Chapter Text
20/1/3652 CSCY
1911h
Chat: fox intervention
Members: Brigadier Commander CC-5052, 327th Star Corps [blyb (they/them)], Marshall Commander CC-6454, 4th Systems Army [pomd (he/him)], Marshal Commander CC-3636, 2nd Systems Army [Woof (they/them)]
3/3 members online
Woof (they/them): I think we should bring his commanders into this conversation
Woof (they/them): Who’s his cmo
pomd (he/him): checking
pomd (he/him): cc 5869
Woof (they/them): I’m going to add them
blyb (they/them): :humanoid_thumbs_up:
pomd (he/him): wait
Woof (they/them): Waiting.
pomd (he/him): bly DO NOT say anything about how much better you think they have it on coruscant
pomd (he/him): will not be received well
blyb (they/them): :humanoid_thumbs_down:
blyb (they/them): fine.
[Marshal Commander CC-3636, 2nd Systems Army [Woof (they/them)] has added Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-9362, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] to the chat.]
blyb (they/them): hi! we r commander fox’s batchmates
blyb (they/them): we r very worried abt him and we wanted to talk to you abt it
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): fox is fine.
pomd (he/him): @Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] disagree
blyb (they/them): i didn’t even say what was wrong yet?????
blyb (they/them): anyway im pretty sure he’s psychotic right now
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): I am fox’s chief medical officer. even if something was wrong, I would not disclose it. we have a little something called ‘privacy’ here on coruscant.
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): commanders, this is frankly none of your business
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] has left the chat.]
[Marshal Commander CC-3636, 2nd Systems Army [Woof (they/them)] has added Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-9362, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-9362 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] to the chat.]
Woof (they/them): Fox is not behaving in a rational manner at the moment. If you care about him or about performing your duty as CMO then you would recognise this
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): oh fuck you
Woof (they/them): I was thinking that it might be a delayed trauma response to his final campaign?
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): fuck you fuck you fuck you
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): you don't know what the kark you're talking about
[Marshall Commander CC-6454, 4th Systems Army [pomd (he/him)] has sent 4 images.]
pomd (he/him): read this
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] is typing…]
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] is typing…]
pomd (he/him): please.
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] is typing…]
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): FUCK.
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-9362 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] has added Commander CC-8734, Coruscant Guard [CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they)].]
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): hey what the fuck is this
blyb (they/them): oh thank the force i was beginning 2 think all of u messaged like fox does
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): you mean having some modicum of professionalism in official communications?
blyb (they/them): SEE
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): literally what vod’e has said thank the force ever
pomd (he/him): bly is in love with their jetii and she’s rubbing off on them. next question
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): oh ok noted
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): my next question is what the fuck is going on
blyb (they/them): nvm i take it back you message like fox if he stopped being enough of a sucker to quit texting like hes sending an official request for 3 minutes
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): ok.
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): stone if you don’t tell me what’s going on in the next thirty seconds i am leaving this chat and blocking every single person in it
Woof (they/them): Check the message history
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): we can’t see message history. you’ll have send the screenshots again.
blyb (they/them): come off it that is actual banthashit. whats your problem. why would you lie about that that is such a weird fucking thing to lie about lol
[Commander CC-8734, Coruscant Guard [CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they)] has sent an image.]
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] has sent an image.]
blyb (they/them): oh?.???.??….???? whats wrong with your comms
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): there’s nothing wrong with them and this is an irrelevant conversation to the matter at hand.
blyb (they/them): you have a different model of comm system though????????
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): and.
blyb (they/them): and that shit is meant to be standard across the entire gar the fuck
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): we aren’t gar.
[Marshall Commander CC-6454, 4th Systems Army [pomd (he/him)] has sent 4 images.]
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): ohhhh shit
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): i didn’t think it was that bad
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): i thought he was just being an asshole bc he hasn’t been able to get his hands on any stims
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): well. mostly
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): wait wait wait I thought he cleared vos?
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): I thought we liked vos??
