ready. The white tail of a tracer round sailed past the cockpit as he flew, but it was too late to turn without exposing his fuel tanks to the gunners. He clenched his fist around the stick, held course, and let loose.

No tell-tale snaps of metal on metal came, but his heart clenched as he heard someone cry, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” For a split second, he thought it was Ben, but the voice was too high, the accent too shrill. When the pilot said, “I’m going down,” Hux recognized young Nathan Shea’s voice.

Looking frantically for Yellow Flight, Hux pulled up and away from the Flaks, until he spotted a wounded Spitfire listing dangerously to starboard as smoke trailed from the engine block.

“Bail out, Shea,” he said, hurried and thick with anxiety. “Get out now.”

Hux had to look away, had to focus on his own course, but when he heard nothing else from Shea, he desperately hoped he had just disconnected his radio and gotten out of the kite. But he listened as Taylor, Shea’s wingman, called brokenly, “Nate! Nate, can you hear me? Get out of there, kid. Nate, come on,” and dread filled the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t see a ‘chute,” said Brewster Mills. “He’s just falling out of the sky. He’s...oh, Jesus.”

The Spitfire hit the ground and erupted into flames, colliding with the side of a building, which caved in around it.

“Nate!” Taylor howled, the name staticky over the radio. “Goddammit. Those Jerries are gonna pay.”

Hux wanted them to; God, did he want that revenge, but he forced himself to say, “Do not re-engage. All flights are to get out and return to Wolcastle immediately.”

“But, sir—”

“Do as you’re told, Pilot Officer,” Hux snapped. “Get your flight together and get back to England.” They would have time to do their mourning back at the airfield; in the sky there was nothing to be done. “Form up off the coast. You’ll all be expected—” He was cut off by an anguished wail and a litany of curses.

“Oh, God dammit,” Lewis Mills cried. “Shit. They got me. Ah, Christ, my leg!”

Hux veered to port, trying to get eyes on him, and managed to just see his Spit coming up from five hundred feet, six hundred, seven...until he was safely out of range of the gunners and on an eastbound course for home.

“Are you hurt bad, Lew?” Brewster asked, his concern for his brother coming through clearly. “Can you fly okay?”

Lewis’s reply was strained: “It’s my left leg. I can’t move it much, and, ah, it’s bleeding pretty bad. It hurts. God, Brew, it hurts.” The last was whimpered, pained.

“Just hold on,” Brewster said. “You don’t die on me, Lew, you understand? You’re gonna get back to the field just fine.”

“Stay close on his port side,” said Hux. “If that’s the bad side, he’ll need most guidance there. We’ll get him home.” He watched as Brewster came up to fly beside Lewis, whose kite wobbled ominously as he tried to hold it steady. Hux could hear his heavy breathing, the occasional grunts and hisses of pain, but he held his course until they were across the Channel and coming into sight of Norfolk. Hux changed his radio frequency to that of the control tower, requesting permission to land.

“We’re going to need medical aid on the runway,” he told Rey, who had received his request. “We’ve an injured pilot.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll send for Dr. Tarkin and the nurses right away.”

Changing back to the squadron’s frequency, he said, “Lewis, Brewster, I want you to get on the ground first. The rest of us will wait. The doctor will be waiting for you. Are you all right, Lewis?”

He got a strained “Yes, sir” in reply, but nothing more. Falling back, he allowed the Mills brothers to fly ahead and make their descent toward the field. Taylor, without a wingman, came in behind them, keeping close to see them safely down. Poe, Shorty, and the rest of the squadron came after, each pair landing smoothly and taxiing toward Hangar Three. Hux, however, stopped at the end of the runway, where Lewis and Brewster had parked, and cut his engine.

Two nurses were standing on the port wing of Lewis’s Spitfire, fighting to get him up and out of the cockpit. Hux could hear him screaming from fifty paces, heavy sobs of agony as he fought his way out and onto the wing. As he cleared the door, Hux would see the blood staining his lower left leg, which was hanging limply below the knee. Brewster, out of his own aircraft, was waiting to help him down from the wing, and Lewis all but collapsed into his arms. The two other nurses standing by gestured for his brother to lay him down on the white canvas stretcher they had brought. The women hoisted it up and began the long jog to the infirmary. Brewster ran alongside them, clasping Lewis’s hand.

Hux wanted to sprint after them, to find out how severe the wound was, but he stayed where he was; he would only be in the way at the infirmary, and he had his kite to return to its place at the hangar. Getting back inside, he fired up the engine and taxied back there, finding the Eagles gathered around when he sprang down from the aircraft.

“What’s happened, sir?” Norman Crowe asked, worrying his helmet in his hands. “Is Lewis okay?”

Hux, sorrowful, replied, “I’m afraid not. He’s been taken to the doctor, but it looks bad.”

Crowe hung his head. “And Nate…”

Hux cast a glance around until he alighted on Bill Taylor, who was standing at the edge of the group, tears running down his face. Nathan was the second wingman he had lost, after Andy Ward. Taylor had disliked the boy when he had first arrived, but he had been accepted in time. Bill had been, Hux dared say, fond of him by the end. Virgil Gilbert, who hadn’t flown with them on this assignment, was standing with him, rubbing his shoulder as he wept.

“What now, sir?” said Shorty as he wiped his own damp and blotchy face with his handkerchief.

Hux would have arrangements to make for news to be sent to Nathan Shea’s family in Connecticut, but it could wait for now. His men were looking to him for guidance, their uncertainty and heartache worn openly, and he had no choice but to hold himself upright in the face of yet another loss.

“Come with me,” he said, steady and calm. “We should raise a glass for Shea.”

As though in a funeral march, they crossed the field from their hangar to the mess. The sergeants inside were busily preparing for dinner, but when Ackerman, the head cook, saw the Eagles’ expressions, he abandoned his stove. Wiping his hands on his apron, he disappeared into the storeroom to return with two unopened bottles of brandy, which he set on the nearest table as he called to his assistants for glasses.

“I’m sorry, lads,” he said in his gruff northern accent. “How many did you lose?”

“One outright,” said Hux as he sank down onto the bench near the head of the table. “Another is gravely wounded.”

Ackerman popped the cork on the brandy. “I’ll pray for him, then.” He took the first of the glasses and splashed three fingers of liquor into it. He handed it to Hux, but Hux only passed it down the line until it reached Taylor, who was still sniffling. He downed the whole of it right away, hanging his head as it hit his stomach. Glasses made their way around the table, until everyone held one. Ackerman wordlessly refilled Taylor’s before setting the nearly empty bottle on the table and returning to the kitchen.

“This,” Hux said, holding up his drink, “is for the dead, for Nathan Shea, taken from us today. God rest his soul.”

“God rest his soul,” the others murmured, and then they drank.

Over the rim of his glass, Hux looked to Wexley, the youngest of the pilots. Shea had been only twenty-two, and Wexley not yet twenty. Hux often forgot that they were hardly more than boys in school, and yet they were fighting and dying for a country not their own. They were, perhaps, the bravest and most foolhardy men he had ever known.

His gaze was drawn next to Ben, who sat farthest from him, empty glass between his broad palms and eyes shadowed. Hux’s heart had nearly stopped when he thought he could have been hit, and the anguish burned in him even now. Sending him away to fight in the Pacific was one thing—they could write—but watching him die, as had Nathan and Andy and countless other pilots since the start of the war, was beyond his capacity to imagine. Ben glanced up as Hux watched him, and their eyes met. It had been days since they had been alone, and it was apparent enough even from a look that they would do so tonight. Ben blinked once, understanding, and then looked away. Hux gave his attention to Strickland, who had begun a story about Nathan that he remembered. They would share those kinds of memories for the next few hours, until they were drunk and their friend had been properly honored.

They stayed at the table until dinner, their flight gear piled to the side, and accepted the condolences of the other squadrons as they filed into the mess. Word got around quickly enough, and everyone felt the effects. Hux picked at his food but gladly drank the ration of wine he was given. His head was swimming, which dulled the hurt and the fear, even if it made him all the more aware of Ben’s distance from him. But it was too early to seek his company, and Hux had somewhere to be before he could allow himself that: he wanted to check on Lewis Mills in the infirmary. Brewster had not appeared for the meal, likely having remained with his brother.

Pushing his half-finished food away, Hux got to his feet. When he told the men where he was going, they asked him to bring the news back to them when he returned to the barracks, and he promised he would. Gazes followed him as he went to the door, and though he was somewhat ashamed to admit it, he was relieved when it closed behind him, leaving him alone. Grief was not something he shared.

He lit a cigarette for the walk, the smoke mixing with the mist of his breath in the cool night. Light from the infirmary windows was spilling onto the ground outside when he approached; some of the staff were always present, staggering their meals and breaks to allow for them to care for the wounded at all hours. Few had been admitted lately, but they kept a rigid schedule even in the lulls.

It was bright inside, smelling of antiseptic and lemony industrial soap. The main hall was empty, so Hux went in search of Phasma. He found her office door open; she sat at her desk scribbling away at some manner of paperwork.

“Good evening,” Hux said from the threshold.

She greeted him with: “And to you. Come to see about Mister Mills?”

Hux nodded, bracing himself for the worst. “Is he all right?”

Phasma set down her pen, turning her gaze solemnly up. “He’s alive. We have him sedated for now, but you can see him if you like.”

“Please,” said Hux. He stepped out into the hallway to wait for her, but followed as she led the way to the ward, his boots thudding on the white floor while she moved in complete silence. “Is his brother with him?” he asked.

“Not right now,” Phasma replied. “I gave him a sedative of his own and sent him to bed. Ellen took him there herself and reported that he fell asleep quickly. He should sleep through the night, but I’ll have a girl or two here if he comes back.”

Hux pitied him. The Mills brothers were close, even if they roughhoused and talked over each other. It couldn’t have been easy to see Lewis in such pain.

The ward was darker than the rest of the infirmary, but there were still lights burning to light the way. Three beds were occupied, but Phasma took Hux to the nearest one on the right, where Lewis lay. His eyes were closed and he was breathing steadily, though he was pale and his brow was damp with sweat.

“How bad was the wound?” he said, hushed so as not to wake the other patients.

“Bad,” said Phasma. “Dr. Tarkin tried his best, but the bullet shattered the bone. We couldn’t save the leg.”

Hux’s chest constricted. Looking down to where Lewis’s lower body was covered with a blanket, he realized only one of his legs was whole; the other ended just at the knee. “Oh, God,” he sighed. “When will he be conscious?”

“Tomorrow morning at the earliest,” Phasma said. “But he’ll have to stay here for the next few weeks until the amputation heals. It’s a clean cut, so it should be fine, but...he’s going to take it hard.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Hux. “He’s lost a part of himself, and he’ll be grounded for good.”

Phamsa hummed quietly. “If he’s got a good spirit, he’ll bounce back, but the first few days are always difficult. At least he’s got his brother with him.”

Hux was glad for that. He’d keep Brewster on the ground until they knew that Lewis would recover. They had two flights and a spare man still; that would have to be enough, until they were reinforced by men from another squadron.

“I’ll come check on him tomorrow when he wakes,” he told Phasma. “Thank you for letting me see him.”

They left the ward, but Phasma stopped him in the hall with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?

Hux paused to consider: there was sorrow there, but also a rising anger. “I hate losing my men,” he replied. “They’re good pilots, all.” Balling his fists, he frowned. “This war is a bloody waste of life. These are boys out there dying, army or navy or air force. Keeping the Germans, the Italians, the Japanese at bay is necessary, I know, but my men could have been spared this fate.” Despite himself, he could feel stinging in his eyes. “Seeing them go down is...I can’t lose them all.” He added, soft but strident, “I can’t watch him die.”

Phasma squeezed his upper arm, hard. “You can’t think about it, as you well know. Fly with them and, God willing, you’ll all come back.” Coming close, she cupped his cheek in her right hand in a rare gesture of familiarity, blue eyes flashing with concern and a touch of curiosity. “Does he know how deeply you care for him?”

Hux didn’t bother to deny anything, not anymore; it was clear enough she saw through him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope, but I don’t know.”

“You’re afraid to tell him,” she said. “You’re afraid what it means for you.”

Hux nodded minutely. “Terrified.”

Phasma smiled one-sidedly, letting go of him and backing away a step. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. I can’t tell you what to do, but this isn’t the kind of life where things should go unspoken. There’s too much at stake.”

“That I do know,” he said, glancing briefly through the glass of the door into the ward where Lewis lay. “We could be shot out of the sky tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Phasma agreed. “So, what’s stopping you, other than yourself and what you probably think is your good sense?”

Hux sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his forefingers. “Nothing about this is sensible. It never was.”

Phasma chuckled lightly, one hand on her hip. “And it’s done you good, Armitage. Now go. Haven’t you got somewhere else to be just now?”

He hesitated, his nerves running high and heart already starting to thump with creeping trepidation. Ben was waiting for him, and he wanted to go to him, to take him into his arms and feel his solidity, but the words he needed to say ricocheted around in his mind, unsettling and difficult to force onto his tongue.

“Go,” Phasma said again, ushering him toward the door. Hux allowed her to open it and guide him out into the chilly night. Phasma’s breath fogged as she told him, “He feels the same. It’s plain as day when he looks at you. And you both deserve to have this.”

Hux was tempted to reach for her hand, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “Thank you, Phasma, for your understanding. I’m very fortunate to have you as a friend.”

“Yes, you are,” she chuckled. “Off with you. See about your American.”

She closed the door firmly, leaving Hux in the dark outside. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust, but the moon was luminous enough to light his way back across the field to the barracks. He forewent another smoke, preferring not to reek of tobacco when he arrived at Ben’s quarters. It was still unwise to meet there, under the noses of the other pilots, but the winter made rendezvous at the hangar difficult, unless they wanted to put their frigid hands on each other while they fought for warmth.

There were four men playing billiards in the common room as Hux passed by, and though he didn’t recognize them, he raised a hand in greeting. He got a few mumbled words in reply, but he didn’t pause to hear them. The stairs creaked under his feet, as they had the first time he had ascended them in September, announcing his arrival to anyone within earshot. Fortunately, the doors in the Eagles’ corridor were all closed, and Hux could walk by without notice. He tread as lightly as possible in his flight boots, which he still wore, stopping in front of Ben’s quarters and rapping his knuckles on the door.

No more than a few seconds later, it flew open, and Ben was standing at the threshold, his dress shirt untucked and hanging open to reveal his white undershirt. His hair was pulled back from his face, baring his overlarge ears. The light behind him illuminated the shells until they were pink and semi-translucent, and Hux felt a rush of affection, vibrant and full.

“Good evening,” Hux said, just loud enough to be heard.

“Hi,” said Ben, his mouth curling up with familiar fondness.

They stood apart for a moment, glad to simply look at each other, but then Hux asked, “May I come in?”

Ben stepped hurriedly inside and held the door open for him to come through. Hux hadn’t been in Ben’s room before, their only meetings in the barracks having been in his quarters, but the layout was the same as any officer’s space: a narrow cot—neatly made by Ben’s batman—along the leftmost wall, a wardrobe to the right of the door, and a small desk against the fall wall. There were no papers or pictures tacked up, only the bare wood, and the surface of the desk was empty as well—no reports or fountain pens to clutter it.

Hux heard the door shut, and then Ben’s arms were around him, his chest pressed to Hux’s back. He bent his head to nuzzle Hux’s neck and kiss just beneath his ear. Hux laid his hands over Ben’s where they rested at his middle, tracing the long fingers with his own.

“Hi,” Ben repeated softly.

“Mm, hello,” said Hux. He leaned his head back on Ben’s shoulder to bare his throat for Ben’s kisses, and for a short time, he just let himself be touched, putting aside the weight of what had happened that day; it seemed far in the past now, as if it hadn’t occurred just hours before.

When Ben took him by the hips and turned him around, Hux went willingly, hands resting on Ben’s chest as they pressed their mouths together. Ben’s lips were just slightly chapped, but the inside of his mouth was slick and warm as Hux brushed it with his tongue. Ben held him close, hands at the small of his back. Contented, Hux brushed his fingers over Ben’s hair until he reached the tail, pulling it playfully and making Ben laugh into the kiss.

“Are you asking me to stop?” he said, half-teasing.

“Only for a breath,” Hux replied with another tug on the tail. Ben heaved a put-upon sigh, and Hux scoffed, “Sulking doesn’t become you, Ben Solo.”

“I’m not sulking,” Ben said, taking hold of Hux’s buttocks and squeezing. The sensation sent the blood racing straight to Hux’s cock.

“No, perhaps not,” Hux said, wholly unconvinced. Ben, eyes narrowed, pawed at his ass and pulled them together. Neither was hard, but the intention was clear. Hux stopped before it could go further, though, saying, “We shouldn’t. Not here.”

“Fine,” Ben grumbled. “Will you sit with me, then?”

Hux pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Of course.” Taking Ben’s hand, he led him over to the cot, where they sank down onto the mattress side-by-side.

“Here,” Ben said, taking the pillow and tossing it against the wall. He sat back against it, opening his legs and gesturing for Hux to sit between them. Hux didn’t go right away, taking the time to remove his boots and jacket and set them on the ground before tucking himself into Ben’s embrace, stockinged feet at the edge of the bed.

“Did everyone retire after dinner?” Hux asked as he absently rubbed the knobs of Ben’s knees.

“Most of them,” Ben replied. “Bill stayed on with the rest of the brandy, and Strickland and Shorty kept him company. They’ll probably have to carry him up to sleep.”

Hux would have gladly done that for him had he remained in the mess. “He’ll have the day off tomorrow to recover.”

“Damn shame what happened,” said Ben, spreading his fingers where they rested over Hux’s belly and worrying a button on his shirt with his thumb. “Shea was a good kid.”

“He was,” Hux said. “He’ll be missed.”

Ben set his chin on Hux’s shoulder, and he could feel him say, “We’ll have another new guy to get used to in a couple of days, huh?”

“Two, at least.”

“You mean Lewis…”

Hux squeezed his knees reassuringly. “He’s alive, and he’ll recover, but they had to amputate his leg. They couldn’t repair the bone.”

Behind him, Ben tensed, his hands stilling where he pressed them against Hux’s middle. “Will he fly again?”

Hux touched his thigh, a poor attempt at soothing him. “Maybe as a civilian with a good prosthetic, but not a fighter. He’ll have to retire from combat.”

The words hung heavy between them, thick with a discomfiting tension. Ben remained silent and motionless, save for the movement of his chest as he breathed.

Hux expected a plaintive reply, but what Ben said tore into his heart as would a serrated blade: “I’d rather be dead.”

Jolting forward, Hux escaped his grasp and rose up onto his knees to face him. He had a mournful look about him, but there was resolution, too; he truly meant it, and it made Hux furious.

“Don’t you dare say that,” he snapped.

“Why?” asked Ben, darkly. “It’s the truth. Flying is—”

Hux cut him off: “I know what flying means to you; it’s my career as well. But it’s not the only thing worth doing with my life, or yours.” He snarled, “You would not lie down and die just because you couldn’t pilot anymore. That’s melodrama, not reality.”

Ben scowled at him, eyes flashing with indignation. “It’s true. It’s the only thing I’m good at, the only thing I’ve ever cared about. Without it, I’m nothing.”

“Horseshit,” said Hux. “This is not your sole purpose. And life doesn’t end when you can’t get into the cockpit anymore. Snoke can’t fly, but he still serves. And your father: surely someday he’ll retire.”

“No, he won’t,” Ben said. “He’ll be up there every day until he’s in the grave. It’s everything to him, even more important than my mom or me. He won’t live without it, and neither will I.”

The slap rang out in the small room, a snap of skin on skin. Ben went wide-eyed, staring at Hux in shock as his left cheek turned pink. Hux was too incensed to regret it, though his fingers stung.

“How nearsighted are you,” he growled, “that you could even think such a thing? It’s the stuff overly romantic novelists and children who know no better would spew. You’re twenty-one years old, for God’s sake; act like the man you are.”

“I’m not a child!” Ben said ferociously. He sat up, using his considerable size to push Hux back off of the bed and onto his feet. Hux nearly stumbled, but held his ground, glowering as he shook with anger.

“Then stop behaving like one,” he said. “Talking about throwing your life away. It’s the pinnacle of selfishness. What would your mother do if you just gave up? Your uncle? Have a thought for them, if not anyone else.”

Ben fisted his hands, his face a mask of fury to match Hux’s. “They’d live with it.”

“Ha!” Hux jeered. “They would be made to live with it, but you couldn’t? Don’t you see how backwards and unfair that is? It’s weak.”

“I’m not—” said Ben, advancing a step.

But Hux wouldn’t be intimidated. He pointed an accusatory finger at his sternum, saying, “You’re providing significant evidence to the contrary.”

Ben spat, “What the hell do you know?”

“I know that you are the dearest thing to me,” Hux said, “and that I will never permit you to give up or leave me like that.”

If Ben had been taken aback after Hux had hit him, now he looked utterly astonished: eyes bulging, mouth agape, and color high in his cheeks. Hux’s delivery was hardly ideal, but in the aftermath, he was relieved he hadn’t thought overmuch about it, or he might have stopped himself. Taking and releasing a breath, he closed the distance between them.

“Flying with you is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given,” he said. “No one has or will match you. But if I were wounded and could never fly with you again, it would not be the end of me or of this. I would mourn it, but I would still have you, even on the ground.” He reached for the tender, reddened side of Ben’s face, sorry for hitting him, but not for the intent way he was looking at him now: as if he were the only thing he knew. “You’re my love.”

Ben’s expression didn’t change right away, his focus remaining completely on Hux, but slowly, his arms came around Hux’s back, stroking along his spine. Gently, he said, “I don’t remember what it felt like not to love you. Seems like everything before I kissed you is just blurry and dull. But you sharpened it, gave it color.” He touched Hux’s hair, smiling crookedly. “Starting with red.”

Hux looked down, uncharacteristically bashful, but Ben raised his face and continued, “I love you, Hux. God, it feels good to tell you that. I’ve been ready to burst with it for weeks. When I held you in London, feeling your skin all over mine, I was sick with wanting to tell you. I was going to the last night, before we left, but you were sleeping before I could, and I couldn’t bear to wake you. By morning we were putting our jackets and hats back on, and coming back to the field. I wasted my chance, I thought.”

“My Ben,” Hux said, kissing him.

Ben gave a small groan and chased his lips, until he could taste him in earnest. They wound their arms around each other, desperate to be closer—almost one. Pushing him back, Hux guided them to the cot, never once breaking their kiss. Ben sank down onto the mattress again, pulling Hux down with him until Hux lay over him, kneeling on either side of his hips. Hux’s blood was thrumming through his veins, and every instinct told him to tear at Ben’s clothes and his own, to give him his body again. But it was far too dangerous to risk when any one of the men in the neighboring rooms could hear the telltale sounds of their coupling.

“I can’t stay much longer,” Hux said, even as he moved his hips to grind his erection against Ben’s. “I should be in my own bed.”

“I like you here in mine,” said Ben, grasping Hux’s ass through his trousers. “I want you so bad.”

“Oh, God,” Hux breathed. “We can’t. We don’t have anything. I didn’t get any more.”

Ben grunted, thrusting up under Hux. “My mouth, then. Let me suck you, please.”

At the plea, Hux’s already flimsy resolve evaporated. “Quickly,” he said.

With a feral growl, Ben lifted him up and flipped him onto his back. He went immediately for Hux’s fly, yanking his trousers down around his thighs; and then he had his lips around Hux’s cock. Hux clapped his own hand over his mouth to keep his noises at bay as Ben took him deeply and hungrily. Awed, Hux watched his dark head move up and down with each stroke, mouth hot and wet around him. He wanted to call out his name, tell him in no uncertain terms how beautiful he was, how good he made him feel, how he loved him, and he fought them, but as he reached his peak, he couldn’t rein in the gasped “Ben!”

He was still spiraling down as Ben rose up onto his knees over him, took his own cock out, and in five brisk strokes, spilled into his left hand.

It was the first time they had been together like this since London, and Hux was lightheaded with the immediacy of it. He lay spent on the cot, unable to do anything but watch as Ben rolled onto his feet and retrieved a towel to wipe his hand. When he was finished, he tossed it across the room and into the wicker hamper, returning to the bed.

Hux’s lower body was still exposed, and Ben took the opportunity to kiss and nuzzle his way up from groin to navel, dipping his tongue into the latter and making Hux’s muscles contract. Hux brushed a hand over his hair, tugging again at the now-disordered tail. Ben huffed and cocked his head to get out of Hux’s grip. Sliding up beside him, he lay on his side next to Hux, allowing himself to be kissed once more. Hux was satisfied and growing sleepy, but he couldn’t let the matter of their disagreement go unaddressed.

“Ben,” he said.

“Hm?”

“I don’t want to lose you. If you do take a wound, I won’t leave you, and I won’t allow you to give in. You understand that, don’t you?”

Ben nodded, which Hux felt as much as he saw. “I won’t leave you, either.” He nestled closer to Hux, arm around his middle. “Poe came to talk to you this morning, didn’t he?”

“He did,” said Hux.

“You believe what he said?”

Hux turned to look at him, nearly cross-eyed, he was so close. “I have no reason not to. He seemed to be honest enough.” A pause rife with anxiety. “Do you not feel the way the others do about staying on until the end of the year?”

“No,” Ben said.

Hux’s gut went cold. “You mean...you’d rather go?” he asked, barely audible.

“No,” Ben hissed. “I’m not with them. They want to leave for the Pacific, but I won’t, not even if they try to send me away.”

Hux grasped his wrist, bringing his hand to his lips. “Oh.”

“There has to be a way,” Ben pressed on, close to Hux’s ear. “A petition, like the other pilots submitted for release. I could do the opposite, couldn’t I? Fighter Command still needs good flyers. They would let me stay.”

“I don’t know,” said Hux. “There’s no precedent for this. You’re not a citizen. If circumstances change for all of the Eagles, you may have no choice but to go.”

Ben pressed his forehead to Hux’s “I won’t. I can’t.”

Hux kissed him, clumsy and at an awkward angle. He was vibrating with relief, heating him up from the inside. He clutched Ben to him, his body solid and real against him. He didn’t want to lose the Eagles, but, God save him, he was sure he would not recover if Ben was taken away.

“There’s still time,” he said against Ben’s lips. “We can find out what to do.”

Ben nipped at him and soothed the sting with his tongue. “I’ll go to the embassy in London if I have to, or to Fighter Command, Douglas himself. I’ll beg. I won’t leave you.”

“I know. I know,” Hux murmured, breathing in the musky scent of him. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” Ben said.

They didn’t talk for a time, just tangled up together in the narrow cot, until Hux was bordering on sleep. He didn’t want to get up and go to be alone, but he forced himself to peel away from Ben and refasten his trousers. He didn’t bother with his shirt or hair.

“Come see Lewis with me tomorrow,” he said as he stooped to pick up his boots and jacket from where he had discarded them before. “He’d be glad to see you.”

Ben rose up to sit cross-legged on the mattress. “After breakfast?”

“Midmorning,” said Hux. “I’ll need to speak to Snoke about reinforcements first thing.”

“Will you ask him about me staying on?” Ben said.

Hux wasn’t certain it was the right time, but he replied, “I’ll try.” Coming to the bedside a last time, he kissed Ben’s brow, saying, “Goodnight,” and then he left him.

Hux had not slept past six o’clock in the morning since he was in his nursery, and even then his father had insisted that soldiers rose early. His son may be have been little more than five years old at that time, but he was already in uniform and up with the matins bells. So, it was strange when Hux was pulled out of sleep the next day by a quiet rapping at his door. Bleary-eyed, he sat up and bid whoever was outside enter.

It was Sergeant Mitaka who came in, looking squirrely. “Good morning, sir,” he said. He lingered by the door. “Are you...are you unwell?”

Still half asleep, Hux ran the flat of his hand over his hair as he performed a quick check of his body. He felt fine. “I don’t believe so,” he said. “Do I appear to be?”

“No, no,” Mitaka said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just that it’s five after seven, and I hadn’t seen you on your way to the mess. That’s a bit out of character for you, sir. I thought perhaps you might be ill.”

Hux, startled, tossed the blankets off and went across the room to where his watch lay on his desk. It read 7:07. Damn, he was late. When he looked back over at Mitaka, the sergeant had averted his eyes, staring determinedly at the floor. Hux glanced down at his bare chest, realizing he had not put on his nightshirt. He was completely nude.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, grabbing for the shirt where it hung over the back of his chair. He tugged it roughly over his head. “Thank you for waking me, Mitaka,” he said. “I’ll be down promptly.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitaka said as he backed out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

Hux rubbed his palm over his face, an attempt to scrub away the vestiges of sleep. He had slept as if dead, dreamless and still. As far as he could tell, he had woken in the same position in which he had lain when he closed his eyes. He couldn’t recall when he had last rested so well. He hadn’t expected that, since when he had come back to his quarters the night before, he had been keyed up as if he just returned from combat.

Ben.

Setting his hands at the back of his neck, he stretched languidly, taut skin burning as a reminder of what they had done and of what had been said. As he had stripped off his clothing when he came back in his quarters, he had run his fingertips over the places Ben had touched and where he had pressed his lips, from his neck to the small of his back. Hux hadn’t even been fully bare as Ben had lain beside him, but he had felt completely exposed, as if everything was heightened, more stark and real. Ben loved him, and in knowing that, the world seemed new.

He donned the layers of his uniform and clasped the belt at his waist. His hair he combed and styled by rote, though he paused at the mirror to ensure everything was in place. Nothing could appear unusual or changed; it only was to them. Hux had to be sober, too, in honor of Shea. Guilt welled up in him as he remembered that, but there was room for happiness alongside the grief. Contending with both at once was a soldier’s lot: small joys were to be relished in the midst of a war, where they were few. It was an uncomfortable combination at times, but Hux had been living with it since the war began. The joy was just greater now than it had been before, though the sorrow of loss was the same.

He didn’t expect to see anyone as he left the barracks—it was already well into breakfast time—but he nearly collided with Temmin Wexley at the foot of the stairs.

“Aw, hell, sir,” the young man said, harried. “I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Hux, setting a hand on his shoulder. He looked Wexley over: his tie was askew, clearly put on in haste, and there were dark circles under his brown eyes. “Are you all right?”

Wexley scratched at his unshaven chin. “Oh, yeah, sir. Right as rain. I, uh, just couldn’t find my socks. Had to search around everywhere: my footlocker, the laundry basket, the bed, my boots—”

“Yes, yes,” Hux said, cutting him off before he could ramble on. It seemed like a lame explanation at best, but Hux wasn’t about to question him when he himself was hiding a great deal of the truth. “I assume you found them, though.”

Wexley nodded quickly. “Sure did, sir.”

Hux released him, gesturing to the door. “Well, we’d best be off then. I don’t expect they’ll serve us after eight o’clock.”

“Of course. Right.” He scurried over, turning the handle and going out into the morning fog. He nearly dropped the door on Hux, but caught it just in time.

Hux went calmly out ahead of him, though he waited for him to catch up before setting off for the mess. Wexley watched his feet as he trailed along with him. He said nothing as they went inside, and the noise of conversation filled their ears. Most of the pilots inside ignored their arrival, too busy eating their breakfasts, but one pointed gaze fell immediately on Hux.

Ben was seated on the far side of the table, his eyes intent and fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Hux stared back, though he knew he should have looked away. Freshly shaven and hair brushed, Ben was radiant, and Hux, struck, nearly stopped in his tracks. He made himself keep walking, however, taking up his seat near the center of the table.

“Morning, sir,” said Poe, brightly enough, but without his usual grin. “We were wondering about you.”

“I’m afraid I was...more affected by yesterday than I might have thought,” Hux said.

Poe nodded solemnly. “I think we all were.” He glanced over at Brewster Mills, who was seated across the table and to his right. His cheeks were sunken, and he was as pale as milk. His coffee and sausages were untouched, though there was a single bite taken out of his buttered toast.

Hux considered saying something to him, but he refrained. Brewster would speak in his own time, or not at all; it was not anyone’s place to force him. Hux accepted the plate of sausages, the grease around them congealing somewhat as they cooled, and speared two with his fork. He ate quickly to catch up to the others, drinking down his tea even if it burned the top of his mouth.

“You think we’ll go up today, sir?” Norman Crowe asked.

“I’m not certain,” Hux replied, putting aside his utensils, “but I imagine only if we’re really needed. A flight down, we’re not much use for a sweep.”

Meltsa set down his coffee cup with a clatter. “I don’t want to stay on the goddamn ground. We’ve got a score to settle with the Jerries. Shea’d want us in the air.”

“Settle down, Theo,” said Gilbert. “That kind of attitude will get you killed up there. You think Shea’d want that?”

Meltsa scowled at him, but said nothing else. The others let the matter drop as well, returning to the remnants of their food. Brewster pushed his away and, getting to his feet, said, “I’m going to the infirmary.” A look at Hux. “If you need me, sir, that’s where I’ll be.” He didn’t bother to wait to be excused, simply leaving the table and the mess, silence in his wake.

Hux finished the rest of his toast as the pilots from the 222 and 129 began to get up and leave. Alistair Barlow came over to him and landed a hand on his shoulder.

“My sympathies, Armitage,” he said. To the Eagles: “And the rest of you. Should you need anything, you know where to find us.”

“Thank you,” Hux said. Barlow offered a wan smile, and then walked out in his short, businesslike stride. Hux didn’t tarry long after he had gone. He excused himself from the table, saying he would be in the briefing room after he spoke to the wing commander.

“You aren’t required to be there, of course,” he said to the men, “if we’re not going to fly today.”

Strickland shrugged. “Where else would we have to go, sir? No sense in hanging around the barracks with nothing to do. And if we are needed…”

“Very well,” said Hux, appreciative. “I’ll bring news when I have it.” He looked once more at Ben, who returned his gaze. The warmth that imparted stayed with him even as he went out into the cool December air.

Snoke was the only person in the control tower when Hux got there, the radio operators likely still finishing up their breakfast in the ladies’ mess. He was behind his desk in his shirtsleeves, the scars on his face twitching as he frowned.

“Sir?” Hux said.

“Yes, yes,” said Snoke. “Come in. You’ll be wanting to know when you’ll be reinforced, then.”

Hux stood straight, bracing. “Yes, sir.”

“Three days. They’re sending the last of the Americans down from No. 13.”

Hux’s brows knit. “What do you mean ‘the last?’”

“I mean the last four men who came over six weeks ago,” Snoke said, his hands planted firmly on his desktop. “With war declared against the Japanese, no more pilots are coming over here. They’re all going to the Pacific. The men they’re sending to you now are the only Americans left who aren’t yet assigned to an Eagle Squadron.” He blinked once, slowly. “There aren’t any more reinforcements after this batch.”

