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He flicks a demonstratively friendly wave at the lone medic on shift who throws him a half suspicious, half concerned look in response even as she dutifully salutes when he passes.
She didn’t join the Resistance until the final battle on Exegol, trailing behind Lando’s hastily assembled mismatched fleet in an ancient transport shuttle. After the fighting was over, she chose to stick around to help take care of the injured. As always, Poe feels a twinge of guilt that he still doesn’t know her name, but if he stopped for proper introductions, she might feel encouraged to ask some of the questions that are clearly on the tip of her tongue, and he is not ready for that.
He lets himself into the repurposed supply closet in the far corner of the medbay. Inside, the lights are dimmed and the man on the narrow field bed is dozing restlessly, but Poe knows from experience that this will probably change soon enough.
He pulls the lone metal chair up next to the bed, slides down low in the seat, lets his head tip against the backrest, and closes his eyes, listening to the beeping of the monitor and the unsteady raspy breaths of the patient.
He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back.
The first time, it may have been simply to convince himself that it hadn’t been a hallucination. It would not have been the first time he saw someone who was supposed to be dead. Some days he’ll have an entire conversation with Snap over a precious cup of caf, only to watch his friend’s smile melt away in a burst of fire a moment later, and for the rest of the day he’ll taste ash on his tongue and carry the scent of burnt rubber in his nose and try to keep his hands from shaking too hard.
"You need a break," Finn told him the day after finding him dry-heaving behind a stack of crates because Kaydel had called him General during a meeting and it had taken him a moment too long to realize that she was talking to him.
"A break from what," Poe asked without looking up from the numbers on his data pad, because he didn’t want to see Finn’s expression and because the numbers were important, dammit. "The war is over."
"A break from whatever is haunting you," Finn said, and Poe looked up at that, a sharp retort on his tongue, except Finn looked terribly tired, too, and so instead of breaking down crying, he simply nodded and said, a little too formally: "You are probably right."
So yes, there may have been a point where he couldn't be entirely sure whether he had just dreamed the grim expression on Rose’s face when she told him how many survivors the ground team had pulled out of the burning debris of the crashed Star Destroyer, whether he might have merely imagined the glimpse of matted red hair he caught from the corner of his eye as the medics carried yet another stretcher past the command center through the cave towards the Tantive IV.
Thus, when Finn told him to take a break, Poe finished his calculation and closed the file on his pad, and instead of going for a walk or taking a shuttle to Yavin IV or whatever it was that Finn may have had in mind, he went to the medbay to look for a ghost.
Of course, now that he is reasonably sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, he is fully aware that there is no good reason for him to be in the corvette's medbay this often or that late in the day. His skills are of little use here – he doesn’t have any medical training beyond the emergency first-aid course that was part of the basic training in the New Republic Navy.
He also doesn’t come here to interrogate. Perhaps, at some point in the not-so-distant future, one planetary government or the other will choose to press charges, claim the right to hold a trial based on whatever hastily made up emergency legislation they will piece together in the aftermath of the war. But the leaders of the Resistance have little interest in any of that. They fought to bring peace to the galaxy, not bring the instigators to justice, and anyway, they are all too busy trying not to buckle under the weight of grief and exhaustion to think that much about revenge these days.
Maybe, he tells himself and isn’t sure whether he believes it, he just goes because this corner of the med bay is so blissfully quiet.
Maybe, he thinks, maybe he comes here because it’s the place where few people are likely to look for him, where no one wants anything from him.
Maybe.
Sure enough, he’s only been waiting for perhaps ten minutes when the body on the cot becomes restless, curling up as if in pain, then suddenly uncoiling like a spring and coming to sit with a strangled shout.
Poe folds his hands in his lap and digs the nail of his right thumb into his left palm to stop himself from reaching out.
“You,” Armitage Hux says, managing to sound simultaneously reproachful and relieved as he's squinting at Poe from bleary eyes.
Poe shrugs, a carefully executed gesture of carelessness. “Did you expect somebody else?”