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): we do. I asked him to intercept Fox and you know I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t trust him. he’s fine.
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): clearly fox doesn’t think so
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] is typing…]
blyb (they/them): VOS?????? YOU MEAN QUINLAN VOS???????????????????? JEDI MASTER QUINLAN VOS????????????????????????????????????
Woof (they/them): Commander Thorn would you mind elaborating on what you meant by ‘that bad’
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): NO
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): THORN
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): DO NOT
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): they’re his batch though?
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): thorn.
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): ok ok good point
blyb (they/them): one of you needs to answer my question when fox said 'my jedi' was he talking about quinlan vos.
blyb (they/them): [replied to message (CC-8734 'Thorn' (he/they): ok ok good poi..)] the kriff does this mean ????????
CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him): thank you for bringing this matter to our attention. we’ll bring it up with commander fox.
pomd (he/him): please encourage him to see jetii mind healer
CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they): vod if you want him dead you could just say that there’s no need for all this song and dance
blyb (they/them): YOU TOO????????????????????
[Commander CC-8734, Coruscant Guard [CC-8734 ‘Thorn’ (he/they)] has left the chat.]
[Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)] has left the chat.]
20/1/3652 CSCY
1938h
Brigadier Commander CC-5052, 327th Star Corps [blyb (they/them)], Chief Medical Officer Commander CC-5869, Coruscant Guard [CMO CC-5869 ‘Stone’ (he/him)]
[This profile has restricted who is able to contact them.]
blyb (they/them): IS FOX'S JEDI QUINLAN VOS????????? JEDI MASTER QUINLAN VOS???????????????? IS THAT WHO HE WAS FREAKING OUT ABOUT KNOWING MY GENERAL??????????
blyb (they/them): VOS WAS SECURA'S TRAINER. SHE WAS TALKING TO THE BEING THAT TAUGHT HER TO BE A JEDI. ABOUT A FUCKING HOLO SERIAL THEYRE WATCHING TOGETHER.
blyb (they/them): HE FUCKING FREED HER FROM SLAVERY WHEN SHE WAS FOUR KARKING YEARS OLD.
blyb (they/them): IF THATS WHO WAS TALKING TO AAYLA?????? IF HE WAS BEING ALL PARANOID ABOUT THAT????????? ABOUT T H A T ?????????? IF HE BYPASSED EVERY SINGLE OPTION OF HOW THEY MIGHT KNOW EACH OTHER AND WENT STRAIGHT TO CONSPIRACY????? OF FUCKING COURSE THERES SOMETHING WRONG
[Messages pending...]
Found you. Fox freezes. He’s been too-hot all evening, has been sweating out a fever since before he collapsed at the briefing, but those words, said with a casual, near-flippant air, succeed in chilling him to the core and turning his innards to ice. He can barely breathe, and it is not the fault of his cracked ribs. Seemingly heedless, Vos steps in beside him, corner of his mouth pulled down in a way that betrays the lightness of his tone, looking at Fox like he can see right through into his wretched, shrivelled soul. The elevator doors groan shut with a protesting shriek of metal, and Vos looks him in the eye, and slams the emergency stop button with his fist.
The gloves he’s wearing, Fox notes as his pounding heartbeat echoes dully in his ears, are a deep red. Not quite the shade he dictates all armour be painted with—that’s all the same colour, the same pattern, eliminating external individuality for every man except himself, eliminating any identifiable target except for him, because what is his duty as a commander if not to be a shield—but close. A little darker, a little more purple in it. Maroon, he thinks it might be called. He heard a natborn say that, once. It had been a Mando trainer on Kamino, or maybe even Prime himself. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. He heard a senator’s aide call it that too, later on. They say it differently here, drawing out the final syllable into mahrooon instead of dissecting it into even halves. Everything is different here. Conformity is survival, and deviation is certain death.
(Shields are hit first. Shields are targets. What is his duty as a commander if not to be exactly that?)
(He thinks, if he were to ever utter the word, he would drawl it just like that senator’s aide did. Better to be a nothing than remembered after the fact.)