Hux shouldn’t have been disappointed; he should have known, but it still came as a blow. “If there are no more to fill the rosters,” he said, “what happens when we lose too many to run a full squadron?”

Snoke waved dismissively in a gesture that rankled Hux. “Fighter Command didn’t see it necessary to tell me that, but if they only plan to keep the American squadrons in service until the end of the year, I don’t see it becoming a problem.”

“They’ve decided that, then?” Hux asked, his voice as stiff as his posture.

“No official orders,” Snoke replied. “However, it’s been made clear that the other Eagles want to return home. I’d imagine they’d be glad to be released from our air force.”

“Not all of them.”

Snoke cocked the naked ridge of his brow. “No?”

Hux swallowed, but pushed on: “I’ve been approached by someone—some who would prefer to stay to England and fly for us. They’ve found a place here.”

“Is that so?” Snoke said. “Well, I suppose we should be glad for that. They’ve been a help to us.” He sniffed, picking up his cigar from the ashtray on the desk. “I can’t say I know what to do at this juncture, but make of note of their names, and if the time comes that they can choose to stay or to go, I will see to it that Fighter Command knows of it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hux.

Snoke grunted an acknowledgment. “Your squadron will be on the ground most of the next three days, but you’ve leave to fly training if you wish.” He frowned just slightly. “No competitions, however.”

“No, sir,” Hux said. “We’ll keep ourselves out of trouble. Is there anything else at this time?”

“No, Armitage, that’s all.” Snoke struck a match and puffed away at his cigar, blue smoke wafting into the stagnant air of the little office.

Hux saluted smartly and retreated before it could reach his lungs. Passing through the radio room, he ignored the looks from the operators, though Rey wasn’t among them. Even if she had been, he wasn’t in the mood for conversation; everything was on its way to ending, and he didn’t have the words for it yet; he wasn’t sure he would.

Today, December the tenth, marked exactly three months since he had taken command of the 363—so short a time, but seeming far longer than some of his eight-month postings. His men had come so far, becoming excellent pilots that any squadron leader would be proud to call his own. And there was Ben. All Hux’s past lovers had hardly deserved to be called such; he had been fond of them and sorry when their liaisons ended, but Ben had his whole heart. He had spent so many years afraid of what might become of him if he surrendered to that, but he didn’t regret it, not when it had brought him here where he could offer everything he had not dared give before.

He stopped at the corner of the building and, unbuttoning his breast pocket, pulled out the photograph he carried there. The corners were beginning to round, but it was still unbent and the note he had written on the back side unchanged. With the very tip of his thumb, he traced Ben’s form.

“S.L. Hux?”

He started, immediately lowering his hand to hide the photograph at his side. Rey, who had come up beside him, followed the movement with her gaze. Hux swallowed nervously; this was not something he wished to show to anyone.

“Good morning,” she said, turning her eyes back up to his face with a wide smile. “You weren’t looking for me, were you?” She laughed. “I know that’s foolish, but I’d be glad if you had been.”

Hux smiled in return, always glad for her good humor. “Well, I’m certainly pleased to see you. Have you heard from your Finn lately?”

“Not for a fortnight,” she replied, “but he did say he was well.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Hux. “Is he still being given leave to come to England to see you?”

Her expression hardened some, but she said, “They told him January, but he’s not so sure now. If things get bad, he might not be able to come at all. I’d be terribly disappointed if he couldn’t. I so want to see him.”

“And I would like to meet him, as well,” Hux said. “As long as you still wish me to.”

“Of course!” she said, brighter. “And Ben, too. We’ve not said more than a few words to each other, but I’d like to get to know him better.” She glanced at Hux’s hand, where it hung at his side, concealing the photograph. “If you’ll permit me.”

Hux nodded. “He’s a bit shy at first, but he’ll warm to you if you give him the chance.”

“As he did you?” Rey asked, sounding wholly innocent; but there was a gleam in her eyes that betrayed her.

“Yes,” said Hux, resigned. “As he did me.”

Rey grinned again. “I’d best be off to work, then, but come visit again soon, and bring Ben along.”

“I’ll try.”

She gave him a jaunty wave as she headed toward the control tower door, leaving Hux to watch her in awe. She had somehow seen them, and yet forgiven what they were. He took a last look at the photograph before tucking it back into his pocket and making his way from the tower toward the infirmary to see if Lewis Mills was awake.

When he arrived, there were many more people about then there had been the night before, the white halls filled with the patter of soft-soled shoes. A nurse he didn’t recognize spotted him first, approaching to ask if she could help him.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m here to look in on a Pilot Officer Mills in the ward. Is that possible?”

“I should imagine so,” said the nurse. “But I’d like to see Dr. Tarkin about it before I send you in. If you’ll come with me…” She set off briskly toward the offices, where Phasma’s was, though she stopped before she reached it and knocked on the door adorned with a plaque that sported the doctor’s name in neat, serif lettering.

“Come in,” said Dr. Tarkin, his voice muffled from inside.

The nurse opened the door a crack and called in, “There’s a gentleman here to see P.O. Mills. May I take him there?”

“It’s his commanding officer, if that makes a difference,” Hux said. The nurse relayed that to Tarkin.

“Ah, yes,” the doctor said. “Send him in please.”

“There you are then, sir,” said the nurse, holding the door open for him.

He thanked her as he went through and into the small office, where the grey-haired and severe Tarkin stood behind his desk. “Good morning, Doctor,” he said.

Tarkin removed a pair of spectacles from his nose, looking down it at Hux. “You’re Mr. Mills’ squadron leader, then?”

Hux have a short nod. “I am. Armitage Hux. I’ve come to check in on his condition.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so.” Tarkin came around the side of the desk in three measured strides, his white coat flapping around his knees and stethoscope hanging from his neck. “The sedatives wore off a few hours ago, but he’s still woozy from the morphine. He didn’t eat much, but I didn’t expect him to. He’s had a tremendous shock. We anesthetized him before we removed the leg. He wasn’t aware of it.”

Hux had to force himself not to wince. “Was he distraught?”

“No,” said Tarkin. “He spent a deal of time asking questions about the wound, but I’m not sure if it’s completely set in yet. I’m still prepared to deal with more of a reaction when we reduce his morphine.”

“And when will that be?” asked Hux.

Tarkin tipped his head to the side, considering. “A week, perhaps. The pain will lessen as the healing process progresses, but for now there is a great deal of it if he’s not medicated. We’ll slowly come down with it until he’s clear-headed and can make an effort to get out of bed. The nurses will help him get around on crutches until he’s used to them.”

“He won’t have a false leg?”

“Not until the stump is fully healed,” Tarkin said. “That will take months. But he can convalesce when he’s in hospital back in America next month.”

Hux balked. “He’s being sent home so soon? I thought he would go to a proper hospital in Norwich or London to recuperate. Can he travel like this, so freshly healed?”

Tarkin raised his chin disdainfully at the mention of a “proper hospital,” but said, “Indeed he can, and it’s best that he does. The hospitals here are struggling for supplies and manpower. That won’t be a problem in America.”

“I see,” said Hux. “How long will he be here, then?”

“Until just after Christmas, I should think,” Tarkin replied. “The wing commander will know better when it comes to those arrangements. Would you like to see him now?”

“Yes, thank you.” Hux followed him from the room toward the main ward, gaze going immediately to Lewis in his bed on the right side by the door. His eyes were closed as they entered, but cracked just slightly when he heard the fall of Hux’s boots.

“Sir,” he croaked. Raising a hand, he gave a feeble salute.

“That will do, Pilot Officer,” said Hux. He glanced a last time at Tarkin as he hovered by the foot of the bed, a dismissal. Tarkin frowned, but disappeared out the door again. Hux came to the bedside and pulled up a chair. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Lewis’s pupils were wide and dark as he regarded him. “Could be worse, sir. Might be dead.” He gave a feeble laugh. Hux didn’t even smile. “Feeling a bit lighter, though.” He shifted his shorter leg under the blankets.

Hux looked at it briefly before focusing on Lewis’s pallid face. “It was a great thing you did, making it back to the field. Not every man would have been able to do that.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Lewis said. “But I didn’t want to go down, so I just did what I had to. Figured if I landed myself in the Channel, I would have just sunk and drowned. Can’t much swim with a shattered leg.”

“You’re an exceptional pilot, Lewis,” said Hux.

Lewis blinked up at him through hazy eyes. “Was one, sir.”

Hux held his breath for a beat, before letting it out quietly through his nose. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.

“Me too, sir,” said Lewis. “But I’m proud I came here to do it. Shot down some Jerries and lived a high life with some of best men I’ve ever known. Can’t regret that.”

“No, I suppose you can’t.”

Lewis shifted some, and Hux reached out to move his pillow up behind his back. “Thanks, sir. So, you and the boys going up today?”

“Not today,” Hux said, shaking his head. “I believe it will be cards and reading in the briefing room, if not a long nap in one’s quarters.”

“Huh,” Lewis huffed. “Ain’t nobody gonna take a nap unless they were dread drunk the night before, and we haven’t been out since London.” He grinned weakly. “That was a time . Never forget how the girls danced. I guess I won’t be doing much of that anymore.”

Hux sought to distract him rather than dwell on the reality of his leg: “Perhaps I’ll get Poe and Ben in here and we’ll play a few hands of poker. You’ve got a knack for it.”

“I fine enough one, but don’t bring Ben if here if anyone else wants to win. That sly bastard could beat the devil at cards, I’d bet.”

“Taylor, then,” Hux suggested. “Or Temmin, if you want to win.”

Lewis chuckled. “Poor kid can’t tell the ace of spades from the clubs. Couldn’t even be taught.”

“At least he’s got other strengths.”

“Mmhm,” said Lewis. “Still learning them, though. He’s just a boy. Makes me think that he shouldn’t be up there, but at home with his mama and pop. Wouldn’t be able to tell him that, though. He’d cling to that kite of his like an octopus if you tried to pull him away.” He scratched his chin with his short fingernails. “Who do you think will get mine when I’m out of here?”

Hux managed, “No one, for the moment. It’s going to Thanisson for repairs.”

“Have Ben look at it, will you? I want it running like a dream for the next man.” He wet his cracking lips. “Can you do that for me, sir?”

Hux was about to agree, but before he could speak, he heard from by the door: “I’ll take care of her, Lew.” Ben came to the foot of the bed and set his hand on the metal frame.

“Thanks,” Lewis said. “I know you’ll do right by her.”

“How you doing?” Ben asked. “You look like hell.”

Hux shot him an admonishing look, but Lewis laughed.

“They wouldn’t even give me a mirror to shave with,” he said, “so I don’t know the worst of it. Reckon I should slap a little color into my cheeks before I try to get the girls to listen to how I got my big war wound, eh?” He winked, albeit with both eyes like an owl’s. “I bet you they’ll all fuss over me, and I’ll be married in a month.”

“If you can find a girl to put up with your bullshit,” Ben said, wry. “And you’d better believe Brewster will have a thing or two to say about what kind of girl she is. He wouldn’t just let you get mixed up with anyone.”

“You’re damn right he wouldn’t,” said Lewis. “And thank God for it. I don’t trust myself without him, fool that he is.” His voice grew thicker. “He said he’s going with me if I’m going home. I told him that like hell he is, but he’s dead set on it.”

Hux understood. He couldn’t imagine the brothers being apart, especially after spending all their time in the squadron as wingmen. And as Phasma had said the night before, it was better for Brewster to be with him through what he was about to endure in his recovery.

“I’ll make the arrangements for him to be discharged with you,” Hux said. “The doctor said you’ll be bound for home in two weeks or so. You’ll be strong enough to be out of bed then.”

“Small blessings,” Lewis grumbled. “I’m already sick of pissing in a pan. Speaking of...you boys better get out of here. I’m not doing this in front of you.”

“Of course,” said Hux, rising. “We’ll be back later if that’s all right. I’ll send the others as well?”

Lewis nodded. “That’s just fine, sir. I’m gonna sleep after a good piss, though. These shots they’re giving me are something else.”

Hux laid a hand on his shoulder. “Get your rest. We’ll be here.”

Together, he and Ben left the ward, returning to the hallway, which was now emptier. They left the infirmary without speaking, tacitly agreeing to go toward the briefing room after they had closed the door behind them. They could have walked the path with their eyes closed by now, but they both stared ahead as if they were scanning for the signs they were going the right direction. It wasn’t until the briefing room was in sight that Hux spoke.

“He’s strong,” he said. “Lewis. He’s going to be just fine.”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “He will be.” He stopped dead, catching Hux by the arm. “Promise me you’ll make it through this war, that we’ll come out the other side together.”

Hux gave him a cheerless look. “You know I can’t do that. Neither of us can.” He reached for the hand that hung at Ben’s side, just brushing the back of it. “But if we do come out, it will be together. That I promise you.”

Ben squeezed his arm where he held it. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Hux smiled, close-lipped. “I know.”

More news from America came the next day, December eleventh, at just after eight o’clock, when the officers were leaving the mess hall: a declaration by the United States of America of open war against Germany and Italy. After Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor four days before, Hitler had immediately joined them in their declaration of war against the United States, but Roosevelt had drug his heels somewhat in responding to it.

But that day, in an address to the House of Representatives, he had declared, “The forces endeavoring to enslave the entire world now are moving toward this hemisphere. Rapid and united effort by all of the peoples of the world who are determined to remain free will ensure a world victory of the forces of justice and of righteousness over the forces of savagery and of barbarism.” The BBC broadcasters said that the vote to approve the motion for war was unanimous. America was now allied with Britain against their adversaries.

The 363 remained in the mess for nearly an hour after the others had gone, listening to the analysis of what the American entry into Europe entailed for the British war effort. As Hux suspected, there wasn’t much to know at such an early stage, but the Eagles were gripped by it and speculated heavily as to when the Americans would start making their way over to Britain and the Continent.

“I bet you anything there’s boys joining up every minute of every day,” Taylor said. “Maybe more than we’re gonna need.”

“Don’t go saying we’re going to end the war in a week, Bill,” Strickland warned. “That’s what my pap said about the Great War, and look how long that went on.”

Taylor shrugged.

“What do you think this is going to mean for us, sir?” asked Crowe, turning to Hux, where he sat at the back of the room. “Do you think Fighter Command with send us home now?”

“Perhaps they will,” Hux replied. “Or perhaps you’ll be expected to stay until the American air force arrives here; assuming they do.” He chewed his cheek. “We could use the help.”

“Well, if we’re at war with Germany,” Meltsa said, fist landing hard on the table in front of him, “then every Jerry we shoot down is good for the war at home. That’s what I like to hear, boys. We’ve been doing our part for months already.”

There were a number of cheers of agreement.

Wexley said, “We’re like the expeditionary force, right at the forefront of the battle. Damn proud of that.”

“Except we’re not flying until the new blood arrives,” Gilbert muttered. “God rest Nate’s soul.”

Hux set his palms flat on his thighs. “You’re welcome to train, per the wing commander’s orders, even if it’s not combat. I’d like to see you review your maneuvers anyway.”

“As long as you don’t send us to the Link, sir,” Shorty said, grousing. The others chuckled.

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, no,” said Hux.

The broadcast had ended for the evening by now, and even the sergeants had left the kitchen. There was no reason for them to stay on longer, but they lingered together in the silence for a few moments.

The scraping of a chair broke it: Ben getting to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” he said, curtly.

Hux watched him go—he didn’t spare a look for anyone—and decided not to follow. He waited for the rest of the squadron to agree on heading back to the barracks before he rose and reached into his jacket for his silver cigarette case. Outside, he lit a smoke with the wavering flame of a match, puffing until the cherry was burning dimly.

Here was another change, another shift that would upset their days—maybe the last—at Wolcastle. But the 363 would face it as one, for which Hux was glad. He smoked steadily as he wended his way toward the barracks and his bed. The world was at war now, and he had his place in it, no matter what was to come.

Chapter Text

A few spots of sunlight dotted the runway the Saturday next, as Hux sat just outside the briefing room with a cooling cup of tea in his gloved hand. The wind had calmed some since the morning, sparing him the worst of the early winter bite. Still, he was wearing his flight jacket for extra warmth, and the tea helped.

The airfield was mostly quiet, but he could hear the distant growling of Merlin engines: Wexley and Strickland were, out of sheer boredom, on a training flight over the countryside. The lack of action in the past three days was wearing on all of the Eagles, and the officers’ favored pub in the village, the Bull and Kettle, had seen a great deal of their patronage. Half the squadron were there now, Hux assumed; they had walked down the lane after lunch. The men who had stayed behind were scattered around the field: in the barracks napping, with the pilots of the other squadrons, or visiting friends among the enlisted. Hux was the only man by the briefing room, which he didn’t overmuch mind.

He had pulled Herodotus’s Histories from his desk drawer after breakfast, intending to reread some of his favorite sections, but it lay unopened on his lap as his thoughts wandered, settling inevitably on Ben. The last days, aimless as they had been, hadn’t afforded them any time alone. They dared not meet in Ben’s quarters again so soon, and the hangar was now too frigid after dark. What few moments they could steal were spent smoking in the shadow of the barracks or in conversation in the back corner of the briefing room while Ben kept his gaze trained on his whittling rather than on Hux’s face.

He was working on a wooden figure of an eagle, though he had had to tell Hux that; it was still crudely fashioned, with blocky wings and a half-formed head and tail. Yesterday, they had sat at a distance while Hux watched him shave off slivers of wood, which fluttered to the ground at his feet. He always swept them up later, but there were a few stray pieces to be found in hidden places around the building.

They had talked of innocuous things—the upkeep of their kites, the California weather that Ben sometimes longed for in Norfolk’s rainy season, a novel Hux had borrowed from a pilot in the 129—making no mention of what had been said nights before. But it was there, unspoken but evident, even in a passing look.

Leaning back in his chair, Hux looked up at the sky. They hadn’t flown together since their sortie over Belgium, and he missed it. He thought of Lewis in a bed in the infirmary, a reminder that he should not take any flight with Ben for granted. Perhaps he could find him and invite him up for an hour.

He rapped his knuckles on the beaten cover of Herodotus and, pouring the rest of his tea into the grass, got to his feet. He set the cup and saucer just inside the briefing room door, where he had left the empty pot, and set off for the hangar, where Ben still spent a good deal of his free time. Hux had intended to come by more often and put what he had learned from the maintenance manual to use, but he hadn’t. He regretted that now; he would be glad to spend that time in Ben’s company.

The majority of the 363’s Spitfires were still in good working order, parked outside the hangar in a neat line. Absent were the usual fuel trucks and ground crew personnel flitting between them to prepare them for flight that day. However, a thin strain of music from the wireless drifted from inside the hangar, and Hux heard a few voices as he entered. He waved off the salutes he received from the fitters standing around a nearby table, instead scanning the mostly open space—there was only one aircraft inside for repairs at the moment—for Ben. He wasn’t difficult to spot: he was with Thanisson beside the Spit, conversing as he pointed to a part inside of the open engine block.

Hux approached slowly, listening to snatches of the conversation and trying to make sense of them. A scuffing of his boot, though, gave him away. Both of them turned, and Ben’s face brightened.

“S.L. Hux,” said Thanisson, saluting. “Good afternoon.”

Hux inclined his head. “And to you.” He quirked a smile in Ben’s direction, receiving one in return. Affection spread through him, but he kept his composure, addressing Thanisson again: “May I ask what the issue with this aircraft is?”

“Just a bearing,” Thanisson replied, rubbing his besmirched hands together idly. “It sounded terrible in the air, but wasn’t a danger to anyone. It should be quick to fix, but we’ve been having a bit more trouble than expected. Ben was just helping me sort it out.”

Hands behind his back, Hux leaned in, as if he could identify the problem without having it pointed out to him—which he certainly could not. “Is it a large part that needs replacing?”

“No,” Ben said. From the pocket of his trousers, he pulled a circular piece of metal just large enough to slip a finger through.

“I see,” said Hux. “Perhaps the small size is the challenge, then?”

Ben lifted to the bearing to his eye, looking through it. “Well, it’s not quite that simple. Come here. I’ll show you.”

Hux came up beside him to peer inside. Ben slipped his hand in past a few components to a spot Hux could barely see.

“Just here,” he said, “but the fittings are stripped, so the bearing isn’t going on right. The whole thing might have to be replaced.” He glanced at Hux, bringing the tip of his long nose close to Hux’s cheek. “Give me your hand.”

Hux removed his glove and held his hand up for Ben to take, Ben’s warm fingers slipping between his as he guided him into the inner workings of the aircraft. Ben pressed his forefingers to a small element, its surface hexagonal, but rounded at the edges.

“You feel that?” he asked. “It’s too worn down.”

Hux touched the metal in tentative exploration. “Would it be difficult to replace?” He could feel Ben’s shrug against his own shoulder.

“We’d have to take some things apart. Might take a few days and a couple of guys. Not impossible, just a pain in the ass.”

“Well,” Hux said, “if you have the resources, you might as well do it.” He moved to pull his hand back, but Ben kept him in place, stroking the side of it with his thumb. Hux kept his gaze trained on the engine, but moved his own thumb up to touch Ben’s, an acknowledgement of even the smallest intimacy. “We’ll soon have a reserve pilot who might need this kite.”

Thanisson spoke up from behind them: “A fourteenth man, sir? We’ve only got the fifteen aircraft. If we lose one or need to pull two in for repairs, we won’t have enough for the squadron.”

Hux had considered that himself, but hadn’t yet spoken to the wing commander about it. Aircraft were already in limited supply around the country, and getting more would be a challenge. It wouldn’t stop Hux from placing a request, however.

“I understand,” he said, finally withdrawing his hand and Ben’s in order to turn to properly face Thanisson. “I appreciate your keeping them in the best of shape, but I will do my utmost to procure at least one more.”

Thanisson chewed his lip, running a hand over his already disordered hair. “Thank you, sir. In the meantime, I’ll see this one repaired and put back in rotation.” He shot a look at Ben. “Do you think you can pull out that fitting and get the new bearing in by tomorrow?”

“Probably,” Ben replied. “If I start right now.”

Hux’s request to fly died before he had uttered it. He wanted to argue that Ben’s main role was to pilot, but he hardly needed a training flight. If his work on the kites was more important, Hux would leave him to it.

Ben fiddled with the bearing, which he still held, before slipping it back into his pocket. To Thanisson he said, “I’ll just go for a smoke, and then I’ll get started on it.”

Hux didn’t have to ask if he could join him; he just fell into step, leaving Thanisson and the Spitfire behind. They went out back of the hangar, where one of the air raid trenches for the ground crew’s use was dug into the ground. Hux made no protest as Ben led them down into it and backed him up against the packed dirt wall, his arms braced on either side of Hux’s head. Hux laid his fingers on Ben’s neck, just under the fall of his hair.

“Did you come looking for me?” Ben asked. “For this?”

“Yes,” Hux replied, massaging the base of his skull, pulling him in. He kissed his lips lightly. “You haven’t said a word to me since yesterday at dinner.”

Ben nuzzled the join of Hux’s jaw and neck, just above the high collar of his flight jacket. “I can’t tell you half of what I want to; so I don’t say anything at all.”

Hux closed his eyes, making a low, approving sound in his throat as he wrapped his arm around Ben’s waist. “And what do you want to say to me, Ben Solo?”

“That I spend half my nights lying awake, thinking of how you looked in my bed,” Ben murmured. “That I could stay there for days with you. You smell so good, and taste even better.” He kissed along Hux’s cheek to the tip of his nose. “I want to be inside you again. I think about it more than I should.”

Hux slid his hand down to cup Ben’s buttock. “Why shouldn’t you think about it? I do.”

Ben groaned into Hux’s ear. “I want to take you away from here. We could go to Norwich for a couple of days. The boys in the 129 said it’s not too far. We could get a room there, leave only to eat.” He flashed Hux a grin. “Maybe not even then. I can go hungry if it means I get to have you.”

He painted a fine picture, which Hux could easily get caught up in; but it wasn’t possible at the moment, not when the squadron was about to be reinforced with fresh pilots, who would need to accustom themselves to flying with the 363.

“Maybe next month,” he said, toying with a lock of Ben’s hair. He tugged gently, and Ben huffed.

“When can I see you again?” Ben said, frowning. “And not like this. It’s damn cold out here.”

Hux sighed. “Not tonight.”

Ben stroked his cheek, his temple, up to the neatly arranged fall of his hair along his brow. “Why not? I could come after everyone is sleeping. No one would know.”

“You know how the floors creak,” Hux said, leaning into Ben’s touch. “Someone would hear you, or they would hear our conversation.”

Ben pressed his forehead to Hux’s, going crosseyed to look directly at him. “We don’t have to talk.”

Hux’s spine tingled. “You’re insatiable,” he said, quietly —albeit he couldn’t deny that he wanted it too.

“Sorry,” Ben said, though he didn’t sound at all contrite. He moved in and kissed Hux, slower and longer than before.

Hux held him close, allowing him to press their hips together to feel their mutual arousal. He wouldn’t let himself get carried away; it was as far as they would get for now, but it felt good. “All right,” he said after a few fevered minutes. “Enough. You have to work.”

“I know,” Ben said, resigned. Slyness flashed in his eyes as he grasped Hux’s ass to give it a last squeeze. “See you at dinner?”

Hux nodded, slipped out of his arms, and made for the hangar. He nearly collided with Thanisson as he strode inside. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

“There’s someone to see you, sir,” Thanisson replied. “Looks like your new blood.”

Outside the main doors, Hux could make out the shape of a small lorry and a few figures nearby.

“Thank you,” he said by way of dismissal, and Thanisson stepped out of his path. Ben, too, hung back, remaining with the plane. Hux had forgotten how reserved he could be with others. The things he had said just minutes before were a testament to how he opened up when given the chance; Hux wouldn’t have believed him capable of such candidness when he had first met him, or even when they had first begun their affair. But he liked it, now that Ben had shown this side of himself.

There were five men standing beside the lorry, four of them carrying standard issue duffels and one a satchel, the thick leather strap crossing his chest. He was of middling height and had a head of blond hair; he smiled broadly as Hux approached.

“You must be Hux,” he said, offering his hand as only an American would. “They said you were red as the Arkansas dirt.”

“Did they, now?” Hux said, almost under his breath. He shook the pilot’s hand and continued, more clearly: “Yes, I’m Armitage Hux. And you are?”

“Jamie Jones, flight lieutenant, 121 Squadron.” He had a bright baritone voice with just a hint of a Southern accent, which Hux recognized from months of listening to Strickland. He gestured to the four men standing to his left. “I did a ridealong with these boys down from our field. I’ve heard a lot of about 363 Squadron and wanted to meet them for myself. It’s a real pleasure.”

“I suppose I didn’t get the opportunity to meet you in London for the Thanksgiving holiday, Lieutenant Jones,” Hux said. “Were you not at the Eagle Club for dinner?”

“Call me Jamie, please.” He took hold of the strap of his satchel with both hands, chin lifted as he looked up to meet Hux’s eyes. “I was there, but I didn’t know that you were. Sorry I missed you.”

“Indeed,” said Hux, flatly.

There was nothing hostile about Jamie’s bearing or tone, but something about him put Hux on edge. He wasn’t a part of the reinforcements for the 363, so he had no business here. No average pilot from another squadron came to another field just to make nice. He had a reason to get to know the Eagles, and Hux could think of only one: he was inspecting the men he hoped to command.

Turning away from him, Hux faced the four others. “Good afternoon. You’ve all been assigned to the 363, I presume?”

“Yes, sir,” said a fresh-faced man with a gap between his front teeth and his tie on crooked. He saluted. “Pilot Officer Eugene Stacks.”

“Welcome, Eugene,” Hux said. “The rest of your names are…?”

They made their introductions, and Hux asked where they had previously been assigned. Fresh out of training, they had come from No. 13 Group in the north, but Hux wasn’t disappointed. He had learned with the Eagles and with Shea that the shaping of an inexperienced pilot could be valuable when it came to unit cohesion. They had no bad habits to break from previous experience; their wingmen in the squadron could teach them how they flew without the friction of putting two seasoned pilots together and hoping that they matched up in the air. It would mean changing the flight order, but Hux had complete confidence in his men.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, pressing his palms together. “We had best get you settled and see to it that you’re shown around the field. Shall we to the barracks first?” He paused to address the lorry driver—a sergeant—and sent him to park the vehicle closer to the enlisted quarters. He could find food and drink there before he set off to whenever his next destination was.

As the lorry rumbled away, Jamie came up beside Hux again, his eyes on the Spitfires. “You’ve really made these your own, haven’t you? You’ve got the eagle on them and everything.” He pointed to Ben’s kite, on which six Reich crosses were painted under his name: his record of kills. “You’ve got a good shot right there.”

“I do, yes,” said Hux, more curtly than maybe was called for.

Jamie looked up at the hangar. “And you’ve got this place all to yourselves? Our field is newer, so we don’t have these fancy outfits. It’s a hell of a setup, Huxy.”

Anger flared up in Hux’s stomach; he absolutely despised being called anything other than his proper name, especially by someone whom he had just met. “Wolcastle is one of the best fields at which I’ve served. I’m certainly in no hurry to leave it.”

“Understandable,” said Jamie. He clapped his hands together, offering Hux another toothy smile. “So, you said something about the barracks?”

Hux backed up a step, toward the runway and the buildings on its the other side. “Yes, if you’ll come along with me.”

The four pilot officers shuffled along behind him, leaving only Jamie at his side. His step had an irritating bounce to it, as if he enjoyed each one more than the next, and it grated on Hux’s already fraying nerves.

“So,” he said, plucky, “how long you been flying, Huxy?”

“Eight years,” Hux replied. “Five with His Majesty’s Air Force, three at Oxford.”

Jamie hummed. “You joined up before the war, huh? A career man?”

Hux balled his fists at his sides, uninterested in sharing any of his personal history, but forced himself to release them a moment later. “Yes. I was commissioned not long after I left university. Did you have much flying experience before you came to England?”

“I flew a crop duster for my uncle after I graduated high school,” Jamie said. “Nothing special, but I knew the basics. They trained me up in Canada for a while before they sent me over. I’ve been here almost a year now. Made lieutenant after five months.”

“Impressive,” Hux said, out of pure obligation. “Have your eye on a squadron of your own?”

Jamie laughed, but there was a hard edge to it. “I wouldn’t mind.”

John Weir, whom Hux had met at the Eagle Club, had command of the 121, and it was unlikely he would be replaced any time soon. The other squadron leaders—Americans both—seemed well-placed, too, leaving Hux as the only Englishman still in charge of an Eagle Squadron, and the easiest to be rid of.

“Perhaps the opportunity will present itself sometime in the future,” he managed to say around barely unclenched teeth.

As they came around the head of the runway, Hux saw Strickland and Wexley making their landing approach. They were clearly fooling around, waggling their wings at each other as they came in side-by-side. It wasn’t the most impressive way to introduce the new pilots to them, but Hux didn’t have to say that the two Spits were 363.

“Looks like those boys are in good spirits,” Jamie said.

The six of them watched the two kites land and begin their taxi toward Hangar Three. The eagles on their fuselages were visible, plain as day. Hux tried not to groan.

Jamie seemed unperturbed. “Two of yours? You must keep the morale up around here pretty well.”

“It’s more their doing than mine,” Hux admitted. “They work well together, and are comrades.” Leaving his pilots to return their aircraft, he led the group onward, past the infirmary and mess to the officers’ quarters. They were just rounding the corner of the building when Hux heard the first of the off-key singing.

Four of the Eagles were ambling toward the door, leaning on each other and fumbling for the words to a song that had been playing more often over the wireless during the evening music programs. The lyrics were slurred and interspersed with laughter, but they were holding the tune fairly well for as much beer as they had likely consumed at the pub. Another less-than-desirable first meeting for their new squadmates.

“Sir!” called Virgil Gilbert, waving. “Sir! Hello!”

The others turned and, when their eyes had focused on him, yelled their own greetings to Hux. Unable to do anything else, he brought the group at his back over.

“What’s all this, then?” Bill Taylor asked, looking at the wide-eyed young pilot officers peering at him from around Hux. “Haven’t seen you boys before.”

“You wouldn’t have,” said Hux, wry. “They’ve just come from No. 13. Our reinforcements.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Shorty Putnam said, grinning lopsidedly. He came forward a few (somewhat unsteady) steps and put out his hand. “Welcome aboard, gents.”

Eugene Stacks was the first to shake, though he didn’t say a word until Shorty asked his name and where he was from. He was certainly quieter than Nathan Shea had been upon meeting the others for the first time. Virgil, Taylor, and Meltsa made the rounds next, shaking hands and even, in Virgil’s case, giving inebriated hugs that were more or less accepted by the new pilots.

“Anyone for a drink and a round of pool?” Meltsa said, producing half-full bottle of brandy. “You boys do play, right?”

“I’m pretty good,” Jamie chuckled. “I’ll take you on, if you’re pouring the drinks.”

Meltsa threw an arm around his shoulders and pushed the bottle into his hand. “You’re pouring, mate. I’ll rack the balls.”

Taylor and Virgil guffawed in approval, pulling open the door for everyone to enter. The billiards table was thankfully unoccupied, and Meltsa, true to his word, went to set up the game. There were a couple of empty glasses standing about, but they appeared to have been used. Still, Jamie picked up the nearest, sniffed it, and, shrugging, poured himself three fingers of brandy.

“You in on the game, sir?” Meltsa asked from across the table, his eyes on Hux.

Hux hadn’t played billiards in years, but he had had a reputation in his old barracks at Cranwell for being better than average. “All right,” he said. “Shall I play with you, or...” He shot Jamie a look, just barely keeping himself from wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Meltsa was quick to reply, “With me, sir! Shorty can play with...uh, sorry, guy, what’s your name again?”

Jamie, not in the least offended, told him as he picked up one of the cues and chalked the tip. “Y’all break.”

Hux removed his flight jacket, unbuckled the belt of his uniform jacket, and shrugged both over his shoulders, laying them on the back of a chair which Virgil promptly sat in, his brandy sloshing precariously as he folded his arms. Hux unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, tugging his tie loose. Meltsa leveled the butt end of a cue at him, and he took it to line up for the break. With his shot, the cue ball raced across the table and collided with the rest of the balls, scattering them.

“Nicely done,” Jamie said, leaning on his cue.

Hux let the compliment go unanswered, simply waiting for either Jamie or Shorty to take the first shot. They exchanged a glance, and Shorty demurred. Jamie confidently sank a solid, laying claim to them for the game. He missed on his second shot, though, turning it over to Meltsa for his turn.

Around the table, the others were watching, conversing. Hux heard one of the new pilots talking about his home state of Pennsylvania and the journey from Canada to England. Taylor commiserated about the seasickness, telling him he had spent half the trip with his head in a bucket.

Virgil clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Not much different from yesterday night, when you dueled with a scotch bottle, eh?”

