Chapter Text
The gym smelled of stale sweat and rotting wood. Built into an old warehouse downtown, it was sparsely filled with old, slightly rusted weights equipment and grumpy old men not ready to admit they were past their prime. The middle of the gym housed the boxing ring, its floor worn and torn in places, but it was good enough. Solo had spent an hour working on the weights, and had done a punishing forty-five minutes on the punching bag. He couldn’t feel his knuckles bleeding through the hand-wraps, but he could see deep red seeping through the white and transferring onto the leather of the punching bag. Any longer and Phasma would kick his ass for trashing her bags. He stopped, picked his water bottle up off the ground and sat on a nearby bench, watching a few of the younger members scrap in the middle of the ring.
Phas appeared nearby, leaning a knee on the bench he was crouched on, “Bad day?
“No more so than usual.”
“Looked like you wanted to murder the bag.”
“Better the bag than someone in the street.”
“Can’t argue with that logic. You can replace it if it gets Hep C though.”
“I’ll wipe it down. Get off my ass.”
She huffed in a way that said, ‘you fucking better’, the gym was constantly under health code inspections, and while they technically passed every time, Ben wasn’t sure how many other gyms in the city had weekly inspections. He waited for his heart rate to settle, before grabbing a bottle of the disinfectant off the wall and wiping the bag down, taking care to clear off the spots of dried blood. He looked up at the ring again, and shook his head, he’d have to call it quits today. His muscles ached and his anger was all but gone for the time being, getting in the ring would just be a waste of energy before tomorrow. Heading for the showers, he grabbed his sweat towel and his water bottle. Phasma nodded at him as he made his way to the change rooms, a nod that said ‘god you’re a prick, see you tomorrow’. She was as good as it got in terms of gym owners and managers. He wasn’t about to complain, but if he had to he would say that Phasma was a bit of a cunt.
Showered and changed into his standard all black attire, Ben made his way outside through the warehouse doors and into the alleyway. His bike was parked nearby in his usual spot. Matte black and as angry looking as he felt, the motorbike felt like an extension of him. He rode home, weaving his way through the Takodana traffic, earning himself a few angry shouts to which he replied with a middle finger. Home was as empty as the gym. A television mounted on the wall, a couch suitable for just him, exposed beams and brick walls, a kitchen with only the bare essentials, the place barely felt inhabitable, but it was his. No one could take that from him. He pulled a pre-cooked meal from the stack in the fridge, roasted beef and a pile of vegetables he’d prepared on Sunday. Ben was sick of eating the same meal every day, but it was the nutrition his body needed, especially before tomorrows big fight.
It was a grudge match. He needed to win it. The last time he and Hux had faced off, Ben had KO’d him in the second round and Hux had vowed revenge. It was standard protocol for boxing. Only, that had been over a year ago, and Hux had new management since then - Snoke. Ruthless, coldhearted, and bloodthirsty, Snoke had it out for Ben ever since he found a way to void their contract six years ago. He’d rather be managed by Phasma who didn’t care if Ben ate or slept like a fucking racoon, than by Snoke who had controlled his every waking moment. It wasn’t that Solo didn’t think he could beat Hux, it’s that he was worried what might happen if he did. Snoke was vicious. Didn’t like to lose, and didn’t take it lying down. Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he came home to find a group of masked bastards taking a tire iron to all of his meagre belongings before going for his shins. Another complicating matter was the publicity. Ben fought minor league. He had no intention of going major, he didn’t fight for money or for fame, but because he was good at it. That had been part of his disagreement with Snoke all those years ago - he’d wanted to turn him into some money-making machine, and Ben had wanted none of it. Snoke had turned his family against him, his friends, isolated him from everything he knew, and it took Ben having his collarbone snapped in a fight he had been out of his depth for, for Ben to realise it.
Ben Solo could beat Armitage Hux. The only question was, was it worth it?
Unfortunately, it was too late to back out. Instead, he drank a glass of neat whiskey, and went to bed and slept dreamlessly.
oOo
The crowd was filling the arena slowly but surely. Some people got there early to get drinks and try and steal seats that weren’t in their assigned rows. Ben had bought a pair of noise cancelling headphones, and did as he always did pre-fight, sat in the change room and listened to a playlist he’d made years ago. It was tradition - or superstition - he didn’t dwell on it. He checked the bench next to him - water, mouth guard, hand wrap, gloves. Anxiously, he stood up and evaluated his appearance in the mirror. He’d pulled his hair back into a half-up arrangement, his black shorts sat at his waist, and the gold detailing on the band read ‘KYLO REN’. He sat back down on the bench, flicking through songs on his phone. A message popped up, reminding him he’d forgotten to put the thing on flight mode.
Han
Good luck tonight.
Ben grimaced. He didn’t like the idea of his parents knowing about his fights. He didn’t like the idea of his parents knowing anything about his life. He quickly switched the phone to flight mode, and flicked through the songs again before finding something that worked. Ben leant down, untied and retied his shoes again. Phas appeared in his periphery, and she waved him towards the door. It was time.
oOo
The news was playing it before the EMT call came through the emergency room phone. The EMT’s said - Incoming trauma, confirmed head injury, GCS 7 hypertensive, bradycardic - increased intracranial pressure. The news said - “Hux’s lowbrow hit sends Ren to hospital”. Rey was gowning up as the ambulance pulled into the ramp, the senior resident was taking the handover from the paramedics - 34 year old male, boxer, took a punch to the back of the head about twenty minutes ago, loss of consciousness on the scene and has been drifting in and out of consciousness since, GCS 9 on the scene and now is 7, no other wounds. Combative and agitated - likely due to the intracranial pressure. The man had soft restraints at his wrists, clearly he’d had a go at fighting the paramedics.
“Niima, call OR 4 and page neuro,” The senior resident ordered. Rey was already reaching for the wall phone, asking the switchboard to put her through to the surgical theatres, “When you’re done, we need to sedate him, he’s going to raise that pressure if he gets any more agitated.” Rey nodded, letting her know she understood. The OR was booked and neurosurgery had been paged, she quickly accessed the emergency sedatives by using her code to unlock the drawer, quickly drawing up the drug and wiping his arm with an alcohol wipe, pushing the sedative through. Within moments he began to calm, and the monitors on his chest showed the slowing of his heart rate, and Rey breathed a sigh of relief - better, but not out of the woods yet. She had the confirmation from neuro come to her pager, and she let the team know they were ready to operate. She watched as they wheeled the gurney into the elevator, the doors closing. Rey always hated this part. He’d go to surgery, he’d either make it or he wouldn’t, but she would never find out. She hated working shifts in emergency, and thanked the Force she had only one more week left in emergency before she rotated to another unit in the hospital.