bloodmoonmelony

[bloodmoonmelony]

Febuwhump Day 6

"You lied to me"

Featuring Commanders Wolffe and Fox

[bloodmoonmelony]

@blackat-t7t Here is your Fox/Thorn H/C with a cuddle pile at the end. Enjoy.

There was a ringing snap as the old rusted barrier along the walkway gave out under the weight of a fully armored trooper crashing into it and Thorn watched as Fox’s gaze met his own wide with fear before he was falling backward over the edge. Thorn dove for him with a scream but his fingers barely brushed over Fox’s chestplate before his partner was gone swallowed up by the dark depths of Coruscant’s seemingly endless levels the same way many cadets ended up swallowed by Kamino’s waves.

For a moment he just stared feeling a void echoing the one he was staring at being torn open in his chest. Then Rex’s voice broke him from his daze.

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t- Thorn I- Fox-” He struggled to get anything out, horror replacing the rage that had been on his expression just minutes earlier as he corned them on their patrol to yell at Fox for avoiding him.

“You didn’t mean to kill him? Like he meant to kill Fives you mean? Well, you did. Guess you’re the brother killer now, Rex. Congratulations on your revenge.” Thorn said, voice level and empty as he watched Rex flinch and step back.

“What- What do we do now? Do we call-” Rex started eyes flickering around as if looking for some sort of help.

“Call who Rex? The Guard? I am the Guard and there’s nothing I can do now. He’s gone. He’s not a person, there won’t be an investigation. He’s not the first we lost over an edge and he won’t be the last and there’s never anything to do. You just… finish your patrol. Report the lost republic property to the Chancellor and put a few troopers on double shifts until we can get a replacement from Kamino.” He said starting to walk again. He had to finish his patrol. He was already late now and Fox would be upset if Thorn got himself punished for being late.

“You can’t just… just keep working! Shouldn’t you call Thire or something? There’s bereavement leave. The Kaminoans even approved it to keep their products at their most effective. The Jedi-” Rex started as he followed Thorn and finally he snapped.

“If you have forgotten, the Guard doesn’t have a Jedi. We had Fox. That’s it! We had Fox and he could only get us so much because he’s not considered a person either! Now we don’t even have him and we will all need to take triple shifts to cover all the stuff he has been shouldering on our behalf! I don’t have anyone available to cover this patrol. That’s why Fox and I were doing it. We just lost three shinies to senators and a full team was wiped out in a gang raid the week before. We don’t get things like leave or whatever the kriff bereavement is. The Guard belongs to the Senate, the Jedi abandoned us, just like you GAR bucketheads. So kriff off and go cry to your jedi for your extra days off and let me take care of my family. You’ve done enough Rex.” He spat darkly before turning on his heel and continuing his patrol. Rex didn’t follow him this time.

He raised his wrist to access his coms after another ten minutes.

“This is Commander Thorn reporting a 9-12 slash D. Commander Fox was lost to faulty railing in Sector 12-A. We will discuss promotions and schedule changes at the dawn shift change. As his second the Marshal position falls to me now. Carry on with your duties.” He murmured numbly before letting his arm fall and continuing to move on autopilot almost hoping the Separatists would chose to attack now so he’d have an excuse to shoot something. But the rest of the patrol was quiet.

Fox was exhausted. He had spent the last two days slogging through filth and fighting off the weird pollution corrupted creatures that prowled the lowest levels just to make his way to the closest working lift. Then he had to sit on the floor listening to the worst possible sort of music as he slowly ascended out of the dark toward his family and home. His arm was definitely broken and Shark was going to shoot him up with every hypo they had with complaints about the bite wounds he had getting infected but Fox was pretty sure he had gotten off easy.

~

He couldn’t explain how he was alive. The concussion made it hard to think straight but even with that he knew he had to have fallen at least 100 levels if not more. But at the last minute something had caught him and slowed his fall enough the injuries were survivable. He didn’t really take stock in the Jedi’s fancy force shit but maybe there was something out there looking out for him.

Once he was above the com-cut line where they lost signal to their coms he immediately reached out. “This is Commander Fox. I am injured and will need a medic and pick up from the lift in Sector 12-D, could someone also bring me some caff? I’m kriffing tired.” He grumbled into the line and smiled when it immediately started blowing up, resting his head against the side of the lift and letting his family’s furies and delighted voices wash over him like a warm blanket.

“Cut the chatter! Fox, Shark and I will be waiting for you once you reach the top. I… It’s good to hear from you but you have a lot of explaining on how you’re alive.” Thorn’s voice finally cut in and Fox’s smile grew.

“You’re going to be waiting until the Senate turns for that answer my rose, I have no kriffing clue. Woke up at the bottom with a concussion, broken arm and some jostled ribs but I was able to drag myself up and start walking to the lift not too long after the fall.” He sighed not even realizing he had used his pet name for Thorn until the line filled with cooing from the rest of the guard.

Fox passed out not long after that and only woke up again when Thorn was lifting him out of the elevator and onto a hover-cot and Shark started cursing him out. He squeezed Thorn’s hand then passed out again.

He flickered in and out of consciousness a few more times before finally waking up feeling better than he had felt in years. Blinking open his arms he was unsurprised to find Thorn plastered to his side and Hound using his stomach as a pillow. Shark must have allowed them to take him to the barracks at some point because he was laid out in the middle of the three mattresses they had shoved together at the beginning of the war so they could all sleep together and he was buried under his Guard.

“I thought… I thought you were gone for good. I thought I lost you.” Thorn’s voice was soft with fear and sleep and Fox ran his fingers through the long blond curls.

“Told you I was too stubborn to die. Can’t get rid of me that easily. I still have to scare the Senate into giving us rights so I can marry you one day.” He said with a small smile and Thorn sighed.

“While you were gone I shot the Chancellor. We’ve been dressing up in his robes and pretending he’s got the cornellian flu until we figure out what else to do but now you’re back it’s your problem. I’m taking a thing Rex told me was called bereavement.” Thorn said and Fox’s eyes opened fully from where he had started drifting off again.

“YOU DID WHAT?! THORN! I was gone two days!” He shrieked.

“He implied you were better off dead and I was in mourning. There’s scientific data proving making people work through grief lowers productivity. It’s not my fault!” Thorn whined and nuzzled his face in Fox’s neck while Fox tried to wiggle free but he couldn’t move from how he was buried under so many siblings.

“I’m going to kill you once I’m free. I’m going to kill all of you!” He growled but they all ignored him in favor of continuing their nap.

[bloodmoonmelony]

the patient sacrifice.

written for the whumptober day 28 prompt: sacrifice, bloody knife.

warnings: exhaustion, passing out, using the Force for the sake of whump, electrocution

word count: 1863

read it on ao3 here.

-----------------------

Another day, another pointless meeting. Fox is too well trained to yawn, but that doesn’t stop him fantasising about doing so. That and his bunk, many levels below.

Today the meeting is with the Chancellor, another debrief that could have been confined to holomail correspondence - but then that wouldn’t suit the personal touch that the Chancellor desired to have in the lives of all his underlings, would it?

It’s just the two of them, which makes it worse, because he can’t afford to let his attention slip. The Chancellor seems to have some uncanny way of knowing the instant that he lets his mind wander, and Fox can’t afford to displease the man given the downward turn that this week has taken already.

Exhaustion drags at him, all-too-familiar. His eyelids feel heavy, and his body aches in protest of whatever latest sickness it is that he’s picked up from nowhere.