Taylor made a face at him, at which the new pilots laughed.

Meltsa succeeded in sinking two striped balls in quick succession, and Hux grinned.

“So,” Jamie said as he planted the butt of his cue on the floor and leaned on it, “you all weren’t flying today?”

“Nope,” said Shorty. “And it’s getting tiresome fast. The 121 had any exciting sorties lately?”

Jamie tipped his head to the side, affecting modesty. “A few. We brought down a couple of Jerries just yesterday.”

Meltsa pinned him with his gaze. “And I bet you did one of them in, right?”

“You’ve got me there, buddy,” Jamie laughed. “I did.”

“Good for you!”

Hux rounded the side of the table to take his next shot, sinking one ball, and then another, and then a third.

“Damn, Huxy,” Jamie said. “You’re sharp at this, aren’t you?”

Shorty, who was standing beside him, cocked a brow at the familiarity. Hux scowled.

“I’ve had some practice,” he said, getting ready to take a fourth shot. He slid the cue through his crooked left fingers and sent the cue ball careening toward the fifteen. It bounced off the side wall of the table, missing the pocket by an inch or so.

Jamie grinned at him from across the table. “But not a perfect game.”

Hux kept his expression as blank as possible. “No.”

The brandy bottle made its way round the room as they played, but Hux turned it down when it came to him. He handed it to Meltsa and told him to take his share; he was more than happy to oblige. His following few shots were a little shakier than when they started, but Hux made up for it. He sunk the last of the striped balls, and then put the eight ball neatly in the left corner pocket.

“That’s it, then,” said Jamie brightly. “Good playing with you. Maybe a rematch later?”

Hux sucked his teeth, wary. “Do you plan on staying here long enough for that?”

Jamie shook his head. “Just until tomorrow. I have an appointment with the wing commander at”—he looked at the watch on his right wrist—“three o’clock. Getting near the time, actually. Would someone mind showing me to him?”

“I’ll take you,” said Hux, before anyone else could speak. He handed his cue off to Meltsa, reaching for his jackets again. Jamie watched him as he set his uniform to rights, his scrutiny doing nothing to hurry Hux along. Hux made sure he was perfectly in order before laying his flight jacket over his arm and stepping toward the door. “Shall we?” he asked.

“Good meeting you, gents,” Jamie said to the others, giving a cheerful wave before slinging his satchel back over his shoulder and joining Hux. “Following you, Huxy.”

The control tower was only was few hundred feet from the barracks, but the walk seemed unusually long. Hux didn’t like that Jamie was meeting with Snoke; it only added to his suspicions, which raced around his mind rapid-fire.

“You’ve got good men under you,” said Jamie as they went. “They know how to have a good time. And like you said, they’re comrades. You can tell just looking at them. I bet that shows in the sky, too.”

“It does,” Hux said. “They trust each other.”

Jamie turned to look at him. “Seems you get along with them, too. You don’t want an English command? Maybe in No. 11?”

Hux stopped, rounding on him with his hackles raised. “Let me make this very clear. I am wholly dedicated to this command and to these men. I do not want to be rid of them, nor do I think they would perform better in the hands of one of their countrymen. If Fighter Command sees fit to put you or anyone else in charge of them, I will do my duty and go, but until the order comes down, these are my Eagles.”

Jamie blinked at him slowly, sober for the first time since he had arrived. “I’m not going to argue with you on that,” he said, “but these squadrons are being transitioned to American command. It’ll happen sooner or later, whether or not it’s me who takes over for you.”

Hux glared. The blame didn’t fall on Jamie, not really, but he was the realization of the fear Hux had had for weeks now. He hated him, even if he didn’t deserve it. “Is it today?” he ground out. “Is that what you’re here to speak to Snoke about?”

“No,” Jamie said. “At least I don’t think so. I was told to come and see what the 363 was all about, but it wasn’t an official transfer. Not yet.”

“I see.”

Reaching out, Jamie laid a hand on Hux’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Hux jerked away from him. “I don’t need your pity. I’m a squadron leader in His Majesty’s Air Force. I do as I’m ordered.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said, saluting smartly.

Hux didn’t acknowledge it, instead whirling on his heel in the slick grass and striding toward the control tower. Jamie kept pace, going inside with him when they reached the door. The radio operators glanced up at them, but none moved to rise from their places as they passed by.

“The wing commander is here,” Hux said curtly. “And you’re right on time. If you’re staying the night, I’ll make sure a batman and quarters are made available to you. Dinner is served at six o’clock in the officers’ mess. If you have time after your meeting, I’m sure you can find your way back to the barracks. The others will be in the common room for the next few hours, I’m sure.” He narrowed his eyes. “You can take this opportunity to get to know them better.”

Jamie regarded him in a soft, condolatory manner, but he said, “Thank you, S.L. Hux. I appreciate your hospitality.”

Hux gave a short nod. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Jones.”

On his way out, he heard Miss Rey call to him, “S.L. Hux, a moment?”

He paused, but said, “Is it urgent? I’m afraid I have some matters to attend to.”

“Oh. No, it’s not urgent. No need to stop for me.” She appeared a bit crestfallen, but Hux could do nothing about it now. He was too troubled to give her his proper attention.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps I could stop by tomorrow?”

She smiled narrowly. “Of course. I’d like that very much.”

He tried to smile back, but he found he could not. “Tomorrow, then, Miss Rey.” And then he was off again, out into the watery sunshine.

When he returned to the barracks, he found Virgil, Meltsa, Taylor, and Shorty still there, playing billiards again. He said little to them, going straight for the bottle of brandy. He picked up the nearest glass, poured it half full, and downed it all in one swallow.

“You okay, sir?” Taylor asked.

Hux raised his fist to his lips, clearing his throat. “I don’t think so, Bill.”

Virgil approached in measured steps. “Something you can tell us about?”

“Not right now,” said Hux. “I’d just like a drink and another game.”

Meltsa held out his cue. “You can have my spot, sir. But we’re losing.”

Hux took it and chalked the tip. “I believe I can fix that.” He took one more drink before lining up for his shot, even if his eyes swam as his heart thundered in his chest. When he sank his first ball, Taylor whooped.

“You play like you fly, sir,” he said. “No holding back.”

Hux didn’t look up as he prepared for the next shot. “I play to win.” Sinking the next ball, he made a decision: if Fighter Command tried to take the Eagles from him, he would fight the order. He’d be damned before Jamie Jones got ahold of the 363.

The brandy was long gone by six o’clock, when they were expected in the mess for dinner. Hux and Taylor had played a round of billiards against every man in the room, including Stacks and the new pilots, but remained undefeated. Jamie hadn’t returned, which was both a concern and a relief to Hux. Snoke keeping him could imply any number of things, none of which Hux wanted to consider, but he was glad Jamie hadn’t made another appearance in the barracks to rub shoulders with his men.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Meltsa said as he laid down his cue mid-game. He clapped the shoulder of one of the new pilots. “Come on, buddy.”

Hux set down his own cue, trailing along behind them as they left the cozy common room: low, yellow light from the lamps, and narrow windows fogged at the edges, the hissing radiators providing strangely soothing accompaniment.

The mess was boisterous, the 129 having just landed after a bomber run over Belgium, and S.L. Barlow’s voice boomed out as he recounted it for the eager listeners at the 222’s neighboring table. S.L. Chapman sat with his half glass of red wine in his hands, resolutely uninterested. Hux rolled his eyes as he went to take his own seat at the Eagles’ table.

“Hey, sir,” said Poe from his seat beside him. “The new men look a little green.”

The four of them were sitting amongst the pilots they had already met, and introducing themselves to those they hadn’t. They looked far less uncertain than they had when they had arrived, but stuck out clearly still. That would pass, in time.

Eyes turned to the door, voices dying down some, as it swung open to admit Snoke and Jamie Jones. The wing commander was rarely seen at meals, and a stranger with him was even more out of the ordinary. Together, they approached the Eagles, stopping just at the end of the table.

“Gentlemen,” said Snoke. “Lieutenant Jones and I will be joining you for dinner this evening. He tells me he’s made the acquaintance of several of you already. Do make him welcome.”

“It’s a pleasure, Jones,” Poe said, rising. He gestured to the empty seat to his right. “Would you like to sit here?” To Snoke: “Honored to have you with us, sir. Care to take that place between Strickland and Wexley?”

The two of them, sitting up straighter, as if at attention even seated, slid apart to make more space. Snoke took the offered section of the bench. The mood around the table grew more restrained as soon as he sat, the Eagles looking between him and each other, prepared to censor themselves appropriately. Even the other two squadrons were more sedate, their sympathetic gazes occasionally falling on the 363’s table. Fortunately, before the silence could grow more uncomfortable, the sergeants appeared with shallow bowls of stew, distributing them around the table.

“So, uh, Jones,” said Norman Crowe around a bite of carrot; he sat across from him. “You been around the field today? What do you think?”

Jamie swallowed his mouthful of stew, another of his sunny smiles breaking out across his face. “It’s a fine-looking place. A bit nicer than our current station, I have to admit. You boys are spoiled out here.”

A few laughs.

“I heard there’s a good deal of action, too, this close to the occupation in France.” He nodded to Snoke. “The wing commander told me about a few runs you all flew with the whole wing.”

“They’ll be called up for it again soon, I imagine,” Snoke said absently, between spoonfuls of steaming broth.

“Say,” Wexley piped up, “have you ever flown with another Eagle Squadron, Jones? We’re usually scattered, but—”

“There was one time, yes,” said Jamie. “The 121 was assigned near the 79, and we did a mission together. Escort. That was a good time.”

Meltsa raised his glass. “Bet it was. Could you imagine all four of us up there together, giving the Jerries hell?”

“Damn right,” Taylor agreed.

“Not to say that these blokes here at Wolcastle aren’t fine to fly with,” said Shorty with a look at Snoke. “We’re ready anytime to go with them, sir.”

“So, there’s not much competition between you all, then?” Jamie asked. “We’ve always got a bet going with our wing.”

“Sure there is,” Virgil Gilbert laughed, “but we settled the best of it back a couple weeks ago. S.L. Hux beat both the other squadron leaders outright in a fly-off.” At Snoke’s frown, he hastily added, “Not that we’ll do that again. It was just a lark.”

“Is that so?” said Jamie, leaning forward to see Hux.

Hux had no reason to be modest, but he shifted the focus from himself alone. “It wasn’t just me. We flew with our wingmen.”

From the end of the table, Ben looked up. He met Hux’s eyes first, but then they flicked to Jamie.

“So you’re Ben Solo,” Jamie said. “You have a reputation around here for sharp shooting.”

“Most of the time,” Poe chuckled. “There was one exception to that, months ago now.” He winked at Ben. “But we don’t talk about that.”

Jamie’s brows shot up. “Well now you have to.”

“No,” Ben snapped, but he was nearly drowned out by Snoke’s, “That’s behind us.”

“All right, then,” Jamie said, though he sounded a sight disappointed. “But I’ll tell you, I messed up a few times as a fresh pilot, too. Made a fool of myself in front of my S.L. in our first sortie. Want to hear about it?”

He waited for the invitation before launching into a self-deprecating tale of a near collision and struggling to follow his errant wingman. It was easy to compare to one’s own early missteps, and something of a bond to share. Hux knew the ploy well: make light of your faults to win friends who have experienced the same.

It betrayed how Jamie would likely command. He would befriend his men first and build their trust that way, rather than keeping the necessary distance as their superior officer. Hux found that approach too informal. He had come to share a friendship with his Eagles in the months they had been together, but they still spoke to and saw him as their squadron leader first. Respect came, in part, from authority, which he had and exercised. To replace him with Jones would change the tenor of the squadron, for better or for worse.

“So, needless to say,” Jamie concluded, swirling the dregs of his wine around in his glass, “I took a tongue-lashing from Andrews and earned myself six hours of training flights before I could even get back on a mission.” He sighed heavily. “Worst three days of my career.”

“But you deserved it.”

Every man at the table turned to Ben, who had spoken.

“You posed a risk,” he continued, face stony. “Your commander was smart to take you out of the rotation until you learned to control your kite better.”

“Well, I guess so,” said Jamie. The corners of his mouth were pinched.

Ben cocked a dark brow, arch. “If you were squadron leader, wouldn’t you have done the same?”

Hux waited for Jamie’s reply, but he kept his eyes on Ben, who was steely as he stared Jamie down.

“I don’t know that I would,” Jamie began, setting his hands on the table. “You don’t learn to dogfight by rehearsing maneuvers until you’re blue in the face. You need to get out there.”

“I thought that once,” Ben said, “but it’s not true. What Poe said before...I shot him down because I ‘got out there’ before I knew how to fly with a squadron. I could have killed him. Hux taught me better. I wouldn’t be half the pilot I am without him.”

There was a beat of quiet, but then Poe said, “Hear, hear,” as he lifted his wine. The others joined in, even Snoke.

With marked reluctance, Jamie raised his own. “That’s a ringing endorsement. To you, S.L. Hux.”

“Thank you,” Hux said, and drank.

The conversation turned from there to other things, including an anecdote from Snoke about flying in the Great War. Everyone listened attentively, having never heard any of his stories of piloting. Even Jamie was captivated, wise enough not to interrupt or venture any questions, talkative as he was. Hux paid close attention, but cast a few glances down the table at Ben, who was held rapt by Snoke’s account of dropping bombs by hand over German installations in France. That was long before big bombers had flown, biplanes the only weapons in the air. Combat was slower and the aircraft more fragile, but there was no doubt it had been harrowing all the same. The admiration for Snoke around the table was palpable.

When the dishes were cleared, he stood—as did the rest of the Eagles with him—and said good evening. There was only a slight hitch in his step as he walked out, another wound to go with the scars on his face and neck.

“Damn good man there,” said Jamie when he had gone. The others murmured their agreements.

“Well,” Poe said, “I’m going to catch the eight o’clock program on the radio. Anyone else want to join me?”

Taylor, Wexley, and Strickland went along, and the rest of the squadron followed them. Hux caught Jamie by the door, stopping him before he could follow.

“Something you need, Hux?” Jamie asked, brusque.

“I believe it’s something you need,” Hux replied. “I’ve spoken to my batman about finding someone to take care of you this evening. There’s a man come up to see to it when you decide to retire. Ask for Hoskins.”

“Thanks for that,” Jamie said. “You’ve been very accommodating.”

“Yes,” said Hux.

Jamie stood across from him, his previous levity conspicuously absent. “I think you made your point about your command very clearly tonight. Or at least your wingman did.”

Hux pressed his lips together, nostrils flared. “I didn’t put him up to it, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Jamie raised his hands in defense. “I wasn’t saying that.”

Hux sniffed. “Good. Is there anything else you require tonight, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.” He backed away a step, toward the door. “Goodnight, sir.”

Hux watched him catch up to a few of the pilots, but he wasn’t as bothered as he had been earlier in the day. Ben had made a point, and he appreciated it.

From behind him, he heard, “Hux.”

He came around to face Ben. “Yes?”

“Are you going back to the barracks?” he asked, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. There was a question in his face, plain enough.

“I am,” Hux replied, “but I have intelligence to read.” It wasn’t true, but he wasn’t willing to take Ben into his quarters while Jones was lurking about.

Ben sucked his teeth, clearly dissatisfied. “I need to talk to you,” he insisted.

“Tomorrow,” said Hux. “I’ll make the time.”

Sighing, Ben nodded. “Walk back with me, then?”

“All right.”

They ambled toward the barracks without talking, as the rest of the pilots from the mess passed by them, making their own ways to their beds or to the common room. It wasn’t until they reached the barracks door that Hux stopped.

“Thank you for what you said tonight,” he said quietly. “To Jones.”

He could just see Ben’s scowl in the moonless dark. “He’s phony. Pretends to be everyone’s best friend. And him coming in with Snoke… What does he want with us?”

“My command,” said Hux.

“I won’t fly for him,” Ben snarled.

“I think he knows that.” He touched Ben’s lapel briefly. “I won’t let you go, either, unless I have no other choice.”

Ben caught his hand and squeezed. “I know.”

They stayed for a few moments more before releasing each other.

“I have to go,” Hux said. “I’ll find time for us soon, I promise.”

“Okay,” said Ben, and Hux left him there.

“Come round for the loop now,” Hux said over the radio, watching from out his canopy as P.O. Stacks began his ascent into a full loop and reverse. His first few attempts had been clumsily done, and while Hux had offered corrections, so far he hadn’t improved much. Hux had hoped to pair him with Virgil in Yellow Flight, but Virgil wasn’t the strongest of leaders when it came to steering a new wingman; Hux would likely have to rethink the order in light of this first training flight.

“Not bad,” he said as Stacks came out of the loop, though he was off course by fifty feet. “That’s enough for today, I think.”

Stacks’ reply was forlorn. “Are you sure, sir? I can give it another go and do better, I’m sure of it.”

“Save it for tomorrow,” said Hux. “Lead us back to the field now. I’m following you.”

Navigation was a skill not all pilots mastered immediately, and Hux needed to ensure that Stacks could find his way back to Wolcastle without aid from the rest of the squadron. It wasn’t a kind thing to test him with this early, but Hux had never been a forgiving commander.

They flew in silence for a few minutes, Hux keeping an eye on his gyro to gauge how Stacks was doing—not too poorly. By the time the airfield was in sight, though, they had to fly over and back to come in for an appropriate landing. Stacks made a few apologies, all of which Hux brushed off in favor of corrections for next time, but soon enough they were on the ground and taxiing back to Hangar Three.

When Hux had parked his kite and his ground crew had chocked the wheels, he disengaged his radio cables and oxygen tube before sliding the canopy back and pulling himself out of his seat. He stepped onto the wing just in time to see Stacks jumping down from his own aircraft onto the ground. His crew was already going for the fuel hoses, barely stopping to even tug their forelocks at him.

Hux caught him as he was going into the hangar to drop his parachute and life vest. “I’d like you to spend some time in the Link trainer tonight. I’ll oversee you myself.”

“Yes, sir,” Stacks said hurriedly. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Most of the pilots were given liberty after dinner, but Hux had told two of the others that he would work with them in the Link this afternoon. He might have assigned Poe to it, but they only had the one trainer and four men to run the simulation. And no doubt it would draw a crowd: the rest of the 363 were always ready to watch their squadmates suffer.

“Okay, sir,” said Stacks with a quick salute. “I’ll be there.” He scurried off to put his gear away, leaving Hux with his helmet in his hand and his yellow life vest still hanging around his neck.

“He’s pretty raw, huh?” came a voice from behind Hux: Jamie Jones.

Hux shrugged. “He’ll shape up. He has to, or he won’t fly with the squadron.”

“Of course,” said Jamie, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He smiled, close-lipped. “Good morning, S.L. Hux.”

“Good morning,” Hux replied.

Jamie had joined them for breakfast, sitting between Crowe and Shorty. They were still interested in his stories, and free with their laughs, leaving only Hux to sit stonily with his meal—and Ben. He had chewed his food determinedly, frowning down the length of the table as Jamie told a story of his squadron’s exploits.

“Come to see the operations at the hangar?” Hux asked Jamie as they stood together near the nose of Hux’s Spitfire.

“Some,” Jamie replied, “but mostly I came to see you. I’m just about to catch a ride out of here, and I wanted to say thank you for letting me meet your men.”

Hux snorted. “It wasn’t my choice, Lieutenant, as you well know.”

“No, but I appreciate it all the same,” Jamie conceded. “It was nice to meet you, too. You’re a good pilot and, from what your men have told me, the best damn squadron leader they could want.” He held out his hand. “I think I’d have to fight to win half the respect they have for you.”

Hux took his hand and shook, firmly. “You’ll forgive me for saying, but I do hope I don’t see you again anytime soon.”

“I forgive you, yeah,” said Jamie. “Take care, Hux. Fly safe up there.”

“The same to you. Good journey back.”

Jamie gave a last wave before retreating, leaving the hangar behind. Hux was glad to see his back.

A quick look at his watch revealed that he had a good three quarters of an hour before lunch, which afforded him time to see Lewis Mills in the infirmary. He had been stopping by daily, just to make sure he was well. Brewster still spent most of his time with him, though he always left for a break when Hux appeared to keep his brother company. Lewis said he kept telling him to leave off and go see someone else, but he kept ignoring him.

Hux left his flight gear in the hangar, casting a glance around for Ben but not finding him. He passed a few servicemen and women on their way from the enlisted barracks or offices as he headed to the infirmary, smiling mutely at them as they walked by. Thankfully, there had been no raids on the field in weeks, and they hadn’t lost any personnel. Spirits were generally high as the holidays approached, too. The 363 was already talking about they would spend their Christmas Eve—likely at the pub. On Christmas Day, though, families from the village hosted the pilots in their homes for dinner; it was tradition. Hux always looked forward to it and the people he’d meet.

His own Christmas holidays at home were always very formal, with the housekeeper setting up the tree and decorating it, save for the one ornament Hux was to choose and place every year. Any carolers were received for one song before being given a few coins and sent on their way. Their dinner on Christmas Eve was had in the formal dining room, just the three of them at a table that sat eight. Hux was given his one gift on Christmas morning before church: a long service through which Hux always struggled to stay awake.

But he hadn’t been home for the holidays in years. Instead he had spent them with others’ families, many of them more merry than his own. He would be glad to join others again this year.         It was warm and quiet inside the infirmary when he arrived, and a couple of young nurses nodded to him as they walked briskly through the hall, their footfalls silent in their soft shoes. The staff all knew him by now, and didn’t bother to stop him from going directly to the ward. Lewis was in his bed with the knitted white blanket over his legs, a book in his hand.

“Hey, sir,” he said as he spotted Hux entering. “Was wondering when I’d see you today. You just missed Brew. He went off to find us some lunch.”

“Not getting fat and lazy, are you, Pilot Officer?” Hux teased, pulling over a chair and sitting at his bedside.

Lewis laughed. “No, sir. I’m staying in fighting form, I promise.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Though I’d give my other leg for a stiff drink. They won’t let me have a drop in here.”

“Not until you get off the morphine, Mills,” said Phasma, appearing by the door. She gave him a stern look. “I’ve told you how many times, now?”

“Twenty-four all told, Matron,” Lewis said. “And I’ll keep at it until you let me have a nip of beer at least.”

Phasma rolled her eyes. “And I’ll keep saying no.” She looked to Hux. “I’m putting some tea on in a few minutes. Care to join me?”

He nodded. “Of course. I’ll just be a bit.”

She turned back to Lewis, asking, “Your brother gone for your food, Mills?”

“Sure has, Matron.” Lewis patted his belly. “Don’t trouble yourself; I’m fed.”

She scoffed. “Very well. Hux, I’ll be in the break room when you’re ready. No hurry.” Going out, she closed the door behind her.

“You shouldn’t rile the matron,” Hux admonished, though not harshly. “She’s not the kind to tolerate nonsense. I pray you’ve not tried to flirt with her.”

Lewis scratched behind his ear, abashed. “Well, I tried that for the first couple of days, but she told me right off. ‘I’ve worked with too many of you pilots to fall for your tricks,’ she said.” He grinned. “A few of the others have played along with me, though.”

“Your infectious charm, I’m sure,” Hux chuckled. Lewis did have a good sense of humor and a quick wit, which had won him some hearts while they were on leave in London.

“Yep,” he said, leaning his chin in his hand. “I’ll miss the English girls when I get home. There’s just something about them that’s so sweet compared to American girls. And I have to admit”—he winked—“I love the accents.”

Hux smiled one-sidedly. “At first you complained that you couldn’t understand us. Has that changed?”

“Well, some of the time things are still a little blurry,” he said, “but they get the point across. If you’re having the right conversation, that is.”

Sliding his hands down his thighs to his knees, Hux said, “You’ll be greatly missed here, Lewis. You were a great asset to the squadron.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll sure miss the boys, too. Doc Tarkin says I’ll be able to go home on the twenty-sixth. Day after Christmas. Can you believe that? We’ve got to get to Liverpool first, though. Catch the ship from there.” He smirked. “Fortunately we won’t have to listen to Bill throwing up this whole trip.”

“Indeed,” said Hux. “Are you looking forward to seeing Arizona again? Your family?”

“Sure I am. My little sister is turning sixteen in January, so it’ll be nice to be back for that. And my mama will be glad to see us. Dad, too, but he wouldn’t say it out loud.” He shifted slightly in bed, expression darkening. “Don’t quite know what I’m going to do for work when I get back. Not much good for labor with a leg and a half, but I’m not cut out for much else. Can’t enlist, either, but Brewster said he would once I got settled at home again.”

Hux realized he hadn’t considered that. Of course Lewis would be invalided out of the RAF and unable to serve further, but Brewster was able-bodied and still young.

“I hope he would enlist in the air force,” Hux said. “Certainly not the army. He’s a keen pilot.”

“Don’t know, really,” said Lewis. “He said if they won’t have him in the air force, he’ll join up with the army. Maybe he’d even get sent back over here. What would you think of that?”

Hux couldn’t imagine Brewster as an infantryman; it would be a waste of his talent. But it was true that Americans were going to be sent over to England in droves in a few short weeks; the papers were already reporting on preparations for their arrival. It wouldn’t be long before the Eagles were outnumbered by soldiers.

“I would always be glad to see him back,” Hux said. “And you. Perhaps you’ll visit us again someday, when the war is over.”

“It’s a pretty long way, sir, and if the RAF isn’t footing the bill, I don’t know that I’d be able to buy a ticket. But I’d like to write. Maybe I could send my letters to you, and you could read them to the boys?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to.”

“Thanks, sir. I’m never going to forget you and flying with you, that’s for sure. You made us into twice the flyers we were when we started out. I may not get up in a Spit again, but those are some of the best memories a man could have.”

“It was an honor flying with you,” said Hux. Adopting a lighter tone and a change of subject—he wasn’t here to mourn, but to keep Lewis amused—he continued, “These new lads aren’t looking so good in comparison.”

“I’d bet not,” Lewis grumbled. He raised his chin. “Nobody is going to be as good as we were.”

Hux lifted his brows. “You were all terrible when you got here. The hours I had to spend making you airworthy…”

Lewis squinted. “Okay, all right. We were awful, but what are these boys like?”

Sitting back in his chair, Hux began to tell him about the new pilots, starting with Stacks and his not-so-impressive loops. Lewis made noises about teaching them something, which gave Hux an idea.

“Would you be interested in putting one of them through the Link tonight?” he asked. “You can run the simulation. Let him have the worst weather conditions you can think of.”

A broad, smarmy grin spread across Lewis’s face. “If you can get the matron to let me out, I’ll give that kid hell.”

“I’ll ask her,” said Hux. He got to his feet, touching Lewis’s shoulder. “I’ll let you know in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be here, sir. Glad you came by.”

Hux found Phasma just where she said she’d be: in the break room with a pot of hot tea and two cups in front of her. Hers was full and steaming, and she had a couple of chocolate biscuits on the saucer next to it. The tin lay open at the center of the table, inviting Hux to take one. He did, chewing as he sat down.

“Mills all right?” Phasma said as she lifted her cup to take a sip. She paused to blow on it, making the steam waver.

“He’s fine,” Hux replied, pouring his own cup of Earl Grey. “He’s made a truly remarkable recovery, acting like himself again. I assume his medication dose has been lowered?”

“Some, but he’s still taking shots three times a day and twice at night. It’s a lot of morphine.”

Hux finished off his biscuit as he waited for his tea to cool. “Is it as addictive as they say it is? Hard to wean a man off of it?”

“Mhm,” she said. “He’s going to be on it a long time, too. It’ll make it harder for him when he has to come off. But the leg needs to heal a lot more before he can even think of that.”

“So, it’s not possible that he could come to oversee a Link trainer session tonight?” Hux asked.

Phasma eyed him over her teacup. “You’re serious?”

“Ah, yes, I was. I suppose I shouldn’t have suggested it, however. It seems it’s not on the table.”

“Well, hold on,” she said, setting her cup down. “If he’s feeling up to it, it might do him some good to get out of bed. We have a wheelchair. I’ll have to have a nurse accompany him, but I don’t see why he can’t do it.”

Hux, glad, said, “Thank you. I think he’ll very much enjoy it. And the others will be pleased to see him up and about.”

“Then it’s decided,” Phasma said. “When do you want him over?”

Hux told her eight o’clock, as he had said to Stacks, who would be Lewis’s unfortunate victim in this exercise. At least he would learn something, even if he failed the simulation.

After that was settled, they lapsed into quiet, Hux pouring his second cup of tea and taking another biscuit; they were dry but delicious. Phasma watched him closely as he swallowed.

“Is there something the matter, Matron?” he said, baiting her.

She didn’t mince words: “Did you say what you needed to say to your young man?”

Hux resisted the urge to look toward the door for anyone who might be listening, but barely. Carefully, he said, “Yes.”

Phasma looked pleased. “And what did he tell you?” she prompted, as if he were a child reluctant to tell the truth about breaking something in the house.

“That he feels the same,” said Hux, heat spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears.

“As I expected, of course. I doubt you’re the kind of man to lose his heart to anyone who doesn’t clearly share his affection. Or have I read you wrong?”

Hux shook his head; she hadn’t. “You were right, and I should have spoken earlier.”

“Exactly right,” she said with a snort. “It’s not plain as day between you, but if you look at it from the right angle, it’s there.”

“Don’t say that,” Hux said, hands turning icy. “It cannot be obvious. If it is, we’re done for. You know what would happen. We would—”

Phasma held up a hand, silencing him. “Yes, I know. And it’s not blatant, but you can’t hide everything, not when there’s so much there.”

Hux closed his eyes, vestiges of fear mixed with surrender. “Am I deluding myself in thinking my men don’t suspect?”

“If no one has spoken to you or looked at either of you askance, I believe you’ve done all right, but that’s not to say they haven’t seen how you favor him.” She rubbed her chin, thoughtful. “I could see that, and I’m not with you every day.”

He stared down at his tea, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I tried not to show a preference, but even if I have, I have not heard that the others begrudge him my regard.”

Phasma shrugged. “You’re too close to them not to notice that. I imagine they’re just fine. You’re allowed to have a close friend among them.”

“I suppose,” Hux said, only half-convinced.

She reached across the table to touch the hand he had laid flat on it. “Hux, if no one has denounced you by now, they’re not going to.” She paused. “Well, seeing they don’t catch you in his arms.”

Hux exhaled shakily. “I can’t stay away. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You can’t be expected to, you fool,” Phasma said, tapping his knuckles with her fingertips reproachfully. “Not even you could be that restrained. You’re a cautious man, which is necessary, but don’t deny yourself him out of worry. It’s not so unusual what you’re doing.”

“Just unnatural,” said Hux, “according to the air force regulations and most of society.”

Phasma poured a small amount of milk into her tea as she said, “Men have it worse. Nobody gives a second look to two women sharing a room and each other’s company in public. They’re just bosom friends.” She huffed. “But two men together is...well, you know.”

Hux had always had a spot of jealousy when it came to that very matter. Women could live together for years without their relationship being seen as untoward. Men could not without questions and whispers. Perhaps in the city such things could be overlooked in the bustle of activity—his acquaintance at Oxford, Richard, had managed to get by with his lovers—but it was still a terrible risk.

“It’s unfair,” he said, a rare gripe. He had accepted his lot, but that didn’t completely spare him from how cruel it was. “All of it.”

“I know,” said Phasma.

Hux took a long drink of his tea, discontent, but annoyed with himself for being so; he didn’t dwell on these things for just that reason. With a sudden vehemence, he wanted to discuss something else.

“Tell me,” he started, “how have things been here? No one has taken a wound in the air in some time.”

Phasma gracefully permitted the shift in topic, filling Hux’s cup again. “That’s true enough, but we’ve had a bout of strep throat among the office staff. One thought it was just a severe cold and didn’t come into the infirmary soon enough. It turned into rheumatic fever, and he’s been on the ward for a week already. If he hadn’t come in with joint pain, he might have died, the idiot.”

“Is it contagious?” Hux asked.

“The strep throat is, highly, but it’s easy to treat if you feel it coming on. But these airmen just think they can will themselves well. English spirit, I suppose, but the last thing we need is men dropping dead because they’re stubborn.”

Hux laughed. “I promise I’ll see any of mine come to see you if they complain of a sore throat.”

“See that you do,” said Phasma, nose turned up.

When they finished their tea this time, they didn’t refill their cups. Phasma slid the lid of the biscuit tin on and sealed it with a snap.

“Have a busy afternoon with your new pilots, then?” she said as she gathered up the dishes. “Breaking them in?”

“I do,” Hux replied, bringing his own cup and saucer to the sink to be washed. “After lunch, and a visit to Miss Rey in the control tower.”

Phasma lifted a brow. “The little radio operator? She’s a friend of yours?”

“She is, yes. She had something to tell me yesterday that I couldn’t stop to hear at the time. I was preoccupied with a squadron matter.”

“Something important?” she asked, filling a shallow basin with warm water and adding some powdered soap.

Hux bit his tongue against the condemnations of Jamie Jones he might have unleashed; Phasma didn’t need to be burdened with that, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, anyway. “Nothing I can’t address.”

Phasma washed the cups and rinsed the teapot, placing all of it on the rack to dry. “I should be getting back to my duties. I’ve got Airman Rheumatic Fever to visit.”

“Of course,” said Hux. “Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow when you’re here to see Mills.”

“Indeed you will.”

He didn’t get the chance to seek Rey out until after one o’clock. Poe, who had sat beside him during lunch, offered to take the first of the new pilots through the Link in his place, and Hux had been quick to take him up on it. Poe was more generous when it came to weather conditions than Hux was, but it wouldn’t be long before he made it to the training room to remedy that.

He went to the control tower at ten after one, hoping the ladies had already returned from their own lunch. When he entered, he found only one: Miss Rey, whom he greeted warmly.

“Oh, S.L. Hux,” she said, smiling brightly. “What a lovely surprise. How are you?”

“Very well,” he replied with a smile of his own. Her good humor was infectious. “Would you like to step outside with me? I wouldn’t mind a cigarette, and I believe you had something to tell me?”

She stood up from her stool and, grinning even wider, said, “I do. I very much do.”

They went together out onto the back stoop, sitting on the cold concrete as Hux struck a match and lifted it to the tip of his cigarette. The cherry flared in the half-light of an overcast day.

“Well,” he said, “what news do you have?”

From the pocket of her jacket, Rey produced a folded and greying envelope; she had clearly been carrying it with her for some time. She smoothed it out on her knee and drew the letter from inside. Hux almost expected her to hand it off to him to read, but instead she just unfolded it and ran her fingertips over the scrawled handwriting.

“From your Finn?” Hux asked.

She nodded, a tender look on her face. “I told you he would be given leave in January, didn’t I?”

“You did. Has something happened to delay him?”