Hux opens his mouth, doubtlessly with the intention to insult Poe in one way or another, but whatever he was trying to say falls victim to a violent coughing fit. He curls in on himself as he's trying to catch his breath, arms wrapped around his torso in a protective gesture.
The closet they are in is so small that Poe doesn't need to get up from his chair to reach the cup of water sitting on a wooden box next to the bed.
"Here," he says, and waits until Hux has a firm grip on the handle before he removes his hand, forcing himself to remain still when Hux' fingers brush against his own. Hux drinks in small sips, the harsh cough fading into a faint rasp, and with a small sigh he lets himself sag backwards until his head comes to rest against the wall.
“Thank you,” he says stiffly, his fingers tight around the empty cup in his hand.
“Bad dream?” Poe asks, and isn’t entirely surprised when Hux merely rolls his eyes at him with as much venom as he seems to be able to muster.
"What about?" He continues, undeterred, even though he isn't sure if he's asking in order to rile Hux up further or because he actually wants to know. The uncomfortable truth, he figures, is likely somewhere in between.
"The same as always," Hux snaps, then looks away and swallows. "Dying," he says, sounding as if it physically hurts to get out the word.
Poe nods. He still doesn't quite know what happened, but judging from the med droid’s report, Hux must have felt close to death at least twice after they left him on the Destroyer with a blaster wound in his leg. That is, if he was even conscious the second time around. It's a miracle he's alive, and that's such an unexpected thing to think about General Hux, of all people, that Poe has to bite his tongue to suppress an incredulous laugh.
"I have those too, sometimes," he says.
Hux narrows his eyes at him, as if he thinks Poe is lying. He isn't, although it's also not the entire truth. But there's no way for Hux to know that Poe's worst dreams are not the ones in which he dies himself. The nightmares that leave him gasping for air and shaken for hours are the ones that force him to relive the deaths of his friends over and over again, and it is always, always his fault.
He doesn't talk about it with Finn, or Rey, or Kaydel, not since he realized that none of them quite understand. Of course they've all suffered loss, they are all wrestling with their own demons – but none of them know what it was like to send his friends into battle, to shout commands, only to see them get picked out of the sky, see them explode, hear their anguished screams over the comm, all the while knowing that they wouldn't be dead if he hadn't told them to go.
For a moment, he thinks about saying it out loud. Hux has given such orders, he knows, has sent people to die under his command.
But Hux would likely laugh at him and tell him that he never cared.
Or maybe he would understand.
Maybe.
"How are you enjoying your top-level hotel room?" he asks instead, and feels more pleased than he probably should when Hux responds with a snort that is half derision, half genuine amusement.
"The view leaves something to be desired," he says pointedly, staring past Poe's shoulder at the bare walls of the supply closet. "But I suppose that's to be expected in a prison."
Poe blinks in dismay. "You are not in prison," he says. "Did you already forget that you switched sides before everything went to hell?"
Hux raises his brows. "I know I've been unconscious for much of the time but I am fairly certain the door locks from the outside."
"Yes, because this used to be a storage room for medical supplies," Poe retorts. "And besides, the door is not to keep you from leaving. It's there for ..."
He trails off awkwardly, reluctant to finish the sentence, even though Hux must know what he was going to say. No one else on the base gets to enjoy the luxury of this much privacy - even he and his Co-General share the curtained-off area behind the command center that used to be Leia's. But Finn and Jannah had strongly advised that, spy or not, it might be better to keep Kylo Ren’s former second-in-command separated from the other First Order survivors for the sake of maintaining the peace on base, and Poe hadn't seen a reason to argue with them.
"... for my own safety?" Hux' voice is dry. "I'm sure it is. But rest assured that I have no immediate plans of going anywhere." He shifts and grimaces. "Not until I can make it to the fresher without someone holding my hand."
"Good," Poe says lightly, and steadfastly refuses to examine the guilty glimmer of relief he feels at Hux' response. "You still owe me another game of Dejarik."
"You just like watching me lose," Hux grumbles, an unexpected admission of weakness. Poe is still trying to decide whether he only imagined the hint of playfulness in Hux' voice when the man winces again and turns grey.
