Chapter Text
“I'm sorry it had to come to this, son. We never could have predicted this happening. You're going to Los Angeles.”
Ben Solo’s mind is spinning faster than he could keep up with. His skipper just told him he was being traded. Traded. Away from his first team. He fought through the farm to get where he is. A second year rookie. Apparently a winning record and a division title doesn't mean shit. He's nothing, he realizes as he walks out of skip’s office. But he learned one valuable thing that he'd hold in his heart and use as armor for the most of his career.
He is expendable.
The call to his dad is fucking humiliating. Ben can’t tell if he’s yelling at him for a reason or just yelling to yell half the time. When his mom grabbed the phone, God, that’s the worst. The fucking disappointment and her constant assurances she’s proud of him broke him down to pieces. He has to hang up before he can let them hear him scream in frustration. He locks himself in the bathroom of his host house and just screams until his voice is gone.
At 19, he has no vice he could bury himself in. He has no team, he has no contract, he has no friends or teammates or salary. He's been living in a host house simply because they’re a deaf couple and leave him alone. He could go to the gym and blow off steam...
What he really wants to do is take whoever traded him away from the team he's loved his whole life, and beat them to a pulp.
He ends up doing none of these things, packing his bags angrily, like some caged animal, and confirming his flight reservation from his agent. He has too many things to do. Good. The busier he is, the less he can actually murder people.
When he arrives in Los Angeles, there's no one there to pick him up. He has to swallow his pride and call the front fucking office to find out the Dodgers are actually in the middle of the fifth inning right now. Of course. Ben doesn't know this kind of thing. He’s had the Giants schedule branded into his eyes every single day.
He was going to be an ace for his favorite team. He'd grow his hair out like Tim had, and be twice as great. He was going to make his dad proud, and his mom was going to look at him like he was a complete failure for pursuing professional athletics.
Ben tries to look on the objective side, now. He'd had Dodgers scouts at his house long before the Giants. Ben would be lying if he said he hadn't been holding out for San Francisco to come round. The Dodgers were offering such a steep amount of benefits on the table. He wonders if they're still there for him now that he's in LA.
(A suspicious part of his mind is wondering why this all went so smoothly, but the thought comes out muddled and wrong. He ignores it for the sake of not looking like a paranoid rookie.)
The cab to the stadium is expensive. It's rush hour. Of course it's expensive. It's Los Angeles. Everything is expensive unless you have some kind of six-figure salary. He hates it already.
Adjusting his tie in the late May heat, he walks through the front door. After providing his player’s credentials, an usher takes him through the many winding halls down to the clubhouse.
He'd been in Dodger Stadium before, but always heading to the right side. As he stares at the enormous blue arrow pointing to HOME, he starts feeling a sick panic settle in his gut.
Home again, home again.
The words are jarring in his head, and he has to jog to keep up with the usher. He's dressed in all blue, but then again, everything around him is blue, so it's hard to keep his eye on him especially in his state.
The doors to the Dodgers clubhouse are heavy dark wood. By comparison, they look the same as the ones on the other side. Now just twice as menacing. On the television is the Giants game, and a horrible knife-like feeling stabs into him. Everything feels so surreal. He couldn't make it on a team he loves. How could he make it on a team he's been brought up to hate?
The usher shows him his locker. There's already a name tape up for him. SOLO. It used to be in orange. Now it's in blue. The only locker next to his has a name tape HUX. Ben knows Elan Hux. Shortstop, number 1, team captain. Got the MVP title last year. Ben wants to be intimidated but can't bring himself to feel anything but dread. In the locker is a fuckton of hangers, and one single jersey - the one the Dodgers are wearing tonight. The blue piping on the edges mimics the kind he had on the Giants. How come everything has been the same, but different? The spinny chairs in the clubhouse are even the same.
A man is approaching him as he looks at the jersey in stunned horror. Schooling his face into a mask, he turns. It's one of the trainers’ assistants. He looks very rushed.
“Mr. Solo, so glad you finally made it. Safe flight?” He isn't given time to answer before the assistant keeps talking. “Good. I'm Doph, gonna help you get settled. You have your gear with you?” Ben nods. “Great. Put it on after we grab some things for you.” Doph starts walking off toward another door, expecting Ben to follow. Ben leaves his bag in front of his locker.
Doph continues. “You have your sizes from your old team?” He speaks breathlessly, like he's been running instead of walking.
“Large works,” he mumbles. “I can get shit figured out later.” He's surprised how numb his voice sounds.
Doph nods. “Great. Here's some pants…” A bundle of white (not off-white) fabric drops into his arms, as well as bright blue (not orange) socks and undershirts. “And your hat?” Doph looks up at him. Most people have to.
“Seven and three quarters,” he rasps. Another blue item drops onto the bundle in his arms, emblazoned with the white logo of the team he despises most. It must show on his face, because somehow, Doph speaks even faster.
“Uh yeah just get suited up and don't wear anything...orange, obviously. You know the way up to the lip. You have a place to stay here?”