Theoretically he’s fresh from his rest shift, but sleep hasn’t been easy. These days it never is. When he’s not left staring blankly up at the bunk above, he’s trapped within some nightmare that he finds no respite from, and when he’s not dealing with the nightmares he’s fending off some other phantom illness that’s trying to leave him bedridden throughout his waking hours too. There’s never any reason for him falling sick in such a manner, and no easy cure for the weakness it brings either. Fox hates it.

As if brought on by that thought, the world around his blurs, just for a second. Over the course of the meeting it has become a conscious effort to stop his body from shaking, one that is becoming almost too much to bear.

The Chancellor makes some comment about the new defence measures , and Fox goes to give them a quick read - or at least, he makes an attempt to do so, because as he steps forward the world lurches with him and the strength goes from his legs.

From his new resting place on the floor, Fox realises that perhaps standing in one spot for so long had given him a false idea of how quickly his condition had been deteriorating.

“Commander?” he hears the Chancellor call out from somewhere above him.

A shadow falls over him, and Fox tries his best to move into a sitting position. He’s showing weakness in front of the Chancellor. He can’t show weakness in front of the Chancellor.

Moving is harder than it should be. His limbs are heavy, difficult to coordinate, and his head is still pounding. Again, his vision swims, and he’s left frozen in place, desperately trying to blink the black spots away.

It never makes any sense, the sudden onset weakness that sometimes takes hold of him, always at the worst possible moment. This is, however, the quickest that it has ever fallen upon him, and also the worst case of it. At least in the past he has always been in the presence of other members of the Guard when it had started. Here, he is as good as alone.

“Apologies, sir,” he croaks out. The blackness at the edges of his vision isn’t going away. “I… I…”

The words won’t come out, so he tries to focus on his presentation instead. Gripping the corner of the desk he tries to push his weight back onto his legs, but slips instead, and keels over.

All the while, the Chancellor watches his efforts without intervention.

“Hm,” Foxs hears the man finally speak up. “Well, I suppose I should have seen this coming. You always have managed to exceed expectations in the most abysmal manner.”

Fox slumps to the floor, only half listening. The rest of his attention is set on staying conscious, though that seems to be a pointless effort.

“That you are weaker than you should be is no surprise,” the Chancellor continues, his shadow falling over Fox’s head as the man bends down beside him. “You’ll just have to do as you are. Moving this plan forward won’t be a hardship - you’ve trained your successor well, have you not?”

Fox has. Fox has, but that shouldn’t be in question yet, he’s still functional, he needs to tell the Chancellor that he can still be functional -

Fox isn’t given the chance to try and voice any of this.

The Chancellor reaches out one hand, touches his forehead, and says, “now give up, and sleep.”

Like a light flicking out, Fox gives in to the exhaustion.

—

Waking is painful, but then Fox can’t remember the last time that it wasn’t. There has always been some background ache or ailment, some lingering soreness from one disciplinary action or another.

This time, outside of the headache (something that he’d honestly be more concerned about if he woke up without it), the pain is focused around his wrists and around his ankles.

Attempting to sit up reveals the reason; he’s been secured to a table of some kind by metal fastenings that dig into the skin, even more so when he jolts instinctively and tries to wriggle free of them. It takes him a moment to recentre himself and find some level of calm, even with his years of training. Fox breathes deeply, and forces himself to focus on the details of the situation rather than his current helplessness.

There are letters in a language that he doesn’t recognise set into the edge of the restraints, letters which extend out onto his skin in ink, and then onto the stone table below. A glance to the left reveals a small altar, complete with ominous knife. Similar runes are carved into the metal of it, and it all paints a very disturbing picture.

What the kriff has he managed to get himself into? He needs to try and escape.

His next realisation, however, has him freezing before he can make any further attempt to struggle free. He isn’t alone. He can turn his head to the right enough to see the Chancellor standing nearby, hunched over a book at the table opposite.

Except, he isn’t dressed as he usually might be, face half-hidden by a dark hood, robes unlike any Naboo attire that Fox has ever seen him wearing, and…

Fox pauses, as he watches the man summon another book towards him using some invisible force that Fox has only ever seen utilised by the Jedi.

Between that display of power, and the lightning that he shoots at Fox when Fox spits an insult at him over the realisation, it isn’t hard to come to the conclusion that the Chancellor is, in fact, a Force user more akin to Dooku. A Sith.

Unfortunately, with enlightenment, the lightning also brings back the exhaustion. Fox can only spare a moment to regret wasting his energy on an insult, before succumbing to unconsciousness once more.

—

The Chancellor is waiting for him when he next wakes up. Despite the fact he has Fox bound and helpless, ready for whatever dark ritual bullshit he apparently has planned, it seems that he has still set aside time to monologue. It is actually - almost - comfortingly in character.

Almost.

—

Fox learns that he has been a sacrifice many years in the making.

The details aren’t shared, but the Chancellor waxes poetic about suffering and power and the interrelation of it all. The longer you leave a person to stew in their own misery, the more power you can drain.

Fox is told that he should find comfort in the fact that his suffering is for a purpose - as if this is something that Fox hasn’t been embracing for years before this point. Perhaps his assumption that its purpose was purely for the Chancellor’s amusement had been incorrect, but he’d always managed to find grim solace in the fact that, so long as he could continue to withstand it, it was him taking the brunt of the punishments and not one of his siblings in his place.

The real comfort, however, comes from the fact that Fox hasn’t just been slowly going insane over the course of the past few years.

For months now, years now, Fox’s life has been a pattern of weariness leading to feeling worse, leading to him feeling more exhausted, leading to him feeling worse, feeling hollow, and so on and so on and so on. Except, as he’s only now realising, he must have had the pattern the wrong way round from the start.

It had begun with him feeling worse, not with one bad night’s sleep. He can now recall, with unnerving clarity, just one day, out of the blue, feeling as if an incredible weight had been set upon his shoulders. It had been something that would have been impossible to pick out from the monotony of his life, something that had started with as little explanation as anything else that had happened in his life afterward - until now, at least. Now, he has an explanation in the form of a Sith and a rune-carved knife.

When the Chancellor gloats that he’s been chipping away at his very lifeforce day by day, Fox believes him.

When he tells Fox that he’s going to kill him and complete the cycle, Fox believes him too.

The days of him threatening to decommission and replace Fox are over. Now there’s real intent behind the words.

Fox can only watch, too weary to do anything to try and free himself, and too tired of life to protest, as the Chancellor reaches for the knife.

The only comfort he has in this death is that there was no way for him to prevent it. Surely there was no possible way for him to see this coming? Death by weird Sith ritual would have been at the bottom of his list of worries just a few hours ago, if he’d even known that it was a possibility he could consider.

What a way to go.

The blade catches the firelight next to him, and he averts his gaze to the ceiling above. Maybe he can’t avoid this, but he can spare himself some small mercies in his final moments.

Except, it isn’t just a plain ceiling above him. There’s a grate set into the duracrete, some holdover from whatever purpose this room had once served, with metal slats wide enough for him to see through. Fox stares up at them, and then a frown spreads across his face.

The Chancellor tenses a second after he does, as Fox catches further movement through the grate - and meets the eyes of a sibling above through their helmet.

As if waiting for that cue the doors burst inwards, pushed by another invisible force. This time it is wielded by allies, allies that rush forwards into the room even as the Chancellor raises a hand to stop them. The Jedi that had led the charge are followed by a handful of troopers, forming up behind them to guard their backs.

Under the light of a half dozen saber blades, for the first time since he had truly accepted his role as commander of the Guard, Fox allows a sliver of hope to creep in past the helplessness.