"Are you alright?" he asks, leaning forward in his chair.
Hux exhales slowly. "I'm fine," he says curtly, sounding anything but.
"I don't think I believe you," Poe responds suspiciously, and a hint of color returns to Hux' cheekbones.
"It's nothing," he says, impatiently. "The bandages just get itchy after a while."
"Let me see," Poe says and is already reaching out before he quite realizes what he's doing. Hux flinches away from his touch, the back of his head awkwardly bumping against the wall in the process. The loose gown he’s wearing slips off his shoulder, briefly exposing the map of burn marks that reaches from his left ear to his clavicle and down his chest before Hux pulls the shirt back up hastily and wraps his arms around his waist.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Poe says, a little offended, his outstretched hand awkwardly suspended in the air.
"I know that," Hux bites out from behind gritted teeth, and then flushes, suddenly and violently. Poe stares in fascination as the blush spreads across his cheeks and along his neck, and with some embarrassment catches himself wondering how far down the glow might reach.
"I am going to get the nurse," he says, his voice a little less steady than he was aiming for.
Hux simply nods, and doesn't raise his eyes until Poe has left the room.
The medic, when Poe finds her, is in the middle of administering bacta on a patient's third-degree burns. When she sees Poe, she immediately climbs to her feet, holding up her sticky gloved hands awkwardly.
"Is everything alright, Sir?" she asks, sounding frazzled and bone-tired.
"Yes," Poe says, glancing down at the patient on the gurney, "uhm, ..."
"Rhyl, Sir," the medic offers quickly. "I'm Rhyl."
"Call me Poe, Rhyl,” he responds, and coughs a little. "I think his dressings need to get changed."
She nods with what looks like relief. "Everything you need is in the cabinet over the sink," she says, her gaze drifting back to the patient before snapping up to come rest on Poe once again. "Bandages, bacta gel, gauze, disinfectant."
She pauses, taking in Poe's face. "You know how to do it, right?"
"I do," Poe says reluctantly. "It's been a while, though."
"It's not open-heart surgery," she says, her voice hovering somewhere between encouragement and polite dismissal. "Let me know if anything doesn't look good."
She is right, of course, Poe tells himself. He is only going to change a dressing, an easy task – there is absolutely no reason for his heart to beat as rapidly, anxiously, as it does. But that doesn’t stop his fingers from trembling when he opens the cabinet, and he drops the gauze package twice before he manages to pile everything up in his arms for his trip back down the corridor.
"You … are not Rhyl," Hux says apprehensively when he elbows the door open and slips inside.
Poe shrugs, somewhere between apologetic and defensive. "She was busy," he says, with as much fake cheerfulness as he can muster. "Looks like you'll have to suffer through my mediocre attempts at playing nurse after all."
He drops his bounty onto the covers and watches a hint of raw fear cross Hux' features before they shift into an expression of deep resignation.
"Don't worry," Poe says, still stubbornly going for optimistic, and squeezes disinfectant gel into his palm. "I promise I won't kill you."
Hux exhales a strangled laugh, then he tips his head forward, baring his neck.
"You don't know that," he murmurs, almost too quietly for Poe to hear.
Poe stares down at the pale curve at the top of his spine, at the uneven line of orange hair that is starting to look like it could use a trim, then he nods to himself and reaches for the straps holding the gown together in the back.
"Nothing I haven't …"
… seen before, he means to say, but the words die in his throat as he takes in the charred landscape of Hux' back. He remembers the moment the Star Destroyer exploded, can still see the fire racing through the ship before it cracked into pieces, and suddenly, the air around him thickens, carrying the smell of sulfur and smoke.
Hux looks back up at him over his shoulder. "Yeah," he says ruefully. "I know. Someone gave me a mirror."
Poe opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of cannon fire in his ears drowns out any words he might have had.
Hux' lips turn downwards. "I didn't ask you to do this," he says, more than a hint of bitterness in his voice, and that jolts Poe out of his paralysis.