“I was gonna just get a hotel,” he mumbles. Broke rookie status .
“Right okay. I'll leave a folder of other information up in your locker for you that you need to look over and fill out by tomorrow. Most of your records have been faxed over. Welcome to the Dodgers.” And with that, Ben is alone in the clubhouse.
He takes a shuddering breath and ignores the screaming insanity in his mind. Mechanically, he undresses and hangs up his wrinkled shirt and pants. His agent had told him to wear it on the plane. He'd thought he would be taken care of so well once he was down there. What a joke . Pulling on his compression shorts and socks (blue blueBLUE) and shirt, he pulls on the pants over them. This is easy enough. If he doesn't look at himself. Doing up the buttons on his jersey feels like he's locking himself in a straight jacket. He's sealing his fate. He can't go back now. For a sense of normalcy, he pops two sticks of cinnamon gum in his mouth. That's the taste he knows is baseball.
He makes the mistake of letting his eyes catch on the flash of white he sees when he walks by the mirror. He doesn't have his hat on, but the image is clear.
There is no way to describe what he feels. It's a mix between something suicidal and something homicidal. That's all he could hope to tell you.
He glares at himself as he pulls his cap down over his hair. Something bitter and vile threatens to overtake the taste of cinnamon in his mouth but he fights it down. He walks up the stairs.
The Dodgers are in the lead against Colorado, which means a more jovial dugout. Everyone is up on the lip watching, so no one sees him come up. Surely they all know he's arriving. But he can't fight the feeling he actually doesn't belong here at all. He feels hot and cold and lightheaded all at once.
“Ben Solo.” A woman’s voice says from down the line. He's startled, and looks her way. It's a fan, someone in the stands. Apparently he's not the only one that's heard her. Players and fans alike are looking his way. He wants to tear off this stupid white uniform and run all the way back to San Francisco, to beg them to take him back for that other pitcher they traded him for.
The hush that settles over the crowd is only for a moment but to Ben it feels like forever. When he looks up at the lip again, he catches the GM and Elan Hux looking at him, sizing him up. Ben meets Hux’ eyes, who gives him a cool look before nodding once and turning back.
Ben shudders but manages to hide it as he walks up to the lip and hangs off an empty section. He ignores everything around him but the game. He can't help silently cheering for the Rockies every half-inning. Ben doesn't move around much. He'd hear people speaking about him if he did.
The Dodgers end up winning, and he'd lost all the flavor out of his gum by then. He doesn't know if he should join in the team’s high five line, but another player pushes him toward the infield and he goes.
Again, Hux is there. He'd hit a double in the eighth inning, bringing the Dodgers’ score up by two runs. He'd made an incredible rolling catch for the end of the game, and was covered in dirt. He has a nasty scrape on his chin, Ben notices when he walks by. He can't help thinking, his hands are cold. That's just something Ben notices about people.
In the clubhouse, Ben doesn't shower because he didn't play at all, but he does get back into his wrinkled gray shirt and black pants. He pushes his hair out of his face. Part of him wants to cut it off, all of it, but maybe this could be his rebellion. If he couldn't be Tim on his old team, he could be Ben on this one. Somehow the positivity feels spoiled.
As the players start trickling back in, the reporters start getting antsy. There's another five minutes before they're allowed to bum rush the players for quotes. A few are looking at Ben like they want to eat him alive.
Hux returns from the shower, clean-shaven and the cut on his chin cleaned up. He's still dripping wet, which accents his highly toned muscles very well. He's lanky as hell, and just as tall as Ben is, but overall he's smaller. Ben pretends to look over the information in the folder while Hux dresses again, in designer jeans and a tight shirt, coupled with a red motorcycle jacket that only makes his drying, floppy red hair more prominent. Hux does tend to that next, gelling his hair back in a graceful swoop in less than ten seconds.
They don't speak to each other. Ben feels tired and uncomfortable and doesn't want to do much else than sleep for hours. It's almost 10 pm. He still hasn't gotten a hotel room. That cab ride is going to be expensive. Ben pushes a nervous hand through his hair before it flops back down in his face once more.
“One thing at a time,” Hux says, facing the opposite direction. Ben looks at him in surprise.
“If I had world enough, and time,” he says, shaking his head.
Hux gives him a strange look, and holds it until the reporters start surging onto the clubhouse floor for a quote. Cameras are set up everywhere. Ben knows the drill. He's separated from Hux then, tugged to the side with three journalists and a camera. Hux has his own circus surrounding him. He's already smooth-talking the people there. Ben almost misses his first question.
“Ben, did you know the Giants would trade you mid-season?” She makes it sound like it was common knowledge. This isn't a good thing.
“Uh, well with these sort of things, you can never really predict them. In the end it's the needs of the team that come first, and uh, I guess that changed before I saw what was happening.” Ben doesn't want to be answering these questions.
“Have you had a chance to talk with any of your old teammates about what happened?”
“Uh, no. Got a few texts from them but not much else.” He's telling the truth. “But I know they're playing tonight too. Hopefully they noticed I'm not there.” There's a few laughs from his group, which makes his insides roil.