“No,” she said. “That’s just the thing. He’s coming early. In just three days!” She pointed to a paragraph in the letter. “He was afraid he might actually arrive before the letter did. He’s coming through London and then up with the train to Wolcastle. He’ll be here on Wednesday!”

Hux drew on his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Rey. “That’s wonderful. I’m relieved to know that he’s safe and already bound here. Will he come with the afternoon train?”

“I think so,” she said, setting the letter down on her thighs. “There’s none that comes earlier.” She grabbed for Hux’s free hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, I’m so, so excited that he’s coming. You must meet him. I promised him I would introduce you.”

He closed his fingers around hers. “I would be glad to. Will he be staying in the village?”

“At the Rosethorne Inn. I’ve already secured a room for him.”

“And how long will he stay?”

She was nearly vibrating with elation as she replied, “Five days. I haven’t seen him in a year, and now I’ll have five whole days with him. I was already approved for my own leave, thank goodness. I couldn’t have borne working the radios knowing he was alone in town.”

Hux was sure she wouldn’t be sharing accommodations with him—it would be inappropriate—but she might have gotten a room for herself at the inn so that she wouldn’t be far from him. He asked as much.

“I’ve decided to stay here,” she said. “It’s a fine walk to the village every morning. I don’t mind it.” She frowned slightly. “Unless it’s raining. But I have wellies for that.”

“When would you like me to join you two? Perhaps on Thursday, so he can have some time to settle in?”

“Oh, no,” said Rey. “You must come the first night. We’ll have dinner at the inn together.” She beamed. “And you should bring Ben with you.”

Hux raised his brows. “Oh?”

She patted his hand again. “Yes, do. Unless he doesn’t want to come.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to attend,” he said, taking a last drag from his cigarette before flicking it away. “I’ll ask him this evening.”

“I’m so glad, S.L. Hux.” Her face was radiant, her cheeks pink and eyes bright.

“Miss Rey,” he said, “I’d very much like it if you’d call me Armitage.” It had been years since anyone had used his first name—save his parents—but somehow it seemed fitting that she did. “Would that be acceptable to you?”

“It would,” she said. “Armitage.” Another smile. “That’s a very handsome name.”

He chuckled. “Thank you. I never particularly cared for it, but it’s pleasant when you say it.” He shifted in order to face her, as much as was possible sitting next to one another. “I’ve very much enjoyed getting to know you, Rey. I hope you consider us friends.”

“I do,” she said. “Very much.”

“When would you like Ben and me to meet you in the village on Wednesday? I’ll make sure we have the evening available.”

“How about half past six? I’ll tell the inn’s staff we plan to eat in.” She sighed, her upright posture slipping a little as her shoulders dropped. “It’s going to be so wonderful.”

“I look forward to it,” said Hux. “But I’m afraid I should be going now.”

She rose with him, both standing half a step apart. Rey took his hands again. “Take care up there, as always.”

Hux tightened his grip briefly before releasing her. “I will do. Good afternoon, Miss Rey.”

She said, softly, “Good afternoon, Armitage,” and led them back inside.

The audience that night for Pilot Officer Stacks’ Link session included not only the 363, but a few men from the other squadrons, who had heard about the event at dinner. A pair of nurses appeared exactly at eight, pushing Lewis Mills in a wheelchair. The Eagles cheered when they saw him, gathering around so that the nurses couldn’t move him. He laughed and shook their hands, more alert than Hux had seen him in the past few days.

As he was getting settled behind the control table, Hux went to the nurses and asked, “Is he medicated? Will he be in pain?”

Eleanor, the shorter of the two, replied, “He’s just had a shot. He should be all right for the next few hours. But he shouldn’t be away long; he needs rest.”

Hux promised to have him back in the infirmary by half past nine, leaving the nurses at the back of the room with the magazines Eleanor had brought along. Taking up his place beside Lewis at the control table, he had given him free rein over poor Stacks.

They had run Stacks through three separate simulations, though Lewis reduced the difficulty after he failed the first. The onlookers called out encouragements as bets were made and pocket money exchanged. Hux didn’t get involved, but Ben, of all people, managed to make a few pounds on the second round, in which most everyone assumed Stacks would also crash his plane. Ben collected his winnings with distinct smugness, though he kept his face half-hidden under his hair. He left soon after, not waiting for them to finish the last round.

When Stacks landed safely in his final simulation, he came tumbling out of the Link with sweat running down his temples and his hair matted to his head. Lewis was the first to congratulate him on a job well done, but Hux could see the strain and tension in his movements; his morphine was wearing off.

“All right, gentlemen,” Hux said, clapping his hands for their attention. “That concludes the evening’s entertainment.” He gestured to Stacks. “Someone find a whiskey for this man and put him to bed.”

Everyone laughed, including Stacks, even if it was a little breathless.

“Thanks for this, sir,” Lewis said when Hux came to his side, nurses in tow. “I had a good time.” He shifted in his chair, winced.

“Come on, Mr. Mills,” said Eleanor softly. “Come along with us now.”

He got waves and calls of goodnight as he was escorted out, flanked by the two young nurses.

“It was damn good to see him up and about,” Meltsa said to Brewster, who, for once, had stayed behind rather than following his brother. “So to speak. He’s looking okay.”

Brewster nodded. “He was glad to see you boys, too. He needed the pick-me-up, I think.”

From by the control table, Stacks asked, “What happened to him?”

The men quieted some, and Brewster stepped forward. “Come have a drink, kid, and I’ll tell you.”

From there, the crowd dispersed, and Hux went with them. He was tired and ready to wash the grime of the day from the back of his neck. He forwent a cigarette, going straight to the barracks and the lavatory. He hung his jacket and shirt on a hook on the wall, stripping down to his undershirt to brush his teeth and splash some water on his face. A few other men came and went, but he mostly ignored them, making quick work of his own tasks. By the time he got into his quarters, he could feel the tug of sleep at the edges of his consciousness. Draped in his nightshirt with his uniform tucked away in his wardrobe, he crawled into bed and closed his eyes, sinking into the thin mattress of the cot.

Exhaustion claimed him quickly, and he slept with only a few blurry snatches of images and memories for dreams at first. But then, clearer, he saw himself standing a room that resembled his bedroom at his mother and father’s home in Surrey, only the furnishings were wrong and the room seemed far too large. The bed alone could have slept four.

He walked on wobbly legs around it, until he came to stand at a waist-high chest of drawers between the windows: the only thing that clearly belonged in the room. On it were photographs he recognized: his last day at Charterhouse; him standing beside his Havilland Tiger Moth in the Oxford University Air Squadron; a picture of his mother and father on their wedding day. They had been there for many years, and he still saw them when he returned home. But the last image in line didn’t belong: the picture of 363 Squadron that had run in the Mirror.

In the dream, he picked it up and held the wooden frame in both his hands. His men were smiling broadly in their flight gear, Spitfires behind them. They only had the single print of the group photograph, and it hung in the briefing room, but Hux liked to think he could have one for himself. Fondly, he set it down with the other pictures.

A knock drew his attention to the bedroom door, and, curious, he approached it. He might have expected his mother to be outside, calling him down to tea or to go to church, but when he opened it, there wasn’t anyone outside. And yet the knocking sounded again. He peered out, squinting into the too-long hallway; there was no one.

Another knock.

“Who’s there?” he said, voice echoing.

There was no reply, just rap-tap-tap of the knocking. It bounced around in his head, thudding insistently. Around him, the room began to shrink and darken. He recoiled, but unable to run, he stayed stuck to the spot. As the colors of the wallpapers and carpet blended together into a disconcerting singularity, he closed his eyes against the dizziness it brought on. The knocking slowed, became louder and deeper until it was all he could hear.

“Come in,” he managed to say. “Just come in!”

He snapped his eyes open, and, in that moment, woke. Tap tap tap. The knocking, he realized, was not dreamed, but real. Tossing the blankets aside, he rolled out of bed and went to the door. He opened it just enough to see outside, and found himself meeting brown eyes. Without hesitation, he stepped back inside to give Ben space to slip into the room, closing the door behind him.

“How long were you standing out there?” Hux asked, barely louder than a whisper.

“Just a couple of minutes,” Ben replied. “No one saw. It’s after one o’clock.” He came closer, reaching out blindly in the darkness. Hux, his eyes adjusted, went to him and guided his arms around his waist. Ben pulled him close. “I had to see you.”

Hux touched Ben’s shoulders and up to the nape of his neck. Putting the slightest pressure on the back of his head, he pulled him into a kiss. He tasted of toothpaste, as if he had just brushed his teeth, and the mint was cool in Hux’s mouth. He slid his tongue against Ben’s, sucked at his lips. They took their time about it, Ben’s bare arms wrapped around Hux, the cotton of his nightshirt held tight in his fists.

“Are you cold?” Hux said when they paused for a breath.

Ben ducked his head to nuzzle the join of Hux’s neck and shoulder. “A little. But you’re not. I bet your bed is nice and warm, too.”

Hux tipped his head back to give him better access to his skin. “Is that a request to lie down?”

“You want”—a kiss at his throat—“to keep”—one more—“me standing?”

Hux hummed with a mix of arousal and amusement. “I could.” He slid a hand down to cup between Ben’s legs. “I don’t mind kneeling.”

“It’s so good when you do that,” Ben groaned, pushing himself into Hux’s palm. “I’ll stand...if that’s what you want.”

“No,” Hux said, an notion of something altogether different forming. “Not now.” Taking hold of the collar of Ben’s undershirt, he drew him toward the cot. “Off with this.”

“Can we turn on the light?” Ben asked, even as he pulled off his shirt and dropped it to the ground. “I want to see you.”

Hux laid his fingers on Ben’s bare chest, finding the nipples and circling each with his thumbs. “No. I just want you to feel. In fact...” He landed a kiss at the dip of Ben’s collarbone, but left him to retrieve a clean handkerchief from his wardrobe. He fumbled a bit in the blackness, but managed to get it out and fold it in fourths. Coming up behind Ben, he lowered it over his eyes.

“What—” Ben started.

“Trust me,” Hux said as he tied the ends of the linen around the back of Ben’s head. When it was secure, he trailed his short fingernails down the swoop of Ben’s spine to the waist of his trousers. Ben trembled, expelling a little breath. Hux followed with his lips, kissing a trail between Ben’s shoulder blades as he gripped his sides, kneading softly. “Say it,” he requested, words spoken against Ben’s skin.

“I trust you,” was Ben’s reply, given without qualm.

Hux pressed a hand to his belly, rubbing soothingly for a few moments before moving down to the fly of his trousers and flicking the button free. “There are some days,” he said as he lowered the zipper, “that I cannot believe I’m the only man who’s touched you like this. You were made for it, for hands and lips, for every caress that can be given. I want give you that tonight. Will you let me?”

“Yes,” Ben rumbled. “Anything, Hux. You can do anything.”

“Mm, good,” said Hux, his fingers curling around Ben’s erection through his underwear. He wasn’t fully hard, but it wouldn’t take long once Hux had him bare and laid out on the cot. But he wouldn’t rush him; there was more to do before he did.

Pulling free of Ben’s trousers, Hux padded around to face him. He was careful not to dislodge the blindfold, but he stroked Ben’s cheeks and chin, grazing his full lower lip.

“So lovely,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Ben. He moved down and down, over Ben’s collar and to his chest. There was a shallow valley between his pectorals, where Hux left a damp stripe with his tongue. Ben scrabbled for purchase in Hux’s nightshirt again, making low, needy sounds. His breathing had quickened, his chest rising to meet Hux’s lips with each pull of air. Hux pressed them above his heart, along the curve of his pectoral, up to the nipple, hard in the chill of the room.

“Oh,” Ben sighed as Hux took the peak between his teeth and bit lightly down. Hux wanted to mark him there, but held back, knowing it could be seen in the showers. With a last tender nip, he drew back and turned his attention to Ben’s trousers, which were now straining to contain him.

Determined not to touch him there just yet, Hux worked his trousers down around his thighs, and then lower, until they were pooled at Ben’s ankles. He teased the edges of Ben’s briefs, easing his fingers just under the hems before pulling back. The cotton gripped him tightly, from the globes of his ass to the curve of his testicles and over his cock. Hux palmed him, massaging with care. With his left hand, he slid beneath the elasticised waistband of the briefs, stopping as his fingertips found the cleft of Ben’s buttocks. He laid his forefinger down into it, exploring the heat and softness he found, but venturing no farther.

“What does it feel like?” Ben asked, in a ragged voice that tore at the quiet.

Hux held him fast between his hands—one between his thighs and the other behind him—leaning closer to his face as he said, “What does what feel like?”

Ben’s throat clicked when he swallowed, but there was no timidity in his reply: “Having something, someone, inside you.”

Hux hummed, his cheek against Ben’s. “Full,” he said. “Invasive at first, but your body learns to take it.” He licked an earlobe into his mouth, worrying it. “The muscles are tight to begin with, and there may be a little pain, but it fades as they loosen. It’s shocking to be penetrated the first time, there’s no escaping that. If it’s done right, though, there will be more pleasure than hurt.” He moved his finger an inch down Ben’s cleft, questioning. “There’s a place inside you I could find, where even a small touch is potent beyond words.”

Ben’s cock jumped in his grasp, betraying his interest, and Hux smiled, knowing he couldn’t see it. Not all of Hux’s past lovers had been willing to take him as he was them, and he had been content in those arrangements; but if Ben was curious, Hux would indulge him. His own cock pulsed at the thought of bringing him to climax with only his fingers.

“I want—” Ben stopped, wet his lips. “I want you to show me.”

Hux kissed him. “I will.”

Ben made to protest when Hux took his hands away from him, but Hux shushed him with another peck. “Wait here. I’m going to turn on the light.” He stepped back, but added sternly, “Leave the blindfold on.” Ben dropped his hands to his sides.

The bulb in the desktop lamp burst into light as Hux flicked it on, making him blink and squint. When his eyes had grown used to the brightness, he took in the view of Ben: his naked back to the door, the pale flesh dotted with ink-dark specks like those on his face. His briefs had been pushed crookedly down to expose the tops of his buttocks. Hux imagined biting down hard just there and making him gasp with the shock of it.

From the shaving kit he kept inside his wardrobe, Hux drew a small tub of petroleum jelly. It wasn’t much, but it would suit for tonight. Going to the cot, he set it on the floor within reach, and then he pulled his nightshirt up and over his head, abandoning it next to the jar.

Ben started as Hux pressed against him, bare, but within seconds he was closing his arms around him and rolling his hips into Hux’s. They groaned together.

“Come lie down,” Hux said.

Blindly, Ben stepped free of his trousers and, in short, unsure steps, let Hux lead him to the bedside. They paused there for Hux to lower his briefs and toss them away.

“I can feel you looking at me,” Ben said, the corners of his mouth quirking.

Hux was, of course, taking him hungrily in with his eyes. “I like to look.” But even as he said it, he was reaching for the square side of Ben’s hip, where the bone protruded in a smooth ridge. He rubbed his thumb along it. “I like to touch.”

“Me, too.” Ben groped to find Hux’s stomach, missing the mark by several inches in his initial attempts, but, finding him, stroked with his broad palms. As he moved toward Hux’s groin, Hux canted away, denying him.

“On your back,” Hux said softly, urging Ben to sit and then to lie on top of the blankets. He made the narrow cot look even smaller as he sprawled out across it. His cock lay against his lower belly, flushed and enticing, and Hux knew right where he would begin. He climbed cautiously over top of him, his skinny knees on either side of Ben’s, and lowered down until he could sit comfortably on his shins.

“What are you doing?” asked Ben. “I thought you were going to…”

Hux ran his hands up his thighs, reassuring. “I’ll do that, just not right away. I want to appreciate you like this, first.”

“Like what?” Ben prodded, impish.

Hux dug his nails into the flesh of his legs, making him draw in a hissed breath and then let it out as a hitched “ah.”

“Laid out for me like this,” Hux said, easing up. “Mine to take.”

Ben was nodding. “Yours.”

White-hot desire shot through Hux at that, and he gave in just a little, squeezing the base of his erection, but he wouldn’t touch himself further until he had seen Ben satisfied. And that he planned to take his time doing tonight. Drawing in a deep breath, he leaned down to bring himself close.

He dragged his nose along the crease at Ben’s groin, between his thigh and cock, mouthing and catching the sticky-wet inside of his lower lip on the skin. The muscles spasmed and tensed under his mouth, Ben’s response to the ticklish presses of his lips. Springy, musky-scented hair caught in the stubbly beginnings of Hux’s evening beard as he passed his chin over the thatch to nuzzle at the base of Ben’s cock. He could taste him most strongly there, and the heat of his body radiated from that place, the warmth of the silky flesh pressed against Hux’s cheek. If he remained perfectly still, he could feel the thrum of Ben’s heart as it pushed blood through him: barely perceptible twitches of his cock with each beat. Hux blinked slowly, eliciting a small sound of surprise as his lashes brushed Ben. He did it again.

“Is that...your eyelashes?” Ben asked haltingly from above.

“Mm,” Hux replied noncommittally, as he blinked once more. And then he kissed the same place, featherlight. Ben sighed. With the tip of his tongue, Hux lapped at him delicately, not yet taking him between his lips. Ben’s moan was throaty and rich, intoxicating.

Hux mouthed at his length, but as soon as he felt Ben lift his hips in a silent demand for more, he backed off. “Spread your legs,” he said, steering Ben’s knees up and apart, until there was space for him to kneel between them. He caught his breath at the sight of him completely exposed. Before going any further, he asked, “May I touch you?”

“Please,” Ben said.

Chest burning, Hux tucked his forefingers below Ben’s testicles. He pressed there gently, before moving lower to touch his entrance. Ben didn’t flinch or shudder; he lay completely still. Hux circled the spot, putting barely any pressure on the tight muscles.

“Is that all right?”

Ben’s answer came from his body: he let his legs fall open wider and shifted,offering more of himself for Hux to see and feel.

“I want this,” he said. “I want you inside me.”

Hux exhaled, overcome. “I can’t give you all of me,” he cautioned. “We can’t do that here, and you’re not ready.” He pushed the tip of his pointer finger against Ben until he began to enter him. Ben clenched his jaw. “But it will still feel good, trust me.”

“I trust you.”

Hux withdrew from him, reaching for the petroleum jelly on the floor. He unscrewed the top and dipped his fingers in to scoop out a dollop.

“Cold for a moment,” he said to Ben, just before he applied the jelly to him. Ben remained stoically motionless as Hux smoothed it around and slid his forefinger through it to slick it. “Breathe out for me.” As Ben did, he pushed the finger into him, up to the first knuckle. Ben constricted around him, snug and soft inside. Hux waited there, giving him a few seconds to adjust, before going in up to the second knuckle and flexing the finger.

“O-Oh,” Ben stammered, his hands fisting in the blankets beside him.

“Just a little more,” said Hux, rubbing his thigh. He pushed the last bit in, until his finger was completely sheathed. “There. How do you feel?”

“Okay,” Ben said, though it quavered some. “It’s...a lot, but it’s...good. I think.” His erection had waned, which wasn’t altogether unusual. Hux himself hadn’t been able to stay hard the first time someone had fucked him, half due to the discomfort and half to the nerves.

“I can stop,” Hux said. “You don’t have to do this.”

Ben shook his head. “No. Don’t stop. But...can I see you? Please?”

“Of course.”

Ben tugged the blindfold away, laying it on the mattress as he turned his eyes down. Hux kissed his inner thigh, holding his gaze, and Ben smiled, watery.

“Okay,” he said. “Keep going.”

Hux obeyed, drawing his finger out and then pushing it back in. Inside, he crooked it, seeking Ben’s prostate. Ben shuddered.

“That’s better?” Hux asked, beginning to build a rhythm: stroking that place as he moved his finger into and out of him. He toyed with Ben’s rim with his middle finger, coaxing him to relax.

“Uh-huh,” Ben croaked.

Hux fell silent then, concentrating on giving pleasure. Between pushes of his hand, he kissed Ben’s thighs and up to his cock, sucked at the thin, fragile skin. Ben responded, filling out again under his ministrations. He was making little whimpering noises, his head thrown back against the pillow.

“Do you think you could take another?” Hux said, halting to ease the very tips of both forefingers into him.

“Yeah,” said Ben, looking back down at him. “Go on.” His mouth dropped open, his eyes pinched shut, as Hux gave him both. He was slick with jelly, and they slid in smoothly. His body stretched to accommodate, looser than before. When Hux pressed his prostate, he gasped. “God. Hux.”

“Shh,” Hux enjoined, as much as he hated to. The walls were thin. “That’s right. You’re beautiful like this.” He twisted his fingers, and Ben bowed up into them. Speechless, Hux surged up and took his cock into his mouth, swallowing him down while he fucked him with his fingers. Ben bit down hard on his fist, muffling his cries.

Hux sucked him hard and messily, to the slick sounds he made in him and to the thudding of their hearts. He was well aware of his own need, rubbing his cock against the blankets to alleviate it somewhat, but mostly disregarding it while he focused on Ben.

Panting and writhing, Ben was nearing his peak. Hux redoubled his efforts, taking him deep into his throat and swirling his tongue as he worked his fingers in quick, vigorous strokes. With a strangled moan, Ben came into Hux’s mouth, filling it with the briny taste of him. Hux took it all, holding the pressure inside of him to wring jerking, stuttered aftershocks from Ben. When he finally finished, Hux stilled and kissed the tip of his cock. Ben flinched, laughing.

Hux pulled his fingers out slowly, but gave a last, lingering caress to Ben’s rim. “You liked that,” he said.

“Mmhm,” Ben hummed, lying boneless.

Hux smiled, moving up the length of him until he was lying atop, his clean hand in his disordered hair. Ben, eyes still closed, turned to kiss him.

“Can I do that for you?” he asked drowsily.

Hux touched their foreheads together. “You’re half asleep. I won’t trouble you.”

Ben lifted his hand to cup one buttock. “I want to make you feel good.”

“There are other ways,” said Hux. “Turn over, onto your side. And hand me that jar.”

They shifted around on the cot—too small for both of them together—until Hux was curled around Ben’s back, their legs tucked together. Ben passed him the jar of petroleum jelly, and Hux dipped into it.

“Open your legs up,” he said, tapping on the back of Ben’s thigh until he lifted it. He took the jelly and smeared it on the insides of both thighs and then on his own cock. He continued, “I did this before I ever allowed anyone inside me. It’s good for me, and you don’t have to move.” He closed Ben’s legs again, this time with his cock between them. He gave an experimental thrust, sighing at the slip of himself between Ben’s thighs. “Hold them tight,” he said. “Please.”

Ben clamped down and took the hand Hux wrapped around his middle for leverage. He pressed Hux’s fingers to his mouth as Hux began to roll his hips. There was something so very intimate about this act that Hux sometimes enjoyed even more than being penetrated. He held Ben to him fiercely, taking in the smell of his hair. Sweat formed between them, and even if Ben wasn’t feeling what Hux was, he made ardent noises to match his.

“Oh, Ben,” Hux whispered against his neck, his movements becoming more desperate as he felt himself rising.

“Hux,” Ben said, strident. “I love you.”

“I—” He tried to say it back, but the climax took him before he could. He tensed and thrust a last time, spilling himself across Ben’s thighs. In the aftermath, he caught his breath, and Ben waited, rubbing his arm where it was around him. With lips to Ben’s nape, he said, “I love you, too.”

When they could bear to pry themselves apart, Hux retrieved the handkerchief and wiped Ben clean. The quarters were cramped, but they lay back down, entwined out of necessity in the limited space. Hux tugged the blankets over them.

“I spoke to Miss Rey today,” he said. “Her sweetheart is coming to Wolcastle to see her on Wednesday afternoon. She’s invited us to come meet him for dinner in the village that evening. Would you like to go?”

“Sure,” said Ben. “Where’s he coming from?”

“The front. A much-needed leave. She’s beside herself with excitement.”

“I would be too, if I hadn’t seen you in months.” He caressed Hux’s temple, a thoughtful expression on his face. “She wanted me to come. She knows I’m close to you.”

“It’s clear you’re my dearest friend amongst the men,” Hux said. “She sees that, at least.”

Ben nodded minutely. “I wish we didn’t have to hide. I want to sleep with you, here, tonight, tomorrow night. I want to kiss you where people can see, so they know you’re with me. I want to take you dancing, and get you drunk, so you dance even more.”

Hux chuckled.

“I want to write to my mom and tell her I’m in love,” he said. “She’d like to know that, I think.”

“I want to take you home,” Hux said, cupping the back of Ben’s head. “I wrote to my mother that on our next leave, I’d bring you to Surrey.”

Ben blinked, clearly surprised. “You want me to meet your parents?”

Hux felt himself flushing. “I wanted more to show you the countryside where I spent my youth, but yes, I suppose I do want you to meet them.”

“I’d like to.” He smiled. “What would you tell them I am to you?”

“My friend, my wingman,” Hux said. “They can’t know the truth. My father would...not accept it.”

“Okay,” said Ben. “I’ll be your friend.” He kissed him. “You can love your friends.”

Hux hugged him to his chest. “You should go. It’s easily after two now. You should get some rest; we fly tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, Ben extricated himself from Hux’s embrace and dressed. Hux donned his nightshirt again; he would need its warmth when Ben was gone from his bed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ben said.

“And the next day,” said Hux. “And the day after that.” He touched Ben’s face, so dear to him. “Goodnight.”

Ben kissed his palm, then turned and slipped out the door.

Hux went back to bed, curling in on himself and enjoying the last of Ben’s warmth and the smell he left behind. He slept dreamlessly until morning.

Chapter Text

On Wednesday evening, Hux and Ben caught a ride from the airfield into Wolcastle village with a few of the men from the 222, who were going for a drink at the Bull and Kettle. Both squadrons had flown early in the morning, accompanying the 142 bombers to France. Their run had been interrupted by a few German fighters, and Hux had been pleased with the performance of the new pilots; they had held formation until he gave the order to break and stayed with their wingmen in combat. It seemed they were acclimating well to life with the 363, too: a considerable boon. They had all gone together to the mess at six, wishing Ben and Hux a good night as they left.

The driver parked their car in an alley near the pub, and they disembarked, bidding the others good evening as they set off for the Rosethorne Inn, which lay toward the center of the village. A few people were out: one couple walking arm-in-arm and a gaggle of young women carrying baskets full of vegetables. Meat had been in short supply these past two weeks, and everyone, pilots included, had been making do with cabbage and carrot stew or potatoes in all their various forms. It left them all with emptier stomachs and in poorer moods, but at least they were being fed.

The cobblestones were slippery from the dampness in the air, and the heels of Ben and Hux’s shoes clopped along the street. Both were turned out in their finest: shoes shined, pressed shirts under their uniform jackets, and hair neatly combed. Ben’s hung loose around his collar in waves that Hux wanted to run his fingers through.

Squares of golden light spilled out onto the ground from the latticed windows of the inn, and through them Hux could see a number of people in the dining room, being served by the rotund cook, Mrs. Marsden. He had shared one dance with her at the assembly back in October, the night he had taught Ben the Lindy Hop. How long ago that was now, but Hux still remembered how Ben had felt in his arms, and if he was not mistaken, had blushed as he looked at him.

A wave of warm air washed over them as they entered the inn, smelling of baking bread and candlewax. A dapper older man in a waistcoat and tie stood behind the desk at the front of the entryway, and he greeted Ben and Hux with a bright smile under his grey mustache.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “How may I serve you tonight?”

“We’re to join one of your guests for dinner,” said Hux. “A certain Finn, and his companion, Miss Rey.”

The man nodded. “I believe they’re waiting for you in the dining room. Go right through.”

Together they entered the small room, into which six blue-clothed tables were packed. The few diners looked up, some of them smiling at the sight of two pilots. They were always honored guests in the village when they appeared.

“Armitage!” came a lively greeting from near the center of the dining room. “Ben!”

Miss Rey, getting to her feet, was waving at them, her face alight with joy. She wore a pretty yellow dress with a floral print, belted at the waist with three-quarter-length sleeves, and her hair was fastened up in elegant curls. She all but skipped over to them, beaming.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Come sit, come sit. Meet Finn.”

Standing at the table was a striking young man with dark skin, dressed in a plain green shirt tucked into tweed trousers. His nose was straight and sloped down to wide nostrils; his lips were full. There was a cautious look about him as he waited for Rey to return, arms hanging at his sides.

“Finn,” she said when they stopped at the table, “may I introduce you to Squadron Leader Armitage Hux and Pilot Officer Ben Solo, my friends.”

Hux held out his hand first, and Finn shook it. “It’s nice to meet you,” Hux said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“I’ve heard about you, too,” said Finn in a clear, resonant voice, the accent plainly South London. “Rey says you’re both great pilots.” He looked Hux over in an appraisal. “And you’re kind to her.”

“It’s a pleasure to know her,” Hux said. “And now you, her oldest friend.”

Finn’s expression softened as he shot a glance at Rey. “Is that what she calls me?”

Rey, cheeks pinkened, shoved his shoulder. “What else would I call you, you goose? We practically shared a pram.”

He smiled, a flash of astoundingly white teeth, and turned back to Ben, offering his hand to shake. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Ben.

“Oh, that’s right,” Finn said. “You’re American. Rey said as much, but I managed to forget.”

“You did not,” Rey chided. “Don’t tease him. Come on, let’s sit. Mrs. Marsden said she’s making something special for us.”

They took their seats, Hux across from Rey and Ben from Finn. At the center of the table was a bottle of wine, opened to air. Hux picked it up and offered Rey a glass.

“Please,” she said, sliding her glass closer. The red spilled into it in a dark, aromatic splash. This bottle was of far better quality than the wine they were served at the airfield. Hux wondered if Mrs. Marsden had pulled it out special, as well.

He poured for everyone else, set the empty bottle down, and raised his glass. “A toast. Thank you, Rey, for inviting us to join you and Finn this evening.”

“I wanted to bring you all together,” she said. “Armitage, you’re a wonderful friend, and Ben, I may not know you as well, but I’m glad you could come.” She turned to Finn, tenderness in her eyes. “I’m so happy we could all be here.”

Finn, his expression mirroring hers, clinked their glasses together. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

They brought their glasses up with Hux’s and Ben’s, meeting in the middle over the table. Hux drank a small sip, savoring the bouquet. He didn’t often long for his father’s cellar, but it wouldn’t have been so bad to have something less sour than the rationed wine in the mess on a regular basis.

“Hello, my dears,” said Mrs. Marsden as she bustled over to their table carrying a basket of bread and a dish of whipped butter. She set both down and offered a cheerful smile. “That’s to start. Fresh-baked. My grandmother’s recipe. We’ve been serving it here since I was a babe in arms. I’ll give you some time with it, but then I’ve got a fine surprise for you all.” She winked at Rey. “As it’s a special occasion.”

Rey flushed under her gaze, looking demurely down.

“Thank you very much,” said Finn. “We’ve been looking forward to it all day.” He patted his stomach. “I barely ate lunch to save myself for it.”

Mrs. Marsden waved him off, making concerned noises. “That won’t do, young man. You should eat as much as you can, for your strength.” She shook her head, hands on her hips. “Well, I’ll just have to make sure you eat it all, and come asking for a second helping.”

Finn gave a sharp salute. “Yes, madam. I promise I’ll have two helpings at least.”

When Mrs. Marsden had gone away, Rey snorted a laugh, elbowing Finn in the side. “You eat like a horse, so I bet you’ll put down that much.”

“Hey!” Finn said, shoving her playfully back. “And what can I say? They aren’t generous with standard rations in my unit, and even if they were, you wouldn’t want more than the first go, anyway.”

“Whiner,” Rey said, but there was no sting in it.

Finn made a face at her. “What, are your suppers so nice that you’d have seconds? You said something about cabbage stew.”

Rey wrinkled her nose, but hid the worst of her grimace in her wine glass.

“It’s not unbearable,” said Hux, “but I wouldn’t say it’s excellent fare. Not much to be done about it, though.”

“I don’t really mind it,” Ben said as he took a slice of warm bread and dipped into the butter with his knife. “Better than the stuff I grew up on. My mom wasn’t exactly a good cook.”

“Ha,” Finn laughed, grabbing a slice of bread of his own. “Mine, either. I tried to get over for Rey’s grandmum’s cooking as many days as I could.” He bit a piece of the buttered bread and sighed. “Oh, that’s the stuff.”

Hux helped himself to a slice as well. “Rey said you were neighbors as children. In London.”

Finn took another scoop of butter and slathered it on his half-eaten bread. “S’right. In Peckham.” He eyed Hux for his reaction. Peckam was on the poorer side of the city, not far from the East End, though not the worst borough by far. Hux was not in the business of passing judgment on either of them for their circumstances. They had all ended up on nearly equal footing in the military, even if he and Ben were commissioned officers and Rey and Finn enlisted.

“Were your houses next door to one another?” Hux asked.

“Just down the lane,” Rey replied. “A few doors away and across the street. Numbers sixteen and twenty-one, Old Church Street.”

Ben took a second piece of bread. “How’d you meet, then?”

“Well,” said Finn, “our mums used to walk together with us as babies. We were born just four months apart, me in February and Rey in June. There weren’t many other kids that age in the neighborhood just then, so we got to know each other. And our dads both worked down the factory.”

“I don’t remember when we didn’t play together as children,” Rey said, tearing off tidy pieces of bread and buttering them one at a time. “Finn’s mother would bring him to spend the day with my grandmother and me while she went to work at the laundry.” She rapped her knuckles against his head, making him flinch. “We were always together.”

“I was even stuck with her in the same class all through school,” Finn said, affecting indignation that Hux knew he didn’t feel. “What a terrible fate.”

“Hush!” Rey said, wagging her knife at him. “You never would have made it through maths if it wasn’t for me.”

Finn narrowed his eyes. “Why are you always bringing that up, eh? Miss High and Mighty Rey, Queen of Maths.”

She tossed her head, haughty. “I had the highest marks in the class, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

Finn rolled his eyes and took a large bite out of his bread.

“I liked math, too,” Ben said, glancing at Rey. “I hated most of school, but math was always okay. Especially geometry. You need to know angles to fly.”

Hux remembered how sharp he had been with the problems Hux had first assigned to the squadron in their early days of training, when they had still met in the briefing room after dinner for lessons. Ben had almost always turned his in without any mistakes.

“Suppose that’s why I’m not a pilot,” Finn said. “Couldn’t have passed muster.” He took a sip of wine. “And I’m afraid of heights.”

Hux huffed a laugh. “Yes, that would inhibit one becoming an airman.”

Finn gave him a one-sided smile. “Ah, well, I’m better cut out to be a soldier, anyway. Figured I’d just be working at the factory like my dad, or down at the docks. Never figured I’d see France, or anywhere else like that.”

“I hope to go there someday,” said Rey, wistful. “Tour the continent.” She looked at Ben. “Or maybe I could go to America.”