[bloodmoonmelony]

but they're just words.

written for the whumptober day 23 prompt: stalking.

warnings: stalking, implied bad times on coruscant for the guard (referenced clone trooper dehumanisation, referenced attempted sexual assault of troopers), drugging.

word count: 1905

read it on ao3 here.

------------------------

Fox turns over the datapad, freezes at the sight of what it had been hiding, and suppresses a sigh.

This makes it the third time this week that his stack of flimsiwork from the senate has also contained a note from who he can only assume is an admirer. An assumption is all he can make - he’s never been on the receiving end of such affection before, and never received any advice during training about how to tackle the issue that didn’t ultimately amount to “just don’t even go there, for the love of fuck”.

The writer is certainly generous with their compliments, he acknowledges as he gives it a quick skim over. Perhaps the assumption that they’re being genuine isn’t so baseless after all - natborns do seem to be fairly random in who they pursue.

The notion leaves a warm feeling in its wake. At the sight of him almost smiling down at what must look like just another stack of flimsi, Thire shoots Fox a look of genuine concern.

—

Another letter is slipped in amongst his flimsiwork the next day.

As clones they don’t have many points of reference, really, when it comes to what is the expected natborn standard for relationship customs. Sure, they have Senator Amidala and Commander Skywalker to look to, and a few other couples within the senate, but in this case their example is not one that’s helpful to Fox.

Amidala and Skywalker seem to be fairly open in their courtship, exchanging gifts and meeting each other more privately when they can. Others maintain relationships over a longer distance with holocalls and trips to see each other. None of them are exchanging anonymous notes with no other attempt at contact.

Despite the fact that his admirer appears to be taking a more unorthodox approach, however, Fox can’t help but feel a little flattered at the attention. He turns the flimsi over in his hands, contemplating its contents.

If the other person revealed themself, would he reciprocate? The question sticks in the back of his mind for the rest of the day.

Some of his siblings, he knows, certainly might take the stranger up on it. He has already turned a blind eye on many occasion to those on leave who are set on pursuing a relationship with a natborn, and he even has to ignore those in his own battalion who sneak off now and again to do the same. It’s something he has always theoretically also been able to participate in - but he has never felt the urge. Making excuses has been far easier, and he really has been far too busy. Surely the instinct will kick in after the war, when he has more time?

For now, though, he reminds himself that it’s simply not feasible. Fox looks down at the letter, and sets it aside. He’ll scrub it for prints and figure out a polite way to turn the civilian down.

—

Frustratingly there aren't any prints left behind, which is another mystery to Fox. The note has been wiped clean. Surely if this person wants to pursue a relationship with him, then they should give him something to go on?

If Skywalker is unsubtle, then this other person is the polar opposite. They've gone too far the other way. All natborns are hopeless at this, Fox decides, and resigns himself to wait out this game of theirs.

—

"Dear Commander - that has always felt like a strange way to begin a letter like this, without a name, but everyone has been insisting that clones such as yourself should not have one. I find myself disagreeing. I've been watching you over these past few months, and I know that you are more than the droid that everyone seems to think you are. If you don't have a name, I'll gladly gift one to you. You deserve it. I’ll try to think of a few tonight.”

Fox scowls down at the words. If they really wanted to know him then they’d show themself, and he’d be able to tell him that he had already very happily named himself thank you very much -

Thire shoots him another look of concern, and tries to peer over Fox’s shoulder at what he’s reading.

Fox bats him away. It’s not worth bothering his brothers over something so trivial.

—

“I’ve not stopped thinking about you all day. You shouldn’t be working here - I saw you fighting off that vile assassin earlier. So brave of you, of course, but what if they’d managed to scar you? I can’t bear the thought of it.

If I took you away from here, I could make sure you could stay beautiful forever.”

That’s a thought that makes Fox shudder, although he silently berates himself for the reaction. They’re just concerned for his safety, he tells himself, reading the note again and ignoring the way they seem far more concerned with protecting his looks than anything else.

—

“I never thought that I might find myself glad for this wretched war, but I am. I’m glad for it, because it brought you to me. If the fight ever reaches Coruscant, then you needn’t worry - I’ll make sure that you are protected. You would be wasted as a soldier.”

—

The letters and notes build up. Fox has started to run out of draw space for them. He's reluctant to get rid of any, in the event that they might eventually add up to a clue to this person's identity, but he still wishes that he could just destroy them and get it over with.

There are only a few hints when in regards to who the writer might be. The notes always end up amongst the files brought over for him from the senate building, those that he is never around to monitor personally before collecting them, and they don’t come from anywhere else, so the person has to work there. Perhaps they’re one of the support staff, or a senator’s aide?

None of his investigations into it ever lead anywhere. The natborn staff working at the flimsiwork collection point remain stubborn in regards to answering his questions, with all of them apparently clueless to who might be leaving the notes, and the cam footage is never of any use given their inefficient placement in that part of the building. At this point it has become little more than a waste of his now-precious time, so he rarely lets himself put much effort into it.

Of course, taking this approach means that he also has to ignore the fact that he almost always ends up getting more of the messages after a longer break from asking after them than he does when he must be seen paying them some attention. It feels like the writer is taunting him, and makes the question of their identity all the more pressing.

Fox wishes he had an answer. The notes are something that has long since started to be a source of discomfort.

—

After the next time the stranger waxes poetry about his looks, going on to suggest certain modifications that they might like him to make, Fox starts to get more self-conscious about taking his helmet off within the senate building. Some of the senators may prefer to talk to him without it, but he fends them off with excuses about a change in regulation.

If this person's pursuing him for his looks, then why can't they settle for one of his brothers, one of those who he knows is looking for a relationship? They’re all supposed to be identical in the eyes of the public, after all.

As soon as that thought crosses his mind he feels a wave of nausea hit him.

That, finally, is the warning sign that has him looking at the situation from a different angle. If the mere idea of this kind of attention being directed at his brothers makes him feel sick, then he needs to start taking the situation more seriously.

This goes beyond his own discomfort. He needs to listen to his gut.

Despite his lack of experience with intimate relationships, he isn't blind to the dangers they can bring. They might not have received any advice, but they’d sure had their fair share of warnings on Kamino, and these warnings had proved themselves to be accurate within months of stepping foot on Coruscant. Troopers now always patrol in groups of at least three. That rule was put in place for a number of reasons, true, but among those is to prevent the opportunistic natborn deciding to try and hurt them while they’re alone.

Is this a threat he needs to worry about coming from within supposedly safe territory, now?

Some of the more recent - and more explicit - notes could indicate so.

Except, they're all only ever aimed at himself. If another trooper had received such attention, he would imagine that the rumour mill would have brought it to his notice by now.

The notes might be unsettling, but that’s all they are. Notes. Words. Meaningless observations from the mouth of someone who must be a coward to avoid actually talking to him for so long. Fox feels silly, even now, for worrying about them so much. He's an elite trained trooper - not trained for this, perhaps, but more than capable of taking care of any threat a civilian might pose to him.

Fox shakes himself, and resolves to forget about the notes entirely, and put the identity of their writer out of his mind. To prove the point to himself he takes the most recent note straight from the pile at the collection point, and chucks it away without even reading it.

The satisfaction even that one small action brings is immense. He can feel a weight lifting off of him already.

—

There’s one threat that he doesn’t account for, in that change of heart of his. Fox was trained well, and he knows the danger that keeping a routine poses to anyone in a position of military significance like him, and as such does his best to switch up his schedule as much as he can. There are, however, some things that are beyond his control, set in stone by the whims of the senate.

