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Matched	By : HarrisHawk Category: Star Wars (All) > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 1310 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The clock struck eight and he was already waiting, punctual and exact but of course, you had to be fashionably late.
You had chatted moderately on Tinder, exchanged phone numbers to text but neither of you really took up that option. Tinder was less demanding; there would be only one tinkle of the notification maybe an hour after the message was received and no tell-tale tick to show the message had been read. It was conveniently less committal than texting but when you did take the time, the conversation was vague; inquiring about each other's days, the weather and other such silly things. It seemed unspoken that you would save the real conversation for the first meeting and that night had finally arrived.
Nervous? No, not you. You had a flare for confidence and commanding attention; your job demanded it and why should your love life be any different? He bid you to meet him at the Savoy at 8pm and while he waited, you still lazily watched the passing scenes of progress beyond the windows of the taxi. The Savoy…. You remembered telling him you didn’t eat out much, you suggested he choose; but you didn’t think he’d choose like this. How were you to know that he’d only been there a few nights previous with another companion? Would you have cared? Of course not! You were being wined and dined by one of the best surgeons in the country and in one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in the city! Did he have a reason for bringing you here? …….Maybe.
“Doctor.” You greeted flawlessly when his head swiveled to the clicking of your heels on the pavement. He took in everything; your hair, your outfit, your make-up and of course, your self-assurance. Perhaps that was the most attractive thing but would you ever know?
“Doctor.” The reply was similar and reserved as he closed the distance between you. Clasping your outstretched hand as expected but lifting it to his lips instead; an unorthodox action that you responded to with a flirtatious smirk that put the redhead on a knife-like edge. Let the games begin. “Shall we?”

He was charming, complimentary and noticeably better looking than in his Tinder photos. No matter what you said or did, he watched and listened with a patient and interested curiosity but there was something about him... Something familiar.... You had never had surgery at Snoke's nor had you visited anyone there. True, you had been born there but you doubted your memory stretched that far and he only had two or three years on you at most. Had you seen him out and about? Perhaps but in such a large city with millions of people, it was highly unlikely. You both disliked nightclubs, opting for a quiet pub (like the one you had lured Poe from) but you would have remembered him. Maybe it wasn't his face or anything physical about him; it could have easily been a trait or something equally invisible.

“Favourite method of torture?” It was almost cheerful as he sliced through that expensive slab of flesh, the faint dribble of blood seeping down onto the plate bothered neither of you. The questions had evolved from the basic first date chit-chat of where you had grown up to what led you to your respective fields and taken a more exciting turn.
“Oh you can’t make me answer that!” You protested playfully, having swallowed your own barely cooked mouthful and a splash of red wine to compliment the pinkened flesh. “It’s like asking me to choose between my children!” He gave no physical reaction to you mentioning children on a first date but internally, you recoiled. Did you even want children? Hard to know but your current lifestyle certainly wouldn’t accommodate them. He chewed away happily (seeming to have abandoned his previously uptight demeanour, having grown comfortable in your presence) but watched with intensity and expectancy for an answer from across the table. First execution then disease and now torture, he had indeed proved his stomach was cast iron and his interest keen; not just on the topic of conversation but on the impressive woman in his sights.
“Oh come now! I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours!” Between the flowing alcohol and the undeniable compatibility; Hux had more than relaxed and truth be told? So had you. Another generous mouthful renewed his confidence to gaze upon you and encourage you to answer yet another sick question, not the first to be batted back and forth that evening; how blessed you both were that the restaurant was almost empty! “You know I’m far from sensitive, (Y/N), out with it!”
“Fine!” The muffled chuckle that greeted your faux pout did not go unnoticed, it was merely recognition of getting his own way but also….. He found it rather cute. Mopping up some marrowbone sauce with half a roast potato, his eyes found yours while both rows of teeth worked in tandem to pulverize it and reduce it to swallowing consistency; for such a thin man, he was quite fond of his food. “Have you ever heard of scaphism?” His face melted into a curious frown and you could probably assume that to be a negative.