“What about new teammates? Talk to any of them?” the same reporter asks.
Ben thinks of Hux, and that stare he'd held for much too long.
“No. This team was playing too. Hopefully someone noticed I am here.” The joke falls a little flat, but they shouldn't have laughed at the first one to begin with. Ben likes the uncomfortable shift among them. The lull in questions almost gives him the illusion that they're done here after just three but an older man speaks up.
“Some have been calling you a traitor for going to the Dodgers after being on the Giants for two seasons. Do you have anything to say about that?”
His group, Hux’ group, and the media in the middle of the clubhouse all go quiet at the old man’s question. Ben’s blood had turned to ice in his veins. He thinks of Hux’ cold hands and Hux’ icy blue eyes. He's trying to keep his cool. It's bait. He knows it's bait. He could smell it from a mile away. He just has to maintain his persona, remain unaffected by this old man’s stabbing questions. Ben is staring him down, and feels his expression a second from becoming outright murderous.
“No comment,” he says clearly. The reporters clear out not long after that. Ben has never cared what people call him behind his back. He only cares about a select group of people. And those people have already expressed their disappointment in him enough for one day. There's not much to be done about that.
He's shoving his things back into his bag hurriedly. He needs to get out of here before he snaps a neck.
“Slow down. Hey. Slow down,” Hux’ voice says. He's aware there are still eyes on him. Golden boy fallen from grace. “Take a breath and don't let them see you like this.” His voice is commanding and he can't not obey. Especially when that man is his new team captain.
Ben nods and moves slower, packing his gear up neater. Hux seems satisfied by this.
“Where’re you staying tonight?” Hux asks, conversing in a way that's just on the other side of too polite.
“Hotel. Probably,” Ben mumbles. “Didn't really have time to look at the real estate.” And he's hungry. Damn he's fucking hungry.
“You don't have any family in town?”
“They're all back in San Francisco.” His cool almost shatters again just at the mention of the city. Oh yeah. He was supposed to have family dinner at his mom’s house tonight.
“I've got a guest room you can stay in,” Hux says. “Just til you stand up from where the rug was pulled from under you.” He's nearly as finished packing as Ben is, which Ben supposes is intentional.
Ben wants to say no. He wants to politely decline like his agent always told him to do. But his agent hasn't really been any help. He should fire him. But he doesn't even know how to do that. “Thank you, that'd be great.”
Hux nods and looks around. “Well hurry up. Traffic is about to get awful,” he says. Ben scrambles for the rest of his gear before following Hux out of the clubhouse.
They don't talk until Ben is seated in the passenger side of Hux’ black Mercedes. Just about everything Hux touches screams luxury.
“We're gonna pick up something to eat because I have no food in my house until tomorrow morning.” Hux sighs as he puts his blinker on and heads into traffic. Ben doesn't argue. He could eat a horse. “Preferences?”
“Not seafood.”
“Indian?”
“Sounds great.”
Ben makes a quiet housemate. Hux had initially intended for him to stay a few nights, but when Ben had brought up that he was looking for places on Craigslist with a roommate, Hux had to do something. He knew he’d never have a positive relationship with Ben if he told him to look at Zillow instead, so he’d just rolled his eyes and said, “Just give me five hundred for rent every month.” And that was it.
The pitcher had kind of sat there in shock for a moment. He didn’t need to keep thinking about this; he had his first start the next day to prepare for. Hux is almost afraid that Ben is going to turn down the offer, when he turns around to look at him in his spot on the couch. Millicent trots across the dining room table, and Hux places her on the floor before Ben speaks.
“I’d like that. Just for the season, right?” Ben says, trying to not look as desperate as he obviously was. It pulls at something in Hux’ chest, that kind of vulnerability and trust. How could the Giants have ever let him go?
“Just for the season,” Hux says, voice little more than a whisper.
What with it being a frantic last couple of days, there isn’t much time for Ben to work on his pitching mechanics. He’s starting on his regular third-man rotation, not much out of the ordinary, really. Except everything. He’s glad they don’t play the Giants again for another three weeks. He isn’t quite ready to face that yet. He’s kept up in his workouts pretty consistently, however. The equipment was the same. Except that it wasn’t. Hux’ is nicer.
The morning of his start is pretty much his regular routine. He and Hux both get ready to go to the park in silence, taking showers and eating breakfast (Ben insists on a fully-stocked fridge, and Hux just kind of waved him off and told him to make a list). Hux drives them to the park with the windows down and the radio off. It’s nice. Just a time to take in the city, and it’s loud enough not to be an awkward silence.
This morning, Hux keeps a berth. Some pitchers are particularly anal about their start days. Ben just keeps going like it was a normal day, with the exception of him putting his compression sleeve over his left arm, getting it ready for the rest of the day. He puts in a few miles running around the warning track before showering for the second time that day, trying to keep his mind off of the nervousness in his veins. He’s only worn this new uniform for four games and he’s already representing them on the mound. Ben knows the feeling of being out of place. It’s a familiar one even now.
