Chapter Text
Fox comes out of solitary to a distinct lack of commanders. Thire and Stone and Thorn are all off planet, running different missions or acting as senatorial escorts. Hound apparently got assigned with Thire, and even the chief medical officer got drafted to go along with Stone’s mission.
His command staff is ruthlessly competent; Fox has no doubt that even in his enforced absence, the Guard has been running as efficiently as ever. He was allowed to do datawork in his cell, so at least he’s not terribly behind on that, and he’d been notified that command duties are being covered by some of the lower-ranking Guards.
That’s not the problem. The problem is that Fox, sentenced to a week in solitary, has now emerged to a base that houses no commanders.
The command staff keep to themselves. It’s better for everyone that way - maintains the facade of effortless competence, keeps the shinies from knowing just how fucked everything is, and, crucially, lets the lower ranks relax without a superior officer hovering over them all the time.
But now, with all possible officers off-planet, Fox has to confront the glaring flaw in his plan.
There’s no one he can recover with. A week in solitary and now there’s no one he can go to who will wrap their arms around Fox and remind him that he’s real.
It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s the goddamn Marshall Commander of the Coruscant Guard. He doesn’t need a hug, no matter how much his hands are shaking. Fox’s skin itches under the layers of plastoid armor, but he knows from experience that nothing will help: not scratching, not coffee, not cigarettes, not even a shower. It’s a hunger for contact, nothing more and nothing less.
Fox shoves his pathetic neediness aside and goes back to work.
–
He’s halfway through his second shift in a row when his comm pings. Fox opens it automatically; he’s just on Senate guard duty, bored out of his mind, and work might keep him awake.
It’s not work. It’s Wolffe.
Fox hasn’t heard from his brother in months. Their last communication was right after the Malevolence disaster: Fox had sent his condolences, stiff and formal in a way Fox hated but couldn’t figure out how to soften. Just like everything else in his life these days.
Wolffe’s response was “k”. Just “k”. Fox had agonized over it for weeks.
But it seems he hadn’t completely soured their relationship, because there’s a message blinking on Fox’s HUD.
GARComm.10230.1.1.3:CC-3636//CC-1010
Fox - we’re on 000 for some downtime. Come by the barracks when you get off-shift, would you?
The message is incredibly casual, dangerously so, but Fox can’t focus on that. Wolffe wants to see him. Wolffe doesn’t hate him (probably), and he wants Fox, Fox, to come by. It doesn’t sound like it’s an official visit. It sounds like Wolffe just wants to see him, and the thought sens warmth curling through Fox’s chest for the first time since the cell
Fox wouldn’t miss this for anything. He’ll be dead tired at the end of this shift, he always is after back-to-back 16’s, but that doesn’t matter.
He sends a comm back as Mas Ammeda drones on about increasing Senate leave due to the stress of the war.
GARComm.10230.1.1.3:CC-3636//CC-1010
Commander Wolffe,
I will be off-duty at 18:00 and will arrive at the GAR Barracks at roughly 18:30, if that is satisfactory to you.
-Commander Fox, CC-1010
–
Fox has been to the GAR barracks, of course he has. Early on in the war he’d be there every time a brother’s battalion was on-planet, and they’d catch up and Fox would listen to their stories of the front line. As the war dragged on, he’d been invited less and less, and the majority of his visits were on business: sorting out supply chain issues, transferring troops, or even returning drunk and wayward troopers back to their battalions.
Fox doesn’t take it personally - not overly so, anyway. He knows he’s a stiff bastard, and he knows the way he’s experiencing the war on Coruscant is light-years away from the way the frontliners experience it.
He moves through the halls full of brothers at a steady clip, arms behind his back and back straight. The crowds part for him like water; no one even brushes up against his armor. Maybe they’re being polite, or deferential. Maybe they just hate him. Either way, Fox’s skin feels even tighter, stretched with a tension that he can’t slake.
The door to Wolffe’s room slides open when he keys in his code, and three heads look up from a half-finished game of Sabbac.
Wolffe is the first to move, getting up off the bed with a sharp grin. “Hey, Fox.”
Should he - should he take off his helmet? Nerves shoot through Fox abruptly and he stands there, frozen with indecision. This was a bad idea, to come here.
He waits too long. Wolffe is somehow right in Fox’s face, and a hand is reaching towards him-
There’s pressure, suddenly, muffled by the plastoid plates of Fox’s armor, but even the slight press of Wolffe’s arms around him is a relief. Wolffe is hugging him. Hugging him.
Wolffe’s alive and not dead and hugging him and Fox is many things but he’s not stupid. He’ll seize this opportunity with both hands.
Fox’s own arms come up to clutch at his brother and squeeze. Probably too hard, judging from the wheeze Wolffe lets out, and Fox loosens up but can’t force himself to let go.
“Good to see you too,” Wolffe is saying. His voice reverberates through Fox’s back, a comforting hum through the layers of armor.
Fox nods. Oh. He should probably respond verbally, like a normal person.
“I take it your mission was successful?”
“Yeah, went off without a hitch.” Wolffe pauses. “You can let go of me now.”
Right. Of course. Face burning beneath his helmet, Fox forces his hands to loosen and drop away from his brother. Wolffe turns away, gesturing at the two other clones in the room.
“You’ve met Boost and Sinker?”
Fox hasn’t, but he nods at each of them anyway. He knows who they are - the other two survivors of Wolffe’s previous battalion. It seems they’ve grown close, after the disaster. Good. Wolffe had always functioned better in a group, even back on Kamino.
“Good to meet you, Commander. Take your armor off and stay for a while!” Boost says with a smile, and begins to deal Fox into the game.