“I don’t think I have.” He replied thoughtfully, pausing another forkful and maintaining his polished manners of never speaking with his mouth full. With no doubt that he was an intelligent man (who could come off as quite obnoxious at times), he was not ashamed when he didn’t know something. “I’m assuming it’s delightfully disturbing? Are you going to tell me about it or do I have to be rude and Google it?”
“Oh it is.” You promise with a wise, knowing incline of your head that only appeared to intrigue him further. “It’s so wonderfully disgusting and cruel, you may almost feel sorry for your victim.”
“You do know how to capture the intrigue!” He chortles with a pause of his fork; the look alone was flattery in itself. “But I’m dying to hear!”
“Very well.” You concede gracefully once another chunk of meat had met the required consistency for swallowing; it seemed he wouldn’t be pawned off any longer. “Scaphism is exceptionally slow and no doubt agonizing. It can take days.” He paused his elegant but enthusiastic swig of wine in another show of attentiveness but you continued as he obviously wanted you to do. “It’s an ancient Persian tradition of execution but I think the mere thought of it is enough to make anyone tell you what you want to know. The checklist might seem a little tedious but I promise, it’s more than worth it.” He knew you were teasing him just then to cut yourself another sliver and took to swirling his wine while you took your time. “The first thing you need is copious amounts of honey and milk to induce a severe case of diarrhea in your ‘interviewee’-“
“Interviewee!” He repeated with another good-natured titter, as if you were discussing the playful antics of puppies and kittens rather than arguably one of the most brutal execution methods to be conceived by the human mind. “I’m sorry, that’s wonderful and I’m sure I have milk and honey lying around at home somewhere. Please go on.”
“Ah but do you have a swamp and two boats at your disposal? Because if you do, I’ll be very impressed.” As if snatched by the opportunity to impress you but finding himself cornered by his lack of a swamp or indeed boats, his eyes heightened to yours but he remained silent. “I thought not. The purpose of the diarrhea is to render the victim not only dehydrated but also exceptionally smelly. I suppose the extra coating of milk on the body helps with the attraction of insects before they are tied between two boats in the center of the swamp.” Hux had stopped chewing, almost as if what he was hearing was too good to be true. There was that spark in his eye, that undeniable arousal and little were you to know that it was such a vile topic of conversation paired with the knowledgeable and prepossessing woman opposite him that piqued it.
“Between whatever is hiding beneath the surface of the water and the airborne insects, the victim spends the day having their flesh nibbled, bitten and eaten which makes for quite an unpleasant experience, wouldn’t you say?”
“Thrillingly so! But surely that’s not it?”
“Goodness no!” Another grateful gulp of the rich liquid (you had seen the wine list, none of it was cheap but he had selected the bottle and so you remained ignorant of the actual cost) wet your mouth to enable you to resume your gruesome recounting. “So, as you can imagine, the sanitary conditions in swamp water are non-existent.” His agreement was nodded through a mouthful of potato; if anyone knew about sterility and wounds, it was him. “The mouths of whatever bit them are hardly clean so infection is an inevitability and when the day is done, they are brought back to shore, fed more milk and honey only to repeat the process again the next day until death occurs. And that, my dear Doctor, is scaphism.” Exceptionally pleased with the look of almost dumfounded fascination, you drained the bottle into your glass and he made no move to stop you. “Now you have to tell me yours.”
“Well….” His throat was cleared to free himself when he realized just how truly stunned he appeared to be and a wipe of a white linen napkin to clear his lips of crimson. “My favourite form of torture and/or execution was rat torture. You know the one, I’m sure? Using a heated bucket to drive rats through the gut of the victim?”
“Eating their way through stomach and intestines? I do, I wrote a paper on it.”
“Yes, well, truth be told, I only know it from seeing it on Game of Thrones.” The confession was lighthearted with a shrug and a sweet grimace to match before his eyes found yours again with the previous intensity. “But I think I have a new favourite.”