The head athletic trainer, Phasma, calls him into the stretch room. “S’get you sorted out,” she says. The Dodgers aren’t the only team to have a female head athletic trainer, but they certainly had the most publicized. Phasma was a professional powerlifter and softball player in her days at USC, and had a Masters degree in Sports Medicine and Kinesiology. Ben had been doing his research.
As his body burns through the deep static stretches, he tunes his mind out to something else to deal with the pain. That’s what he’s always done. However, the radio on in the stretch room is not helping him at all.
“... Today is leftie Ben Solo’s first official day as a Dodger, Bill, how do you think this is going to go?”
“Well considering he’s been struggling with his sliders recently, on top of the added stress of being traded, I think today is going to be a downright trainwreck.”
Ben’s mind prickles unpleasantly at that remark, frowning and grunting as Phasma leans all her weight into his calf.
“I could change it,” she says, half-interested.
“No,” he quickly responds.
“...this has been a long time coming for the kid, though. He’d been a bit of a wildcard even when he was in the farm. He’s been known to be a bit of a loner, as well. Just like some weird kid.”
Anger, some forgotten feeling, flares up in his gut like a wound. He grits his teeth and lets his head fall back against the mat as Phasma holds the stretch.
“I mean, he’s the nephew of the great Luke Skywalker, we can’t forget...maybe Luke’s skills just skipped over him.”
The commentators on the radio laugh. Ben wants to scream, cry, throw up, hit something.
Phasma leans back. “You want the radio off?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“No.” Ben sits up, coiled tight. “I’m gonna hear what they have to say. Kinda stupid to be ignorant if this same thing happens next time.”
“Not gonna happen, rook.” She pats his shoulder and reaches over to turn it up for him.
Ben listens to the rest of the broadcast alone before he has to go out and play catch to warm up. The bullpens are thankfully indoor, which grants him a shred of privacy (other than the three dozen people hanging over the top, and the cameras in the ‘pen itself). Those words from before only serve to make him want to pitch harder. As a result, his accuracy is laser-accurate and sharp as a tack. His catcher nods to the pitching coach to let him know he’s ready.
Hux doesn’t quite recognize the fury that emerges from the bullpen ten minutes before first pitch. Ben’s once-open and vulnerable eyes are laced with righteous anger (and quite honestly, murder) and his hair is sticking out every which way from under his cap. The hand curled around his black glove is white-knuckled, and the one with nothing in it is balled into a fist. His shoulders are hunched in the way a predator would before attacking something small and defenseless. Maybe this is just a thing he does .
The national anthem is (for once) to-the-point and concise, no excessive runs through the notes or the like. Hux thinks it’s more tolerable this way. He can’t gauge Ben’s reaction about it. He’d talk shop with him another time. When the man on the loudspeaker calls out the lineups, he slips up. “And your starting pitcher for the Dodgers, number thirteen, Re-- Ben ...SOLO!!!” The crowd mutters a little at the mistake before giving some polite claps.
Then the booing starts.
Hux hears the men at the end of the dugout, calling down the bench at the pitcher. They hurl insults at the 19-year-old, calling him an ugly traitor, San Francisco shit, and it’s really awful to just listen to, let alone be the subject of it. The other players in the dugout look nervously at Ben, who is only glaring at the mound like he’d like nothing better than to light it on fire.
The general manager, Snoke, looks almost pleased from where he stands next to Hux on the lip. “This is going to be interesting.”
Hux is worried by how much he agrees.
Ben stalks up to the mound at the start of the game, his warmup pitches in the same vein as the ones he’d hurled before in the bullpen. His catcher looks relaxed; why shouldn’t he be, his pitcher is on point tonight. It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing but fury in those young eyes. From where Hux is watching twenty feet away, it looks terrifying.
The first three pitches put the leadoff hitter away, easy. A brief glance at the scoreboard tells Hux that the kid was hurling in the triple-digits. His third baseman gives him a look that says ‘kid’s got skill’. He throws like he was born to pitch.
The night is fueled with electric energy, but it’s nowhere near positive. Any moment, Ben could snap, take off running at some uppity batter. And at 6’3”, Hux isn’t sure anyone could stop him if he did. The four times Ben lets someone get on base, he wears his heart on his sleeve, shouting at himself as he paces around the mound, hands going into fists over and over again. His catcher comes up to talk with him over one pitch, and Hux comes jogging up as well. It’s his duty as team captain.
Ben even sounds different, talking behind his black glove. Hux catches the tail end of whatever the catcher was saying to him. “...it’d be smarter to walk this guy and get the next one on a double—”
“The next guy has been reading the signs all night. It’s not gonna work.” Ben’s voice is raspy and jerky, almost robotic, despite the rage in his eyes.
The catcher gives a pleading look to Hux, for him to step in and do something about this. Ben’s attention turns to him as well, almost daring him to say something to the contrary.