“There’s a lot to see there,” Ben said. “I used to travel around with my dad and his airshows. I’ve been all over, but there’s still places I haven’t seen.”

Rey smiled. “It sounds like such an adventure to be in airshows.”

Ben tore off a piece of his bread and popped it into his mouth. “You’ve seen some of the best of them just being at the field. You won’t find better pilots, or better planes, anywhere in the world.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She latched onto Finn’s arm. “I wrote you about the flying competition. You should have seen Ben and Armitage together. Maybe you can come to the field tomorrow and see them fly.” She bit her lip, turning to Hux. “Do you think he could do that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Hux said. “I can’t say we’ll have much of a show to put on, but you, Finn, can certainly watch the aircraft and a few takeoffs and landings.”

“I’d like to see where you work, Rey,” said Finn. “If I’m allowed in there.”

She rubbed her chin. “I could ask the ladies on duty tomorrow if it’s all right. I don’t know if the wing commander would like it, though.”

“He’ll be out on inspections all day,” Hux said. He had been told as much yesterday afternoon when he had brought his report from the morning’s sweep. “You should have the command tower to yourselves.”

“Oh, perfect,” Rey said. “It’s decided, then. You’ll come to the field tomorrow. Shall I meet you here, and we can walk together?”

“I can find my way down the one road in town, Rey,” Finn said, wry.

She pursed her lips at him. “Don’t get smart with me. I’ll have to come fetch you, anyway. You can’t just walk onto the field without an escort. They’d arrest you for a German spy.”

Finn plucked at his shirt. “Do I look or sound like a Jerry? And I’ll wear my uniform, if it helps.”

“Probably a good idea,” said Hux. A civilian wouldn’t be thrown off of the field on sight, but a man with Finn’s coloring would certainly stand out, even raise suspicions. It was better he was in battledress than plain clothes and always accompanied by Rey, or someone else. “It would be my pleasure to show you 363 Squadron’s hangar and kites,” Hux continued. “Perhaps after you see the control tower, you would like to join me and Ben at Hangar Three.”

“I’d like that, thanks,” Finn said. “I’ve never been up close to an airplane before.”

“That’s very kind of you, Armitage,” said Rey. “Not everyone gets to see a Spitfire in person.” She laughed. “Even if they’re old hat for us now.”

“Indeed,” Hux said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kitchen door swing open and Mrs. Marsden come out bearing a full tray. The scent of cooked meat was unmistakable, and his mouth began to water.

“Here you are, dears,” Mrs. Marsden said. “One of Alan Lydecker’s heifers stopped giving milk last week, so she went to the table.” She laid a plate of seared beefsteak in front of Hux. “He just brought us some cuts this morning.”

“Oh, Mrs. Em,” said Finn as she put his plate down, “this is the best thing I’ve smelled in eight months.” He wafted the steam toward him with his hand, breathing in deep. “Yes.”

“Now, I put aside another one for you,” said Mrs. Marsden. “I should think you can finish that one.”

“Do you maybe have one more for me, too?” Ben asked.

Mrs. Marsden laid a hand on his broad back. “Of course, my dear. You eat up, now.”

Alongside the beef were halved and baked creamer potatoes seasoned with rosemary and butter, sliced carrots, and green beans, likely straight from the inn’s kitchen garden. Everything was bursting with color and flavor, and Hux found himself eagerly picking up his knife and fork to cut into the meat. When he put the first piece in his mouth, he nearly groaned.

“Oh, God,” Finn said around his own mouthful. “That’s so good.”

Rey was chewing alongside him, her eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. “My goodness, yes. It’s just delicious.”

Ben said nothing, simply attacking his food with singular intent. He cut off substantial chunks and ate them in record time, leaving the potatoes and vegetables for last. Hux interspersed those with bites of meat, making sure the beans and carrots didn’t get too cold before he ate them. His mother had always taken so long to eat that everything on her plate was cold by the time she finished, and he could never understand how she tolerated it. For two or three minutes, all four of them around the table were quiet, taking the time to enjoy their rare treat.

Finn was already halfway through his beefsteak when he finally paused to take a drink of wine. He drained almost half of the glass. “I’m never going to forget this. I’ll have dreams about it when I’m back with my unit.”

Rey frowned. “Don’t talk about that now.”

“Sorry,” he said, tilting his head toward her. “I know I’m supposed to concentrate on being here, not on being there.”

“Very wise,” said Hux. “You should enjoy your leave as much as you can. Are you planning on going anywhere else in Norfolk while you’re here?”

“I thought we might go to Norwich,” Rey said, brightly. “It’s only an hour train ride from here. I went there with a few of the girls during the summer, before the Eagles arrived. It’s on the River Wensum and very pretty.”

“I was thinking about going there, too,” said Ben, looking at Hux. “Maybe for a couple of days.”

Rey said, “We’ll only go for the one day, but I could imagine it would be a good place to spend a short leave.” She lifted a sculpted brow. “Would you like to join us?” A glance at Finn. “If that’s all right, of course.”

Finn nodded. “Sure. Why not? You seem like good enough blokes.”

“Thank you,” Hux said, suppressing a laugh. “And you, Rey, for the invitation. If I could secure a day of leave for us, I believe I, at least, would like to come along. Ben?”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “When would we go?”

Hux did some calculations in his head. “Not tomorrow. I need to speak to the wing commander, but...Friday? Would that suit?”

“Yes, perfectly,” Rey said.

“Good.” Hux tapped the table with his fingertips, considering. “I believe we might be able to secure a car for the trip, as well. It’s only a forty-minute journey by car.”

Rey perked up. “Really? You can drive?”

“I can,” said Hux. “Though, if anyone else would like to…”

“I never learned,” Ben said.

Finn tipped his glass at him. “Neither did I. Looks like it’s on you, Hux.”

That was no bother. It may have been some time since he had driven his mother’s car, but it wasn’t something one really forgot; and it was certainly easier than flying a Spitfire.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” he said. “And if all is in order, we’ll come collect you both at eight o’clock in the morning on Friday.”

“I miss the city,” Finn sighed. “We were out in these little towns in the middle of the nowhere in the French countryside. It was nice scenery, but if we weren’t fighting, there was nothing to do but stare at each other. I’ve never been so bored in all my life.”

“At least you were out of harm’s way,” Rey offered.

Finn took her hand, and in just the brief moment he looked at her, Hux could see the affection between them. “You don’t know how many times I read your letters in those days. I think I have every one memorized.”

Rey smiled sweetly. “I know yours by heart.”

Hux glanced away from them, giving them what little privacy he could, focusing on his meal. Ben’s gaze lingered, though, as if he were studying them. Under the table, Hux tapped his foot with his own, and he immediately gave him his attention. His posture seemed to loosen some as Hux brushed his ankle with the toe of his shoe.

“Do you write to your families in Peckham?” Hux asked.

“Well, my mum and dad are both dead and buried,” Finn replied, “but I do scribble a letter to Rey’s mum every so often.”

“She always looks forward to hearing from you,” said Rey. She addressed Hux and Ben: “He’s like a son to her.”

“It must have been lovely to have such a close friend to grow up alongside,” Hux said. “I’m afraid I never had that.”

“What,” said Finn, “you didn’t have any mates at your fancy public school?”

Hux had never talked to Rey of his schooling, so she couldn’t have known he attended Charterhouse. Finn was assuming. It wasn’t off base, but there was derision in his tone.

Rey caught it immediately, and admonished, “Finn.”

“I had a few, yes,” Hux said, “but none with whom I’ve stayed in contact. We did not form bonds as strong as yours.” He offered a thin smile. “I don’t think many do.”

“No,” said Finn. “They don’t.”

Rey asked, “What about you, Ben? Do you have any friends you write home to, telling them about your exploits in the air?”

Ben shook his head. “I never spent a lot of time around anyone my age outside of school, and there I didn’t much get along with anyone, either.” He turned his eyes down, self-conscious. “I still don’t, really.”

“That’s not true,” said Hux. “You have friends among the squadron.”

“We get on,” Ben continued, “but really...I just have you.” He met Hux’s gaze, and Hux felt it down to his core.

“I’m glad for it,” he said, though he didn’t dare touch Ben in open affection. When he turned back to Rey, she was grinning, and Finn was watching them with interest. Hux busied himself with his wine, shifting the conversation away. “Did the two of you get into trouble together when you were young?”

Their replies came over one another. Rey: “Of course not.” Finn: “Sure, we did.”

Hux laughed. “Well, which one of you is being honest?”

Rey chewed her cheek, but admitted, “He is. We ran amok when we were twelve or thirteen, making a mess of things while we tried to go on ‘adventures.’”

“They were adventures,” said Finn. “We stole a bag of apples from a delivery truck and ate ourselves sick on them, once. There was that time we rode bicycles all the way to Vauxhall and wandered about like we belonged there. I bought you chocolate, remember?”

“I do,” she said. “I hid it under my mattress and ate one piece a day for three weeks. Such an indulgence.” She lifted her round chin. “But now I can afford to buy it any time I like. If they have it at the store. Maybe we can find a bar in Norwich. The Makintosh factory is there.”

“Will you have to hide it under your mattress again this time?” Finn teased. “Keep the other girls away from it?”

“I might,” Rey said, with a wink. “But I imagine I can keep it in my wardrobe this time. Seems more suitable.”

Finn pinched her arm. “But not as cute.”

She pinched him back, and he wailed as it she had shot him. They were charming together, Hux decided, Finn a fitting match for Rey’s ever-present good humor. He could imagine they would be the kind of spouses who would still be laughing and joking with each other when they were old and watching their grandchildren play as they had. It pained him to think that that might never be.

Mrs. Marsden appeared a few minutes later with fresh beefsteaks for Finn, Ben, and Hux. Hux politely declined, already full, but Ben and Finn devoured theirs like men starving. Hux and Rey chatted as they ate, Hux telling her a story of some of his boyhood shenanigans at Charterhouse. There had been few—he had had a reputation for being studious rather than raucous—but enough to please her. Finn’s poor attitude when it came to Hux’s upbringing faded, and he even chuckled at Hux’s recounting of the annual Buck’s Run, when all the fifth form students charged naked across the grounds at dusk.

“That must have been something to see,” Ben said, eyeing Hux with a smirk.

“Well, the 363 almost managed it once,” Hux countered. “We were forced to walk across the field from the showers to the briefing room in nothing but our towels on the day we all played American football.”

Ben sniggered. “I didn’t forget. And I bet no one else at the field did, either. The way you marched through the grass like you were in a tuxedo, not a towel, saying hello to anyone who passed by with your nose in the air.”

“We all heard the story,” said Rey, giggling.

Hux sighed. “Yes, I suppose it was rather memorable.”

“We should play again sometime,” said Ben.

“God, no,” Hux groaned.

It was nearing nine o’clock when they finally pushed their plates away and finished their wine. Finn, who had been traveling all day, wasn’t able to conceal his yawns any longer.

“We should probably be on our way,” Hux said, tucking his serviette under the lip of his plate. “I can imagine you’d like to retire, Finn. Miss Rey, will you be walking back to the airfield with us?”

“Yes,” she said as she got to her feet. “I just need to retrieve my coat. It’s round front on the rack.”

Hux led the way out of the now-empty dining room and into the entryway of the inn. Finn helped Rey into her coat—a camel-colored thing that buttoned up to a high collar and hung around her knees. She set a small hat over her curls.

“Goodnight, Finn,” she said, facing him. “I’ll be here at seven tomorrow, so we can take breakfast together.”

“I’ll count the hours,” he said. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to the knuckles, lingering over it as she blushed. When he released her, he added, “Hux, Ben, it was good to meet you. I hope to see you tomorrow at the field, and Friday morning for Norwich.”

“I’ll see it done,” said Hux, offering his hand again. Finn shook it and Ben’s, and then they left him in the entryway, Rey casting a last glance at him over her shoulder.

It was far colder outside than it was when they had arrived, a clear, star-filled sky bringing the chill. Their breath misted around them as they paused under the inn’s eaves for Ben to light a cigarette. He didn’t ask, just passed it Hux before lighting another for himself. They set off down the street toward the wide lane that would lead them back to the field. It was a good hour’s walk.

“Miss Rey,” Hux said. “Finn said you can ride a bicycle. Would you care to take one from the field to the village while he’s here?”

“Is there one to be had?” she asked.

“Wexley has one,” said Ben. “You could borrow it. It’d be a lot faster.”

“That would be wonderful. Shall I ask him tomorrow?”

Hux replied, “I will. Commandeered by his commanding officer for a good cause.”

Rey laughed. “Well, thank you, sir.”

Their steps were quiet in the hastily freezing dirt of the lane, Ben’s and Hux’s strides far longer than Rey’s. She walked between them, the top of her head coming barely up to their shoulders.

“I hope you both had a good time tonight,” she said. “It was a pleasure to have you there with Finn.”

“I had a splendid time,” said Hux. “It was certainly better company than a bunch of rowdy pilots in the mess hall.”

She smiled. “And you, Ben?”

He didn’t say anything right away, but then, slowly, “It was nice. Finn’s a good man, looks like.”

“He is,” she sighed happily. “We’re going to spend some days in while he’s here, just lounging about the inn, maybe taking a turn around town. I thought he might think that tedious, but he just wants to lie around and be lazy. I admit, I wouldn’t mind that, either. It’s hard work manning the radios for you lot all day.”

“We couldn’t fly without you and the other ladies,” Hux said. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to bring them out to meet Finn. You spend more time with them than you do with us.”

She shrugged. “They’re lovely girls, but...maybe I’m like you two were in school; I don’t have really close friends among them.” Slipping her arms through theirs, she strode out to keep up with them. “It was lovely to see you both. I did hope that maybe you might come to visit more often, Ben, when Armitage comes.”

“We’re not always together,” said Ben. “We can’t be.”

“I often have paperwork to deal with when we’re not waiting to be disbursed,” Hux said. “No one wants to join me for that. And Ben works in the hangar.”

“Well,” Rey said, “you’re welcome whenever you can spare the time.” She stumbled on a rut in the road, but Ben caught her, setting her to rights again. “Thank you. I’m so clumsy sometimes. You know, I ran into a dresser at home right before my physical to enlist, and broke my toe. The only pair of good shoes I had were the heels I had always worn to school, and they were tight in the toes. We stood in line at the recruitment office for nearly an hour, and I was almost crying. The matron checking us in nearly sent me home for not having the nerve for service.”

“What a loss that would have been,” said Hux. “What made you want to volunteer?”

Her reply was quick: “If there’s a war, I’m going to do my part, even if I can’t fight.”

“Any reason for the Women's Auxiliary Air Force in particular, then?”

“I don’t really have the stomach to be a nurse,” she said, “so I couldn’t do that, but they needed girls for the battle last summer, so I signed up as soon as I finished school. I might have been packing parachutes or driving transports, but they put me on the radios. Fortunately, I liked it right from the start.”

“Do you think you’d stay on after the war?” asked Hux. “Or was there something else you wanted to do?”

“I thought maybe I could be a teacher, once,” she replied, “but I don’t know if I have the patience for it. I like children, though. Maybe I could have my own someday.”

“With Finn,” said Ben, blunt.

Rey’s eyes went wide for a moment, but then she let out a long breath. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You love him, don’t you?”

Hux winced at his forthrightness. “Ben, I don’t think Miss Rey cares to talk about this.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Maybe things are different in America? Men like Finn can marry girls like me?”

Ben’s brows knit. “Like…oh. Negro men, you mean.”

“Yes,” Rey said, quiet. “I couldn’t marry him without my mother turning me out. She made that clear when I was old enough to be caught kissing him in the alley. She said it wouldn’t suit, that we don’t mix like that.”

There was a beat of silence, and then: “What the hell does she know about it?” Ben spat. “It’s not her decision; it’s yours. If she doesn’t like it, that’s her problem. Let her sort it out.” He stopped dead, pulling them all up short, and glowered down at Rey. “There’s no law against it, is there?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just convention—”

“To hell with convention,” said Ben. “If you have the chance to be with him, wear his ring and be his, you should do it.” He lowered his voice. “For everyone who can’t.”

Hux’s heart jumped into his throat. He could see the tension in Ben, the anguish in his face. He meant them; of course he meant them.

“Ben,” Hux said, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s not our place.”

Rey was staring up at him, and as she blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek. Seeing it, Ben backed away a step, releasing his hold on her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Rey said, sniffling. “I know I’m a coward, but I love my family. I would have to choose between them and Finn.”

“That’s not cowardice,” said Hux. “No one should have to make that decision, especially not when the world is at war. You should hold on to everyone you care for.”

Ben pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and under her nose.

“You’re still very young, Rey,” Hux said, touching her shoulder. “There’s a great deal of time to decide what you want.”

“I want it all,” she said. Handkerchief still clutched to her chest, she began to walk again, leaving Ben and Hux to follow.

When the airfield came back into the sight, it was arches of the hangars that appeared first, their silver edges glinting in the moonlight. There were a few scattered points of light amongst the buildings, but most of the windows were already dark. They parted ways near the control tower, Rey going toward the ladies’ barracks on the other side of the offices, and Ben and Hux bound for their own beds nearer the officers’ mess.

“I shouldn’t have said that to her,” Ben murmured once she had gone. “Before.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe I shouldn’t go with you on Friday, to Norwich.”

“Whyever not?” said Hux. “She accepted your apology, dismissed it, even. You shouldn’t feel badly about it. And...the point you made is not altogether unjustified.” He turned, caught Ben by the arm. “They have a chance, at least, even if it flouts convention and loses her her family. She and Finn can start a new one. You and I will never have that.”

Ben raised his hand to Hux’s face, his thumb resting against his cheekbone. “I know. I didn’t mean to be harsh with her about it. I’m just jealous.”

“As am I,” said Hux, leaning into his touch. “Come on. We should go.”

They went up the creaking barracks stairs, going their separate ways at the top of them. Alone in his room, Hux undressed, hung his clothes dutifully in the wardrobe, and wiped his face and neck down with a cloth from the washbasin in the corner. Finn and Rey had raised his spirits, and he would be glad to spend a day with them in Norwich, but there was no mistaking the hollowness in his chest at what Ben had said, and how he had replied. They had had to be careful not even to graze hands at dinner, when Rey and Finn had been free with their flirtatious touches. Society dictated, maybe, that they should not be together, but he and Ben could not, no matter the circumstances.

Lying in his bed, he wondered what he might do in her position. His mother had always wanted him to marry a daughter in the neighborhood and settle down to raise a family in Surrey. His father had wanted an army officer to carry on the family legacy. He had not and would not give them either. He loved them, certainly, but if he had to choose between their love, which was clothed in expectation, and Ben’s, there would nothing to decide. It was Ben, only Ben.

“You’re just taking off and leaving us here? That’s pretty cruel, sir.”

Meltsa was frowning at Hux and Ben, who stood just inside the mess after breakfast. Hux had secured leave for them today, but hadn’t exactly invited the rest of the squadron to join them in Norwich. Still, they had liberty to follow along if they so chose and could find transport to get themselves there. Hux had already made arrangements for a car for him and Ben, Finn and Rey.

“The train to the city leaves at a quarter after eleven,” he said. “You have ample time to get there before it leaves.”

Wexley gave him a wounded look. “But still, sir, we would have liked to go with you.”

“He’s not obligated to take the rest of us,” Strickland said, ever the voice of reason. “Wouldn’t you want a day to yourself if you could have one?”

“Ben is going,” Wexley grumbled.

Crowe patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, kid. We’ll go down to the pub and drink away your sorrows.”

“Have a good time, sir,” said Taylor. “We’ll just be waiting here, moping without you.”

“Try not to cry too hard,” Hux said. He gave an informal salute. “See you all in the evening.”

They muttered their goodbyes as he and Ben stepped outside. It was misting rain, unfortunately, but the car they had was covered. Rey—in her coat, hat, and gloves, with an umbrella over her head—was waiting for them by the control tower.

“Good morning,” she said. “Are we ready to go?”

“We are,” said Hux.

The car was parked nearby, and he held the rear door open for her when they got to it, handing her inside. She bounced to the far side of the bench seat behind the driver’s seat.

Ben took the front passenger’s place beside Hux as he turned over the engine; it sputtered to life. Hux shifted into first gear, pressed the gas, let off the clutch, and they rolled toward the road, leaving the airfield behind.

“Who taught you to drive, Armitage?” Rey asked as they bumped over the rutted lane.

“My mother,” Hux replied.

“Really? How funny! I know there are WAAFs who drive, but surely she’s not one of them.”

Hux shifted down to second gear as they hit a patch of mud. “She’s not, no, but she bought an automobile as soon as she was able. My father never cared for it. He has his horses.”

“Leia drives, too,” said Ben. “We had this beaten-up old truck when I was a kid. She knew how to fix it, too. It quit about every three months, but only she could make it work again.”

“But she never taught you to drive it?” Hux asked.

Ben rested his hands on his knees; there wasn’t much space in the car for his long legs. “I never wanted to learn. All I wanted to do was fly.”

“Well, I can teach you,” Hux said. “And you, too, Rey, if you have the interest.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever need it,” she said. “If I live anywhere after the war, it’ll be London. I can just take the Underground and the bus.”

“Very well,” said Hux. “Ben?”

“Sure.”

Hux hadn’t picked it up too quickly when he had learned, and he wasn’t as good a driver as his keen mother, but he thought he could teach someone well enough.

“We won’t start today,” he said, “but no doubt we can find the time at the field.”

The village was busy when they arrived, forcing Hux to slow down and beep the horn once or twice, requesting space be made for them to pass through. People moved out of the way, free with their smiles as Rey waved from the back seat. They had barely even stopped outside the Rosethorne when she sprang out and charged inside to find Finn. They appeared, hand-in-hand, just a few moments later, Finn with a cap over his cropped black hair and a jacket buttoned up to his collarbone. They got hurriedly into the car, shaking it in their excitement.

“Good morning, gents,” said Finn as he settled himself in the place behind Ben’s seat.

“Hello,” Hux said, speaking for both of them. “Are you ready to go?”

Finn grinned, saying “Absolutely,” and they were off.

The roads just outside of the village were still dirt, but as Hux drove them closer to the larger thoroughfares, they were paved with smooth black asphalt. He shifted up into fourth gear, sending the car zipping toward the city. With the noise of the engine and the patter of rain on the windscreen, it was difficult to hear Rey and Finn, but in the mirror Hux could see them with their heads together, conspiratorial. It left him and Ben alone in the front seats.

Ben was watching out the side window, his hands resting on his thighs, a kind of serenity about him. After their first run yesterday—uneventful—he had been restless. He had tried to work on his whittling for a time, Hux saw, but had set it aside after only a few minutes. When Hux had gone looking for him in the hangar, Thanisson had said the tasks hadn’t been able to hold his attention, and he had stalked off the way he had come before even an hour had passed. He hadn’t been in the briefing or common rooms; Hux had checked.

It wasn’t until he was walking back to the briefing room that Ben appeared. He was in his shirtsleeves—the fabric wet and stuck to his skin—barefoot, and splattered with mud. Hux had stopped, concerned.

“Are you all right?” he had asked. “What have you been doing?”

“Running,” Ben had replied. “Just around the offices. I, uh, needed to blow off some steam.”

Hux’s brows rose. “Clearly. Did it work?” Ben nodded, and Hux took a step closer to him. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“I can’t really feel my feet anymore, so…”

Without a second thought, Hux unfastened his jacket and slung it over Ben’s shoulders. It was too narrow for him, but it offered some warmth.

“Come inside, you idiot,” Hux said.

Ben glanced down at the jacket and then back at Hux. “I should have a shower.”

“It’s too bloody cold for that. Come in and wash up.”

He marched off for the barracks, Ben trudging along a pace behind him. Ben left wet, brown footprints on the stairs, that their batmen would no doubt be cleaning later, and down the hall as Hux ushered him toward the lavatory. Inside there was one man relieving himself, and he gave Ben a queer look as they entered, but turned back to his business without comment. He left as Hux was stoppering one of the sinks and filling it with piping hot water. Grabbing a nearby stool, Hux ordered Ben to sit, which he thankfully did.

“What in the world possessed you to do this?” Hux demanded as he snatched a clean washcloth from the shelf on the far wall and dunked it into the water. “You’ll make yourself ill at best, and lose a toe at worst.” He clicked his tongue, crouching down to start wiping Ben’s feet clean.

“Ow,” Ben hissed at the contact.

“At least the feeling is coming back,” said Hux, cleaning the mud away from the arches and from between his toes. It besmirched the cloth and the water when he rinsed it as it started to grow cool. He wrapped one clean foot in the heated cloth, leaving the warmth to sink in as he grabbed another for the other foot. He added, “Take off your shirt.”

Ben dutifully shucked Hux’s jacket and then peeled his damp shirt from his body, dropping it on the floor. His chest was red with cold, so Hux retrieved a towel and draped it over him. Ben watched him un- and rewrap his feet, a bemused expression on his face.

“What is someone going to say if they walk in here right now?” he asked. “My squadron leader is fussing over me like I’m a sick child.”

Hux scoffed. “I’m nearly done.” He pointed to the cloths on his feet. “Take those off and get yourself into some dry clothes.”

Removing them, Ben padded over to the hamper and dropped them in. He looked bedraggled, his hair a lank, wet mess. “Are you coming?” he asked. Hux pulled the stopper from the sink, scowling at him. Ben only smiled and tipped his head toward the exit. “Come on.”

Hux went, picking up his jacket. There was no one in the hall to see them as they slipped into Ben’s quarters and closed and locked the door. In a split second Hux was pressed back against it as Ben kissed him. Even his lips were chilly, but his tongue was hot. Hux hummed into his mouth, sliding his hands under the towel to run over Ben’s skin.

“I’m going to run more often if this is what it gets me,” Ben said when he pulled back.

Hux rolled his eyes. “Don’t count on it.” He shoved at Ben, pushing him away and making for the wardrobe. He pursed his lips as he took in how disordered it was inside. However, a clean pair of trousers were folded in a nook, and Hux pulled them out and pushed them into Ben’s hands. “Where are your socks?”

Ben pointed to a shelf stuffed with them, none rolled or folded. The pile nearly fell out as Hux pull two from the mess. He turned to hand them over, only to find Ben standing stark naked in front of him, the trousers forgotten and a cocky grin on his face. Hux wanted to chide him, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the long lines of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders and chest, his square hips. He was breathtaking, and it annoyed Hux that he could so easily distract him in moments like these.

“Put something on before you freeze to death,” Hux said, offering the socks.

Ben took them and pulled them up over his ankles, but made no other move to find underwear or put on his trousers.

“Ben, what are you—ah!” Ben grabbed him around the waist and deposited him with a creak of springs onto the cot. He all but jumped on top of him, pinning him under his substantial weight.

“Warm me up,” he said.

“Absolutely not,” said Hux. “It’s the middle of the day.”

Ben’s face fell a little, but he planted a kiss on Hux’s lips. “It wouldn’t take long,” he said, hushed. “You’d barely have to touch me.” Taking Hux by the wrist, he guided his hand down between his legs, where it was very evident he was aroused. “I was running so I’d stop thinking about you, and what we did.”

“You could have taken care of that in another way, I’m sure,” said Hux, though he didn’t let go of Ben’s cock. “You’re more than capable of seeing to yourself.”

Ben pushed into Hux’s grip. “But you’re here, now. Help me out?”

“Let me up,” Hux said, “and I’ll consider it.”

Ben rolled off of him and onto his sock-clad feet. Hux slipped out of bed—to spare the sheets his filthy boots—took Ben by the shoulders, and steered him back to the cot.

“Sit,” he said, a command. As Ben did, Hux dropped to his knees.

He had left shortly after, stopping for a drink of water before going back to the briefing room. As it approached evening, they had been called up to fly again, and Ben had appeared from the hangar, looking radiant and far more relaxed as he jumped up into the cockpit and followed Hux into the sky. It seemed that calm had stayed with him through the night, still apparent as they drove toward Norwich.

Hux started, his hands tightening on the wheel, as Rey sat forward, poking her head between his seat and Ben’s.

“What shall we do first?” she asked. “When we get there?”

“I suppose that depends on what you’d like to see,” Hux replied. “There’s an impressive cathedral, and a castle. The river is scenic. We could see a film, and surely the shops are open, if you have pocket money to spend.” He had brought some himself, for the chocolate for Phasma, and maybe some tea for them both to enjoy, and a bottle of something for the squadron. They had to eat, too.

“Fenman from the 129 said there’s an old artillery blockhouse on the river,” said Ben. “Where they used to have cannons in the fourteenth century.”

Hux eyed him sidelong. “I didn’t know you had an interest in medieval history.”

Ben raised a shoulder, dropped it again. “It’s more interesting than a church.”

“I second that,” said Finn, leaning up next to Rey. “I’m an artillery gunner, myself. I wouldn’t mind seeing the blockhouse, if the rest of you are interested.”

“I am,” Rey offered.

“As am I,” Hux said. “We’ll have to ask for directions when we get into town, but I’m sure it’s not terribly hard to find. Should we go there to start, and then perhaps take a walk along the river?”

“Oh, yes,” said Rey happily. “Maybe the rain will have stopped by then.”

Finn said, “If it hasn’t, we can just find a café and have a pot of tea until it does.”

Ben screwed up his face, making Hux say, “I’m sure they’ll have coffee, as well.”

Their destination agreed upon, Rey and Finn slid back into their seat, chattering amiably. The four of them passed only a few other cars on the road, driving through villages along Norwich Road: Dickleburgh, Long Stratton, Newton Flotman, Dunston. The rain did let up as they went along, and a few shafts of sunlight shone down on the buildings in the city that lay ahead.

“We’ll stop here,” said Hux, pulling up outside of a pub—Swainsmen’s. “They can orientate us, I’m sure.”

“I’ll go,” Rey announced, already halfway out of the car. She trotted across the pavement and through the door, leaving the three men alone.

At first they were silent, but then Finn spoke. “All right, lads, tell me true. What have you got out for Rey? Is it one of you, or both?”

Turning in his seat so he could see Finn, Hux said, “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Finn growled, “and I know you’re not blind. Rey’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever set eyes on, and there’s no chance you two didn’t notice that. So I’ll ask again: what do you want with her?”

Hux was caught completely off guard, not having at all expected an accusation that he was trying to win Rey’s affections. He and Ben had been introduced as her friends, and he reasoned that would be the end of it; but clearly Finn saw them as a threat.

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression,” Hux said, deliberately. “I have no designs on Miss Rey other than to be a friend to her.”

Finn looked unconvinced, shooting a glare at Ben. “What about you?”

Ben scowled back. “I hardly know her. And isn’t it obvious that she’s already spoken for?” He cocked a brow. “Unless it’s you that’s blind.”

Finn’s mouth quirked, smug. “That’s right, she is, and I won’t have a couple of cocksure flyboys stepping in.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from us,” said Hux. “I find Miss Rey charming, but have no intention of vying for your place in her heart.” He kept his gaze away from Ben, but added, “Mine is already claimed.”

“Me, too,” Ben said, softly.

Finn crossed his arms over his chest, sucking his teeth. “All right, then. I believe you, I think.”

“I can assure you, you don’t have to be concerned,” said Hux. “You’re right, she’s beautiful, but she looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.” In his peripheral vision, he caught Ben watching him. “I know that look.”

“I love her more than anything in the world,” Finn sighed. “I want to marry her.”

“Have you asked her?” Ben said.

Finn looked down, chagrined. “Not in so many words. I just thought she always knew.”

“Never assume anything when it comes to these matters,” Hux said, echoing Phasma’s sentiments. “Tell her what you feel in no uncertain terms.”

“I’m afraid she’ll tell me no,” said Finn. “I don’t think I could stand that.”

“You won’t know until you ask,” Ben said. “You can do it now, today. Before you lose your nerve.”

Finn wrung his hands. “I don’t have a ring.”

“We’ll find a way to get her away for a little while, and you can buy one.”

Hux blinked at Ben, surprised by this burst of romance.

This time Finn’s face actually darkened with a flush. “I don’t have the money. I’ve been sending all my pay to Rey’s mum and dad. She doesn’t know. I made them promise not to tell her.”

Unbuttoning the breast pocket of his jacket, Ben drew out a leather wallet. From inside he produced three twenty-pound notes and held them out to Finn. Pilot officers made less than twenty pounds a month; what he was offering was nearly everything he had been paid since he had arrived in England.

“I can’t take that,” Finn said. “Not after what I just said to you, either. What I thought…”

Ben stretched farther, offering it again. “It’s not for you, it’s for her.”

Finn tentatively pinched the notes between his fingers, not yet pulling them from Ben’s hand. “What if she refuses? I’ll have wasted all this.”

“She won’t,” said Hux. Maybe he wasn’t wholly certain, but he believed that she, like him, would chose her love over a family that didn’t approve. And if Finn had been sending his pay to them, they knew he cared for all of them, not just their daughter. They would understand; they would have to.

Finn glanced between them, wide-eyed, but finally accepted the notes and folded them away into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said. “Mr. Solo.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Ben, half a smile touching his lips. “It’s Ben. And you’re welcome.” Tipping his head, thoughtful, he continued, “Wait here. I need to go in and ask about a jeweler.”

Finn grabbed for his arm, latching onto the sleeve. “Rey’s in there. You can’t just barge in demanding the nearest jeweler. She’ll know!”

“Will she?” asked Ben. “Maybe I’m off to buy something for my sweetheart.”

Hux nearly reached out for him, but stayed his hand; the fingers still twitched with the desire to touch.

“Wait here,” Ben said again. “If I see her, I’ll just tell her I needed the bathroom.” Without another word, he was out on the pavement, long strides carrying him into the pub.

Finn blew out a breath. “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

“Very few people are like Ben,” said Hux, chest tight.

Two or three minutes later, Rey returned, Ben just behind her. They clambered into the car, shutting the doors firmly.

“The blockhouse is called Cow Tower,” Rey said, “and it’s about a mile away.” She pointed to a nearby street. “They said to take that way.”

Hux headed back onto the street, following Rey’s directions, which were given just in time for him to depress the clutch and shift down to round the corners onto side lanes. The river came into sight first, to the east, curling through the city into an arch where Cow Tower stood, a bastion. Hux found a place to park the car nearby, cutting the engine as they all stepped out in the patchy sunlight.

The tower didn’t stand overly high, maybe fifty feet, but it was built of sturdy red brick—or at least faced with it—that made it look quite imposing from a distance. Its edifice was rounded and dotted with gunports on the lower levels and also above, where embrasures for cannon were cut into the battlements. Hux hadn’t always been terribly interested in medieval history, but he had paid attention to its military architecture.

They crossed the lawn to get to the entrance, finding no one else present at the site, and only a single plaque just outside the tower.