“Stick with me, Doctor, and I’ll open your mind.” You assured him with a raising of your glass to a toast in which he joined you. “Not literally though, that’s your job.” The joke went down well, as did the rest of the main course. Dessert menus soon followed and though you tried to decline, he was terribly insistent. Black cherry, vanilla and Kirsch baked Alaska seemed too good to be missed and he agreed to join you in it.
“We need more wine as well.” He informed the waiter who had just taken the dessert order; a dark haired, neat young man clearly trying to pay his way through college. Scanning the wine list, he wanted something luxurious. “Bring us two glasses of the Petrus 1996, thank you.” The end of the sentence was punctuated with a sharp snap of the wine list as it shut and handed aloft for the much younger man to take.
“But sir, that’s-“
“I know exactly what it is, Thanisson. Bring two glasses as I doubt your manager will be overly pleased with you refusing a loyal customer for the sake of a few thousand pounds! Go!” The look of irritation was swift but the composure took over quickly. Had you gotten a very quick glance at a temper? A temper it wouldn’t suit him for you to know he had? You remained unmoved by it though there seemed to be a twinge of awkwardness that he broke by excusing himself to the restroom.

“Give her the red stemmed glass, I’ll take the black. I need to be able to tell them apart.” Out of your view at the cocktail bar, the surgeon conversed quietly and hurriedly with the waiter; an accomplice. The restaurant had emptied but paranoia bit at him as he craned his neck in the direction of the table where you placidly swiped left and right on the screen of your phone. Only a few grains of the powdered substance would be all it would take and so the granules found themselves tumbling into the red stemmed glass while the black was safe. The hesitation and regret in the waiter was momentary and only lasted until a bundle of notes were pressed into his hand and subsequently weaseled into the black linen shirt of his uniform. “Don’t spend it all on weed this time, Thanisson, will you? Take the glasses over, I need the restroom.” It might not have been so clear to you but to Hux, the choice in venue was obvious; behind the scenes help.

Your phone was politely stowed away when you noticed his imminent return to the table. The glasses had been set down though you had yet to sample the dark crimson inside; you opted to wait for your host and he didn’t keep you waiting. No sooner had the glasses met the table, he returned to you and resumed his seat though for some reason, his attention turned to the glasses rather than you. It was only a brief distraction, of course, but noticeable all the same. He brushed it off, however, and conversation picked up where it had been left off. Something wasn’t right, he had been focused on you before but never like this; this was far more intense…. As if he was waiting for something.
Suddenly…. You recognized it. Something you couldn’t put your finger on earlier but now you saw it…. The same thing you admired in yourself in the mirror every morning, especially after a match. Predation. But… Ohhhh….
His head tilted involuntarily while you returned the intensity and picked up your glass. Holding it elegantly by the stem, you began to swirl it and with every twist of your wrist, his head seemed to resist rotating a small circle to follow you. What he also didn’t seem to realize is that you were playing with him. Your free index finger wetted itself in your mouth without removing your eyes from him before tracing along the rim of the glass to make it sing. His trance deepened by the unwavering eye contact and the physical rigidity when you lifted the glass to your lips but stopped and watched him loosen when you stopped but his gaze never faltered.
“Smells very rich.” You murmur coyly as he deflated when the base of your glass rested on the table once more. “I couldn’t possibly….” His face became unreadable but if pressed, you could see a mixture of dread, fear and rage compiling in his features as your finger dipped and stirred in the dark red liquid. “Oh but…. What’s this?” Like a child, uncomprehending, he stared at the transformation that took place on your fingertip; as the nail slowly changed from a generic red to an incriminating purple. “Oh Doctor. Tut tut.” For a moment, he said nothing; just sullenly refused to look away from the glass that had betrayed him, as if trying to calculate what had happened. You waited. Waited for something, anything and you had almost given up until a meek but bold voice disrupted your wait; it also gave you great satisfaction to see he had paled significantly.
“What are you going to do?” It was his turn to wait and wait for an answer you would make him. Instead, you continued to swirl the contents of the glass and the wine inside that could potentially be deadly, depending on the attacker’s mood. But now the attacker was cornered and his fate hung in the balance of your twisted imagination and vile sense of revenge.
