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Patron Saint >> Writer!Armitage Hux X Assistant!Reader

Title: Patron Saint

Paring: Writer!Armitage Hux X Assistant!Reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, but other than that, no. Mostly fluff

Spoilers: no

Author's note: Named after my favourite Regina Specktor song, Patron Saint. 

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The typing never seemed to cease. Armitage Hux was a very studious man, and an acclaimed author, following in the footsteps of his father, who held the same name as himself. From sunup, to sundown, he rose and stayed by the laptop, his thin fingers fast across the keys. There were not many people who could be in his vicinity - the writer said people were distractions, and being in and around the race of men and their lives was tedious. The only people who truly interacted with Armitage was his editor, Kylo Ren, and you, his assistant. 

The thing was, being an assistant to the most prestigious name in every bookstore across the country meant one thing; you too were by Armitage's side, for every waking moment of his life. It meant waking an hour before daybreak, and fetching a coffee from Martin downtown in the deli cafe (who opened earlier because of your habit, and a good bottle of wine every year), you would make it to his penthouse above the sprawling city, and go quick to work. 

Today, as you make it past security (as always, greeting Josie on your way up) and into Armitage Hux Jnr's foyer, you shiver. Not from anticipation, or lack thereof; the large window that looks over the city is open, and blows a breeze upon the entire of the room, blowing the paper-plated tables and shelves around. 

"Mr Hux!" You shout. 

At once, you rush to the window, and dropping the fetched coffee onto the kitchen bench, you stumble over your feet to the glass. With a shove, the window is closed once again, and the great winds of the city are not inside the interior of the penthouse. Your eyes search the open plan; your eyes are wide, as well as your mouth. 

"Mr Hux - where -," your eyes catch a glint of red, folded upon the couch. "Sir?"

There's a grumble, and treading carefully over the sheets of manuscript, you find him. Armitage Hux is in an odd position, curled into his tall form like a kitten with separation anxiety from its mother. There is facial hair growing where it hadn't been a day ago, and his neat crop of red locks is wild like fire. Beside him tipped sideways on the carpet, is many a bottle empty of whiskey. They are staining the design an unpleasant shade of brown. For a moment, you consider your employer; should you leave him to his imminent hangover? Tidy and return later?

No. 

Your employer's eye opens a crack, his bright cyan eyes assessing you in a groggy state. 

"Miss _______?" he groans, rising from his position, shoulders up first. "What - time is it?" 

You take a glance around the dirtied place, and then to your wrist watch. "It's five minutes past six, Mr Hux, sir," you reply, and watching him straighten his form, you wince as he sways. "What happened, sir?" 

"I write words," Armitage Hux whispers.

His eyes lock with yours, and in them, you see a melancholy you haven't seen in ... years. Not since you had first came to work for him, when he had been a newly made book-writer, and you had been hired by his father to become 'proper' like himself. He had been a small, scrawny thing, mimicking his father's stern tone, excising a schedule that even for you as a studied writer yourself, seemed outlandish. He had looked at you with his wide, green eyes that sparked such pity inside your stomach, and now, the same look is there again.