"No, no," he says hastily, shaking his head to get rid of the ringing in his head. He reaches out again with careful hands, slipping the fabric down over Hux' shoulders.
"It's just …" he exhales. "How did you survive this?"
Hux laughs at that, a brittle little burst of sound. “You think I don't ask myself that every day?” he says, and then goes very still when Poe starts to unwrap the bandage covering his lower back.
"You never ask yourself that question?" he suddenly continues, a trace of aggressive challenge underneath the honest curiosity in his voice. "Why you are still alive? We tried very hard to kill you, you know."
Poe doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. The bandage slides free and he sets it into the small metal bowl before starting to gently peel off the first of the dressings, which is stiff and dark with dried blood. If only he focuses hard enough on his task, he thinks, he can hold it together for as long as it takes.
"Bad luck," he finally says evenly, and then loses his grip on the gauze pad when Hux whips around so quickly that it must certainly hurt his wounds.
"You are joking," Hux says in disbelief. Poe forces himself to hold his gaze, fully aware of how close they are. If he leaned forward the tiniest bit, their noses could be touching.
"Almost my entire squadron is dead," he says flatly, shifting back just a little. "That's not supposed to happen. I'm their commander. My job was to keep them safe."
Hux huffs. "I'm pretty sure your job was to lead them into battle."
"Of course you would think that," Poe snaps, a little more sharply than intended. He glances away, angry and ashamed at the same time, and then jumps when he feels the brush of fingers against his wrist.
It is then that he notices his hands, clenched into fists tightly enough for his nails to leave painful marks in the flesh of his palms. He takes a deep breath and slowly stretches his fingers, trying to will his heartbeat to slow down. Only then does he trust himself to glance back at Hux' face.
The other man looks deeply uncomfortable, and strangely determined at the same time.
"You know why I started to spy for the Resistance?" he asks calmly.
Poe raises his brows. "Because you got tired of your boss?"
"No," Hux responds, then backtracks. "Well, yes. That too." He shrugs. "But the first time I ever entertained the thought was after watching you destroy the dreadnought."
Poe stares at him, incredulously. "The dreadnought? You mean when I was mocking you over the comms?"
"I couldn't wrap my mind around it," Hux continues, as if he hasn't heard Poe say anything at all. "You were ready to get yourself killed. And you were so cheerful about it. Making fun of us when all I wanted was to blow you and your friends out of the sky. And then you went and did it." He shakes his head. "I was furious and humiliated and told myself I would get you back for it. But then, later, I kept hearing your voice in my head. That utter confidence that you were doing the right thing."
His mouth twists into a tiny lopsided smile. "I was envious. I wanted that."
Poe runs a hand over his face and doesn't even attempt to blame the disinfectant for the way his eyes are stinging.
"I lost so many of my people that day," he says helplessly. "I thought I was doing the right thing, but at what cost? I got away, and we won, and they are still dead."
He bites his lip and ducks, trying to distract himself by removing another piece of gauze from the burns. The move brings his face far too close to Hux' rib cage, and when he exhales, the other man shudders in response to Poe's breath ghosting over his skin.
For a brief moment, Poe can see himself lean in, imagines following the airflow with his lips, running his tongue along the curve of the lower ribs to see if he can make the man shiver again. It's a ridiculous idea – Hux' skin is covered in barely-healed burns, and he is very obviously in pain – but the thought sends a jolt of heat down his spine that he had almost given up on ever feeling again.
Rationally, Poe knows that there is no way for Hux to know what is going on in his mind, but he still keeps his head lowered in mortification when somewhere above him, Hux clears his throat.
"Maybe," Poe hears him say quietly, and the longing in his voice is too obvious for Poe to ignore, "maybe we are more alike than we thought after all."
Poe swallows hard. He fumbles for the bacta gel and doesn’t trust himself to look back up just yet as he squeezes some of the ointment into his hand.
"Yes," he says, and his fingers are only trembling slightly when he puts his hands carefully on Hux' skin.
"Yes. Maybe."