“Cow Tower was built circa 1398,” Rey read aloud, “as a means of defense for the city of Norwich, in addition to the walls already encircling it. The lofty heights offered a strategically beneficial view of the riverbank. The tower’s core is flint, with inner and outer facings of brick.”

Finn leaned over her shoulder, continuing, “The ground floor would have been used as a communal dining room for the garrison, while the sleeping quarters were on the two storeys above. The tower likely takes its name from the field surrounding it, which was called Cowholme.”

“Shall we go inside?” Hux asked, stepping toward the arched doorway—it lacked any actual door to stop them from entering.

The interior of the tower was empty, the wooden floors having long since rotted away and never having been replaced. The arches around the embrasures were far wider than the windows themselves, allowing men to load and fire their cannon from them. It would have been tight quarters, with living spaces blending with the housing for the artillery. It would have been like sleeping in a powderkeg. Hux could imagine the acrid smell of gunpowder permeating the entire tower. Now, though, there was only the scent of wet grass and river water.

“Everything is so old here,” said Ben, laying his hand on spot of moss-covered wall. “There wasn’t anything like this in America in the fourteenth century. At least not my part of it. Other places… I heard about these people in South America, who had huge temples and hundreds of thousands of people living in cities.” He looked up at the sky they could see through the top of the tower. “The Spanish killed them.”

“Conquistadores,” Hux said. “They brought war and disease, all in the name of finding riches in the New World.”

“You know Spanish?” Ben asked.

“A few words,” Hux replied. “Not enough to hold a conversation. But we were taught about the Spanish conquest in school. You clearly learned, too.”

“Not in school,” Ben said. “I heard the stories from some Mexicans who came to watch our airshow. They stayed and shared tequila with us.” He smiled to himself. “That was the first time I got drunk. I was thirteen.”

Hux had gotten himself pickled at about the same age, though it was on his father’s scotch rather than...what was it Ben had said? Tequila. He had never had that before.

“Ben, you proper miscreant,” Rey laughed, pushing his shoulder; he didn’t move. “I didn’t have a single drink until I was eighteen.”

“Liar,” said Finn. “You drank so much you turned your stomach when we were twelve. Mrs. Grady’s gin.”

Rey clutched at her middle, green in the face. “Oh lord, I had forgotten about that. That’s  why I can’t bear to taste it, even now.”

Hux’s last nip of gin had been from Bea, the woman he had met in London not far from the Eagle Club. She had given it as fortification for a man who was pale and listless. He had been thinking of Ben when he had met her, and she had known before he did that he was lost.

“You should try it again,” he said to Rey. “Tonight, perhaps.”

She made a face. “I thank you, no. I’d prefer red wine, if it’s to be had.” She grinned. “Are you planning on having us all drink ourselves into a stupor this evening, Armitage?”

“Hardly,” he said, dismissing her. “I have to drive us back to Wolcastle. I’m not about to try to navigate unfamiliar roads in the dark while drunk.”

Her eyes flicked to Ben, but then back to him. She winked. “Well, if you do imbibe, we’ll have to stay the night. Hopefully you two don’t mind doubling up.”

Hux swallowed, nervous, but it was Ben who answered, “That won’t be necessary. Hux will get us home.”

Rey regarded them unwaveringly, her expression too knowing for Hux’s tastes. Luckily, Finn, who stood across the room from them, piped up.

“Look at these windows,” he said, meaning the embrasures. “They’re tiny. No way a modern gun could fit in here.” He patted the circular opening in the brick. “Well, the noses would fit, but they’re too tall and too long. I wouldn’t put a 2-pounder in here. But they’re mounted guns, anyway.”

“Mounted on a vehicle, you mean?” Hux said.

Finn nodded. “The Ordnance QF 2-pounder is what I shoot in France. Anti-tank gun.”

“I’ve never seen a tank,” said Ben. “Are they as big and loud as everyone says?”

“They are. The rattle of the tracks alone you can hear before you can see one. Then there’s the guns, of course. Like thunderclaps when they’re fired and when they hit.” Finn licked his lips. “I’ve been lucky; never been hit.”

“Let’s not talk about this,” Rey said, stepping up next to him and slipping her arm through his. “We should go elsewhere, shouldn’t we? I’m not much in the mood to learn about wars, even past ones.”

“Say, Finn,” Ben said, far brighter than usual. “I have an errand to run not too far from here. Would you mind coming along?”

Finn blanched at first, but then, at Ben’s waggle of his eyebrows, said, “Oh, yeah. Sure thing, Ben. I’ll come.”

Rey gave them both a puzzled look, saying, “Surely we can all go along.”

Ben, hands in his pockets, sidled up to her and leaned down to speak in her ear. However, he did so loud enough for everyone to hear. “See, it’s a bit of a secret. I’m going to get something for Hux for a Christmas present, but I don’t want him to know what it is. I can’t think of any other time to find anything, so I just need an hour or so to sneak off. Finn said he’d help me pick it out. That okay?”

Rey pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, whispering, “Oh, of course. You two go on, then. I’ll keep Armitage busy.”

Behind her Hux was staring at his feet, trying his best not to laugh. Ben was as mischievous as he had been on Halloween, when he had come up with the plan to put the 222’s furniture on the roof of their briefing room. He was spiriting Finn away to find a ring, and cleverly so.

“Okay,” Ben said, putting some distance between him and Rey, and giving her a toothy smile. “We won’t be long. You want to meet back up for lunch? The boys in the pub before said there’s a nice place around the corner from here—Café Nora. Think you can find it by noon?”

“Certainly,” said Hux. He came up beside Rey and offered his own arm in place of Finn’s. She took it.

“Right, then,” Finn said, tipping his hat. “We’re off!”

Ben lingered for a moment by Hux. “We won’t be long.”

Hux touched his shoulder with his free hand. “Choose something I’d like.”

Ben chuckled, and then headed back outside with Finn.

“You knew he was up to something, didn’t you?” Rey asked Hux when they had gone. “He’s very thoughtful, picking something for you for Christmas.”

“Indeed,” Hux said. “I feel quite foolish, as I hadn’t even thought to get something for him.”

Rey adjusted her hold on his arm, pulling him closer. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we? Let’s go find a gift.”

Hux allowed her to pull him out of the tower and back toward town. He tried to think of something Ben would like, and much to his consternation, came up with very little. American treats like Hershey’s chocolate and Coca-Cola were hard to come by, especially in Norfolk, and Ben wasn’t really one to read a novel Hux might purchase. Neither of them had any particular desire for frivolous things, Ben having grown up on the road with his father’s barnstormers and Hux having eschewed most of his keepsakes after he was commissioned. Shopping for him wasn’t going to be an easy task.

“So,” Rey said as they jogged across the street to the pavement on the other side, “what does he fancy? Sweets? Cufflinks? I would say pomade, but…”

“Certainly not that,” Hux said, amused. It would be a cold day in hell before Ben Solo let anyone pomade his hair.

They strutted past an older couple, and the woman smiled as they passed, likely assuming Rey and Hux were young lovers hanging off each other merrily.

“What about aftershave, then?” she proposed. “Is there a kind you favor that might suit him?”

Hux’s had come from his mother, a traditional birthday gift since he had turned fifteen. He liked the woodsy scent of it, but he couldn’t imagine it on Ben. He smelled of uniform wool and musky skin, cigarette smoke and sometimes grease from working on aircraft engines. Anything else would be artificial and wrong.

“I don’t think so,” Hux said. “He doesn’t usually wear it.”

“Hm, I see. Well, is there a liquor he likes? It can be hard to find the good stuff, but if you’re willing to pay...” She nudged his upper arm. “I know what a squadron leader’s pay is.”

Hux huffed. “Not enough.”

“Oh, it’s perfectly adequate for buying a good bottle of scotch for your wingman, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know that he drinks scotch.”

Rey sighed. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you? No matter. Do you have an inkling of what he’s finding for you?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Hux. “Wouldn’t it be unfortunate if we both ended up with bottles of scotch?”

They dodged a pair of schoolboys running along the pavement.

“Somehow I think he would find something more than that for you,” Rey said.

Stopping at the corner to wait for a few cars to pass, Hux looked down at her. “What do you mean?”

Her face was open, her expression sincere. “He’s very fond of you, and he has a big heart. Those are the two things you need to be a good gift-giver.” Her gaze passed over him cursorily. “You’re many things, Armitage, but I don’t think you have the same ability. You’re just a little too serious. The kind that gives a fountain pen.”

“What’s wrong with fountain pens?” he asked.

“They’re the kind of thing you give to your uncle when he turns fifty, or your cousin when he becomes a barrister, not your”—she paused—“friends.”

Hux ushered her across the street, but stopped there. “What would you buy for your dearest friend?”

“A souvenir,” Rey said.

“Of a trip to Norwich?”

She shook her head minutely. “Of this moment between you. Something that will always remind him of you at this time, right now.”

Hux’s stomach clenched. He already had his souvenir: the photograph he still kept in his pocket, over his heart. Ben didn’t have a copy. There was the drawing Virgil Gilbert had done of Hux, which Ben had, somewhere, but that was too fragile to keep close. Maybe there was something to give him that he could use or carry with him.

Turning his eyes up, Hux spotted a tobacconist just a few shops down the row. There it was: an idea.

“Come on,” he said, tugging Rey along. “I’ve just the thing.”

The interior of the tobacconist's shop was dimly lit and the air thick. Boxes of cigars, a case of pipes, and jars of loose tobacco lined the walls. The carpets beneath Hux’s feet were rich green, though growing threadbare in places.

“Good morning,” said the shopkeeper, appearing from behind a curtain on the opposite side of the counter. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I am, yes,” Hux replied. “Cigarette cases. Silver, if you have them.”

The shopkeeper made his way over to a glass-fronted display, where a number of cigarette cases sat for viewing. There were some made of brass, others of hammered steel, but there were several that flashed with the sheen of pure silver. The shopkeeper drew them out and set them down on top of the counter for Hux to see.

The first one he picked up was square and bulky, the silver shaped into vines that crawled all over the surface. It was far too ornate for an airman, even the most flamboyant of them. The next was inlaid with gold, forming the image of a fountain at the center. Again, too much for Ben. He set it down. There were a few others that he passed over, finding flaws in each, until his gaze settled on a smaller case at the back of the display. It was flat on the back, but arched over top, where a small, flared piece would allow you to catch a nail under to flip it open. Tentatively, Hux picked it up to test its weight.

“Could you monogram this?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir,” the shopkeeper replied. “Depending on the complexity of the design, it will take me half an hour, maybe three quarters.”

“It’s simple,” said Hux. “Just initials. B.S. Block script with serifs, nothing over-the-top.”

The shopkeeper held out his hand for the case. “Absolutely. I’ll have it done in no time. Would you care to try one of our hand-rolled cigarettes while you wait?”

“None for me,” Rey said, but Hux accepted.

The shopkeeper produced an old-fashioned glass lighter for him. “Have a seat, please,” he said. “I’ll be just a few minutes.” He slipped behind the curtain again, into a back room.

“A silver cigarette case,” said Rey after Hux had taken a few puffs of his (admittedly excellent) cigarette. “Monogrammed, too. That’s a very good gift.” She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You did very well.”

“Thank you.” Hux took his own case from his pocket and handed it to her. “I thought he might have one like this. He usually just carries a crumpled pack. He breaks more cigarettes in his trouser pockets than he smokes.”

Rey ran her fingers over the rounded corners of the case. “It’s very handsome, and his will be, too. He’ll always have it to remind him of you.”

Hux took a drag to keep from replying, keeping his thoughts of how that pleased him to himself.

The shopkeeper returned only fifteen minutes later, and for a heartbeat Hux was worried he had done a shoddy job, but when he was presented with the case, Ben’s initials were chiseled tidily into the silver just above the catch to open it. He touched them with the pad of his thumb.

“This is perfect,” he said. “How much?”

“Two pounds, nine shillings, two pence.” When Hux eyed him skeptically, he added, “For the monogram, sir.”

Hux paid him with a five-pound note and took his the coins in return. He and Rey waited while the shopkeeper wrapped the case in paper—“To keep the shine until you give it, sir”—and then bid him good morning once again.

“Oh,” Hux said just as they were about to leave. “Can you direct us to Café Nora, please?”

“Three streets over and down two again, sir.”

Hux inclined his head, and led Rey out. Together, they ambled in the direction of the restaurant, commenting occasionally on the storefronts they passed or people who went by. Rey was as cheerful as ever, quick to laugh and animated as she stooped to pet a woman’s little white dog, cooing at it.

“I’ve always wanted a dog,” she said after they had left the dog and owner behind. “Did you have one when you were a boy?”

“No,” Hux said. “My father prefers horses, and my mother cats. The current one is called Millicent, and she’s fourteen years old. Mother never let me miss her birthday party.”

Rey snorted. “You had a party for a cat ?”

“Oh, yes. She was served liver paté, and we were all made to sing to her.”

“How sweet! Your mother must love her very much.”

Hux said, “Sometimes more than me, I’m certain. Millie is much less trouble, and has already settled down and had not one, or two, but three litters of kittens, though now she’s past her prime.”

“Did you keep the kittens?” asked Rey.

“They are thriving with many of my mother’s friends,” Hux replied. “Happy and fat and otherwise pampered.”

The door to the café was already open when they got there, a man in a suit holding it for a young lady in a tailored dress that exuded expensive . Hux hoped the prices in the restaurant weren’t fit for them; as he had said before, pilots’ pay wasn’t much at all.

“Hello!” Finn called from a table near the window, waving to them. As Hux and Rey joined him and Ben, Finn rose to pull Rey’s chair out for her. Ben stood, but made no move to help Hux into his.

“How did your ‘errand’ go?” Rey asked when she was seated.

“Good,” Ben replied. “We got what we needed.” He quirked a smile at Hux, but then turned back to Rey. “What did you two do while we were gone?”

“Walked by the river,” Hux lied. “It was quite picturesque.”

“Yes,” said Rey, playing along. “I would have very much liked to have a photograph of it to keep.”

The waiter approached their table before anyone could continue, rattling off the lunch specials and a selection of wines and beers.

“A bottle of a white, I think,” Hux said, “and the chicken thigh for me.”

Rey and Finn chose fish, and Ben the chicken as well. It would come with a brown gravy and greens on the side: light enough for lunch, but a treat nonetheless. When the wine arrived, Hux poured and raised his glass.

“To today,” he said. “Good company and a fine trip.”

Finn asked Rey what the river walk had been like, and Hux admired her ability to fabricate the details. She spun an elaborate tale of catching her heel in a rut and Hux catching her before she fell or broke her shoe. She batted her lashes at him as she recounted how he had picked her up and carried her to a nearby shop to sit and recover while they had tea.

Finn cast a dark look at Hux at that, so Hux amended, “It was barely more than a minute. We didn’t have to go far.”

“The tea was lovely, though,” Rey continued, wistfulness affected. “Didn’t you think so, Armitage?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Rey,” Finn said. She cocked her head, inquisitive. “Would you show me where you walked, after lunch? Just the two of us?”

“I suppose I could,” she said. To Hux and Ben: “Would that bother you? I don’t want to leave you both to fend for yourselves if you’d rather not.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Ben. “You can meet us in an hour or so back at the car.”

Finn’s reply was laced with eagerness: “Thanks, gents.”

The food appeared not long after, fragrant and steaming from the oven. None of them hesitated to start in on it, turning the conversation to Rey and Finn’s youth in Peckham. They had all manner of stories of scrapes they got into with other children from school, and the whippings they received for them. Rey had apparently been far more trouble than Finn.

“I tried to rein her in,” he grumbled, “but she wouldn’t have it. She had the schoolmarms at the ends of their ropes.”

Rey laughed. “You had your own share of missteps. I just took the fall for you.”

“Did they really beat you for things?” asked Ben, brow creased.

“They would switch our hands,” Finn replied. “It doesn’t sound so bad, but it hurts like hell. I’d rather have a belt to the arse.”

Ben’s mouth hung open. “You dad did that to you? Really?”

Finn paused in eating, fork halfway up from his plate. “Yours didn’t? Did you just not get in trouble?”

“Oh, I got in trouble plenty. But my mom just made me do extra chores, clean the baseboards with a toothbrush, that kind of thing. She wouldn’t hit me. And my dad...he wasn’t really around when I got into fights.”

“I think I would have rather had the belt,” said Finn. “Quicker than spending the day scrubbing on your knees.” He conceded, “Although not being able to sit for a day wasn’t so great.”

Ben chewed his lip, turning to Hux. “Did you get whipped, too?”

“No,” Hux said. “My father wouldn’t have allowed me to step out of line enough to earn a beating. I did watch a few boys at Charterhouse get the switch, though. Their knuckles were red for days.”

“They don’t do that in the air force, do they?” Ben asked.

“No. Usually your pay is suspended and you’re grounded for a period of time. You might be formally reprimanded in writing and put on notice, but the worst-case scenario is a court martial and prison, or discharge.”

“Well, you boys better be on your best behavior then, eh?” Finn joked.

Hux, lips pressed firmly together, gave a curt nod. He and Ben were breaking some of the strictest regulations in the British military, daily.

“How did we stumble upon this unfortunate topic?” he said, lifting his glass to swirl the wine around the bowl. “Let’s leave it behind.”

They did, letting Rey recount the story of her harrowing first days as a radio operator at Wolcastle, when she was just getting her feet under her. She had apparently almost told two pilots to take off just as two were landing. She had realized just before the first pair had left the runway, but it had been a close call.

“You’ve certainly got a handle on it now,” said Hux.

She beamed. “I have.”

When it came time to settle the bill, they pooled their funds. Hux paid for Ben, knowing he didn’t have a halfpenny to his name anymore. Outside the café, they parted ways, Finn and Rey starting down the street toward the riverside, and Hux and Ben lingering by the storefront.

“Where should we go?” Ben said.

Over the nearby rooftops, Hux could see the spire of the cathedral. He hadn’t been to anything larger than a chapel since he had been at Oxford, and didn’t attend worship when he wasn’t dragged along by his mother, but cathedral architecture was stunning, and he doubted Ben had seen anything of its kind in America.

“Do you want to see the church?” he said.

Ben followed his gaze to the spire, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I guess so.”

They set off down the lane in the general direction of the cathedral. It was massive, and likely had extensive grounds, which could be easily found. They spoke little as they walked, content just to be side-by-side, arms occasionally brushing.

As expected, the cathedral complex was sprawling, the lawns around the building carefully manicured. There were a number of people milling around, many of them in the garb of the resident religious order. A few of the faithful were present, too, though it was between services.

Hux and Ben made their way down the path toward the great doors of the church, one of which stood open, even in the cold. A tremendous stained glass window hung above the doors, its colors muted from the exterior, but surely brilliant from inside. They crossed the threshold one after another, Hux before Ben.

The interior was resplendent: vaulted ceilings soared storeys above, while arches stacked two high lined the nave. The wooden pews faced the pulpit, with space for the choir just before it. The deep transepts were perpendicular to the nave and formed the shape of the cross. Ornate stone- or woodwork decorated many of the walls and features, and some elements were gilded. Taken in all at once, it was a stunning sight.

“Wow,” said Ben, looking up at the ceiling. His voice carried, so he lowered it. “This is really something.”

“And it was probably built before Cow Tower,” Hux said. “I can imagine it took nearly a century to complete. More than one generation of mason or woodworker would have been a part of the effort, sons and grandsons trained in their craft while building the same structure they would work on as masters.”

“I can barely believe that. Spending your whole life building one thing.” Ben took a few steps forward, clearly awed. “I never went to church growing up. Mom and Luke called themselves humanists, whatever that means, and Dad couldn’t have cared less about God. Any god.”

“Humanist derives from the Latin humanitas,” Hux said. “Most scholars of antiquity considered it to mean a kind of goodwill toward all mankind. However, there was a grammarian in the second century, Gellius, who argued it came from a Greek root, paideia, which implied it was a curiosity and seeking of knowledge in the liberal arts.

“The term was appropriated in the nineteenth century and dubbed ‘humanism.’ It is a kind of combination of goodwill toward mankind and paideia: a philosophy that emphasizes man’s agency, and learning over dogma.”

He had had several discussions with professors during his tenure at university that addressed the very issue of humanism. He decided that he wouldn’t necessarily call himself one, but that he fell more toward that than to religion.

“I guess that makes sense,” Ben said. “Luke doesn’t think about much else other than his books. And I never once saw Mom pray. I didn’t know what that was for a long time.”

“And when you found out,” said Hux, “did you offer prayers of your own?”

Ben wet his lips. “I didn’t know Spanish, so I couldn’t do what the Mexican families did, but I saw them. I stole a set of their rosary beads once, and knelt down to rub each one, like them. But I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t know what to say.” He blinked at Hux. “Do you do that?”

Hux rubbed the sides of his hands with his thumbs, fidgety. “They were Catholics. I was brought up Anglican. Have you heard of that?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you about it a different day. Suffice it to say, though, that we don’t have the same traditions.” Slowly, Hux ambled through the leftmost arches, where they had more privacy. “But I stopped attending church a long time ago.”

Ben watched him steadily. “Why?”

“A number of reasons,” said Hux, “but mostly because I didn’t find any comfort in it. My mother does. She likes to think that there is something bigger out there, with a great plan for all of us. I believe we have free will to do as we wish. We have control over our own lives.”

“I think so, too,” Ben said. “It doesn’t sit right to think someone’s up there pulling the strings.” He frowned. “No, I don’t like that.”

Hux felt a tug of affection at the simple profession, but, moving close, he said, “You don’t think it’s fate that you came to me, here?”

Ben slipped his hand into Hux’s, lacing their fingers together. “I think it was sheer dumb luck, and I won’t ever get this lucky again.”

Hux wanted desperately to kiss him then, but instead just held onto his hand like it was his lifeline. “Do you know another reason why I won’t pray to God?”

“Why?”

“Because His book says that what I feel for you is abhorrent and wrong.” There was acid in his voice. “That I am unnatural and disgraceful in the eyes of my family and God. I won’t accept that. There’s a precedent for men being together; it’s a cornerstone of more than one ancient society. I won’t kneel for a god that decrees I’m an abomination for wanting you.”

He was trembling when he finished speaking, the anger long suppressed bubbling up. Beautiful as the cathedral was, he hadn’t forgotten what it represented, and what it forbade.

Gently, Ben guided them behind a pillar and cupped his face. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re brave and determined and”—he stroked Hux’s cheekbone—“beautiful. You’re made right.”

Hux leaned into him, closing his eyes. “Dumb luck, you said.”

“Yeah.” Ben squeezed the hand he still held. “We’re damn lucky.”

They explored the rest of the cathedral in silence. Hux calmed as they moved about, taking in the adornments, feeling better just to have Ben next to him; he wasn’t alone in his self-imposed excommunication, not anymore.

It was nearing two o’clock when they left the grounds and returned to the busy city streets. Ben sighed, posture relaxing, when they were out in the noise again.

“It was so quiet in there,” he said. “I’ve been in louder cemeteries.”

Hux barked a laugh. “I prefer the silence of a library to a church”—he cocked a brow—“or a cemetery.”

“You must have learned a lot at that college you went to,” said Ben. “All that you went on about with Greek and Latin. Did you like it there?”

“I did,” Hux said. “It was challenging, and stimulating. You said you would have hated university, didn’t you?”

Ben hummed. “Yeah. I’m not cut out to read Gelli-what’s-his-name.”

“Gellius,” Hux said.

“Right, him.” He shrugged his shoulders up against a chilly wind. “I wouldn’t mind if you read it to me, though. Mom used to read me stories before I went to bed. I never read them myself, but I liked it when she did. And your voice is even better to listen to than hers.”

“When would we do that?” Hux asked. “I can’t sit in your quarters at night until you fall asleep.”

Ben shot him a wry look. “I know that. But there’s the common room, and you could read when we’re waiting around the briefing room. If you don’t mind doing it in front of everyone.”

When he thought about it, he might actually be a bit shy reading aloud for all his men to hear, but it wasn’t inconceivable. He’d consider it, and he said as much to Ben.

They were the first to arrive beside their car, and both leaned against the bonnet with their arms crossed. They heard Rey and Finn before they saw them. The two of them were laughing brightly, smiling as they held hands. They nearly collided with a harried-looking young man carrying a newspaper under his arm, but managed to dance around him, offering a giggled, “Excuse me!” As soon as Rey spotted Ben and Hux, she broke into a run, pulling Finn along behind her.

“Oh, Armitage! Ben!” she exclaimed, elated. “We’ve the most wonderful news.”

Hux might have said something about knowing already, but he simply asked, “Oh, really? What?”

Rey held up her left hand, where a round-cut sapphire glittered on a gold band around her ring finger. “Finn’s asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted.”

“Congratulations!” said Hux, spreading his arms. She jumped into them, laughing in his ear.

“It’s just so lovely,” she said. “We were walking along the river, and there was a boat going by, and we had just stopped on a bench to watch it... And then Finn took my hand and slid the ring onto it. He didn’t say a word at first, and I was speechless, too, but then he asked properly.” She sprang away from Hux and threw her arms around Ben’s middle.

He balked, his hands splayed in surprise, but then folded them around her, patting her back. “That’s great news,” he said. “Couldn’t be better.”

Hux shook Finn’s hand, saying just loud enough to be heard, “Well done. You chose a good ring.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to decide without Ben,” Finn said, in a rush to get it out before Rey turned her attention back to them. “He pointed it out to me. He made it all happen. I’ll find a way to repay him, I swear.”

“Tell him that,” said Hux, “not me.”

Finn nodded. “I will, sir. I really will.”

He shook Ben’s hand next, receiving his congratulations in turn. Rey brought them all together, trying to embrace them all at once. With her small stature, Ben and Hux had to lean down, nearly knocking their heads together. Rey kissed their cheeks while they were within range for it.

“We should drink to this special day,” Hux said when they had all regained something of their composure.

“It’s barely been two hours since we had wine,” said Rey. “Do you really think we should rush off to the pub so soon?”

“Of course, I do. An engagement requires a toast from the whole pub.”

Rey sobered just slightly. “I don’t think we should draw too much attention, but a toast for the four of us would be perfect.”

“I think I saw a place a couple of streets over,” Ben said. “Looks good enough.”

“Lead the way,” said Finn, taking a jaunty step forward, Rey at his side.

The establishment they found was mostly empty at this hour, so they found a table and ordered pints of beer—except for Rey, who ordered a glass of red wine. Finn went to get them at the bar.

Left alone with Hux and Ben, Rey grabbed for both of their hands. “I wanted to thank you for what you said the other night, when we were walking home from the village.” She looked to Ben. “‘To hell with convention.’ I decided you were right. I love Finn, and I will deal with whatever my mother and father have to say after I’ve brought him home as my husband.” She squeezed tight, her small, narrow fingers warm against Hux’s. “We’re going to get a license and marry before Finn leaves. Will you both serve as witnesses for us?”

“I would be honored,” said Hux.

Ben nodded. “Me, too.”

Rey flashed them another smile before releasing them. Finn came back just a split second later, carrying a tray with their drinks.

“To Rey and Finn,” Hux said, “on your engagement day.”

They took their sips, and as they did, Hux felt the press of Ben’s thigh against his. He pushed lightly back, and for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Services at the church in Wolcastle village started promptly at ten o’clock in the morning, with a good part of the town and a few of the airfield personnel in attendance. Hux had heard that some days there was only standing room in the little whitewashed brick building, though he had never been to take communion himself. He hadn’t even set foot near the church before the afternoon of Sunday, the twenty-first of December, when he and Ben arrived at four o’clock to see Rey and Finn wed.

They had managed to procure a license expeditiously, the church officials being more lenient in wartime. Rey had come with news the day before, finding Hux in the briefing room. The squadron had been curious to see her there, and to hear her request to speak to him in private. He had gone outside with her, and she had told him, her face shining with happiness, the time at which the ceremony would be held.

“Shall we come along with the other guests?” Hux had asked.

She had shaken her head. “We’ve not invited anyone else. We wanted something small, with only the necessary witnesses and the minister. Is that all right with you and Ben?”

“Certainly,” Hux had said. “We’ll be there right on time.”

They stood outside the building now, its single wooden door dark from years of varnish, which had been carefully applied around the black cast-iron hinges. Ben, taking the handle, pulled it open to let Hux pass through first. Thick wooden beams held up the roof, and the pews—only sixteen—were unadorned, painted white. The windows were plain glass, no trace of images or color. There was a stale smell of old air and damp carpet—blue—which lined the aisle. It was hardly Norwich Cathedral, but it was quaint in its way. It fit Rey’s wishes for unobtrusiveness.

“Good afternoon,” said the minister. He was in his early thirties, Hux guessed, and his auburn hair was styled fashionably. He was already in his vestments, and he gestured for Hux and Ben to approach. “You must be the witnesses. The bride said to expect you around this time. Come in, please.”

They went to him and shook his hand, giving their names. His was Stephen.

“You’ll sit here,” he said, pointing to the front pew on the left side. “The bride did not request a bridal party to join her at the altar.” He raised a shaggy brow. “The bridegroom said neither of you will be standing up with him, either.”

“We’re friends of Miss Rey’s,” said Hux. “Colleagues from the airfield.”

Stephen rubbed his clean-shaven chin, as if just realizing they were dressed in RAF blue. “Ah, of course. She did say she was in the women’s auxiliary. Well, why don’t the two of you sit down, and I’ll tell them we can begin.” He swept down the aisle in short, purposeful strides, swinging the door open and letting it slam shut behind him.

“Where are they?” Ben asked. “If not here already.”

“Likely in the minister’s home,” Hux replied. “It would offer a place for Rey to dress, and one for Finn to pace around and question whether this was the right decision.”

Ben huffed. “There’s no doubts, not between them.”

“No,” said Hux. “I suppose not.”

When he was a boy, he had once asked his mother if she had been happy to marry his father. He had overheard a young bride-to-be discussing her impending nuptials with giddy elation at a party be had attended—before he had been sent to bed—and it had set him to wondering if Margaret Bowerwood, aged eighteen at the time, had shared that kind of sentiment before her wedding.

She had paused in her embroidery at his question, elegant fingers stilling. She didn’t reply immediately, but set down the frame and her needle. “I was looking forward to marrying,” she had said at last. “It meant I could leave my father’s house and start a life of my own. Your father was a good match for me, and he had pursued me courteously, with my parents’ approval. I saw no fault in him that would keep us from marrying.”

Hux, thirteen then, had enquired, “Then you were excited on the day you wed?”

His mother’s expression had remained impassive, but there was a flash of umbrage in her eyes that even a child couldn’t miss. “I was ready for what it meant for me: freedoms I didn’t have under my father’s roof. I had negotiated them with Brendol long before I accepted him. When he agreed, so did I.”

Hux hadn’t recognized those liberties at that time, but as he grew he had come to see them for what they were: her ability to drive and visit her friends, her weekends away with them, the choice to bear only one child, to whom she could give all of the affection she didn’t bestow upon his father. She and Brendol lived amiably, but much of that was Margaret's doing. Brendol had his stables and his son, and that was all he required.

Rey and Finn would be different in their union; they were marrying for love. Hux had little experience with that kind of marriage; he had never imagined wanting it. In his position, with his preference, he didn’t need to trouble himself about it, anyway. And he had always thought the kind of liaisons he had would be passionate and physical, but temporary. A commitment that lasted the rest of one’s life wasn’t a consideration.

At least, it hadn’t been, before.

Ben had come so suddenly into his life, and everything in it had shifted to accommodate him. Hux no longer considered what would happen to himself alone, but what would happen to them. The change had been gradual, he supposed, though it was never more apparent than it was now. He had Ben as his, and he wanted to keep him.

He ventured a touch at Ben’s knee, catching his eye. Ben blinked at him, curious, covering Hux’s hand with his own.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Hux replied. He didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t the kind of discussion to have in a little chapel. They hadn’t the time, and he wasn’t sure he was prepared to put words to such thoughts yet.

So they stayed there, enjoying the touch for the scant few moments they had before the door opened again, ushering in a cool breeze, the minister, and the bridegroom.

Finn was dressed in borrowed clothes: a pair of grey trousers pleated at the waist and freshly pressed, with a matching waistcoat over a white shirt. His tie was a yellow-orange that should have been garish, yet beautifully complemented his skin. He broke into a smile when he saw Ben and Hux seated in their pew.

“Thank you both for coming,” he said as they rose to offer their congratulations. Finn rubbed his hands together, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m losing my mind, I think. I know Rey’s here, but I haven’t seen her all day. Waiting for your wife is a terrible business.”

“Being excited is perfectly natural,” said Stephen, steady and soothing. “But it won’t be much longer. Why don’t you come and stand here?” He went to the altar, taking his place behind it and opening the thick Bible to John 4:16, the traditional prayer. Finn, fidgety, stood just before it, moving his arms to his sides, and then behind his back, and to his sides again.

Hux wanted to will him to be still, but, unable to do so, stood as calmly as possible, back straight and shoulders pulled back. Ben mirrored him, though when the door creaked open again, they turned.

Rey was lit from behind, obscuring her features at first, but as the minister’s wife closed to door, she came into focus. Her dress was modest: a delicate blue pattern printed on green, with blue buttons from neck to waist, where a thin belt sat. Her hair was let down around her shoulders, just curling at the tips, and she wore a white fascinator, its lace veil covering her face. In her hands she carried a small bouquet of pink flowers. The church brightened in her presence.

Finn drew himself up tall the moment he saw her, all of his agitation gone in an instant. There was awe and love in his face as he watched her proceed slowly down the aisle. When she came to a stop, she was across from him, on the opposite side of the altar, and she was smiling sweetly.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ,” the minister began, “the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you.”

“And also with you,” all in attendance intoned.

Hux had told Ben what was expected of the witnesses during the ceremony on their walk to the village. He had never attended a church service before, let alone an Anglican wedding. But he had taken it all in stride, quick to learn and keen to remember all of the quirks of the ceremony.

As Hux had explained, the reading of John came next.

Hands on either side of the bible, the minister read: “God of wonder and of joy: grace comes from you, and you alone are the source of life and love. Without you, we cannot please you; without your love, our deeds are worth nothing.” He raised his hands and looked between Rey and Finn, addressing them both. “Send your Holy Spirit, and pour into our hearts that most excellent gift of love, that we may worship you now with thankful hearts and serve you always with willing minds; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” they all said.

The minister left the bible open, but drew out a sheet of paper with neat typescript on it. Hux found it oddly offensive that he didn’t have the rites memorized, but he couldn’t imagine there were that many weddings to perform in a small village like Wolcastle.

“In the presence of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” the minister said, “we have come together to witness the marriage of Finn and Rey, to pray God’s blessing upon them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love.” He paused, turning his eyes to Hux and Ben. “If there is anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, declare it now.”

Hux held his gaze for a beat before looking to Rey and smiling. She smiled back.

“Good,” said the minister. To Finn and Rey: “The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, declare it now.”