“If you can’t put this guy down in less than four pitches, walk him and go with the double play,” Hux says. “We’ll take your lead for this one.”
There’s that look again, the vulnerable, lost, what-am-I-doing-Hux look that Ben had on almost constantly in the condo. It makes Hux’ heart pound, right then and there, in front of 40,000 people under hot stadium lights.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The trio disperses from the mound and play resumes. Hux is nervous. This could go either way. On one hand, he’s seen how Ben has pitched in the past, boringly consistent and borderline predictable. On the other hand, Ben has never pitched with this kind of intensity in all of the film Hux has ever seen on the kid.
He squares up again as the pitch clock ticks down. The music cuts and everything seems to move in slow motion through the next three pitches.
Foul, back against the stop.
Strike, straight through the batter’s swing and into the glove with a hard smack. The crowd ooh’s and ahh’s at the clocked speed: 105 miles per hour. Hux swears under his breath. He’d been pitching maybe 91 on average for the Giants. The energy is picking back up.
Hux almost misses the strike called, a knee-weakening slider that drops just in front of home plate and has the batter swinging for his life, to no avail. Ben is pacing around and around again, calling for the ball from the catcher.
He’s pulled at the end of the eighth, at Hux’ request. Ben’s getting tired. The poor kid normally goes to bed at 8, and it’s already 9:45, thanks to the struggling pitcher on the other team taking his time with outs the first six innings he’d been allowed to play. Hux knows Ben, and knows he was going to feel like absolute crap later. He’s seen it before in rookies that push themselves too hard.
He isn’t going to let Ben do that to himself.
Snoke calls for their closer and he warms up in the bullpen. The skipper jogs out to the mound, and the rest of the middle infield joins. Hux stands closest to Ben, trying to be an authoritative figure, despite his lack of height where he’s standing on the mound. Ben is trying to argue that he can finish this, but Hux tells him it’s time to sit down, now, go ice up with Phasma. There’s no argument when Hux says this, handing off the ball to the relief, and walking off the field.
There are no boos this time round. With a shutout first game, even a Dodgers fan would be stupid to boo that pitcher. It was unanimous: this kid is going to be legendary.
The rest of the game goes quickly. Concern bites at the back of Hux’ neck until he’s down in the clubhouse, and that concern turns into outright worry at the sound of someone shouting angrily in the showers. Hux bars the way down there for now and tells everybody to give him a few minutes before they all come down. He ventures toward the source.
It’s Ben, because of course it’s Ben. He’s squatted down in the corner of the showers, hands balled into his hair. He’s wearing everything still, but his spikes are back at his locker. He shouts again, and it sounds louder this time. It’s not actual words, just pained nonsense.
“Hey,” Hux says loudly. “Now’s not the time for that. You ball that shit up and shove it down somewhere until I tell you to let it out.” He commands this, and Ben rises to his full height. For a fleeting moment, Hux is worried Ben is going to turn that anger and frustration on him, but it only lasts a moment before that tension bleeds out of his shoulders in defeat. He hangs his head, his longish hair hanging in his eyes, shoulders pulled up not in anger but embarrassment. Hux gathers his composure. “Get undressed and shower. Quickly.” With that, he turns on his heel to tell the other players to come down but not go near the showers.
Hux flicks through his phone for a few minutes, when Ben comes back out with a towel around his waist. It’s the first time Hux has seen him in a state of undress, the dark freckles on his face just as prominent across his chest and shoulders. For a literal teenager, Ben is fucking fit. More fit than Hux was at a lanky, wiry 19. Hux cues to everyone else that it’s okay to shower now, taking his towel and striding in without a word.
Ben is dressed when Hux emerges once more. He’s in basketball shorts and a cutoff tank, and normally, Hux would scold a rookie for being in anything less than a shirt and slacks postgame, but Phasma had wrapped his arm up in ice right away. Phasma looks rather pissed off, actually, shooting glares across the room at Ben’s general direction.
The reporters start to trickle in, eyeing Ben with that same hunger as yesterday, only now, there are more of them. Hux wants to tell them to fuck off, but figures Ben needs a moment to say something for his pride.
“What are you going to tell them about tonight?” Hux asks as he gels his hair back the way it always is. It’s casual, and sets the tone for how Ben should speak.
“I don’t know. Felt on my game. Something like that.” He sounds rather defeated. Maybe Hux shouldn’t be looking at rock-climbing gyms and should just get his housemate plastered instead. Wait. No. Teenager. Fucking Americans .
“You should say something about feeling unleashed,” he suggests. “They’ll love that.”
“You’re encouraging me to be more dramatic? I was yelling at myself out there,” he says this in a slightly remorseful tone, of which Hux is equal parts proud of and worried for. He’s going to develop ulcers because of this rookie.
“No use letting them think you’re some subdued threat. You were throwing fire out there.” He shakes his head. “Do what you want.”
Ben is looking at him as he dresses. Not in a staring, stalkery, ‘I want to watch you sleep’ kind of way, but in an ‘I can’t believe you exist’ kind of way. Hux hasn’t really felt that from anyone in the clubhouse before. Fans, sure. But then again, Ben never failed to surprise.