This realisation is brought on by a swig of caf, collected from his usual machine not too far from the flimsiwork dropoff point. The aftertaste is off. It’s too sweet - he’s always liked his caf black.

Fox grimaces, and glares down at the dregs of the cup like they’ll give him answers.

They don’t give him anything, of course - not that he gets the chance to really look at them, with his vision dimming as suddenly as it does. Realisation dawns and he staggers, bracing himself against the wall with one hand while fumbling for his comm unit with the other.

The effort is of no use. As his vision starts to fade away entirely, he’s left with enough awareness to feel someone carefully taking his hand and guiding it away from the comm’s emergency alert function. The strength to fight them off deserts him just as the strength to stand does, and he has no choice but to slump into the stranger’s grip.

“Don’t worry,” he hears, as uses the last of his energy to hopelessly try to push them away. “You’re not looking well, but I’m going to take care of you. Just relax.”

[bloodmoonmelony]

it's as simple as it has always been.

written for FOX DAY! (10/10) and also the whumptober day 10 prompts: "can't you see that you're lost without me?", broken phone.

warnings: angst, past major character death, grieving, discussions surrounding paranoia.

word count: 2348

read it on ao3 here.

----------------------

Someone had asked Cody, sometime near the end of the war, about how he might spend his days after the fighting had been concluded. He’d rather optimistically answered that perhaps he’d be able to build some kind of home for himself and his siblings. Maybe he could grow used to spending time with them outside of combat, without fear that every meeting might be their last.

Recently, that previous optimism has been proved wrong time and time again. That same fear is still there, but not because of any battle - not the kind that they had been trained to fight, at least.

Cody, soaked through by the rain and freezing, finds his patience for it all wearing thin. The journey to Fox’s flat has always been frustrating, as if the man had deliberately set up camp far enough out of the way to deter visitors, but today it is doubly infuriating given their inability to contact Fox through any means other than an in-person confrontation.

This isn’t the first time that Fox has pulled a stunt like this, and, given his track record, it won’t be the last. It still doesn’t stop Cody from worrying, though, nor any of the others who follow behind him through the storm. Cody knows that even Bly must echo his concern, despite the curses he can hear his brother directing at Fox and his stubbornness under his breath that might indicate otherwise.

Cody can hardly blame him for it. The complete radio silence leaves a lot of room for those old fears to creep back in.

If Fox was dead after all they’d been through, then - well.

He disguises his shiver at the thought as being a result of the cold instead, and marches on.

The group of his batchmates trail behind him, Rex bringing up the rear, and it isn’t long before they reach their destination. They gather on the stairs leading up the side of the building, huddling together to shield each other from the weather as Cody tries to draw their final batchmate out.

“Fox!” Cody barks out, hammering on the door even harder when he doesn’t get a response. “Come on! Open up!”

Their only answer is silence, which has Cody swearing under his breath. The others join him, while Wolffe assumes the role of hammering on the door, his frustration bleeding though in the way that his knocks increase in force each time. Naturally, this soon means that he’s left to overbalance when the door opens and he almost socks Fox in the face - Fox, who looks far too surprised at their company for someone who has been airing their calls for the last two days.

Both parties are frozen for a second, before Cody pushes himself back to the front of the group and then into the flat. Fox only gets the chance to protest for a second before everyone else is joining in, and soon the entryway is crowded.

“Sure, whatever,” their brother mutters sarcastically, scowling at the lot of them before retreating back into the living room. “Come on in!”

They do so, with great smugness - and with great relief, Cody can tell, no matter how well each of them may try to hide it.

Now that they’re out of the storm, Cody can appreciate just how dishevelled Fox looks. The dark patches under his eyes are enough of an answer to Cody’s go-to question of ‘how much sleep have you managed to get recently?’, and his shirt bears a new stain that indicates he hasn’t changed it in a while.

It’s a look that’s echoed by his home. The flat is a mess, every surface covered by datapads or flimsi, while rubbish has started to overflow from the bin in the corner. Worse still is the state of the walls, which have been largely taken over by maps and diagrams, if not scribbled on directly. The other guard commander had tried to give them a heads up about this, at least, weeks ago when he had last visited, but it’s one thing to be told about the chaos and another to see it in person.

They’re all left standing awkwardly in the entrance way, trying not to make a scene out of staring, while all very blatantly staring.

From the outside Cody realises that it looks like madness, but they all know the truth of it. A truth that, somehow, Cody finds even worse. Because he knows what he’ll find if he goes digging through the documents - not that he would need to look far. Even from where he’s standing he can see articles detailing the ‘life of Sheev Palpatine’, data on darksiders that should definitely be classified, and more.

He can also see that Fox has made no further progress towards his self-set goal of finding the man again. The man who, if you went by every other account of the end of the war, or every piece of evidence collected afterwards, was very certainly dead... every account other than the one Fox had come out with, at least.

Fox, who had suffered so much, and lost so many, and still could not let go of the man responsible despite seeing him to the grave once already.

Fox, who had decided that there had to be some greater plan of Palpatine’s to pick apart, some trick of immortality that nobody else had figured out, and that he, despite everything else that he had sacrificed over the years, should be the one to pick at it and sacrifice his second chance at life to boot.

Fox, who, in the face of losing some of those closest to him, had decided that the only way to move on was to take revenge against a dead man.

This isn’t the first time they’ve walked in on him in a state like this, obsessing over things that should have been left at a postmortem. This is, however, the worst it has ever gotten before their intervention.

Cody looks very deliberately away from it all, drawing his gaze to the far side of the room - and there lies the answer to why Fox has been avoiding their calls. His comm unit is shattered on the floor, dent in the wall indicating how it had ended up there. Its destruction was certainly no accident.

Cody turns back to Fox, and deliberately lets go of his lingering frustration in one slow, steady breath. It won’t get him anywhere, not with Fox like this.

This is a mood that needs to be kicked with kindness, not rage.

“So, Fox - you’ve been busy,” he starts, gesturing around at the flat. Somewhere to his right a stack of flimsi falls over, and he very pointedly doesn’t spare it a glance. Fox looks sullenly back at him. “What happened to your comm?”

When Fox doesn’t reply, Gree moves to fill the awkward silence instead.

“Come on,” Gree speaks up, moving into the adjacent kitchen space. “Why don’t we table the questions for a minute while we all sit down and warm up, huh? Who wants a drink?”

That’s a bit of an optimistic offer to make, given Cody’s estimations of what beverages Fox might have on hand from the state of his flat, but they all take him up on it regardless - even Fox, who joins Wolffe in clearing some space from all to sit, his reluctance in helping them apparently outweighed by his desire to ensure they don’t mess up whatever system he has going on for his flimsiwork.

After they’re settled, the silence returns, but this time it’s Fox who’s the one to break it. “Why are you guys here?” he asks. “I thought you were done with me - with all of this.”

As he speaks, he gestures to the mess behind him. His words are a painful reminder of how this conversation had last gone, at least from Bly’s recollection of it. It had ended in argument - very almost in blows, with Bly apparently failing to resist the urge to try and drag Fox quite literally away from the cumulation of his obsession.

“Fox, we came because we were worried,” Bly steps in to say, apparently eager to heal over past wounds. “You weren’t answering your comm, and, well, I guess I can see why, now.”

There’s a long pause, as he seems to fidget in his seat and figure out his words.

“I’m sorry for pushing you,” Bly finally settles on - and that, for some reason, has Fox shaking his head in a negative. “I should have been more understanding.”

