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The scanner beeps as it reaches the end of its test sequence. Fox, leaning at one end of one of the more private medbay beds, continues to wait as patiently as he can while Sal goes to collect the results. They don’t give anything away from their expression as they scan the page, occasionally checking their other notes, and Fox resists the urge to prod them for answers.
It’s the least he can do, given the grief he has already caused them - and the further grief that will inevitably follow in time.
As Fox shifts impatiently on the bed, he swallows down a hiss of pain. The source of it is visible from where he has propped himself up - a series of puncture marks spaced evenly around his calf, only partially obscured by semi-transparent bacta patches - and he tries to quietly judge himself if they really appear to be any better, or if it’s just his wishful thinking.
“You’re clear of the venom,” Sal announces without any preamble, making that judgement far easier. “You need to leave the bacta patches in place until the morning then return for a final checkup, but I don’t need to run any further tests at present.”
“So I’m free to go, then?”
“No.”
Sal’s expression is still somewhat unreadable when Fox tears his gaze from the wound back up to the medic, but he knows them well enough by now to recognise when they’re distressed and trying to hide it.
“What else do you need?” Fox asks, as calmly as he can.
Sal swallows. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything about how this happened?”
It’s not the first time that night that Sal has posed that same question, but it is the first time that it has sounded like they were truly begging Fox for answers. Fox shakes his head, regret already twisting his expression.
“I’m sorry, Sal. All I remember is going to the barracks—”
— and receiving a call that he couldn’t ignore, and orders that he couldn’t dispute, and the name of a target marked for assassination —
“—then waking up outside headquarters in the state that you found me in, with no sign of any assailants—
— a target marked for assassination that had owned a particularly venomous and loyal pet —
“— and no reason for my condition. I’m sorry, Sal. I wish I had answers as much as you do.”
Where once Fox had stumbled over his lies, this time the apology comes out smoothly. He has practice to thank for that, he knows.
“You have no memories at all between those points?” Sal presses onwards regardless, “Not even any vague impressions? Nothing?”
“Nothing.” Fox speaks as firmly as he can.
Sal closes their eyes, and exhales a shaky breath. Then they move to close the door behind them.
The two of them sit in quiet solidarity for a bit as Sal fiddles with the test equipment and seemingly goes over Fox’s notes for a third time in a row. They’re psyching themself up for a difficult conversation, Fox realises as he watches them fidget. Seeing them unsure of themself is strange.
“I don’t know what to do,” the confession finally comes. “I’ve checked everything. Cross-referenced every medical incident on your record. I’ve tried every technique I can find to combat memory loss, every trick and whatever medicine I could access, and I looked beyond the GAR database long before that. I’ve exhausted every feasible option - so why doesn’t it stop? Why can I cure everything else, but not this?”
Their eyes aren’t focused on Fox as they talk. They wring their hands together, twisting their fingers into their joints, pinching the skin between their nails.
Fox lets their words run out, then gently places his hands over their own to stop the worrying. “Hey,” he says, with as much casual confidence as he can, “stop this, please. We’ll figure this out together. It’ll be okay.”
It’s their trust in him that has led them to this point, and that same trust that lets them find reassurance in him now. Fox can see it in their face, and feel it in the way that their hands still beneath his.
It doesn’t make the lying any easier. For a moment he looks up at them and their still-broken expression and considers telling them everything… the secrets, the missions after dark, the growing number of dead - everything. Then, he thinks back on blinding pain from the venom before the medic had treated him, and the worse pain that had preceded it only the week before.
During an off-the-books mission Fox had slipped up, relying on information from one of the Guard’s intelligence officers rather than figuring things out on his own. They hadn’t come close to uncovering the context, but punishment had followed regardless, and then the usual threats. Threats that concerned anyone who he might want to confide in.
Fox looks to Sal now and follows those threats to their target, and lets the truth die in his throat, unspoken. This time, regardless of the cost, it is his turn to care for the medic.