When the reporters swarm around him with cameras and notepads and microphones, Ben has to take a few deep breaths. Hux watches him cross his arms and make a bit of room for himself. The kid’s biceps are huge. It was a way to keep from retreating into the locker.
Hux is more interested in Ben’s interview, so he keeps his remarks short and succinct so he can listen to his lockermate speak.
“...it was a completely different feeling, up there tonight. The energy from the fans definitely helped. From the get-go, I felt...unleashed.” Hux’ breath catches in his throat. He’s floored by this kid. As expected, the reporters fall on themselves for more quotes like this. Ben’s cool only wavers when he’s looking for the right word. Maybe Hux needs to give him a thesaurus. He wraps up over ten minutes later, when Phasma kicks the media out for good. Ben slumps down in his chair once they’re all out, and lets Phasma unwrap his arm. It’s bone-white and splotchy red in places, just from the cold. Hux is sure his own frigid hands are warmer than that.
“C’mon. Up. Going home now,” Hux announces, picking up not only his bag but Ben’s as well. Ben follows sluggishly after him.
Hux makes sure he’s taken care of. Ben just wants to go to sleep. It’s way past his bedtime. Blowing off steam can wait until tomorrow. For the moment, Hux manages to just get the rookie upstairs and out of his jeans (how are those legs so long ) before rolling him into bed. Ben is out like a light, effectively.
Hux stands there in the room with him for a time, longer than fifteen minutes but no longer than an hour, he’s sure, just watching Ben slip into his dreams. It’s the first time he’d seen the rookie sleep. They haven’t traveled together, yet, and won’t for another two days, but he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve even now, face creased with some confused emotion, hand jerking weakly by his face. He’s a heavy sleeper, Hux knows. The air conditioning kicks on and waves the curtains out of place, bathing Ben in moonlight. He’s breathless, watching this man in a bed in his house. Barely a man. Hux doesn’t ponder on his sick (surely, they must be) feelings for long, and leaves after that.
Ben is looking as bad as Hux thought he would the next day, nursing his left arm and moving slowly. “Little sore?” Hux teases lightly from where he’s making shakes for them both. He gets a groan in response, and hears his roommate put his head down on the cool countertop. “We’re going somewhere this morning,” he announces. “Not the gym.”
Hux insists that what they’re doing is a hike, though it feels more like a brisk walk amongst the most unstable ground Ben has ever had the chance to stand on. And he’d lived in San Francisco his whole life.
Ben doesn’t actually like the great outdoors. He likes baseball fields and raked dirt and manicured grass. The wild isn’t some place he ever found himself liking. He’d been camping in Big Sur with his family one year, but that had been a disaster and his father had almost burned down a national park.
Out here with Hux was different, however. Hux was always ahead of him, showing him the best path to take (after Ben thought he could do it his own way) on the trail. Ben found himself getting distracted by the gleaming copper tones in Hux’ hair, which was in a rare un-gelled state, hanging loose and soft around his face. His own hair was up in some bun-thing that Hux had initially scoffed at, but accepted as utilitarian.
When they make it to the top of the mountain, Ben is struck by the beauty looking out over the city. He knows the city is terrible and filled with smog and crime and...well, Los Angelenos, but there is no beautiful thing without flaws. In addition to his awe, he’s filled with a choking sense of homesickness, an ache that rivals the one in his shoulder and elbow even now.
He holds his breath as to not let Hux know he’s on the verge of tears, remembering Mount Tamalpais up north. The smog could be fog, and the yellow light could be the same shade as back home. Home. He hasn’t been home in over a week, and it’s been killing him. He’d been putting this all off for so long.
“How do you do it?” he asks. “Being away from home.” Ben is whispering.
Hux is looking at him, and Ben knows he’s less than a minute from just sobbing and seizing with heartache, but he steels his resolve and stares straight ahead.
“A lot of times, I don’t. Los Angeles has been my home for the last fourteen years, and I never really considered England home. Kind of comes with the territory of being an immigrant baseball player.”
Ben laughs, a sad, wet laugh. He brings a wrist up to his face, to stem off the mistiness in his eyes. He wishes he could be alone, just so he could be weak in peace. But Ben was already alone. He takes a shuddering breath and swears before he squats down again and covers his face with his hands.
Hux is frozen in place, watching this unfold. Ben falls back on his ass and keeps dashing tears from his cheeks, looking up at the skyline and down at the dirt in turn. He swears again and laughs in that same way as before. “I’m sorry,” he says between his gasping, but otherwise silent sobs.
“No. I get it,” Hux says, and he does. He’s been around the block quite a few times. He’s seen rookies break and get that steely look in their eyes, time and time again. Only this time, Hux actually feels bad for Ben. He doesn’t want that vulnerability to be erased from those eyes. He doesn’t want that rage from last night to leave, either. Both those things are a part of Ben that Hux would kill to keep. “Take your time, then let’s go back.”