Conformity is survival. Deviation is certain death. He does not know how to conform in this situation, does not know what counts as a deviation. The rules of the game he and Vos play are an unknown, and Fox is all too well aware how dangerous ignorance is.
Vos has just trapped Fox with him in a durasteel box halfway between the ninety-first and the ninety-second floor of the Rotunda. Whatever is going to happen, he will not be able to escape it, and he does not know what to do.
Vos is silent. Fox wonders if he’s waiting for him to talk, but all the things him desperately wants to say—starting with how did you know I was here? And followed by, why are you so close with my brother’s general? And finishing off with why the everloving fuck are you following me?—are wildly inappropriate, and he is not certain that he wants to know the answers. He is trapped here with Vos, and there is no one else around. Even if he called for backup, it would be too late, and he does not want to risk angering Vos, does not want to risk him taking out any rage on his vod’e. He’s seen it happen before, too many times. He is a commander—the commander. If something is going to happen to him, it will be his to bear, and no one else’s.
The silence stretches on.
Fox’s skin is itching below the dermis, rotting, rotting, rotting. Everything is different here. Everything is a putrified corruption, and he is no exception. Vos, however, is. The elevator smells of too much metal, and of deathsticks, and of Vos—minty, a hint of the thing that may or may not be woodsmoke. Fox corrodes with this city, with this planet, with this galaxy, but Vos stands apart from it all, whole and hale and untouchable. He leans against the wall, blocking the control panel with his body, and studies Fox, arms crossed against his chest. He’s keeping his distance for now—as much as that’s possible in this tiny, cramped space—but the elevator is small. If Fox were to stretch his arms out, his fingertips would brush its sides. Vos could be on him in a heartbeat if he wanted. The silence stretches on.
“I have a meeting with the Supreme Chancellor,” Fox says, as neutrally as he can manage. He does not want to see Palpatine, but at least he understands his interactions with the man. The dynamic is clear; Palpatine holds all the power, and Fox is powerless and subject to his every whim, and that is not what this is like. Ignorance is dangerous, and Fox cannot afford to be ignorant, and he’d rather face the known danger the Chancellor poses than stumble through this alien dance with Vos.
“I know,” Vos answers simply. Fox swallows and bites the inside of his cheek until thick blood fills his mouth. It is unbearably quiet.
“I do not want to disobey the Chancellor,” Fox tries, and his voice shakes. Desperation sits like a stone in his chest, heavy, crushing, but it is fighting a losing battle with an overwhelming numbness creeping up his body from the tips of his ragged-torn nails. He itches for another deathstick, if at least to stop the way his voice is shaking like he’s about to cry. Vos’ expression holds something like an understanding pity, and he despises it with a vehemence.
“Why’s that, Fox?”
Fuck you, he thinks, relishing the lick of anger and the way, just for a moment, it eats away at the numbness like fire through fallow crops. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you know why. He wants to say, don’t be fucking ignorant, Vos. He wants, irrationally, to spill his guts about the terrible dream, about his vod’e dead on the floor of the Chancellor’s office, and the ocean of blood, and the MedBay and the ragged hole he left in Vos’ throat. He does none of this. Bly thinks he cannot tell reality from delusions conjured by his mind. He stands as still as he can and wallows in the putrid quiet as it pours into his nose and mouth and suffocates him like it is instead cotton buds being stuffed into his airways with violence.
(He saw cotton fields once, on the campaign where everything went wrong, the campaign that led to his placement here, on Benaric IX. He had touched a cotton plant in passing, blossoming fruit the same colour as the scars on his skin, felt the soft puff of matter between his callused fingertips. Later, as the medical shuttle had pulled into atmosphere, he’d watched those fields be ravaged by the last embers of the wildfire he had set until the planet was obscured by clouds that looked the same as the cotton that would never grow there again.)