“No,” Fox says, cutting in. “This wasn’t your fault. You’ve been plenty understanding. I was angry at myself, not you… though the nagging sound of your ringtone didn’t help my patience, you know?”

At that, he offers them a shaky smile. The weak attempt at levity is jarring, after so many weeks - months, even - of nothing but rage and hollow promises from him.

Before Cody can speak up about this, Fox seems to sense the mood himself and continues.

“I’m glad you’re all here, actually. I wanted to thank you. I recently realised that - well. You were all right. It doesn’t matter if Palpatine is dead or alive, he’s still the one winning while I waste my time over this.” He sighs, and leaves a pause, but nobody jumps in to interrupt quite yet. “I don’t deserve any of you. You’ve put up with so much while I’ve been chasing after ghosts. Thanks for not giving up on me. Thank you, and sorry -”

“Fox.” Cody steps forwards, and places a hand on his brother’s shoulder, stopping him before he can get stuck in a loop of apologies and platitudes. “You don’t need to apologise for anything. You’re hurting. We have your back. It’s as simple as it’s always been.”

Fox dips his head. Cody tightens his grip. He isn’t ready to let go of his brother, not yet.

Then Fox leans into the gesture, and looks back up at him, and for the first time in a long time Cody feels a spark of hope that perhaps they’ll get their brother back after all.

“We’ve got you, Fox.”

—

Fox steadies himself. The feeling of having all eyes on him will always be an uncomfortable one, he thinks, even if this time the ‘all’ only consists of his closest siblings.

It’s a difficult thing to accept, that he must let those siblings go - or, at least, let go of the hope that any of them might actually be able to help him. A difficult thing to accept, but not so difficult a plan to execute, however, and Fox can see the relief spelled out on Cody’s face at even the smallest of reciprocative gestures from Fox. He’d feel bad for lying, if he had ever really done so.

It is true that he’s only angry at himself, even if that anger really is over the fact that Sidious still has such sway over him, rather than as a result of guilt over how he has treated his batchmates.

It is true that his batchmates helped him come to some important realisations, even if those realisations were more along the lines of the fact that he needed to cut his losses and stop wasting time on useless hope.

As the conversation resumes around him, he makes sure to vaguely follow along, even as his mind tries to go elsewhere. It’s easy, at least, to go along with their plans, offering suitable responses to their usual nagging - most of them even truthful - while they organise his evening for him. Keeping up appearances is important, now, if he ever wants to get his siblings off his back.

Fox makes sure to laugh at all their jokes, and roll their eyes at their antics in between, and ignores the part of him that wishes this could remain the norm.

“Thank you,” he makes sure to say to Gree, when they produce a cup of his favourite caf. The blinding smile from his sibling that even his simple words of gratitude inspire almost makes him feel bad for stringing them along.

Almost.

Selfishness has always been a bad habit of his. It’s about time that he finally cut his batch out of his hunt - they care too much, and will only get hurt if he keeps trying to push them away as he has been doing before now. Instead, Fox has realised, he has to convince them that he has given up. If he doesn’t then they won’t let him go without a long and bloody fight.

As inconvenient as their reaction has been, Fox understands. Just as they can’t let go of him, he can’t let go of Sidious, either, even if he has very different reasons behind his persistence - or, perhaps, not so different at all. After all, he knows that his batch sees the containment of Fox and his supposed insanity as being their responsibility.

It’s responsibility, too, that drives Fox to ensure that Sidious can never walk their galaxy again. After so many years of failing to do anything to stop him at all, of so many siblings dead on his watch as a result, it’s nothing less than his duty to do so. How can his batchmates, having fulfilled their duty alongside the Jedi for so many years, ever understand?

They can’t. This is a fight that Fox will have to carry on without them.

If there’s even the slightest chance that Sidious remains out there somewhere, in whatever shade of life he might have clung to, then Fox is going to be there waiting for him when he comes crawling back out of the darkness - if he can’t track the bastard down first and kill him for the second time for all that he has done.

Fox owes him one more death. Even if his batchmates are here, alive and willing to fight for him, the spaces left behind by Thorn and Thire can never be patched over.

Two deaths for two deaths seems only fair, in Fox’s eyes.

--------------------------

fox, at the end of this: "i’m being so sneaky and angsty about this. good work, me."

his whole batch, after leaving: "we all agree that tonight was weird, yeah? weird sudden change in attitude? weird new ‘go along with everything without being a bastard’ routine? right?"

now here's a fic that has been chopped up and changed a fair amount! if there are any inconsistencies, that's why. but i had fun with it!

the title for this fic was "it's not paranoia, if…" for the longest time, but then i edited some stuff and decided that i wanted the possibility of sid still being alive and kicking to be a bit more ambiguous. in my head i imagine that fox did, at one point, do a job for sidious that might have been related to the canonical cloning project / some other older attempt at immortality. whether there was any success or not… who knows? either way, it serves as an excellent starting point for a breakdown.

the other title i was considering was "the trick of immortality", lifted from one of the lines in this fic, but i discounted that one for a similar but also opposite reason - out of the context of the fic, 'trick' more implies that fox has definitely been incorrect this whole time. good angst, but again, kills the ambiguity a bit.

[bloodmoonmelony]

see the rage reflected - part 2 / 2

written for the whumptober day 6 prompt: made to watch.

warnings: past trauma (malevolence style), mentioned torture, descriptions of violence and injury, minor character death.

word count: 1372

read it on ao3 here.

----------------------

Wolffe has always been one to take matters into his own hands, opting to lead the charge rather than carry out his role as commander from the sidelines. He works better with his feet on the ground, the battle raging around him while he alters his plans as necessary on the fly, fighting alongside his men - his brothers.

The Malevolence had stolen this from him, removing him from the fight at the same time as it had removed all of his options. Then, it had stolen his brothers, one by one.

There had been no plan of his that he could adapt, nothing that he could do at all except sit back and watch as his entire battalion was picked off slowly. It had felt like a punishment cooked up by the universe specifically for him. With how often his General had told him to trust in the Force, it had almost felt like a betrayal. The Force might have saved him in the end, but what use had it been to the rest of his battalion?

None. In fact, it had been as much use as he had been.

Even now, with the Malevolence weeks behind him, there is nothing that he can do but watch as a brother is tortured in front of his eyes. Both of them are disarmed, restrained, and held at blasterpoint, and Fox - always stubborn, always frustrating - seems determined to keep the heat on himself even with Wolffe now awake to help him.

Wolffe doesn’t even have an idea of how long he’d been out for before now, and that alone is enough to inspire that same deep-set feeling of uselessness as before. For how long had he left his batchmate here to suffer by himself?

Then, Fox catches his eye, and Wolffe shakes himself. His brother doesn’t look helpless, or distressed, or any other shade of desperate. Outside of the bloody grin and the taunting, he lets nothing show except cool disdain.

If there is one thing that Wolffe can cling to here, Wolffe tells himself, trying to fall back on that part of himself that he has always been able to in the past, it’s that he can’t let a batchmate one-up him. If Fox is handling this, then he can too. He knows he can. One bad (beyond bad, beyond disastrous-) mission doesn’t change the years of training they both have to rely on.

Wolffe closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and takes a moment to centre himself. He isn’t trapped, helpless, in an escape pod. He’s here, on Coruscant - and he has options.

He will not see one more brother dead before him, not today.

There’s a break in the punishment directed at Fox, and Wolffe pulls his attention back to the present with grim determination. The leader of their kidnappers steps away for a moment to talk into their comm unit, and Wolffe takes the opportunity to look for a way to escape… or, for the more tantalising option of striking back.