Ben nods and doesn’t move, but has the decency to get up after five minutes, accepting a helping hand up from Hux. They descend the massive hill back to Hux’ Mercedes. The windows stay down and make Ben’s face feel tight with the dried tears on them. Hux keeps one forearm resting on the center console as they cruise down the freeway back home once more.
Teammates are starting to act like teammates around Ben, now. They don’t treat him like an actual rookie, what with the pink backpacks and the candy. He’s just one of the guys. Living with Hux has more perks than he’d thought initially. The other guys near his locker start getting to know him.
No one asks him about San Francisco.
Hux brings up that they’re flying out to travel tomorrow, and he should pack his bags. Ben nods and does so upstairs after dinner together. Their suitcases wait at the door together, and Ben doesn’t have anything to worry about.
The flight isn’t until noon, so they get to laze about longer than they usually do in the mornings. Neither of them are morning people, though Ben is at the age where he isn’t an evening person either. It’s strange to see Ben loafing around the condo like he actually lives there. Millicent even comes and sits on his chest where he’s laying down on the couch. Hux is doing some business things on his laptop at the counter a few feet away when he sees this.
He’d taken Millicent, then just a kitten, to Los Angeles with him after signing his first big contract. The cat had been a way of letting himself know that he was going to be there permanently. Hux didn’t attach himself to much. He only cared about the cat. Or so he thought.
Watching Hux play on the days Ben wasn’t pitching was a treat. The man was old, for a baseball player. At 34, the man stood just two inches shorter than Ben, but walked with such a secure air of superiority that it left the teen boggled. Just from being in the same league as him for a couple of months, he’d heard members of the Giants talk about him, how he’s the most stuck-up guy they’d ever met. Even for a Dodger.
However, Ben knew better than that. Hux was just a very professional man. He knew Hux would play baseball in a bespoke suit if he could get away with it. He’d still be the best shortstop in the National League.
Ben had even pitched against him a few times, last season. Not so much during the playoffs, when the Dodgers had just missed the cut. He doesn’t remember anything in particular about those times, no stand-out memories. He’d just been trying to play as hard as he could every day, show all his teammates he deserved to be there just like everybody else. Hux was a legend, a veteran. Ben remembers being determined .
Hux, however, remembers those few at-bats very well. He remembers watching tape of Ben prior to arriving in San Francisco for the series. He thought he was boring. If he knew what he was like then, he would have maybe tried to boost Ben’s confidence at the detriment of his own stats. At the plate was a different story. Ben was a whirlwind of movement, his windup similar to the style most of the pitchers from Japan had been privy to. His release looked like it was all over the place due to how much of his body he put into it. One misstep and the kid would go tumbling over. Ben used to be a disaster at the plate, unpredictably.
Watching Ben from his seat between second and third makes him feel lucky he doesn’t have to come face to face with that newfound intensity. It’s scary to look at. His windup is still just as full-body, but thanks to their pitching coach, he’s managed to lengthen his stride considerably, squaring up his shoulders almost perpendicular to the direction of his hips. He looks like Lincecum out there. In his prime, at least.
Ben never had time to spare a thought for his other teammates when he was out on the mound representing the Dodgers. He just wanted to destroy anyone that came up to bat.
But up on the lip those next four days, Ben’s eyes never leave Hux’ figure. Memorizing his stance, the pattern of movements he went through, the code to communicate with the other infielders and even back with Snoke. Ben is perceptive; he caught on fast. Even the way he interacts with the others off the field is intriguing. Ben is too shy to be social anywhere but near the lockers or back in their condo.
Hux is on his game tonight. For whatever reason, the Diamondbacks want blood. Every hack to the ball that made contact is swung round to the left, making Hux dash this way and that for it seemingly every batter up. Two outs into the top of the seventh, Hux makes a diving catch that ends in a full somersault—and catches Ben’s breath. All eyes are on that stretch of dirt Hux is laying on.
Suddenly, a glove lifts straight up, securely showing the line drive Hux had in his hands. The man looked downright exhausted, laying in the dirt like that. Ben wonders how much longer he can do it. Possibly the whole night. That would be interesting later.
(Ben and Hux had been chosen as roommates for the Diamondbacks series. Entirely coincidental.)
When he rises from his dirt nap (and Ben only snickers a little bit) Ben actually laughs at the state of him. The once-and-always pristine and clean housemate Ben is used to is now covered and stained a light dusty brown color, from the sides of his calves to the tops of his thighs and all up his back and shoulders and all in his hair. His hat is knocked a bit sideways, too. It’s an image Ben files away under ‘happy thoughts’ and leaves alone.
Hux comes down into the dugout and Ben notices the scrapes up his forearms and his elbows, a little raw but not bloody. His jaw has a few ticks on it, but nothing too serious. A strange sort of heat invades Ben’s gut, pooling low and deep and consistent. He can’t shake the feeling. Hux meets his eyes, now a brilliant, vivid blue that pierces him in place before moving on to something else.