(He is suddenly hyper-aware of his vibroknife, sheathed in his belt, cold and too-heavy, and there is a kind of yearning in him to curl his fingers around its hilt and draw it and lunge at Vos. He hates it. He hates it. He hates it. He cannot stop imagining how it would feel to tear open the soft flesh of Vos’ jugular, replaying it over and over and over again. He cannot stop. He cannot stop. He cannot stop. He wants to stop, so very, very badly.)
He has let the silence stretch on for too long, and silence is just as telling as words. Fuck. Fuck. He feels—so wrong-footed, and he’s still fucking late for his meeting. He does not know what to say. He does not know what to say.
“Figure it out,” he grunts, and cringes when his next in-breath hitches and stutters like he’s about to cry. He cannot bear this, cannot bear it, cannot fucking bear it anymore, cannot imagine a way out. Between them, the silence yawns like a chasm, abyssal and infinite in its depth. But he cannot leave it at that, so he adds, desperately, “Vos—General, I am a clone trooper, and he is the leader of the Republic. He’s my direct superior. I can’t not want to obey.” Please understand, he thinks desperately, chest aching with the fury of it, please understand so I do not have to say what it is we both know I mean.
Vos pauses at that, and his handsome brow wrinkles for a microsecond. It is rare, to see him confused, but Fox has been drawing that particular expression out of him much as of late. Fox stares into his face, watching his eyes. He really seems—genuinely confused. He does not understand. He does not understand.
“I thought your direct superiors were us. The Jedi.”
“The GAR’s direct superiors are the Jedi,” Fox says dully. “We aren’t GAR.”
Vos blinks, twice in rapid succession. He is still frowning, very, very slightly. Fox flexes his fingers, flexes his fingers, imagines over and over reaching into his pocket and pulling out another deathstick and lighting it between his fingers and taking a deep breath in. Quinlan Vos is watching him. Fox watches him back. After a moment, Vos relaxes slightly, the tension of his body shifting until his taut lean becomes a relaxed lounge. It is a purposeful movement, something Fox has seen him do before. Centring himself. Coming back to the moment. Or changing the role he's playing. Sometimes both. Fox can't tell which it is right now. Vos looks relaxed now, that little frown wiped away. He's very good at that; Fox knows that too. But when he glances for a moment at the dried and flaking stain of Fox’s blood on the floor, then looks back to him, the sharp, calculating glint in his eye is unmistakable. Not—predatory, which makes something in Fox uncurl slightly, but still cunning in a way that makes wariness creep up the back of his neck. He knows that this assumed, nonchalant calmness is, at least a little bit an act. Or, no, not an act, but a projection.
“I see.”
“Why are you here?” Fox asks, instead of letting the silence stretch out, isntead of reaching for another deathstick. He can feel the trembling beginning, already, already, like an infestation in his muscles and bones. Vos hums, looking down at the bloodstain again. “General,” he says again. “Why are you here?”
If the elevator wasn't filled with stuffy dead air, the words would ring in the aftermath of Fox saying them. As it is, they are at once muffled and a little too loud.
“Commander Stone sent me,” Vos says. “He said that you’re sick.”
Stone. Stone. Fucking--doublecrossing asshole, and oh, Fox would die for him, but he would also really like to kick the shit out of him. Not much. Just a little bit. Stone had tried to stop him from coming here in the briefing room. Stone is trying to stop him now. Stone does not understand--refuses to understand--that Fox must do this, no matter what. Fox would die for Stone, would kill for Stone, would do just about anything for Stone to keep him safe, and Stone does not understand and he has brought Vos into this, and it is hard not to feel pricked and betrayed.
“That’s none of your business.”
“He asked me to bring you back to the barracks,” Vos continues, implacable. “He asked because he wants to help, Fox. He would be here himself, but he said that you pulled rank on him.”
Betrayal fills Fox’s mouth, acridly bitter, mixing with the fear already lingering behind his teeth. A hundred ridiculous, impossible possibilities burn through his mind all at once—can Vos read his thoughts? Is he, somehow, manipulating Stone to his own ends? Is—? is—? is—? It goes on. He knows he should dismiss them. There is a dangerous feeling of truthfulness to them that he cannot ignore. And he tries to ignore it anyway, because he does not know if he can trust it.