“Not a thing,” Finn said without hesitation.

“No,” said Rey. “Not a thing.”

The minister continued, “Then, Finn, will you take Rey to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

Finn beamed. “I will.”

“And will you, Rey, take Finn to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” she said.

The minister looked to Ben and Hux once again. “Will you, the friends of Finn and Rey, support and uphold them in their marriage now and in the years to come?”

They both replied, “We will.”

“You already wear your wedding ring,” said the minister to Rey, “so you have only to say your vows. Join hands.”

Rey laid her bouquet down on a nearby pedestal and slipped her fingers into Finn’s gasp.

He spoke first: “Today I take you, Rey, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ‘til death do us part.”

Rey’s voice was thick with emotion as she repeated her own vows: the same.

Hux saw their sincerity, their true affection and joy just to be together. He watched them lean in for a chaste kiss at the minister’s direction, and was glad for them, but he couldn’t help the melancholy that sat heavy in the pit of his stomach. For him, and for Ben, there would be no moment like this, that bound them in the eyes of both church and state. There would be no family or friends gathered to watch them exchange rings of their own; no joined hands, no kiss, none of it. And for the first time, he mourned that.

“In the presence of God, and before this congregation,” said the minister, “Finn and Rey have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife.” He took their right hands in his. “Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder.”

He stepped back, concluding with that, and began to applaud. Hux and Ben joined in, getting to their feet. Rey and Finn turned to them, radiant and holding hands once again. The sapphire on Rey’s left finger caught the light and winked.

“Come, come,” the minister said. “Agnes is outside with a camera. We must have a photograph!” He herded Rey and Finn down the aisle first—she just managed to snatch her bouquet—and then ushered Ben and Hux after them, until they were all outside in the mild afternoon light.

Stephen’s wife, Agnes, was indeed ready with a small camera. “Stand in front of the doors, dears,” she said.

Hux and Ben hung back, allowing the newlyweds to have their memory made, but Rey called to them, “Come on, you two! We need one with you.”

Hux knew Ben hated having his picture taken, and yet he went without protest to take his place next to Finn. Hux joined him, and Ben slid an arm around his waist, curling his fingers around the top of his jacket’s belt. Hux moved close, until they were pressed against each other.

“Let’s have a smile, dears,” said Agnes.

Hux kept his lips together, but smiled into the lens as the shutter clicked.

“We’ll have the photographs sent to the airfield care of you, Rey,” said Stephen.

Finn asked, almost timid, “Will there be one for me to take?”

The minister nodded. “I’ll see to it that you have it before you go.”

“Thank you both very much,” Rey said. She gave Agnes a kiss on the cheek and embraced Stephen. He wished her well, and, taking his wife’s arm, returned to the church.

“So,” Hux said, “how does it feel? To be married.”

Finn and Rey exchanged a smile, him looping an arm around her. “Damn good. I can’t believe I convinced her, after all.”

“Oh, hush,” Rey chided, bumping his shoulder with hers, jostling her bouquet. He laughed.

“What have you two got planned for the evening?” Ben asked. He flushed when everyone tensed up, knowing full well what a wedding night would entail. “Oh, right,” he mumbled.

“We’ll have dinner, first,” Rey said. “Just the two of us at the inn. Mrs. Marsden is cooking again, the darling woman.”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Hux. “Then, Finn, you’ll be leaving with the afternoon train tomorrow? It will be a shame to see you go.”

“I don’t want to,” Finn said, still hugging Rey close, “but I’m glad we’ve got tonight and the morning. I suppose I won’t be seeing you gents again.” He relinquished Rey to offer his right hand. “I’m trusting you both to look out for my wife while I’m away.”

“I give you my word, I will,” Hux said, shaking the proffered hand.

“Travel safely, Finn,” Ben said. “It was good to meet you.”

Joining hands, Rey and Finn turned toward the inn. Rey waved, calling, “See you!” as they left. Ben and Hux lingered outside the church until they had rounded the corner and disappeared.

“They’re going to be happy,” said Hux after a moment.

Ben stared into the distance where they had been. “They’ll be together one night before he leaves her again, for the front, where he could be killed anytime. How can she stand it?”

That reality wasn’t far from Hux’s mind, either. “They knew what it meant when they agreed to this. They didn’t have any illusions about it.”

“I know,” Ben sighed, “but having so little time… I don’t think I could do it.” He caught Hux’s hand. “I’ll never take for granted having you here with me, every day. I don’t have to wait for your letters, wonder if it was you the Jerries shot down that day. I can protect you, here.” He grasped Hux’s bicep, close but discreet enough for public. “I can see you and know you’re mine.”

Hux squeezed the hand he held, wanting nothing more than to go into his arms. “I am.” He hesitated, but then said, “I won’t be anyone else’s again. You know that, don’t you?”

Ben regarded him fixedly, and Hux could see the pulse point in his neck thrumming with each beat of his heart. His own was hammering; he feared what Ben might say, though he had few doubts that he would deny him.

Public be damned. He reached out for his cheek. “Ben?”

“Yes,” Ben said, airy. Then more sure: “I’ve never wanted anyone else, and I won’t, either.” He stepped closer, until he was just a handsbreadth away. “Did you think about what it would be like…” He glanced toward the church.

Hux nodded. “How could I avoid it?”

Ben chewed his lip, turning it white where his teeth dug into its soft fullness. “Would you want that, if we could?”

“Would you?” Hux asked.

“I’d be running after the minister right now,” Ben replied with a watery smile. Color rose in his face. “You’re more reasonable when it comes to this, though. Maybe you wouldn’t want it.”

“I want what you do,” Hux said, tucking his fingers under the fall of Ben’s hair.

Ben’s eyes dropped closed, and he exhaled. “How did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve it? How can I have you like this?”

“We settled that already,” Hux admonished. “You’re the most remarkable man I’ve ever met. I’ve not cared for anyone the way I do you.”

“I want to kiss you,” Ben murmured. “Right here.”

Hux wanted it, too, but he shook his head. “We should get back to the field. I’m sure Wexley’s whining yet again that you got to come with me on an outing and he did not.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “He worships you. I’d be jealous, like Finn was of us, if I didn’t know he had a girl in town.”

“He does?” Hux asked, surprised.

“Mmhm. Why do you think he got that bicycle? It’s so he can get here faster when he sneaks out to see her.”

Hux’s mouth dropped open. “He sneaks around, and I didn’t notice it?”

Ben chuckled. “The boys have been real good about keeping him out of trouble for it. Nobody knows her name—he’s even better at keeping a secret than them—but he goes at least once a week after lights out.”

“Christ,” Hux grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to have to speak to him about it. He shouldn’t have to hide it.” He cocked a brow. “Unless her mother and father don’t approve.”

“Dunno,” Ben said with a shrug. “But he doesn’t come to the pub much anymore. If we’re in town, he’s with her.”

Hux hadn’t had any idea, and it worried him. He didn’t want his men concealing things from him... He stalled that thought, pressing his lips together. He couldn’t throw stones; he was hiding an affair of his own.

“I’ll have a word with him,” he said.

“Don’t tell him I’m the one that let slip,” said Ben. “He’ll never trust me again. Everyone else won’t like it, either. Crying to the S.L. and all that. They don’t really need another reason to think I’m trying to get in good with you.”

Hux’s stomach dropped. “They think that?”

Ben tugged on his sleeve playfully. “It’s okay, I promise. They know we’re friends, that I’m closer to you than the rest of them are. I won’t bother hiding that.” He moved in, whispering in Hux’s ear, “But they don’t know that you’ve been in my bed. They don’t know how soft your skin is, or how hard you get for me. The sounds you make when I fuck you.”

Heat flooded Hux’s cheeks, a mix of worry and want. “Jesus, Ben. You can’t talk like that.”

He nipped at Hux’s earlobe. “I’ll have to add this to my list: they don’t know how I can make you blush.”

“Behave yourself,” Hux scolded, pushing him back by the chest. “We’re in the middle of the street.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Ben put the necessary distance between them, but gave him a sly grin. “Can we go somewhere else, then?”

“Yes,” said Hux, flatly. “Back to the field, before we’re missed.”

Ben gave him a beleaguered look, but conceded and started down the lane toward the center of town. Hux trudged beside him, surreptitiously adjusting his cock as he went. Ben had a startlingly filthy mouth when he set his mind to it, and as much as Hux wanted to deny it, it affected him deeply.

“You know, my parents had thirty people at their wedding,” Ben said as they ambled out of the village and onto the road to the airfield. “All of Dad’s barnstormers and their crew. Most of them weren’t married, and they had two shirts to their names, but they all put on their best and showed up for it.

“They all liked Mom. She looks soft around the edges, but she doesn’t take lip from anyone. I think she probably washed all of their clothes herself, so they wouldn’t be stained for the ceremony. She had all these rough boys wrapped around her finger.”

“She sounds like a strong woman,” Hux said. “You must get that from her.”

“Hardly,” said Ben, dismissive. “She could boss me around just like she did my dad. I was more scared of what she’d think if I got in trouble at school than what the principal would say.”

“Giving you chores as punishment?”

“Well, that wasn’t so bad. I just didn’t want her to think I was a lost cause. I, uh, wanted her to be proud of me.”

Hux recalled the letter she had sent to him at the beginning of the month, the one that had contained pictures of her and Ben’s uncle and father. She had said she admired what he was doing, how brave he was to join the war before the rest of his country did.

“I believe she is,” Hux said.

“Yeah,” said Ben. “I think so. That’s a good thing, that I turned out okay in the end.”

Hux gave an annoyed huff. “You don’t see it, how incredible you are. It’s frustrating, but I’ll tell you every day, if that’s what’s needed to convince you.”

Ben smiled at him, baring his slightly crooked teeth: an endearing feature, like his too-large ears. “You going to tell me how handsome I am, too? How you like how brave and dashing I look in my Spitfire?”

“Don’t push your luck,” said Hux. Ben laughed, full and animated, and Hux loved him for it.

It was after six o’clock by the time they got back to the airfield, which meant the officers and batmen were in their respective mess halls for dinner. The barracks would be vacant. Hux hadn’t eaten since lunch, but he was willing to ignore that for the alternative.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Ben.

“Some. Why?”

Hux stopped short, leaning close to him to say, “Because there’s no one upstairs, and I want you.”

Ben’s eyes flashed. He said nothing, only charging off toward the barracks at a brisk pace, towing Hux along with him. They clattered up the steps, pushing off of each other to see who could reach the landing first. To anyone else it would have appeared to be the usual roughhousing, but had they the option, they likely would have been racing to shed their clothing, too.

When they burst into Hux’s quarters, they were out of breath and fighting laughter, grinning at each other like fools. Hux shut the door and secured the lock seconds before Ben was on him, ruining Hux’s carefully styled hair with his fingers. He tugged at it hard, and Hux felt a few strands pull free of his scalp. The spark of pain only fueled him. He forced his hands between them to Ben’s belt, yanking the tail out of the buckle and shoving both pieces apart to get access to the buttons. Those he flicked free to allow him to push the jacket over Ben’s shoulders. Ben contorted to get out of it without breaking their kiss, and Hux thought he heard a seam tear. Ben’s batman wouldn’t like that.

As the jacket hit the floor, Hux surged forward, seeking the tender skin of Ben’s neck. He wanted to suck a bruise there, but he settled for wet kisses and drags of his tongue up to Ben’s jaw. He felt the vibration of Ben’s groan, the hissed words, “Oh, yes.” Hux went blindly for his middle, tugging his shirt from the waist of his trousers before going for his fly.

“Wait, wait,” Ben said grabbing for Hux’s hands. “Not yet. I want to do you first.”

Hux shuddered, uncertain which of the meanings that implied, but he stopped to let Ben take charge. Unexpectedly, Ben dropped into a crouch and reached for the laces of his shoes. He pulled each of them off with care, though he shoved them to the side without it. Forcing Hux to stand on one leg, he peeled away one sock. He bent down and planted a kiss on the top of his naked foot as he dug his thumbs into the arch. It felt divine, and Hux said as much to him.

“Good,” Ben said. He moved his fingers up between the toes, rolling and stretching them. Gently setting the foot down, Ben moved on to the next, taking the time to massage it before kissing the top again. It quieted the urgency of their arrival.

“May I take off my jacket?” Hux asked.

“Mm, all right,” Ben replied. “Shirt, too.”

Hux shucked them dutifully, leaving him bare-chested and chilly without Ben’s heat nearby. Instead, he remained near the floor, unfastening Hux’s trousers with clever hands. His gaze was turned up, fixed on Hux, as he began to push them over his hips. As they slipped down around his ankles, Ben cupped between his legs.

“How hard you get for me,” he said, as he had before. “I’ll never get tired of seeing this, feeling it.” Tracing the waistband of Hux’s briefs, he pulled them down to reveal him. Ben immediately buried his nose in the red curls, nuzzling the join of his legs and the base of his cock. Hux took hold of his hair, the strands soft and a little windswept from the walk.

“Your smell,” Ben said, muffled. “It’s warm here.” He mouthed at Hux’s testicles, making him sigh. “So good, and stronger at night than after you’ve washed in the morning.”

Hux looked down at the crown of his head. “You like that?”

“Mmhm. It’s nice. Makes me want to stay down here for hours.” He nudged his way around, exploring every nook between Hux’s thighs.

“I don’t think I could last for hours,” Hux said. “Much as my pride suggests I should try.”

Ben’s laugh was a puff of heat against him. “How long, then? What could you stand before you lost control?”

Hux groaned as Ben licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, lingering at the tip to tease. “Keep up with that and you’ll find out.”

“We have an hour,” Ben said. “I want to see what you can take.”

“Ben,” said Hux. “What’s brought this on?”

The answering shrug was offhanded. “I used to test myself, try to drag it out as long as I could. I’d be shaking by the end, but it was like getting kicked in the gut—in a good way—when I finally finished.” He flicked his gaze up. “You ever done that?”

Hux shook his head. “It always had to be quick in school dormitories, in barracks. How did you…”

“I snuck off from the barnstormers’ camp,” Ben said. “There were always sheds or trees to hide in. I got real good at it. I could last a half hour, more if I tried hard.”

Hux could only imagine a teenaged Ben, lanky still and not yet grown into his frame, stealing away after dark to touch himself for stretches at a time, until he was at the end of his tolerance. He would have to stifle his cries as he peaked, maybe with his own hand over his mouth while he worked his cock with the other. It was a powerful image, but it had to have been painful.

“That’s torture,” Hux insisted. “Surely you didn’t do it often.”

“Every week or so.” A half smile. “I’ve been doing it here, too. Thinking of you the whole time.” He ran his hands up Hux’s thighs, prickling the ginger hair. “Even before I kissed you.”

Hux was already hard enough to hurt; he couldn’t fathom holding off for so long. Still, he dared: “You could show me how.”

“Yeah?” Ben asked, pupils dilating until they swallowed up the brown in his eyes. “Get on the bed.”

“Thank you for not making me stand through it,” said Hux, stepping out of his trousers and underwear and padding over to the cot.

“I don’t think I could,” Ben said. “And I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Naked, Hux sat at the edge of the cot and stared at him in awe. “You are full of surprises, Ben Solo.”

He chuckled, taking long, predacious steps toward the cot, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “You find ways to keep busy when you’re fifteen and can’t sleep at night. I just like thinking I might be able to show you something you’ve never done before.” He stroked a hand over Hux’s hair and down to his jaw. “You’ve shown me so much.”

“Yes, out of the goodness of my heart,” Hux said, wry. “I’m very selfless.”

“No doubt of that,” said Ben, stripping out of his shirt. He had to sit to remove his shoes, so Hux took advantage of it and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, kissing down his chest to his nipples. He didn’t pause in untying his shoes, but Hux could feel him tremble as he sucked the sensitive skin into his mouth, flicking the peak with his tongue. The nipple was pink and glistening when he pulled back.

“Lie down,” Ben said as he stood to shed his trousers, “but don’t lay a hand on yourself.”

Hux stopped mid-motion, having intended to relieve some of the pressure in his lower belly by giving his cock a few strokes. He twitched at the inattention.

When Ben, too, was bare, he crawled down to the end of the cot, where he could kneel between Hux’s spread legs. He looked down at Hux with blatant hunger, his hair hanging around his face.

“I don’t exactly know where to start,” he said. “I only had my two hands, but between us we’ve got four, and I’ve got my mouth.”

Hux lifted his hips, a plea for even a single touch. “Do anything you want; just do something.”

“That bad already?” Ben asked. “Better not be. We’ve got a long way to go.”

“Oh, God,” Hux groaned. Fortunately, Ben was feeling merciful, and he wrapped his right hand around Hux’s cock, giving him two tight strokes. The relief was instant. Hux dropped his head back against the pillow, taking a deep, satisfied breath.

Ben worked him slowly, gripping hard for a few seconds before going lighter. He spread the bit of wetness at Hux’s tip around with his thumb, dragging it down to the underside and rubbing it in. Hux tried to keep his body from responding, but his muscles were already tightening, his stomach knotted. As if seeing that, Ben laid a hand on his belly and began to draw circles with his fingertips.

“You have to distract yourself with other touches,” Ben said. “It keeps you from focusing only on this.” He squeezed Hux’s cock, and Hux almost cried out. “You can think of other things, too. Plain things like rivers, or the way long grass hisses in the wind.”

“I don’t care to dwell on landscapes right now,” Hux ground out. “Not when I have you in front of me.”

Ben hummed, still moving his hand over Hux’s belly, dipping into his navel.

“Is that was you used to do? Think about nature while you tugged your cock in sheds?”

Ben gave him a petulant look. “Not quite.”

“Then what?” Hux asked, strangely interested. It was serving to distract him, too, from Ben’s efforts. Not that he forgot.

“Just the feeling,” Ben replied. “Mostly my head was empty, except for the feeling. I never really imagined anybody else doing it for me, if that’s what you’re asking. Well, until you.” He paused in his strokes to lean down and press a kiss to Hux’s tip. He opened his mouth, darted his tongue out, but didn’t take him inside. It was excruciating.

“What—” Hux panted. “What did you want me to do to you?”

“Mostly I just wanted you to kiss me senseless,” Ben said. “I, uh, didn’t used to know much about you doing the rest.”

Hux managed a laugh. “I suppose that’s changed since then.”

“Sure has.” With an honest-to-God wink, he swallowed Hux down as deep as he could take him.

Hux slapped his hand over his mouth, biting back the shout. Ben was hot and wet, all soft tongue and slick throat. He corkscrewed down and then back up, sucking hard. Unable to stop, Hux thrust up into his mouth, but Ben never gagged. He wanted more and more, everything until he climaxed, but Ben denied him yet again. He let Hux slip out of his mouth, using only his lips and tongue from base to tip. It felt wonderful, but it wasn’t enough. Hux twisted his hands into the blankets, agonized. Ben encircled him with his thumb and forefinger, moving minutely up and down while he laved at him. The pressure from his hand kept Hux at bay, but barely.

“Oh, Christ,” he mumbled into his balled fist. “I can’t take it.”

Ben blew on him, cool air. “You can, I promise.” With his left hand, he took Hux’s testicles in hand and rolled them with his fingers, occasionally brushing behind them.

When his middle finger touched Hux’s entrance, Hux hissed, “Don’t do that. That I can’t bear.”

Ben complied, saying, “I never did that when I used to do this, so I won’t, if you’re sure you don’t want me to.”

Hux swallowed heavily, his mouth drier than he expected. “You can. Just not yet?”

“Okay,” Ben said. He touched him lightly a last time before trailing his finger up under his testicles and back to his cock. He took him in both hands, one fist stacked over the other, and began to stroke him again. It was a strange sensation, Hux being used to having only one hand on him, but good as Ben tightened around the base and held more gently at the head. He moved languidly, letting Hux feel every shift in his hands.

Hux relaxed somewhat under it, enjoying, but less desperate for release. He watched Ben work, struck by how intent he was on his body. He seemed to study every part of him with fascination, as if he had never seen him unclothed before. Hux wondered what about him he found so captivating.

“Touch yourself,” Ben said, quietly. “I mean your chest, your neck, as much as you can reach.”

“All right,” said Hux, raising his hands to set them on his chest. His pectorals were flat, the pink nipples the only raised points. He brushed his fingertips over them, circling and worrying the peaks. He didn’t feel much, but a pinch to each had him tingling with unaccustomed pleasure. Doing it again, he made a soft sound in his throat.

Ben was following his movements with his gaze, but as Hux went to touch his throat—more sensitive—he ducked his head and took Hux into his mouth again. Hux bit hard into his lower lip, curling his hand around his neck and squeezing. He didn’t inhibit his breathing, but he applied enough pressure to make him very aware of the air going up and down through his windpipe. He felt his pulse, too: elevated.

Ben was sucking him lazily, rubbing the crests of his hipbones with his thumbs. Hux forced himself to keep still and let him do as he wished, but it was a struggle with the exquisite way he was tonguing him. Moving from his neck, Hux explored his left arm with his right hand, lifting it over his head to grip the top of the cot. He put the other up with it, pulling himself taut.

“Look at you,” Ben said. He ran his palms up from Hux’s groin to his shoulders and back down, lingering at his middle. He gripped his sides, large hands spread wide. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Hux preened, shamelessly keeping himself on display. Open-mouthed, Ben braced himself just below Hux’s shoulders and lowered down, nearly on top of him. Hux’s own mouth popped open when he felt Ben’s cock against his. Ben saw the reaction and grinned, pushing closer until they were trapped between their bodies. He moved, providing friction for them both. Hux latched onto his biceps, fingernails leaving red marks in his pale skin.

“Could you finish like this?” Ben asked, looking down from where he hovered over Hux. “Are you close enough?”

Hux nodded. “Just keep going. I’m not far.”

Ben swooped down for a kiss, grinding into him even harder. Hux nipped at his lips, greedy for him as he pressed up for more.

“Tell me when you’re right at the edge,” said Ben. “When you’re ready to break.”

Hux moaned into his mouth. It wouldn’t be long now; he could feel his testicles tightening with a coil of barely-contained pleasure. Sweat was forming between them, making their cocks slippery, and it was exactly what Hux needed.

“I’m there,” he gasped. “I’m right there.”

Ben kissed him again, saying, “Good,” and then pulled away, leaving Hux bereft at the very tipping point of losing himself.

“What—why—” he sputtered, trying to chase the feeling that had been stolen from him.

“You’re not done yet,” Ben said, wicked. He thumbed the underside of Hux’s tip, and Hux spasmed, teetering but unable to reach completion.

“Have mercy on me,” he said. “I need this.”

Ben touched the shaft of his cock, but didn’t take a proper hold of him. It was a mocking game that had Hux wound up like a spring. Ben ran the tip of his forefinger around the head. He was barely touching him, but Hux was shaking. Falling back onto his knees again, Ben hitched Hux’s legs up over his thighs, exposing him completely.

Ben was deliberate, holding Hux’s gaze as he brought his finger up to his lips and pushed it inside to wet it. Hux stared, amazed at how such a simple gesture could shock through him like lightning. A delicate string of saliva hung between the finger and Ben’s lower lip when he drew it out, breaking in a small starburst as they separated. Hux burned; he knew what Ben was about.

Ben set the finger over Hux’s entrance. “How about I do this now?” he said.

“Yes,” Hux replied. If he was going to continue torturing him, this was the way to do it. “Yes.”

Ben circled the damp finger once before pushing inside. Hux was tight from weeks without being opened up, but one finger wouldn’t be too much without lubrication. It was filling enough to make him throb with it, acutely aware of each knuckle Ben put into him. When he was up to the last, he crooked the finger, as Hux had done to him the last time they had been together.

Hux arched off the mattress, only succeeding in pushing Ben’s finger harder into him, and making him groan. He didn’t alleviate the pressure on Hux’s prostate, drawing out half an inch before going back in to stroke that place again and again. Hux’s lungs were stinging from the effort of keeping quiet, his jaw aching from clenching his teeth. He wanted a hand around his cock, but at the same time he didn’t; he only wanted to focus on Ben’s finger inside him.

“Don’t stop,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t stop. It’s so good, Ben, my Ben. Ah!”

“Hux. You’re perfect like this,” Ben said, rumbling as he swept down to kiss Hux’s stomach. “Perfect.”

Ecstasy was building strongly, though it was different than if Ben had been stroking him off: deeper within him and simmering, rather than making his head swim.

“Are you going to let me come?” he asked, breathless.

Ben dipped his tongue into Hux’s navel. “Are you going to, like this?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Then do it,” Ben whispered against him.

Hux broke, pleasure exploding through him from the very point that Ben touched to the tips of his toes and fingers. He spilled hard across his lower belly, sticky and heated. His body rocked, until he could barely stand the pressure inside of him. He didn’t ask Ben to remove the finger, though; he stopped of his own accord, even if it was still within him, letting Hux recover.

Hux’s vision was foggy as he looked down his body at Ben, who remained bent over him with his chin resting at Hux’s navel. There was white splattered on his cheek and lips; he hadn’t moved when Hux came.

“I’m sorry,” Hux said. “I didn’t mean to...hit you.” As much as he actually did regret it, there was also something undeniably appealing about Ben wearing his spend so obscenely, and making no effort to wipe it away. Tentatively, Hux lifted his hand to Ben’s lip and dabbed at the fluid there with his thumb. Ben opened and permitted him to slide the thumb into his mouth; he sucked it. Hux’s knees quivered with the sensuality of it.

“I didn’t last for a half hour, I’m afraid,” he said drowsily, as he withdrew.

“No,” said Ben, kissing the pad of Hux’s thumb. “We’ll have to keep working at it.”

Hux gave a weak laugh. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Ben laid his clean cheek on Hux’s belly. “I just want to make you happy.”

“Mm,” Hux hummed, petting his hair. “You do.”

They lay together for a few minutes, Ben’s head rising and falling as Hux breathed, and Hux massaging it with sure fingers. There was only a short time left to bask, but Hux took it, sated and, just as Ben wanted, happy.

“I’m starving,” Ben grumbled when he finally opened his eyes. “You think they’ll give us leftovers in the mess?”

“If the sergeants are feeling lenient,” Hux said.

“You could order them to feed us.”

Hux gave him a look. “We may both outrank them, but they are their own masters. If there’s nothing left to be had, I very much doubt they’ll give it to us.”

Ben sighed. “I guess we’re going to starve.”

“Oh, come on, then,” said Hux, stirring. “Let’s go see what they have.”

They pried themselves away from the cot and slowly began to dress. Ben stopped to wash his face in the basin, and Hux didn’t realize until he was fastening his fly that he hadn’t seen to him; he had taken what was offered and had given nothing back. Crossing to where he stood, Hux stayed the hands tugging his trousers up.

“I owe you,” he said, palming his cock. He was soft, but that could be remedied quickly enough.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Ben. He kissed Hux’s cheek. “I’ll take care of it later.”

Hux raised a brow. “Do you plan on doing the same thing to yourself?”

Ben smiled lopsidedly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to manage it thinking about the way you begged me to keep going.”

“I don’t beg,” Hux said.

“Oh, yeah?” Ben crowded him back against the door. “‘Please, Ben. Don’t stop, Ben.’ Sure sounds like begging to me.”

Hux frowned, though he had to admit it was true. “Don’t think I’ll do that often,” he warned.

Ben bumped their noses together. “Want to put money on it?”

“Get away, you menace,” Hux said, shoving him back by the shoulders. Ben only grinned and shrugged his jacket on.

The mess sergeants were clearing dishes when they came through the door looking for their supper. The head of the kitchen scowled when he saw them.

“Here to throw yourselves upon my goodwill to get something to eat?” he groused.

“If you please,” said Hux, primly.

The sergeant rolled his eyes, but said, “There’s soup and bread, but don’t go looking for the chicken; it’s long gone.”

“We won’t,” Ben said.

Together they sat at the end of the Eagles’ table and waited for the food to be brought out. The soup—split pea—was still warm, even if the bread was approaching stale. They didn’t bother to ask for an alcohol ration.

When they were finished, they returned to the barracks. Shorty Putnam and Norman Crowe were sitting in the common room when they passed by, and called them over. Hux begged off, saying he had reports, but Ben went to join them.

Hux’s quarters felt empty, even if the evidence of their lovemaking—disordered sheets and a distinct smell of sex—was clear as day. He set the bed to rights before sitting down to do his paperwork, but didn’t bother to light a candle to clear the air.

Hux watched Temmin Wexley closely over the next three days. He lingered in the common room after hours to see if he could catch him sneaking out, and eyed him at breakfast to discern if he hugged his coffee closer than usual or bore any sign of not having slept. To his consternation, Wexley showed no outward signs of his late-night rendezvous with his alleged village sweetheart. He was proficient at hiding it, as Ben had said. And if he had the rest of the squadron to cover for him, well, Hux was impressed with all of them.

However, he wanted to know the truth, no matter how well-concealed it was. In the afternoon of December the twenty-fourth, he cornered Wexley in the briefing room before he could sit down for cards.

“Temmin,” he said, “would you care to walk with me?”

Wexley’s eyes widened, and he scurried over. “Sure thing, sir.” He bit his lower lip with his prominent front teeth. “Is there something wrong?”

“Let’s discuss it outside, shall we?” He gestured to the door. Wexley hurried through it, forgetting his hat and gloves; Hux already wore his.

It was cold and windy, cutting through the wool of Hux’s jacket. He decided to take them round the side of the hangar, where they would be out of the worst of the wind and  unlikely to be overheard. Wexley nearly had to trot to keep up with him, but he managed to do it. He was tense, yet waited for Hux to speak first. As they reached the hangar, he did.

“I wanted to commend you for your performance in the last sweep, Temmin,” he said. “You have been doing some excellent flying of late. You should be very proud.”

Wexley’s cheeks were already red from the weather, but he smiled with a kind of wonder. “Really? Thanks, sir. I’ve been feeling good about it.”

Hux nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “As well you should. However, there is something I’m concerned about.” He pinned Wexley with a look, conveying as much gravity as he could. “Are you seeing a young woman in the village?”

Shock passed over his face, and then resignation. He hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since the start of the month,” Wexley said. “I met her on the train back from London. She sat across from me. She was so pretty, and had such a sweet voice. I didn’t think I’d see her again, but I did one day when we were out at the pub.”

That was unusual. Most girls in the village wouldn’t have been permitted to stay out late and imbibe. “She joined you for drinks?” Hux asked.

“Oh no, sir,” Wexley hurried to reply. “It was around lunchtime. She was doing some shopping for her mother at Heatherton’s. You know, the shop around the corner from the assembly hall? I saw her, and I just had talk to her again.” He sighed.

Hux held back a smile; clearly he was smitten. “And what is her name?”

“Gertie.” He amended, “Miss Gertrude Lydecker.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the Lydeckers,” said Hux. He didn’t know many people in the village, to be honest. “Where do they live?”

Wexley looked toward the east. “About three miles out of town. Mister Lydecker’s the dairy farmer. Brings milk to the field every morning.”

“Is that so?” Hux said. “Then I assume you’ve met him.”

This time he did really blush. “Not yet, sir. I haven’t been to their house. Gertie and I, well, we meet up in the night, when she doesn’t have to do her chores. Her father keeps her and her sisters busy.”

“So,” Hux began icily, “you’ve been doing this without their consent or mine. Neither of those are advisable courses, Temmin.”

Wexley wrung his hands by his stomach. “I know that, sir. I should have asked you, but...I didn’t think you’d let me go meet her in the middle of the night.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have.” He paused to let that sink in—Wexley deflated a little—but then continued, “I would have insisted you do it properly: present yourself to her parents, get their approval, and see her during the day, like a civilized person.” He sniffed. “No sneaking about.”

“Well, I didn’t know that they’d approve,” he said. “Not until yesterday night. Gertie said she told her father there’s someone she’d like to walk out with. She’s seventeen, so she’s old enough. And he said he wanted to meet me and see if I’m all right for her.” He fidgeted, clearly anxious. “He said I should come for Christmas dinner.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Hux. “Do you not think that’s a good time?”

Wexley frowned. “It’s a good a time as any, I guess. Only, I wouldn’t be the only one there. The Lydeckers said they’d host four pilots from the field for Christmas dinner. You know, how families in the village do.”

“I’m aware of the practice,” Hux said. He rubbed his chin, contemplating. “Are you concerned that her father might prefer someone else to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Wexley said dejectedly. “What if one of the boys goes along and Mister Lydecker thinks he’s a better match for Gertie than me? I’m the youngest, and I’m skinny and pale. Maybe he won’t think I look healthy.”

Hux stared at him in bewilderment. Undoubtedly, Miss Lydecker would present Wexley as her potential suitor, and Mister Lydecker would judge him accordingly, not look at the other pilots present and find one of them preferable. Surely, the father would know the daughter wasn’t interested in any of the others. After all, if she was willing to meet Wexley in the middle of the night, she was just as taken with him as he was her.

“You’re not a heifer who needs to be filled out for milking,” Hux said. “You look perfectly healthy. Though if you’d like Matron Phasma to give you a physical beforehand, you can take the paperwork with you.”

Wexley appeared to consider it seriously for a moment, but then said, “I don’t think so, sir. I guess I should just go, and hope for the best.”

“That seems reasonable, but”—Hux glanced toward the hangar—“what if you took some specimens who were not a threat to your first impression?”

“Who would that be, sir?” Wexley asked. “Everyone in the squad is bigger, except for Shorty, and, well, Norman’s got that nice laugh, and Taylor his smile. Strickland’s accent may be hard for people to understand, but they seem to like it. Virgil tells good jokes, and Poe...he’s just the nicest guy I’ve ever met. He could charm anybody.”

“Don’t take any of them, then,” said Hux. He cocked his head. “I suppose, if you don’t object, I could go with you. And maybe Meltsa?”

“Or Ben,” Wexley said. “He’s so damn shy with anyone but you that he’d just hide in the corner all night not saying a thing.” He peeked up at Hux. “But you, sir? You’re the squadron leader. Surely that’s the best prospect of all for her.”

Hux set a hand on Wexley’s shoulder. “Temmin, I have never once met your Miss Lydecker, but if I did, I’m certain she wouldn’t look twice at me. She has you. I am more than willing to make that perfectly clear to Mister Lydecker, should the issue arise.” It wouldn’t.

“I...I guess so, then,” Wexley said. “Do you think Ben and Theo would come, too?”

“I’m sure they would, if you asked them,” Hux said.

Wexley rubbed the back of his neck. “Would you ask Ben? I figure if you ask him, he’ll come for sure.”

Hux tried not to read too much into that. “I will, if you’d like me to. I don’t see any reason he’d refuse.”

“Thanks, sir. I’ll go ask Theo.” He made to leave, but Hux stopped him.

“Temmin, I’d like your word that you’ll stop meeting with Miss Lydecker at night,” he said. “Once you meet her family, I expect you to carry on with propriety. You may have one day off every week to visit with her. Will that suit you?”