The odds are, for both the latter and the former, not at all in their corner. Their bonds are not the sturdiest, hands held in front of them with cheap cable in place of any sort of cuffs or paralysis measures, but the natborns make up for it with the blaster held to his head. Breaking out of the restraints is definitely possible, even relatively simple, but not without taking a bolt for his troubles.

There are too many natborns in the room to risk making a move right now. What he needs is a distraction, and while he knows that Fox’s people are probably working on a plan, who knows how long they’ll take to -

Somewhere nearby, there’s the sound of an explosion.

Everyone in the room freezes at it, before the leader of the group turns to his subordinates with a growl. “Well, don’t just stand there! Go and find out what that was!”

There’s a scramble as the majority of them go to do just that, leaving Fox and Wolffe alone with the leader and a couple of his cronies. Shortly after that there’s the sound of blasterfire, and shouting, and all the signs of a brutal and bloody fight going on just beyond the room they’re all holed up in. Those left look to each other, visibly nervous, as their leader swears and punches more messages into his comm unit.

Now these odds - these odds, Wolffe likes much better. Fox, meeting his eyes again with a sly grin, seems to agree.

It’s time to act. The henchmen aren’t focused on them at all, blasters trained at the entrances of the room, which means that nobody notices Wolffe subtly twisting to lift the knife out of the boot of the natborn nearest to him.

They definitely do, however, notice as he turns the weapon in his hands and sinks their own knife into their femoral artery.

They go down howling. Fox, simultaneously, rolls onto his side and aims a kick up at their leader, who is still standing above him. They promptly drop the electro-weapon and keel over, clutching their groin. The sight of it startles a laugh from Wolffe, though his grin quickly turns to a scowl as the final natborn turns his blaster on Fox.

Tackling him to join his leader on the ground is a move that requires no thought at all from Wolffe - he’s working purely on instinct, after years of watching his brothers’ backs from training simulations right through to reality. Even with his hands bound he doesn’t hesitate to try and grapple them into submission, mindful of Fox who’s doing the same a little way away with the other natborn. It’s hardly the first time either of them have had to fight in such a state, given their training, and if their enemies didn’t want him to bite, then they should have bound his mouth instead -

Frustratingly, the man manages to free himself from Wolffe’s restricted hold, and raises a blaster at the two of them. This time, it is very certainly trained at Wolffe, the man’s face distorted in rage - but before Wolffe can do anything about stopping them himself, the shuttered window behind them bursts inwards, and a blaster bolt sails over Wolffe’s shoulder to take the last man standing out.

Wolffe’s face falls into a scowl, and both him and Fox turn to face their backup.

“Hey!” he barks at the rescue party, ruining the moment for any potential happy reunions. “That one was mine!”

There’s a bit of an awkward pause at that, before the troopers seem to realise that his anger is all bark, and quickly resume descending upon the room. It’s chaotic, but from the corner of his eye Wolffe can see Fox shaking his head at his antics, and for a moment any thoughts of their capture - or even the Malevolence disaster before that - fall away in the face of a wave of bittersweet nostalgia. This had been the first time that they’d really faced battle together since their final training assessments, but they’d still fought to protect each other like no time had passed at all.

The familiarity between them isn’t something that he’d managed to reach with his battalion. He hadn’t been given the time, or the chance.

As the medics descend on Fox, he moves to give them space with only a little outward reluctance. Fox rolls his eyes, another familiar gesture, then looks pointedly at something behind him. Wolffe follows his gaze, blinking as a couple of troopers in grey break through the crowd of red. It takes him a second to get the message, but then he leaves Fox in peace to go and greet them.

As he goes he notes the blaster burns and scrapes across their armour. They need someone to watch their back.

The dead he can do nothing more for, but these brothers? These, he can still protect. Today he has proved it - but first, he realises as he looks down at his own more recent bruises and those from the weeks prior that have finally begun to fade, comes the healing.

[bloodmoonmelony]

see the rage reflected - part 1 / 2

written for the whumptober day 4 prompts: "i see the danger, it's written there in your eyes", cattle prod, shock.

warnings: torture, electric shock, angst.

word count: 1040

read it on ao3 here. part 2 will be posted for the day 6 prompts.

----------------------

The act of being shocked is a familiar one to Fox. The inescapable pain, the urge to scramble away from it but at the same time having nowhere to go… all of it, familiar. The aftermath of electrical burns marring his skin, and the smell of it, too, are no stranger, but they still make him squirm as they rub against the fabric of his undersuit and the floor.

What isn’t familiar is the method - the shock is being inflicted by a smaller device, handheld to maximise the convenience of inflicting pain, and delivering a different jolt than the lightning or the electrostaffs might. The person on the other end of it handles it with proficiency, taking advantage of its ability to shock a more localised area to leave electric burns in spots that might cause the most discomfort.

It’s obviously a tactic that they lean on often, at least going by the fact that it’s more practised than anything else he’d seen from them that evening. Their shooting had been shoddy, and their organisation too. It was only bad luck that had landed Fox here - the one thing that a trooper’s training could never account for.

“Come on,” the stranger above him says, cutting the latest shock short to make sure Fox is paying attention, “you can make this stop whenever you want.”

Even that’s a display of their ineptitude. Torture is a notoriously ineffective method of extracting information, and all clone command units had been trained in resistance to interrogation techniques like this in the event of this specific scenario - so it’s doubly futile.

Fox, of course, makes no mention of this to his interrogators. The longer they keep slamming their heads against an impossible task, the longer his team on the outside has to find a way in and arrest everyone involved. That, or the even more tantalising option of them slipping up and providing himself with an opportunity to escape and arrest everyone involved.

Another shock comes, jolting him from that particular fantasy.

“Just tell us what we need to know,” comes the stranger’s voice again, this time tinged with more obvious frustration.

What they need to know seems to be both incredibly vague, and not at all the kind of information that Fox might easily have on hand. They seem to have ‘officer of the GAR’ and ‘officer of the Guard’ muddled up.

That thought is, however, an unavoidable reminder of the other point of unfamiliarity in the situation - one that, as they pause for a breather, Fox shifts to sneak a glance at. In another display of their captors’ glorious incompetence, one such officer of the GAR, someone who probably possesses the exact information on troop scheduling that they are looking for, is staring right back at him.

The eye contact shouldn’t be unexpected, but the scrutiny does make Fox start a little. Wolffe, knocked unconscious until now in the same attack that Fox had been caught up in, seems to be finally coming back to his senses.

Relief fills Fox at the sight of coherency returning to his brother’s eyes, although it is almost immediately outweighed by the guilt inspired by his brother’s predicament. Wolffe is supposed to be on compassionate leave, not stuck in some sorry excuse for a kidnapping attempt, under threat of torture. Once again, Fox finds himself cursing the ineptitude of the civilian traffic police that had failed to prevent the criminals from taking out their vehicle - and, given that they were supposed to be anonymous, likely also failing to protect their vehicle data.

No doubt that’ll be another duty the Guard ends up taking over by the end of this fiasco, a thought that inspires a grimace from Fox far more easily than the torture does. Still, that’s not a problem to be focusing on now. Fox has to make sure that he and his brother come out of this intact enough to figure out what went wrong, first.

Said brother, of course, immediately decides to tempt fate and make that objective that much more difficult for Fox to achieve. The exact moment that Wolffe realises what’s happening is very apparent, even with the distraction of another shock delivered to the small of Fox’s back, thanks to the yelling that joins and immediately overwhelms the sound of laughter at Fox’s involuntary reaction to the pain.