“So he sent you to pull rank on me instead.”
“What?" And again, just for a moment, genuine confusion. Shock, too. Perhaps some hurt. It lasts for half of a heartbeat, the silence that follows, and then Vos is speaking again—tone mostly even and controlled, features mostly schooled, but little traces of that confusion, that shock, that hurt, they all still remain. As though Fox could hurt Vos, and only hurt him instead of simply killing him outright. He thinks again, wretchedly, of sharp blade through delicate throat, and almost finds it amusing, the idea that Fox could ever be anything less than perfectly lethal. "I—Fox, I wouldn’t do that.”
Liar, his mind whispers. Liar, liar, liar. Above the cacophony, he can hear precious little else. He clasps his sweating-cold hands behind his back, gloves still tucked into the breast pocket of his fatigues where shoved them after he ripped them off with his teeth to fumble with the box of deathsticks. He just wants a moment to think. Bly wants him dead -- Bly will not confirm the timeline of Aaylas'ecura and Quinlan Vos' relationship -- Vos has befriended Aaylas'ecura, his babiest batchmate's general, and they are close, and Fox does not know what could possibly warrant this -- Stone has overstepped the line this time, really overstepped it -- he is late, he is late, he is late --
“I want to help too, Fox,” Vos says softly. Knife through jugular. Draw and lunge and slice. Knife through jugular. Draw and lunge and slice. Knife through-- “Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”
Suspicion twists inside him. It had been so easy to trust Vos before—he knows, now, that it had been a trust, and a nearly implicit one at that—and that feeling calls to him now, yearning for him to return to it with a strength that scares him. He racks his sluggish mind, trying to think why he would ever trust a natborn that much, that quickly, and the only thing that he can think of is that Vos had been gentle and respectful and kind to every trooper Fox has ever seen him interact with. Had made teary-eyed shinies laugh. Had said helpful things about cases in that infuriating way of his. Had--been--gentle (sort of, but where it counted, and definitely not rough). And respectful (sort of, where it counted, just not towards authority). And kind (sort of, but where it counted, and certainly not cruel). To Fox. Had that been enough? Had that really, honestly been enough?
“I need to get to my meeting with the Supreme Chancellor, sir,” Fox says woodenly, and watches as something in Vos deflates. It tugs at some kind of thing in his chest, heartsore, guilt, grief, whatever, but he ignores it, forces himself to think instead of Stone and Thire and Thorn and Hound and all the others, dead in a row on Palpatine’s real-wood office floor. What happens to him does not matter. What happens to him does not matter. Why don't they understand that? Fox cannot ever just think of his own body, his own life -- those don't matter a single bit, except for their purpose as a living shield, standing between those that he commands and him. What happens to him does not matter, what he feels within himself does not matter, and the regard and respect he holds (held) (holds) (held) for Vos is a trifling and miniscule matter that he cannot let cloud his judgement. He knows, and he's sure that they know, but they all refuse to acknowledge the bare truth: Fox does not get to be a person.
Legally, none of them will ever be recognised as sentient, he knows this in that tired and bitter way of old unbearable knowledge that you have borne with you since time immemorial; but Fox doesn't give a fuck about legally. What matters is that they, vod'e an, are, are all people with hopes and griefs and dreams and favourite and least-favourite things. And if that - if friendship - is the price he must pay to keep them safe, he will pay it gladly. It has worked. Mostly, it has worked, since he signed one thousand and three decommissioning orders in a tenday and realised that things could no longer continue as they had before and that something needed to change. What changed was him, and mostly, it has worked. He cannot give in now to the tantalisation of it, cannot let the fact that Vos was sort-of-where-it-counted gentle and respectful and kind to him, sway his mind. He does not get to be a person. He does not get to be a person, and that means he does not get the reprieve of this.