Wexley smiled, nodding vigorously. “Yes, sir. It will. That’s real good of you.”

Hux released his hold on him. “I’m glad you’ve found someone. That gives you something to come home to.”

“It does, sir. Is that all?” At Hux’s dismissal, he scampered off back toward the briefing room, leaving Hux standing in the shadow of the hangar. He paused there, taking out a cigarette to put between his lips. The first match he lit blew out, but he managed the next one without trouble. Puffing, he came around to the front of the hangar to peer inside for Ben, who hadn’t been in the briefing room after lunch.

“Hello, sir,” said Thanisson, who happened to be standing nearby with a cigarette of his own. “Something I can do for you?”

Hux went over to join him. “Nothing in particular, no. I’m just passing by.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Happy Christmas Eve.”

Thanisson ashed his cigarette, grinning blithely. “Same to you, sir. Fine thing, the holidays. My sister fixed me a proper cake and sent it. I got it just yesterday.”

“That’s very thoughtful of her,” said Hux. “A few of my men have also gotten packages from home, though nothing quite so elaborate as a cake.”

“Doubt that would make it across the Atlantic in good shape,” Thanisson said. “Suppose they’ll have to make do with English cakes this year.”

Hux took a drag from his cigarette. “I don’t think they’ll mind, as long as it’s cake.”

“Fair point,” Thanisson laughed.

“Something funny?”

Both Hux and Thanisson turned to see Ben lurking behind them, looking sour. He wore a fitter’s grease-stained jacket over his shirt, and he was wiping his hands on a rag. He eyed Thanisson, as if he disliked him being in Hux’s company unsupervised. Thanisson, whether consciously or not, inched away from Hux.

“We were just discussing holiday sweets,” said Hux, moving closer again to toss his cigarette down. He pulled the case from his jacket, took another one for himself, and offered them to Ben. He plucked one out, patting his trousers for matches. Thanisson produced a silver lighter and held it out to him. Ben took it, lit up, and muttered his thanks as he passed it back.

“I always look forward to the Christmas pudding, myself,” Hux continued, when nobody else spoke. “Our cook always made a delightful one. Perhaps the Lydecker family will do the same tomorrow.”

Ben’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been invited to join Temmin and his young lady’s family for Christmas dinner tomorrow evening.”

Ben took a long pull from his cigarette, the cherry burning bright, and exhaled before he spoke. “You found out about her, then.”

“I addressed the issue, yes.” To Thanisson: “Our Pilot Officer Wexley has started walking out with someone in town.”

“Well done him,” said Thanisson. “He’s a good sort. His ground crew like him.”

“Everyone likes Wexley,” Ben said.

Hux had to agree. “He’s quite enamoured of the girl, and he’s hand-picked some of us to come to the meal with him.” He didn’t bother to explain his rationale. “Myself, Theo, and you, Ben. If you’ll agree to come.”

“If you’ll be there, I’ll go,” Ben said. He flicked the end of his cigarette.

Hux smiled to himself. “Very well.”

Christmas Day brought driving rain of the kind that made one want to curl up in a chair by the hearth with tea and a warm blanket. There were no hearths at Wolcastle, though, so the 363 settled for the stove in their briefing room. They didn’t expect to do any flying that day—even the Jerries considered the holidays fit for a ceasefire—but they still spent it together, sharing stories and passing around sweets they had gotten from home or had bought in town. At around two o’clock in the afternoon, Hux brought out the two bottles of scotch he had purchased for them, and received a rousing cheer. By the time it was nearing dinnertime, they were all pleasantly affected by it, even Hux. It kept the worst of the chill at bay as they all rode into the village in the back of a lorry, the rain pelting down on the tarpaulin cover.

Twenty or so of the townspeople were gathered under umbrellas or in thick slickers and hats when they arrived by the fountain to greet them. Most lived within walking distance, but there were a few cars gathered in the square, as well as the small lorry used to deliver milk to the airfield, its side bearing the Lydecker name. Wexley led the way over to it, chin held high. There were two figures standing by, one of whom turned out to be a lovely young woman with round cheeks and a broad smile for Wexley. She was a few inches taller than him, and it was clear she was restraining herself from embracing him.

Beside her was a man of tremendous stature, both in height and breadth. He wore heavy boots and a slicker shiny with wetness, and his expression was stony at best. Wexley went to him first and held out his hand.

“Mister Lydecker,” he said over the sound of the rain. “I’m Temmin Wexley, a friend of Gertrude’s.”

Lydecker took his hand and shook it, his face softening. “Wexley, it’s good to meet you at last. Gertie has talked of nothing but her American pilot these past few days. You’re welcome among us.”

Wexley overtly relaxed, offering an earnest smile. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Hux, Ben, and Meltsa behind him, but Lydecker waved him off.

“Introductions when we’re out of this rain,” he said. “Get inside, if you please.”

The four of them piled into the back of the lorry, where the milk would sit, taking places on the floor. They were jostled quite as bit as it lumbered down the road, and once Hux almost fell into Ben. Meltsa laughed, and Wexley grinned.

The house they stopped outside was a single-storey farmstead. There were candles in the windows that made it cheery, despite the water that sloughed off the roof in sheets. Together, they all made their way inside, where two younger girls—maybe twelve and fifteen—offered to take their wet coats and provided dry towels for their hair. It didn’t matter that they would be in their shirtsleeves, in the end.

“Thank you,” said Hux to the smallest girl when she held her hand out for the towel he had used.

She beamed at him, saying, “You’re very welcome, sir. Come in.”

They filed through the entryway into the house proper and found themselves confronted by a pair of twin boys aged six or seven.

“Hello!” said one of them. He was dressed in a blue smock, and the other wore red. At least Hux could tell them apart by it. “I’m Brian.”

“Good evening, Brian. My name is Hux.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “That’s a funny thing to be called.”

Hux, amused, said, “It’s my surname, but I prefer it to my given name. I’d like if you used that.”

The other boy, in red, puffed out his chest. “Of course we will. I’m Laurence, and I’m going to be a pilot when I get big enough.”

“Are you?” said Hux. “That’s a noble goal. I’d be glad to have you in 363 Squadron.”

The boy giggled and set upon Ben next. “Are you really an American, sir?” he asked.

“I sure am,” Ben said. He crouched down to the boy’s level and held out his hand. “My name’s Ben.”

The boy’s hand was tiny in his grasp, but he looked very pleased to be greeted as a man might. “You talk funny,” he said. “I heard Americans do. Say something else.”

“Peter Piper packed a peck of pickled peppers,” said Ben without stumbling over any of the words. “Can you say that?”

The boy made an attempt, but couldn’t quite get it. He smiled, displaying a gap in his teeth from a lost one.

“Keep practicing,” Ben said. “You’ll get it.”

Laurence scampered off, still repeating the phrase, trying to get it right. Brian charged after him, ducking into another room.

Ben watched them go, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“You like children,” Hux said, stepping up next to him. That came as something of a surprise. Though Hux wasn’t particularly keen on children, he found Ben’s affinity for them charming; he had expected Ben to be as cool with them as he was with adults, but he wasn’t at all.

“There always used to be a lot of them at the barnstormers’ shows,” he said. “I used to keep them busy while their parents talked to the pilots or had a drink. I guess I got to like it.”

From the kitchen came a slender woman with ruddy cheeks, drying her work-worn hands on her apron. “Welcome to our home,” she said. “And Happy Christmas.”

“The same to you, madam,” said Hux. “Thank you for hosting us.”

She waved him off. “It’s our pleasure. I’m Anne. You’ve already met the boys.” She gathered up the smaller girls. “This is Lenore and Eliza.” They inclined their heads demurely.

“You have a nice family,” Ben said, remarkably forthright.

Anne patted her girls on the back, obviously proud of them. “I do. Now, come in and have something to drink. I’ve made wassail from the apples we had from the autumn.”

As she returned to the kitchen, Ben leaned in to ask Hux, “What’s wassail?”

“Mulled cider,” Hux replied. “It’s part of a medieval Yuletide tradition. I haven’t had it in years. It’s good, sweet.”

Anne returned with a wooden tray full of steaming cups, offering them to each of the pilots and to her husband. Mister Lydecker, whose given name was Alan, took one and gave her a peck on the cheek. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled fondly at him.

Ben sniffed at the wassail, but when he took a sip he seemed to approve. Meltsa and Wexley looked equally pleased, drinking deeply.

Gertrude, the oldest daughter, had removed her coat and hat, revealing her to be comely and green-eyed. Her dark brown hair was done up in braids that weren’t exactly in fashion, but became her. She excused herself to help her mother, declining Wexley’s offer to do so as well.

“No, no,” said Alan. “You’re to come into the den and dry out by the fire. I’d like to hear about your flying.” He glanced at Hux. “I hear you’re in charge of the lot.”

“I am,” Hux said. “And proud to be.”

“He’s the best S.L. we could want,” said Meltsa. “Let me tell you a story about when we first got here, and I had just met him…”

The hearth was at the center of the far wall, and Hux went to it to encourage his damp trousers to dry. The mantel was decked in fragrant evergreen mixed with prickly, red-berried holly. Meltsa was recounting one of his early training flights, and Alan was listening raptly, sipping at his wassail. From the kitchen, Hux could hear strains of carols as the girls prepared the meal together.

Laurence and Brian appeared from wherever they had been hiding and came to sit cross-legged on the rug before the sofa where Meltsa and Wexley sat. Alan was in an adjacent chair, presumably his usual perch. Ben stood nearby, but his eyes were on Hux rather than the storytellers. Hux held his gaze, beckoning, and he came over to stand beside him.

“I like this,” Ben said lowly. “So many people. Christmas was usually just me and Mom. We went to Luke’s house once, but mostly it was just us.” He touched a holly berry with his fingertips. “I didn’t know any different, though, so I didn’t mind.”

“Did you have a tree to decorate?” Hux asked. The Lydeckers’ was in the corner of the room, covered handmade ornaments: paper stars, straw figures, felt bells adorned with delicate beads.

“Sure,” Ben replied. “Just a small thing. But Mom used to put on records of Christmas songs while we put the ornaments on. She used to sing along, but she couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket.” He tipped his cup toward the kitchen. “They’re a lot better.”

“My mother sang hymns in church,” said Hux, “and that was all. I’m a little sentimental about the candlelit midnight service on Christmas Eve. It was rather magical for a little boy.”

“Sounds like it,” Ben said. “I bet you were a cute kid.”

Hux chuckled. “I was gawky and rail-thin. I didn’t much come into my looks until I was in fifth form.”

Ben hid a smile in a his cup, and for a while they were quiet, listening to the crackling of the fire and feeling its heat on their legs. Meltsa had finished his story, but he was now fielding an onslaught of questions from the inquisitive twins. He handled it well, while Wexley talked to Alan. They appeared to be getting on, which hopefully put any of his lingering worries to rest. Before long, Anne came into the room, her apron gone.

“Dinner is ready,” she said. “Come eat.”

The spread on the table was extremely lavish for wartime: plum-stuffed goose, sliced and boiled carrots, parsnips, golden potatoes roasted in oil, and mashed turnip. It spoke to the bounty the farmers had as compared to those in the cities, where the rationing was the most severe. This meal would be something very few people in England would be enjoying today.

Alan took a seat at the head of the table, indicating for Wexley to take the spot at his right and Hux at his left. Ben sat beside Hux and Gertrude beside Wexley. Meltsa was placed closer to the foot of the table by Anne and the middle girl, Eliza. Lenore and the twins sat at a side table for children. The girl didn’t look pleased to be relegated to it, but when she was given her portion of goose and vegetables, she brightened. Alan offered a brief prayer, for which they all bowed their heads, but then they were free to eat.

“Missus Lydecker,” Meltsa said, “this is wonderful. I haven’t had anything this good in a long, long time. And that might be counting my own mother.”

Anne flushed prettily. “Thank you. I had hoped it wouldn’t be too strange for Americans. I understand you have turkey rather than goose.”

“I’ve never had goose before this,” Wexley said, “but it’s really good.” He took a forkful of turnips. “This, too.”

“I made those,” Gertrude said, shyly.

He gave her a soft, adoring look. “They’re perfect, Gertie.”

“Mister Ben,” said Eliza, far bolder than her older sister, “you never told us a story about your piloting. Will you tell one?”

Ben set down his fork and knife. “Well, you’ve heard all about flying combat, so maybe you’d like to hear about the first time I ever flew a plane by myself.”

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Please.”

Hux was interested, too. Ben had told him some about his father teaching him to fly, but never about his first solo flight. He remembered his own well; the exhilaration would never be matched.

“I wasn’t a day over thirteen,” Ben began. “I had been going up with my dad for years already, and he taught me how to work the controls in a trainer, but I had never been up on my own until that day. It was August. Hot as the devil, and sunny. But you have to wear a jacket and a scarf, so I was all trussed up in that and sweating from nerves and the heat, both. I was pretty tall, but I still needed a step stool to get up onto the wing. My dad was watching from about ten paces away. He wouldn’t help, and I didn’t want him to.

“Once I was up in the cockpit, I got a feel for the rudder pedals and the stick. You know, what you steer with. It was loose from years of use, but I had played with it a bunch of times before, when my dad wasn’t paying attention.” He meant when Han Solo was drunk on corn liquor; Ben had told him before of his habits. “You still had to have someone turn the propeller to start it up on that old bird, so dad did that, but then he got out of the way. I had a whole field ahead of me, and then the blue sky. I had never been so excited in my life.”

“Oh my,” Eliza sighed. “How thrilling.”

“It was,” said Ben. “I remember the pull of the engine when I throttled up. It jerked a little because I was nervous, but I managed after that. I set the bird down toward the end of the field. It was shaking something awful—it was old as dirt, you see—but when you get up into the air, it doesn’t matter. It’s like silk up there if the sky’s clear. And it was that day.” He gave a distant, wistful smile. “I learned to breathe, then.”

Under the table, Hux touched his thigh, knowing that feeling.

“I flew for an hour,” he continued, “until the fuel gauge was screaming for more gas. I just didn’t want to come down. There’s no freedom like that in the world. I knew I’d never want to do anything else, and I never have.”

“That’s a powerful story, Ben,” said Alan. “It must be quite a thing to fly by yourself.”

“It is,” Ben said, “but it’s better even to fly with someone else you trust.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Meltsa declared, raising his cup.

They toasted, and turned back to their food. Second helpings were served until the goose was nothing but bones to be used for broth and the vegetable dishes were empty. Hux sat back in his chair, full, comfortable, and content. He couldn’t have thought of a more pleasant holiday.

“Who’s for pudding?” Anne asked merrily.

“There’s more?” Meltsa said, almost a groan. “I don’t think I could fit another morsel in if I tried.”

Anne clucked. “Certainly you can. Gertie, darling, do go fetch the pudding. Alan, you have the matches?”

Ben’s brows rose. “Matches?”

“You’ll see,” said Hux.

Gertrude and Alan went into the kitchen again, and a moment later returned with a flaming pudding, resplendent.

“Oh, wow,” Wexley breathed.

They set the dish down near Alan’s place and let the brandy burn off. When the flames had died, Alan brought out a knife to cut it, and Gertrude provided dessert plates for each slice. They passed them down the table until everyone had a helping.

“Go on, then,” said Alan.

Hux cut a piece off with his fork and popped it into his mouth, savoring the strong flavor. Ben ate all of his in record time, as did Wexley. Meltsa gave up halfway through, complaining that he couldn’t have another bite. Laurence asked for the rest of his portion, but Anne told him no. He pouted, skinny arms crossed over his round, childish chest.

“Well, gentlemen,” Alan said, “I suppose we should be getting you back to the airfield. Don’t want to keep you out late, now, do we?”

They all rose and returned to the entryway to put their jackets back on. Eliza and Lenore and the twins bid them goodnight from the dining room, but Gertrude followed Wexley to help him into his jacket. There was already a great deal of affection in their gestures and passing touches. Alan watched it, but not with disapproval.

“Temmin,” he said, “I do hope to see you again soon. I’m sure Gertie will see you before we do.”

The girl blushed again, batting her lashes at Wexley. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

“S.L. Hux has given me a day off every week so we can walk out together,” he said.

She turned to Hux. “Thank you, sir.”

He inclined his head. “It’s the proper thing to do. Good evening, Miss Lydecker.”

The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast. They got back into in the lorry and allowed Alan to drive them back to the field.

“I’m going straight to bed, boys,” said Meltsa when they arrived. “Nothing like a good sleep after a dinner like that. I’m half-drunk off that pudding, I swear.”

“It sure was something,” Wexley said. “But I don’t think I’ll sleep yet. Mister Lydecker liked me. He’s going to let me be with Gertie.”

Hux clapped him on the shoulder. “No surprise there, Temmin. Any father should be glad to have you walk out with his daughter.”

Wexley beamed. “Thanks, sir. Say, you want to play a round of cards?”

“Not tonight,” Hux replied. “I think I’ll follow Theo’s example and retire.”

“Well, okay. Ben?”

Ben shook his head. “Not right now.” He cracked his knuckles with four distinct pops. “Hux, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course,” Hux said. “Would you prefer to step outside, or—”

“It’s something upstairs.” He bit his cheek, not meeting his eyes. “Just for a minute, I promise.”

Hux didn’t like being called up so openly, but he assented: “All right.” He glanced at Meltsa. “Coming up, too?”

“Yep, sure am, sir.”

The three of them went up the stairs, parting at the landing. Meltsa gave a sloppy salute before wending his way to the lavatory, leaving Ben and Hux facing each other.

“Ben,” Hux said, “you know we can’t—”

“I know. It’s not that. I want to give you something. For Christmas.”

Hux’s worry faded. “I have something for you, too. I just have to stop by my quarters to fetch it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ben said. “I’ve already got mine. I’ve, uh, been carrying it since I bought it in Norwich.”

“You gave everything you had to Finn,” said Hux. “How did you afford something else?”

Ben fiddled with the buckle of his belt. “I had a little left. It’s not much, really, but I saw it, and I wanted you to have it.”

Hux couldn’t touch him here to reassure him that whatever he chose, it would be welcomed, so he said, “Come on,” and started toward his quarters. He went out of his way to leave the door mostly open, which Ben saw and frowned at, but they didn’t need questions at this hour. He went to his desk drawer and drew out the paper-wrapped cigarette case he had purchased in Norwich.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Happy Christmas.”

Ben took it with gentle fingers, holding the small package in his palm. He pulled the twine free and unfolded the paper to reveal the silver glint. Plucking it out, he ran his thumb over the curved cover and his initials marked there.

“Every man should have a proper case,” Hux said. “And it should keep you from breaking your cigarettes so often.”

“Thank you,” Ben murmured, still reverently touching the case. “It’s really nice. Might be the nicest thing I’ve ever owned.” He opened it up and found it filled with some of the flavorful smokes from the tobacconist.

Hux laid a hand on his arm. “You’re welcome.”

Tucking the cigarette case into his breast pocket, Ben reached into the opposite one and brought his fist back out, curled around something. He took Hux’s hand and pressed a warm, oblong object into his palm. When Ben pulled away, he saw it was a penknife, not much unlike the one Ben carried to do his whittling, but with a mother-of-pearl handle rather than tortoiseshell.

“My dad always used to say that a man should have a good knife on him,” Ben said. “I guess it’s like a cigarette case, but...different? I know you didn’t have one, so I thought…”

“It’s lovely,” said Hux. Catching his thumbnail in the appropriate groove, he unsheathed the blade. It was razor-sharp. “Are you planning on teaching me to work wood?”

Ben gave him a half-smile. “No. I don’t think you’d like it, but you should still have a good knife.”

Hux tucked the blade back in and dropped the knife into the same pocket Ben carried his in. “Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas, Hux,” Ben said. Reaching out with a long arm, he pushed the door shut and pulled Hux to him.

The kiss was achingly tender, just a gentle press of lips as they held each other close. Hux had no memory of one that pulled at his heart as this one did. As Ben held his face, he told him how he loved him, and Hux replied in kind.

The Eagles gathered the next morning in Hangar Three for a send-off party. Lewis Mills was being released from the infirmary for the journey to Liverpool, and then back home to America. It would be a long trip across the country from New York to Arizona, but within a month, he would be back with his family. Brewster was going with him, having received his discharge from Snoke just a few days before. He hadn’t been up to fly since his brother had been wounded, anyway, and the reinforcement pilots had picked up the slack. However, he had come by to see his name removed from the side of his Spitfire. Virgil Gilbert had scraped off the paint himself, leaving only the boxing eagle emblazoned above it. He would eventually put another name on it, but not that day; not when Brewster was there to see it.

Brewster had produced a flask from inside his jacket—civilian; he no longer wore his RAF blues—and took a drink. “I’m going to miss this place, sir,” he said to Hux, who had also turned up to watch the peculiar ceremony.

“You don’t have to call me that, anymore,” Hux said. “You’ve been relieved. I’m just Hux to you, now.”

Brewster downed another mouthful. “Habits die hard...Hux. And to me and Lew, you’ll always be our S.L.” He offered the flask to Hux, and he took it, nearly choking on the strong liquor inside. Brewster patted him on the back.

“We’ll miss you both,” Hux had said when he had recovered. “It’s a loss for the squadron.”

“You bet your ass it is,” Brewster had said, chuckling.

The hangar was crowded, all of the ground crew and pilots turning out to say farewell to their friends. Lewis was enthroned at the center of the chaos, seated in his wheelchair with an Irish coffee in his hand, while he joked with the others about how they wouldn’t be able to cut it in the air without him. His ground crew had presented him with a Union Jack as a parting gift, which he said he’d take good care of for the rest of his days. Hux had seen to it that he kept his flight jacket, its E.S. patch still on the arm. He might not have been permitted to wear the uniform any longer, but the jacket he could keep. There was a blue-eyed nurse supervising him, checking in every so often by touching his shoulder. He would assure her he was fine by setting his hand over hers. She was free with her smiles.

“Look at you, you smarmy bastard,” Shorty Putnam said, shaking his head. “Already have girls falling all over you, like you’re some kind of war hero.”

Lewis thumped his chest. “I am a war hero. Gave up a leg for king and country. I deserve the attention of some pretty women.” He winked at the nurse, who leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The men around them whistled and whooped. Lewis raised his cup and drank down the whiskey-infused coffee.

The mess sergeants had prepared some small cakes for the occasion, and they had been passed around and eaten happily. Hux had had one himself, and while it wasn’t as nearly as good as Missus Lydecker’s Christmas pudding, it was still tasty. Taylor had pretended to take two, and was, of course, chased down by the rest of the squadron as they cried about how he was being greedy. He handed over the second cake, but didn’t look in the slightest chagrined.

“So, gents,” Lewis called over the din, which quieted some at the sound of his voice. “Brew and I wanted to say thanks to you all for coming out and going through the trouble for us. It’s been a hell of a thing flying with you all. I’m sore I won’t see the inside of this hangar again.”

“We won’t miss your loud mouth, Mills,” Crowe called, teasing, of course.

“Shut yours, Norman,” Lewis fired back. “I’m definitely not going to miss you.”

Crowe cut through the crowd and wrapped an arm around him. “Like hell you won’t, buddy.” Lewis rubbed his head with his knuckles, mussing his hair.

“Leave off him, Lew,” said Brewster. “He’s not worth the trouble.”

Crowe made a rude gesture, and the onlookers laughed.

No one had any particular speech to give—even Hux. He and the rest of the squadron had already said their more private goodbyes. The party was just meant to liven the mood those farewells had brought down. And it seemed to do the trick.

By the time a car pulled around to the front of the hangar, Lewis and Brewster’s duffels already stowed in the boot, everyone was cheering to see them off. Ben, who had been hovering near the edge of the group, got to it first and opened the door. Bill Taylor helped Lewis up onto his crutches to get inside, though Brewster took over for him to lower his brother into the passenger seat.

Hux jogged up as he was about to shut the door. “Gentlemen, I expect a letter when you arrive home.”

“Sure thing, sir,” said Lewis. “We won’t forget.”

Hux gripped the edge of the cool metal door. “Travel safely, both of you. And take care of each other.”

Brewster nodded with solemnity, a vow. “We will. Goodbye, Hux.”

They waved from the windows as the car drove away, leaving the crowd of men gathered at the mouth of the hangar. There were no tears shed, only drinks finished and last anecdotes about their flights told before the 363 and their ground crew began to drift back to their work. In his peripheral vision Hux saw Ben take his glinting silver cigarette case from his jacket and offer a smoke to Taylor and Gilbert. They passed a match between them and stood together, puffing a cloud of grey that floated around their heads.

Hux was preparing to spend the rest of his morning in the briefing room, but before he could start off across the lawn, he heard the tell-tale ring of a telephone from inside the hangar: the call from the control tower to fly. The Jerries were inbound, picked up by the radar, and had to be counter. He watched Ben, Gilbert, and Taylor throw down their cigarettes and make for the shelves that housed their flight gear. The ground crewmen came pouring out to ready the Spitfire for action.

Donning his jacket and helmet, Hux sprinted for his kite, jumping up onto the wing and into the cockpit. He slammed the door closed, but left the canopy for now, preferring to take off with it open. “Contact!” he called as he hit the ignition. “Chocks away!”

Thanisson and the others yanked the wooden blocks up, getting clear so Hux could throttle up and taxi to the end of the runway. He didn’t wait; he knew the others would follow. He fastened his oxygen mask over his face, calling to the tower for permission to take off.

“Permission granted, Red Leader,” said the radio operator. “It’s an intercept mission off the coast.” She gave the coordinates. “Good luck, 363.”

Twelve Spitfires thundered into the sky one after another, until they had formed up over the countryside in their three four-man flights.

“We can expect at least ten enemies,” Hux said over their shared frequency. “Could be more, could be less. Radar can only tell us so much this far out. Keep your eyes sharp and heads on a swivel.”

They were flying against the wind, feeling the resistance that forced them to give their engines more power. It would consume more fuel, too; they would have to engage the Jerries quickly and without mercy, before their gauges started to dip below a quarter of a tank.

The first of the Messerschmitts came into sight ninety miles from Wolcastle, and it wasn’t alone. Hux thumbed the trigger on his spade grip, ready to engage.

“Guns free,” he said. “Bring them down.”

Turning sharply to starboard, he set off in pursuit of the aircraft at the head of their formation. It broke away when the pilot saw him coming, but Hux stuck with him until he was within range of his cannons. He unleashed a burst of fire ahead of the Messerschmitt, keeping on the trigger until the bullets hit its nose. The pilot veered out of most of it, but succeeded only in putting himself in front of Ben’s guns. From Hux’s port side, he fired his cannons into the underbelly of the Messerschmitt, where the fuel tanks were housed. In a blaze of flame, the aircraft exploded, pieces plunging toward the Channel below.

“Hell of a shot!” Hux exclaimed, his nerves running high with the thrill of first blood.

“Let’s get another,” said Ben, coolly.

As one, they surged ahead to seek out another mark. The sky around them was cluttered with aircraft, all dodging each other and exchanging bullets. Hux heard Bill Taylor holler as he disabled a Messerschmitt and watched the pilot bail out, and Shorty and Poe managed to put one down as well.

Minutes didn’t much matter in combat; the only measurement of time was the fuel gauge. Hux glanced down briefly to see where he stood, but in that moment an enemy came up from his blind spot and shot. The burst of fire peppered his tail, but he avoided the worst of it. There was a split second of relief, then he heard Ben over the radio: “My engine’s out. Bastards! They hit me.”

Hux’s heart stopped, everything around him slowing to a blurred image of sky and sea; which was above and which below, he couldn’t tell.

Bail out, his mind screamed. Get out! But they were nearly a hundred miles off the coast, and even if Ben did get out of his kite with his parachute, he would be falling into frigid water with no one in sight to pull him out. Boats could be deployed, but he would have to survive hours in the unforgiving Channel.

“I’m going down,” Ben said, each word echoing in Hux’s ears like it was far away and already lost.

“Get your chute!” Strickland cried across the frequency. “Ben, where’s your chute?”

Hux waited for the reply for a few tortured seconds, the instruments on his control panel standing still, as if they were hanging in the same limbo. Surely that meant Ben was already free of the cockpit, safely gliding down on the cool wind. But then:

“It’s—my canopy is stuck. I can’t push it back.”

There was no fear in his voice—only the cold statement of fact. Hux felt the terror for him; it sank into him as he might into dark water: consumed and unable to speak or thrash free.

“Break it!” Strickland said. “Break the glass!”

“I can’t,” Ben replied. “Hell, I can’t see in the smoke.” He sputtered and coughed.

God, no. Hux, functioning on instinct alone, dove, searching for Ben’s kite in the mirrors and out the sides of his own canopy. He saw him two hundred feet below, the Spitfire spewing black smoke as its engine block burned. The smoke was filling the cockpit, nearly obscuring it, but Hux knew the canopy was still closed, and the aircraft and Ben were hurtling downward to a point where even if he could bail out, his parachute would be of no use. Hux’s panic surged again, only to be caught in the net of his helplessness.

“Solo!” someone else called. “Come on, kid, get out of there.”

There was no response, but then a croaked, “Hux.”

The world came back into focus at the sound of his name, and Hux cried, “Ben! Ben, please, get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben managed, though it sounded choked. “I can’t. Hux.”

“No,” Hux said. “No! You can. You have to.”

Ben’s kite continued to drop, a trail of grey and black came behind it, cutting across the sky. It was becoming smaller in Hux’s vision, gliding down on the wind alone, its propeller long ago stalled.

“Ben.” It came out a sob, even though Hux’s eyes were dry. He was too well-trained to compromise his sight with tears, but he wouldn’t look anywhere else. His whole being was trained on Ben’s descent, praying for the white of a parachute, any sign that he was able to get away. There was nothing but the Spit soaring toward the water.

“Hux,” Ben said one more time, staticky and broken. There was a crackle of something else, some words swallowed up by the failing radio in his aircraft, and then nothing.

The nose of the Spitfire hit the waves first, extinguishing the flames and spraying water up and back across the fuselage and wings, which stayed above the surface. It would take a few minutes for it to sink, for the cockpit to fill, until the Channel swallowed it up completely.

Hux expected the pain, the fear, the loss at the core of him, but none of it came. It was supplanted by numbness, a dull lack of sensation, body or mind. By training alone, he forced his gaze up from the water, honing in on where the German fighters were retreating toward France. There was no need to pursue them now; the 363 would return to Wolcastle, their work done.

“Red Flight, to me,” he said by rote. “The rest of you, form up. We’re going home.”

No one replied. From their scattered positions, the Eagles came into formation, until they were together and flying as a unit back toward England.

Hux’s hands were as steady as ever on the stick, his pulse slow and controlled. His objective was to get his men back to the airfield. Get them back. Get them back. He followed the landmarks and his map until they were within sight of the runway.

“This is 363 Red Leader requesting permission to land,” he said.

Rey’s voice came back over the radio: “Permission granted. Good to hear from you, 363.”

Hux landed as smoothly as ever, the familiar bump of his kite’s wheels touching down as he applied the brake. At the end of the runway, he steered the aircraft back toward Hangar Three. He hardly saw the field, though, moving only by habit. His men were behind him, all of them accounted for, save one.

It was then that his throat constricted, the reality pummeling him until he couldn’t draw air. He hit the brakes of his aircraft several hundred feet before he reached his appointed place outside the hangar. His hands were shaking so much, he could barely get the catch for the canopy open.

He didn’t care that there was no one to chock the wheels, or that he was in the middle of the thoroughfare. The engine cut into silence at the press of the ignition, and already Hux was fumbling with the restraints. He had to get out. The cockpit was consuming him, a yawning maw ready to swallow him up. He clawed his way free, until he was tumbling out onto the wing. He caught his foot on the door and sprawled out, hitting his chin hard enough to rattle his teeth. It didn’t matter; he felt nothing but the empty ache in his chest.

He all but fell onto the ground, his knees buckling so that he sank onto them into the soggy grass. Twenty or so feet ahead, he could see men running toward him, but they barely registered. Agony pulsed through every part of his body, and he went limp, head sinking and arms falling beside him. Every beat of his heart was a vacant pulse that didn’t seem to pump any life through him.

“Sir,” he heard through the muted fog in his head. “Sir, what happened? Are you all right?”

Hux recognised Thanisson, even if his features were crooked and wrong. Unable to make a sound, Hux stayed unmoving. There were more voices approaching, figures in flight jackets attached to them. They came to Thanisson, and they presumably looked down at Hux; he couldn’t find the strength to glance at them.

“He’s catatonic,” Thanisson murmured. “What happened?”

A pause, a desolate silence, but then: “We lost Ben Solo.”

Whatever restraint Hux had, whatever control over his reaction, disintegrated. The first sob shook his whole body, making his ribs ache with the strength of it. Scalding tears fell down his cheeks, gathering in droplets at his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe them away, but wept openly and without restraint. He convulsed with every crippling gasp, clutching at his hollow heart. Even if he had wanted to speak, he was unable to around the cries that erupted again and again, unstoppable.

Everything in his immediate surroundings was splintering, until fractured pieces of the world were all that remained. He could feel an arm come around his back, an insistent pressure trying to pull him up. He didn’t even attempt to rise, staying in supplication before what he had lost. His helmet was removed from his head and there was a hand against his hair. He shied violently away from it; the only touch he wanted he could never have again.

“Hux.” It was Ben’s voice, and it wasn’t. There was the static over the radio, the garbled last sounds Hux would never hear.

His name came again: “Hux. You have to breathe. You’re going to black out if you don’t breathe.” He managed to open his eyes to see Poe crouched in front of him. “Come on, sir,” Poe said. “In and out, okay?”

Hux sucked in air, but expelled it seconds later in another cracked sob that wracked every already aching muscle. There was so much tension in him he thought he might break, spine splitting under the pressure of curling in on himself; and he wouldn’t care if it did.

“Somebody get a nurse,” Poe said. “Go. Now!” He reached out for Hux’s cheek, but thought the better of it and pulled back. “Okay, Hux, just hang on. We’re going to get you some help.”

Time was indistinct. Hux just folded at the waist, his arms wrapped around himself as he wept. Only agony remained, and it seemed all he would feel again.

Two white shoes, only slightly besmirched with mud, appeared in front of him. “Sit up for me, Hux,” Phasma commanded in her stern matron’s voice. When he didn’t obey, she said to the others around him, “Pull him up by the shoulders and hold him steady.”

He was tugged until he sat straight and tall. His collar was pulled down, and there was a sharp sting at his neck.

“Relax,” Phasma said, laying a hand on his forehead.

Hux felt his muscles begin to soften and go limp first, right before his vision started to darken. The last thing he saw before the sedative took effect was Ben standing next to his Spitfire, smiling.

Don’t get in, Hux wanted to beg. Don’t go with us. Stay here, stay safe.