“I could do a number of things.” You answered casually after a torturously long pause, anything to make him squirm and the vagueness seemed to do that. The extension in the silence was accidental as the young waiter returned with the desserts though neither of you could tear your gazes away from each other. While you remained passively flirty for the sake of the waiter and his impressions, Hux tried not to look utterly terrified; you put it down to never being caught before. Neither of you touched your third course, even after Thanisson had bowed himself away; Armitage, the confident surgeon, wanted to hear what you had in store. “I could call the police…..” He shifted in his seat and opened his mouth to protest but words failed him; you continued regardless with nonchalance. “I could have this entire place shut down but that’s too mild. Let me see here….” Eyes cast to the ceiling in playful thought and glass still in hand you already knew what you were going to do. The swallow from across the table was both audible and visible though he let nothing else slip past the guard he had built in the last few moments. "Or I could do what you intended to do and use my imagination." Those speckled characteristics melted into confusion when your arm stretched across the table to hold the glass of tampered wine out to him. “Drink it.”
You thought it would take more persuasion. And really, why should he trust you? What was to stop you doing all those things while he was incapacitated? Absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, he seized the glass and anchored his eyes with yours while he chugged down every poisoned drop. It wasn’t sophisticated or dignified, quite the opposite of his portrayal of himself since his arrival, if anything. But you entertained it; watched it with blatant satisfaction and echoes of it in your smirk. A reverberating clunk rang in the empty restaurant when the base of the glass hit the table. A very slight pant ruffled in his chest as he stared you down and stood by for the next instruction.
“Give me your phone.” Again, he complied without delay and soon, the latest (pristine) iPhone sat beside your forgotten dessert. You found his address, put it into your own phone and he did nothing to stop you. He placidly took back the phone when you handed it but somehow, you felt the docility was not of choice but from the drugs working their way from the inside out. When you stood, his vision followed you as if trying to fathom your movements but like a newborn deer, he too shuffled to his feet with the intention of blindly following you. “Let’s go.”

On occasion, you honed your acting skills in your lectures. Whether it was sharpening an axe with one beady eye on your students or recreating the screams common in a torture chamber, it made the lesson come alive which is why the seats were always filled and there were usually a few stragglers standing at the back. Now though, those skills were just for one person – the taxi driver.
“Are you free?!” You scrambled to the driver window in a faux panic that would have made any Oscar winner envious. For show, you glanced to where Hux sat slumped against a wall with his back scraping off the railings behind. “My boyfriend! They spiked my boyfriend! They were trying to get me but got the wrong drink!” Hux’s eyes were flickering and his mouth hung agape; the taxi driver leaned back in his seat to look and immediately, the key was turned in the ignition.
“Does he need to go to the hospital?!” You had already left the window and were now trying to adjust your arms around him to support him like any good girlfriend would – until the taxi man came to your aid. Then, you just hung back “worried” while the middle-aged male tried to wrestle your dead-weight date into the back of the car.
“No, I’m a nurse!” You lied again, careful to keep the alarm alive in your tone for the sake of performance. “I can look after him, I just need to get him home! That’s the address!” You handed him the phone with the address on the screen under the heading ‘Home’ before slipping into the backseat to pretend to make a fuss of the surgeon; even shedding a few petrified tears for good measure.

The sinister meowing of a lone cat echoed from somewhere deep in the bowels of the townhouse. The taxi driver would have given you faith in humanity if you were looking for it when he helped you support the now almost unconscious Hux up into his bedroom though you tipped him well for it. With him gone, you had scope for your mind to roam: “What to do with you?” While he stirred and fought to open his eyes, you turned him on his stomach as for him to choke on his own puke would be a terrible waste. But what’s the worst thing any woman can do to an insatiable man? You turned on your heel and clipped out, leaving only a note and a waft of perfume behind.
Call me when you can stomach me. You and I have a lot to discuss.
Goodnight, Doctor. x
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