Certainly, he does not want to see the Chancellor, because--he's afraid, and there's nothing more to it. What he wants does not matter. He only still wants, selfishly, because of some deep primal biological process that Kaminoans didn't think to prune from his genes. He has resigned himself to it. He has tasted the Chancellor’s displeasure before, has the scars to prove himself that it really happened. And he knows he will taste it again if he does not go to this meeting. That is why he does not want to go. He knows--
He knows that he will taste it again if he does. The Chancellor abhors tardiness. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. That's fine. That's fine. He deserves it, a little. But--
Commander Fox, you have disappointed me, the Chancellor had said, and fear grips him, sudden and blinding in its strength, that it is that horrific maybe-dream which now awaits him as punishment, that he will walk into that awful fucking office just to see every one of his officers awaiting execution by his hand. His throat closes. No. No. He cannot—no. He would rather die than have that now be what he is walking towards, all because Quinlan fucking Vos and his idiot medic decided that being sick was an excuse to detain him. Fox has built his defence around receiving punishment unto himself, but if Palpatine decides that what will really hurt him is watching the others die—
All at once, he scrabbles for his wrist-comm, flicking through the contacts with a frenzied drive until he alights on Thire, and dials it. Thire, he knows, is on patrol, which therefore means he wasn’t in the room when Fox collapsed, and Fox needs to make sure that he’s safe, needs to make sure that they’re all safe, does not know what he will do if they aren’t—
The comm flickers blue, pixels resolving into a grainy Thire wearing full armour and walking in the rain, and Fox chokes on the absolute relief that floods through him, sweet and painful as the rush from the deathsticks. Vos, he thinks, is looking at him carefully, looking at him with that worried-he-will-explode-into-a-thousand-glittering shards expression from the corridor fourteen hours after Stone let him out of MedBay, but Fox does not care because Thire is alive and Thire is waking his beat in the rain and that means that Thire is not in the Chancellor’s office.
“Fox,” says Thire, and he sounds surprised. “I saw your message. What’s—”
(There is only one way to learn, and that is through experiencing consequences of your actions.)
“Get back to the barracks right now,” Fox interrupts. “Make sure all the other officers are there too. This is a code red. No one leaves unless there’s an immediate internal threat. Tell the others.”
“Fox—”
Fox hangs up. Thire is alive. Thire is alive and walking in the rain, which means he isn’t kneeling on the polished teak floor of Palpatine’s office, waiting for Fox to execute him. Maybe he can stop it. Maybe he can avoid this, can keep them safe for a little longer. He hopes. He hopes. He hopes. It burns in him like the fire he set on Benaric IX to keep the Seperatists distracted, terrible and wholly consuming of everything in its path. He cannot breathe for the smoke it makes pouring into his lungs. Every bit of him feels like it’s alight. Vos is speaking again. Fox cannot make sense of the words. He blinks hard and tries to listen. Vos is still keeping his distance, but he’s stopped leaning on the wall, is instead upright and tense with an anticipation. The frown has returned, and is deeper than before, the crease of it more prominent this time.
“Fox?”
Vos says his name a lot, Fox thinks. It’s like he thinks that Fox is going to vanish into thin air if he doesn’t keep reminding them both that he, Fox, exists. He says nothing. He looks at Vos instead. Vos stares back, and there is a tilt to his head that makes Fox think he’s concerned. That little frown does not go away. Fox’s skin itches beneath the dermis. He rots. He rots. He rots. (I want to help, Vos had said. Fox does not know how to tell him that it is the most stupid, dangerous thing he could desire. Fox does not know how to tell him that he wants Vos to help too. Fox does not know how to tell him to leave and never, ever talk to him again.)