Their casual acceptance floors Fox. Nobody invites big bad Commander Fox to play Sabaac, unless it’s Fox’s own commanders and CMO. He lowers himself cautiously to the floor next to Wolffe and pulls off his helmet.
“There you are, vod - whoa. Those are some deep dark circles you got there,” Wollfe says.
Fox shrugs. “It’s been a long week.” And he never sleeps well in solitary. It’s too quiet.
He half-expects the three to laugh and say that the Coruscant Guard doesn’t have a reason to be tired, but Sinker just studies Fox’s face seriously and nods. “Looks like it,” he mutters.
Fox is too tired to be offended. He knows he looks like shit. Probably smells like shit, too, considering he’s been on his feet for 32 hours at this point.
Wolffe taps on Fox’s shoulder bell. “You wanna take this off? Might be more comfortable.”
It’s tempting, it really is. Unlike the Corrie barracks, the GAR barracks are almost never inspected, due to the erratic schedules of the battalions cycling through. They don’t even have sentries to sound the alert that a natborn is coming, that’s how infrequent it is. And after two straight shifts his armor feels like it weighs as much as a Hutt. But…
“I don’t want to knock you out with the smell,” Fox admits. “I just got off a double and came straight here.”
Wolffe’s face creases into a frown, pulling at the scar through his eye. “A double? Is the Guard shorthanded?”
“Yeah. My whole command staff is out on missions.”
Boost whistles, low and long. “Rough,” he says sympathetically. Or at least Fox thinks it’s sympathetic. Boost could very well be mocking him.
He shrugs again. “It happens.”
The game goes quick - even exhausted, Fox is quick, and he still knows all of Wolffe’s tells. He wins the first game, then the second, and Wolffe throws an arm around his shoulders.
“See, I told you. Sabaac champion!” he announces dramatically, but Fox isn’t paying attention. Wolffe’s arm around his shoulders is heavy, even if he can’t feel the warmth, and the exhaustion is catching up to him. Fox’s head nods and his eyes close-
-And he jerks back awake to the sound of his name. “Yessir,” his mouth says automatically, and Sinker laughs.
“Gonna beat us even in your sleep, Commander?”
Shame floods through Fox like ice. He hasn’t seen Wolffe in months, and here he is sleeping through it. Ungrateful. He’s a fucking terrible brother.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry, ‘m awake.”
Wolffe shakes Fox’s shoulders. “You look dead,” he proclaims. “C’mon.”
Fox lets his brother pull him to his feet. “Sorry,” he says again, and casts around for his helmet. He can’t find it through his blurry vision. “I’ll come back.”
“Oh, no. You’re not in any shape to go anywhere,” Wolffe says firmly. Two hands land on Fox’s shoulders and push. Fox sits.
Wait. He can’t stay here, he’s got to get back to his own barracks and-
Fox tries to stand and gets shoved back down.
“I’m serious, Fox,” Wolffe says quietly. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Ugh. Wolffe is using his I’m-concerned-for-you voice. Fox hates it, and hates that he’s right.
“I could use some sleep,” he finally admits. “But I can go back to my own barracks, it’s fine-”
“No,” Wolffe says, with finality, and pulls off Fox’s shoulder bell.
Usually Fox can match Wolffe’s stubbornness. Usually he’s too full of spite to ever let one of his brothers have the last word, but right now he’s so tired and achy and pathetic that he just sits there and takes his armor off, piece by piece.
By the end he’s shaking. The comforting weight of his armor is gone, and it’s just Fox in his bodysuit, feeling like his skin’s been flayed off his bones.
“Better?” Wolffe asks, clapping a hand to Fox’s shoulder. The weight of it sends sparks through his system, and he raises his hand half-unconsciously to grab Wolffe’s wrist and keep him there.
“Fox? You ok?”
“Yeah,” Fox croaks, releasing Wolffe’s arm like he’s been burned. “Yeah, I just - my commanders are all out on missions.”
Wolffe tilts his head and raises one eyebrow. “Yeah, you said. So what?”
So he needs - no. Fox is a Marshall Commander, he can do this without a goddamn hug.
“I - it’s too quiet,” Fox says lamely.
To his shock, Wolffe doesn’t laugh. He nods seriously instead. “I get that. That’s why those two idiots are still here,” he says, jerking a finger at Boost and Sinker.
“Right,” Fox manages, reminded again that Wolffe lost his entire battalion. Compared to that, Fox has nothing to complain about. He’s so selfish, honestly, when Wolffe’s been through so much worse.
Wolffe is watching him with a shrewd look in his mismatched eyes. “C’mon, Wolfpack,” he says without looking away from Fox, and Boost and Sinker materialize at his elbow. Wolffe points at Fox and orders, “Attack.”
Boost and Sinker dive. Fox is too tired and strung out to even react, and after a brief period of pure chaos, he finds himself tucked between Wolffe and Sinker on the bed, with Boost pressed up against his knees.
“What -” Fox starts, and Sinker hushes him. The reverberations echo through Sinker’s ribcage and into Fox’s, and he relaxes involuntarily.
“Shut up, Fox,” Wolffe says. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“What - but -” Fox tries to squirm, but Wolffe has a death grip, and anyway it’s - nice. The itching in his skin feels soothed by the warmth and contact. Boost and Sinker don’t seem to mind, either, even though they’ve only just met and Fox doesn’t have the greatest reputation.
Fox hopes they don’t mind that he’s still shaking.
“What’s with the shivering? Are you cold?” Wolffe asks, and Fox shakes his head. He’s actually pleasantly warm, and losing the fight to stay awake. The combination of soft bed and safe brother and actual contact is a powerful one, and Fox’s eyes are already drooping.
“N-no, not cold,” he manages. “This just happens, after - after Solitary.”
“After what?” Wolffe says, but it’s too late - Fox is fast asleep.