“Someone shut that one up,” comes the head interrogator’s voice from above him before Wolffe can get too far into it, and Fox finds himself tensing up more than he imagines any shock could inspire as they converge on Wolffe, too.

Without even thinking, Fox is moving, squirming upwards as much as he can and spitting blood and an insult in the direction of the natborn. It hits their shirt and leaves a trail of red, their face curling into an expression of disgust - and then, into rage, and they turn their back on Wolffe to stalk back towards him.

“You little…”

“What?” Fox snipes back before they can finish. “I thought you wanted us to talk, not clam up.”

The act of defiance does its job of distracting them from his brother's shouts - which have by this point turned to silent fury - and he tries not to let his heart sink as they turn on him again instead. They don't shock him, this time, just strike him with the end of the weapon in a blow that leaves a trail of blood running down his cheek. The stinging pain is different to that induced by the electro-device, the wound smarting as Fox forces a taunting grin across his face.

The effect is slightly ruined by the natborn smoothing over his scowl to mirror it, tossing the electro-prod in his hand as he mulls Fox over with apparent glee. Behind their legs, he can see his brother freeze at the obvious threat, before meeting Fox’s eyes.

There's a promise in them, something dark and dangerous. If Fox wasn't certain that it wasn't meant for him, he would have probably been more worried for his life than he is currently at the hands of some amateur thugs running an interrogation job that's well above their pay grade.

Fox doesn’t envy those thugs one bit.

[bloodmoonmelony]

Clone Wars Headcanon where Fox wasn’t alone and Thorn knew about Palpatine as well. He tried to ease the weight off Fox’s shoulders but Fox wouldn’t let him go on missions so Thorn decided to take care of the rest of the Guard.

Thorn would deliberately train them with the knowledge to avoid the Chancellor and created a system that allowed them some freedom. He made sure they knew how to react and respond to Senators and ensure training could be utilized by both shinies, transfers, or reconditioned clones.

He was able to bring Stone, Thire, Hound and their CMO into the system but kept them ignorant of what he and Fox knows and does for their safety.

Palpatine worked Fox to the bone but he had Thorn to fall on at the end of the day.

When communication dropped from Fox’ batch, Thorn brought over two stolen bottles of whiskey to his office and they got absolutely wasted. Fox opened up with stories of his batch and cried on Thorn’s shoulder, asking what he did to get ghosted and Thorn could do nothing but hug him and assure him he’s enough. It’s just the war. They’ll come back. The next day, they pretended as though nothing happened but Thorn will every once and while sit next to Fox at the end of a shift and listen to his stories.

They tried to do what they could to keep their Guard to stay in communication with their batches with the rule that nothing could be spoken about the mistreatment of them as they don’t need a bigger mess of the Jedi getting involved in politics.

Stone still meets with his batchmates when they come to Coruscant and Thorn will take his shift even it means staying up another 16 hours but he’ll do it again in a heartbeat.

Fox sliced Thire and his batchmates comms so they could talk wherever they were stationed at no matter the time and it was kept low key.

Thorn helped Hound smuggle puppies to Hound’s batchmates after Grizzer found them on the street and the Coruscant Guard couldn’t take them without being found out.

When word came back to Thorn when one of his batchmates didn’t make it, Fox covered for him as he took another shift in the lower levels of Coruscant. It was at the end of year 2 when Thorn was the last of his batch and that was his breaking point. He asked about Plapatine’s missions and he got entwined in Palpatine’s plans, just like Fox.

Fox couldn’t pick between being glad that he’s not alone or upset that Thorn now has to deal with the torture of not being enough. The first time Thorn got electrocuted, Fox begged on his knees for Palpatine to release him. It was his first mistake. Whenever Fox failed a mission, Thorn got the brunt of the torture.

When Fox failed to kill Fives, Palpatine assigned Thorn his first mission: Scipio.

Fox had a breakdown when he heard the report of Thorn KIA. It was Palpatine’s downfall.

Fox went to the Jedi about Palpatine and because of Fives who was already trying to convince them of the chips, the Jedi Council agreed to step in.

Yoda, Mace and Quinlan went in with Fox and after a brutal fight, they finished Palpatine off with no casualties on their side but a hell of a lot of injuries.

Quinlan asked for time off with mind healers as he fully had to step in the dark to fight and Mace agreed.

The war took less than two months to fully come to an end and when the GAR heard about the Guard and their mistreatment, comms went off to check in on Vod and ensure that they had the help and support they needed.

Fox ignored the calls from his batch and finished up with the Guard, getting them transferred or relieved as they were no longer required to stay.

He stayed until all clones were out and helped Bail rebuild the Senate Guard to be what the Coruscant Guard was.

He helped the Republic build itself after the reveal of a Sith and his plans and their blindness to his actions. Bail was voted Chancellor and he asked Fox to be his Vice and Fox told him he’d think about it.

The clones moved to different planets who accepted them and took jobs from a various amount of people. Some stayed on Coruscant to be in the Senate or Temple Guard; some became bounty hunters; a few became Senators to represent their Vod in the Republic.

On Fox’ last day, he went back to his office and finding a bottle of whiskey that Thorn snuck in, he got absolutely wasted.

He couldn’t handle the pain and despite going to mind healing sessions and therapy, he ends up stealing a ship and leaving in the middle of the night.

He leaves his comm and his armor, with a voicemail to Bail apologizing about not being able to accept the position of Vice.

His batchmates, Cody, Bly, Gree, Ponds and Wolffe, find his armor and comm when Bail called them about the voicemail.

When Thire, Stone and Hound are given the news, they share a moment with the Guard at the 79s bar. It was a quiet night and vod from other battalions showed their respect to Fox with a raised glass. After, they shared a private moment in Fox’ old office, stripped bare compared to when they were at the war.

Fox wasn’t seen again.

[bloodmoonmelony]

Wolf-pup Ch. 11

Chapter Summary:

Dogma had been a part of the 104th for nearly four months by the time their first real shore leave came around. They spent so much time in transit that apparently the powers-that-be considered it less necessary than some other battalions, but all things told, Dogma was looking forward to it.

Final chapter of this fic!!!

Chapter 11: Enough

When General Plo found Wolffe waiting outside his quarters after latemeal the next day, he wasn’t exactly surprised.

“I want to see the reports.” Wolffe stated, standing firm with his hands clasped behind his back. General Plo didn’t have to ask which ones— honestly he’s surprised that Wolffe had managed to wait this long. He gave Wolffe a measured look through his goggles and waited for him to explain.

Wolffe’s expression tightened with concern, skin pinching around his scar. “I don’t— Dogma’s been through enough, and I… I hate seeing him hurting without knowing why. And I hate making it worse.”

He paused for a long moment before continuing. “The kid still hasn’t painted his armor, and I just… want to make sure it’s not anything we’re doing wrong, to make him feel like he doesn’t belong…” Wolffe’s eyes trailed down to the ground, at least until a firm hand on his shoulder prompted him to look up again.

“You are a good Commander, Wolffe, and a good brother.” General Plo rumbled quietly, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. Warmth spread from his hand, and Wolffe knew the General’s eyes were examining his own. “Dogma has made much progress in recent weeks, and I sense that he appreciates the Wolfpack’s care. His hesitations are not on you… rather, the transgressions of the Jedi, I fear.”

Wolffe blinked, confused. “What do you mean, General?”

Plo Koon released a breath through his rebreather, almost a sigh, and his expression tightened in what Wolffe finally recognized as anger, brain stuttering in surprise.

Finally, he gestured inside his quarters, beckoning Wolffe to follow. “Come, my son. We have much to discuss.”