“What’s wrong?” Vos asks, soft as a kiss, and Fox shudders minutely. Vos lifts one hand, slow, as if to rest it on his shoulder, but then pauses awkwardly and runs it through his own hair instead. There are new beads in his locs that hadn’t been there the last time Fox saw him; they’re handmade, maybe even from real wood, as brown-gold as Kote’s eyes. He rubs one together between his finger, rolling it around and around, and Fox cannot drag his half-working gaze away. The air is still and tense. Fox looks Vos’ long fingers all gloved in thin leather, and feels Vos looking at him in turn. “Fox,” he says again, barely more than an exhalation. The skin of Fox’s face, where it isn’t scarred, feels shiny and tight and hot. And he says, “Let me help you,” and he says, too-earnest, “please,” and somewhere in his soul, a foundation of Fox’s shaky defences crumbles gently into powder.
He breathes out, long, slow, trembling, and meets Vos’ eyes for the barest second. He can still taste the deathstick smoke in the back of his throat, turning stale. It is better to focus on that, focus on the itching, the rotting, than the open, unguarded warmth in that gaze. Fox looks away again, focuses on the stain of his own blood on the elevator floor, breathes in, breathes out, then looks back again. The air is still, but the tension is twisting, changing, dissipating like so much cotton-fields-smoke in the southerly wind. He still cannot properly see out of his left eye, but his right focuses just fine, and he swallows and holds Vos’ gaze, looking, looking, letting him look in return. The air is still and the inside of the elevator is silent except for Fox’s breathing, in, out,
Abruptly, he feels—tired. Not just the fatigue that plagues his every moment, but a bone-deep exhaustion at the sheer futility of everything that he has ever done in his meaningless life. It feels like giving in. It is giving in, but it does not sting as much as he thought it would. I want to help, Vos had said, let me help. Vos had said, please, in that barely-there breath, and the word had been weighted with an emotion Fox does not quite know how to name. He breathes in. He breathes out. His hands have come unclasped from parade rest, dangle by his side instead. His ribs hurt. He is rotting. He has been rotting since he came to Coruscant, since he set the fire that ravaged half a continent, since his general and nine hundred thousand verd’e in his legion died, since his boots touched the sand of Geonosis, since he first left Kamino. It is not new. Fox has always been rotting; the only difference now is that people know.
He breathes in. He breathes out.
Thire is not kneeling on polished teak, waiting for Fox to execute him. Thire had been in armour, not his fatigues. Thire—and the rest of his command and all the still-living Guard—is alive. There are tunnels beneath the barracks that only Fox and his commanders know about. They will be safe. He is their marshal commander and he is their shield, and he is late for his meeting with the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, and he can taste deathstick smoke in his mouth and still smell cotton fields burning a year ago. And above that, above it all, the real-and-there scent of Quinlan Vos, sweet woodsmoke and cool mint. Vos—slowly, so, so slowly, like Fox will bolt if he makes too sudden a movement, as though there’s anywhere for Fox to go, as though he would go—steps forward, just once. Fox stays where he is, and does not retreat back, and Vos takes two more of those measured steps towards him, closing the distance between them until he’s close enough to touch nearly without reaching out.
He breathes in. He breathes out. It trembles. Everything hurts, and he is tired. His eye and his head ache, bruise-sharp, needle-dull. None of this should matter. There is a height difference of nearly fifteen centimetres between them, and he has to tip his head back to keep the eye contact. Vos is still looking at him, just—looking. Fox does not know what he sees. He does not know if he wants to. Let me help, Vos had said. I want to help.
“I don’t know how,” he whispers, ragged, words catching like cottonbush barbs, and something immeasurably soft and understanding crosses over Vos’ face like bittersweet heartache. When he raises his hand to Fox’s right shoulder and rests it there, fingers splayed wide and gripping with a firm, careful pressure like he can hold Fox together with his hands alone, Fox does not flinch away. He leans into the touch as Vos curls his other hand around Fox’s left tricep, and breathes, in, out. It is easy, to reach out, to thread his fingers through new-twisted locs and hold the nape of Vos’ neck, to close his own eyes and tilt Vos' head down and press their foreheads together, to feel their breath mingle, to feel the tightening of Vos’ hold on him, firm and sure.
(It feels like relief.)
(It feels like giving in.)