Hux is in his third year of university when he takes Crime and The Family for his sociology requirements. The professor is Orson Krennic, who has a reputation for possessing a cold stare and a cruel tongue. He was a colleague of his father’s once upon a time, and Hux’s adviser, Dr. Tarkin, suggested he enrolled in the course. “It may be enlightening,” the man said during Hux’s advising appointment, his shallow blue eyes staring down at Hux over sharp cheekbones, “considering your family history.”
Hux bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking out; he admired Dr. Tarkin far too much to let his well placed barbs at his father’s’ failures goad him into speaking out.
“Thank you, professor,” Hux said primly.
Tarkin stared at him with approval, his thin lips twitching up in the corners into a small smile.
Krennic’s class is held in the frigid bowels of the psychology building. There are no windows and the floors bare odd discolorations, like blood that had been long ago spilled. Hux idly wonders if there is any stock to the rumored lobotomies the psych department practiced in the fifties after all.
Hux sits in the back to stay out of trouble, but all his peers have dark hair and he is easily the tallest among them. When Krennic enters the room, his eyes instantly track to the copper gleam of Hux’s hair.
Krennic’s dress shirt is pristine, the white of it almost blinding beneath the fluorescent lights. His dress shoes have a militaristic click to them, and the class all sits up a little straighter at the sound of them. He surveys the room, and Hux notices his eyes are the same, flat color of Dr. Tarkin’s.
“This is Sociology 450, if you are not a sociology major you should not be enrolled. If you are wait listed, the class is full, so save all of us time and leave now.”
The sudden address leaves the class fearfully silent, and a few students leave without a spoken word and their eyes downcast. Krennic looks around the room and his eye’s meet Hux’s, and the animal part of Hux’s brain informs him that he should run, that this is the gaze of a predator. Hux digs his nails into his palms and holds the man’s gaze, refusing to be weak like his father.
Krennic breaks fist.
Whatever the lecture is on, Hux can’t recall; he’s too busy watching the man’s movements, the roll of his shoulders, the straight of his back. He focuses on regulating his breathing, so that the moments when Krennic’s eyes meet Hux’s, he appears calm and unaffected.
The class ends after an eternity- entirely too soon- and Hux is slow to gather his things, tarries at the end of the line of students exiting the class, hoping to catch his professor’s eye.
Krennic indulges him.
“Wait a moment,” the man says, summoning Hux to him with a wave of his hand. Hux walks up to him in an even march. “What’s your name?”
“Hux,” he replies.
“First name?” Krennic presses.
“Armitage,” Hux says, the word ashy on his tongue. He hates his name.
“Are you Brendol Hux’s son?” Krennic asks.
Hux nods, biting his teeth down on the illegitimate son that always wants to break free.
“I worked with your father, before that whole- “ Krennic politely doesn’t say tax evasion scandal, instead opts for, “mess. He’s a brilliant man. I expect as much from you.”
“I will endeavor not to disappoint you,” Hux says, his stomach flipping. Krennic’s eyes scan his neck, and Hux can feel the man’s gaze right on his jugular. He flushes hot, sure that his cheeks are ruddy, but Krennic looks pleased.
“Do try to pay attention next class,” Krennic says, syllables thick like molasses, dark like turmeric when Hux’s tongue peaks out to taste the air.
Hux sits at the back of the class each week and switches between dutifully taking notes and watching Krennic with hooded eyes. Hux has a weakness for praise, and Krennic denies it of him often, harshly criticizing his essays and ridiculing his answers during class discussion. It would frustrate Hux if not for the moments when he lingers after class on the flimsy pretext on improving his work, where Krennic reads his drafts and hums in contemplation.
“Good start,” he always says, and his words might as well be fingers for the way they drag down Hux’s spine. “Diligently done, though there is some work to be done…”
The semester passes too quickly, and soon it if finals weeks and Hux has run out of time. Krennic does not teach any other of the courses that Hux needs; Hux no longer has a useful reason to haunt Krennic at the end of class, to drag out their conversations longer and longer.
Hux finishes his exam almost immediately, but sits in his chair erasing answers and rewriting them, waiting for his peers to leave. Finally, the last one leaves, and Hux gets up from his seat, walking around the pools of dried blood and up towards Krennic.
“Here you are, professor,” Hux says in his steadiest voice, handing the paper over.
“You’re not usually one to take so long on a test,