Phasma is checking over his scrapes as Ben continues to watch sneakily from his spot on the lip. He prefers to be directly between the two sets of stairs up. It gives him a broader view of what is going on rather than being directly at one end or the other. Hux is going to be fine, by Phasma’s indication. Ben feels rather than sees him approach.
“Saw you laughing,” he says as a greeting. He usually stands by Hux, but apparently tonight is different.
“It was hard not to when you look that mad about a little dirt,” Ben teases.
“I am not—” Hux goes to protest, which only serves to make Ben laugh again. Hux pushes a hand through his hair, breaking up the gel and the dirt. It leaves him looking a little like a hot mess. Ben knows the scrapes on Hux’ jaw will need time to heal, which means Hux wouldn’t be shaving the next couple of days. It’s things like that Ben notices.
They stay that way, together, the remainder of the game. When the Dodgers win, it’s no doubt thanks to Hux’ quick thinking and endless determination in the face of the Diamondbacks’ unexplainable beef with him. The only thing a target can do in defiance of a bullet is stay standing.
That night in the hotel room is quiet, save for the air conditioning chugging along at work.
Hux is staring up at the smooth stucco ceiling. The design of the hotel is southwestern, as most things are in Arizona, he’s observed. He only ever is there for three reasons: he’s playing the Diamondbacks, he’s in Spring Training, or he’s there for a layover. It’s miserably hot all year round, so he wouldn’t dream of going there for any reason vice business.
He can’t sleep. He’s too nervous sleeping in the same room as Ben, almost like he’d be a bad influence on him. Or something in that vein. He wants to roll over and ask if Ben is awake, which, of course he is, it’s only around 9:30 and they’d jumped back a timezone. Furthermore, Ben is thinking rather loudly, and his breathing hadn’t evened out in the way it had on the plane when Hux had sat next to him. Not only is Hux wide awake, he’s restless, like the four hours of the game that night hadn’t happened.
Fed up with just laying there , Hux sits up and rubs roughly at his eyes. He can feel Ben looking at him. It’s become a familiar sensation the last three weeks. Normally it would rub him the wrong way, but there’s something inflating about Ben wanting to keep his eyes on him.
“You can’t sleep either?” Ben asks, his voice small and shy. He doesn’t sound sleepy at all, like Hux would have hoped he would. It’s not like he has a start this series. He doesn’t have to really look out for the kid at all.
“No. Why aren’t you asleep?” Hux can’t help the bite of his words.
Ben almost seems to shrink away at that. “I dunno.” He shrugs half-heartedly. “I might go to the gym.”
“Nonsense. We’re going out.” Hux doesn’t want to give Ben the impression that he makes a habit of harboring a flip-flop attitude, so he aims for a more positive self. Ben waits a moment before following Hux’ lead and getting out of bed. They both pull on jeans and shirts, the typical fare of the average baseball player, before Hux is calling a cab down to the hotel.
The latch on the door seems too loud at this time of night, and Ben winces as they walk side-by-side to the elevators. He looks behind them at the empty hall, expecting some grizzled vet to poke their head out and shake his fist at them for being up past ten. Hux doesn’t seem to mind, walking into the gold box of their elevator as soon as the doors slide open.
It’s quiet for nearly ten minutes until Hux speaks up to tell the cabbie to take them to the nearest movie theater that’s open. The drive involves Ben picking at his fraying jeans and Hux pushing his hands off, subduing him.
Hux buys them both tickets to whatever’s showing next, and they walk in. Ben hasn’t said a word since they were back in the hotel, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s late at night, Ben doesn’t know what to say this late at night anyway. He’s usually asleep. The movie turns out to be some thriller, the third in its franchise. Ben has his reservations, but tells Hux he’s going to go get popcorn. It’s a solid deflection, and gives him something to do other than sit there and be scared. Hux doesn’t say anything when Ben buys it, but takes a handful whenever Ben offers.
It’s hard to hide how jumpy of a person Ben is, especially once the movie edges toward the climax. They’d both eaten through the medium bag of popcorn, the waxy, buttery paper discarded on the empty seat next to them. Hux actually yawns, which makes Ben feel kind of worse, eyes flicking from his lap to Hux (and occasionally peeking up at the screen through his hair).
He makes an almost-squawking noise when Hux pulls him in, an arm around his shoulders. He’s forced to kick his legs up on the seats next to him, the back of his head coming to rest in Hux’ lap. Ben is stiff as a board until Hux starts carding his (probably salty) fingers through his hair slowly. The tips of those calloused fingers tease gently at Ben’s scalp, never staying in one place for long. Ben tunes out almost instantly, his body’s exhaustion catching up with his strung-out mind. Hux sighs, and Ben can feel the faint breath upon his skin. He’s wrapped in such comfort and relaxation, he’s dismayed when Hux is shaking his shoulder to get him up. He’d fallen asleep through the entire movie.
It wouldn’t be Hux without some snarky remark.
“Usually when my dates fall asleep on me, I’m a little miffed, but I think you’re the only exception.”