—————————————————

Skin buzzing and feet pounding as he channeled his frustration onto the treadmill, Wolffe nearly roared in anger as he thought of what he’d learned. Already much faster than his usual pace, upped the speed despite the hitch in his side, hoping to drown out the thunderous rage threatening to engulf him.

What the 501st had gone through— what Rex, and even Dogma had been through— he banged a hand on the side of the treadmill before prompting it to go even faster until his breathing felt ragged and all his muscles were burning.

Slamming a hand down on the shut-off pad, he leaned forward until his head made contact with the support bars, hands gripping the sides with a vicelike grip as what he had seen flashed through his head.

The file the General had shown him– still half-osik after the GAR’s security council was done with it– had painted a stark picture, one with Dogma right in the middle of it. General Plo hadn’t been there in-person when the report had been given, but he’d shared with Wolffe quietly, how Captain Rex, always so steady and sure, hadn’t been able to meet their eyes during the mission debrief. General Plo had cautioned him against watching the helmet vids from when they’d taken the darjetii demagolka down, the besalisk’s limbs easily the size of Dogma’s torso. After watching that, he understood Dogma’s kneejerk reaction to lightsabers all too well.

Wolffe’s only solace was the report of a single blaster bolt burning through Krell’s back with a sense of finality, and even that made his stomach churn with guilt– feeling relieved at Dogma’s expense, grieving for the near-shiny he’d been before everything had been stripped away. Before his whole life had been reduced to the Clone Product who killed a Jedi General. Who would’ve been sentenced to death if not for a last-ditch effort from Captain Rex and the Jedi Council to schedule his sentence with the Coruscant Detention Center’s general prison population. After all, a death sentence could take years to get through their system, and nobody would bat an eye at an untimely death, putting a trooper in general population.

Wolffe couldn’t even imagine what that had been like– that month-long gap between the Umbara campaign and when a new shiny had shown up in the 104th. But he’d seen the scars, and the kid still flinched instinctively at lights out. So many of Dogma’s reactions made sense now, as much as Wolffe grieved for it.

And Wolffe knew grief; on his worst days, it still threatened to swallow him whole, especially after the Malevolence attack, but grief was a familiar companion in death, almost preferable to the bone-aching limbo of continual injustice… injustice that Wolffe tried not to think about, in a battalion with a General as good as theirs.

Dogma had been through so much, much more than anyone should have on their shoulders, and even though Wolffe despaired at what the vod’ika had been put through, he refused to regret the knowing.

Throat raw and legs wobbling, Wolffe’s tired body carried him through the rote movements of showering and returning to his bunk, long after the others had turned in for the night. Mind numb from the thoughts still racing through it, Wolffe knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night, but as his eyes drifted, he focused on the gentle rise and fall of Dogma’s chest, and for now, that was enough.

It had to be.

————————————————

Dogma had been a part of the 104th for nearly four months by the time their first real shore leave came around. They spent so much time in transit that apparently the powers-that-be considered it less necessary than some other battalions, but all things told, Dogma was looking forward to it.

He’d been… a little preoccupied the last time the 501st made port on Coruscant, but Comet and Fixer were bickering about being the one to take him shopping for civvies, and Patch had plans to show them his favorite hole-in-the-wall diner from his time on-planet, and even Commander Wolffe had plans to meet up with his batchmate at some point.

And Tup… the 501st’s leave time would overlap with theirs by about 24 hours, and Dogma’s mind turned in anxious circles any time he thought about seeing Tup again. It helped, though, looking back at Tup’s comm updates. As much as it had shocked him the first few times around, Dogma had been missed, and it was a nice feeling, all things considered. Tup ended every comm saying he missed him, that the 501st was doing okay, K’oyacyi and all that, even when Dogma’s stomach squirmed with awkwardness at the idea of saying it back.

He did miss Tup, but he was also finding his place with the Wolfpack, growing in ways that he hadn’t been able to with the 501st. Getting his first pair of civvies would just be another sign of that.

So when they finally set out on their excursion to the “Best bantha burger this side of Coco Town,” Dogma barely resisted the urge to crane his head up to look at the endless cityscape of Coruscant.

Thankfully, Comet kept an eye on him and managed to prevent him from tripping in a divot in the duracrete. Cheeks flushing without the usual cover of his helmet, he gave Comet a nod of thanks as they finally arrived at their destination.

“Medics first,” Fixer grinned cheekily as he opened the door, holding it behind him and bowing dramatically to let Patch pass.

Patch, in turn, responded with an amused snort, giving Fixer a shove before walking inside with the poise of a Senator. “Joke all you want, vod, but you’ll be singing a different tune after you’ve tried their fried tubers.”

The duo’s dramatics earned a round of chuckles from Boost and Sinker, who mimed an overdramatic bow, shuffling inside before Fixer could slam the door on them. Dogma huffed in amusement, took a moment to appreciate the other’s relaxed teasing, less common on-planet than in the safety of their barracks.

Stepping into the bustling little diner, the Wolfpack was quickly and efficiently shuffled into one of the booths near the back, with Patch, Fixer, Warthog and Boost on one side and Sinker, Comet, Wolffe, and Dogma on the other side, Dogma sitting on the end. They weren’t the only troopers in the diner, which made Dogma smile, just a little, seeing other vode looking comfortable in this place.

“I’d recommend the Trooper Special, unless you see something else you’d like. I’m pretty fond of their Bantha Bite Sub myself, but you can’t go wrong.” Patch suggested, pointing to it on the menu.

Dogma appreciated the suggestion, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices. On a good day, he got to pick between a green ration bar and a red one, and maybe some rehydrated bread on the side. Glancing around the rest of the diner, he could see all kinds of foods he’d never even known existed, and the smells wafting from the kitchen made his mouth water.

A service droid came and took their order not long after, and when prompted, Dogma opted for the meiloorun shake with his meal. Comet, predictably, picked chocolate, and Boost and Sinker took the opportunity to start arguing about whether chocolate or vanilla were better.

“It’s the same ingredients either way, vod, just with an extra heap of syrup. ‘sides, I like it. Vanilla’s more subtle. Don’t need to beat me over the head with sugar to enjoy it.”

“If it’s the same exact ingredients, wouldn’t you wanna have the same ingredients and chocolate? Warthog, back me up here, vod!” Boost nudged the trooper next to him, who made a hand-waving gesture to signal that he was staying out of it.

Soon, their shakes and a healthy serving of fried tubers was delivered to their table, gaining the collective attention of the whole table. Half of them looked like they were barely restraining themselves from diving for the tubers, but once all their drinks had been situated, Dogma hesitantly reached for a fry. Mimicking his vode’s moves as they enthusiastically dipped them in sauce, or in Fixer’s case his shake, Dogma took a bite.

He couldn’t quite stop the noise of pleasure at the combination of salty, savory, and even sweet from the sauce he’d dipped it in, and it wasn’t long before he was reaching for his next fry. The shake was also delicious, and he finished it in record time, earning a pleased look from Patch, who apparently thought he could use the calories.

Caught up in the relaxed environment, suffused with the joking and laughing of his vode, he didn’t notice the scuffle by the door until it got loud, but he picked up more than a few key phrases that made him hunch his shoulders in an attempt to make himself disappear.

A natborn, tall and distinctly slimy-looking was running his mouth to the service droid up front, gesturing emphatically towards the other table of troopers, these ones with purple armor markings. “War-mongering wet droids! A being can’t even get a burger in peace without having to look at their pathetic lot!” He griped, trying to argue his way out of paying for his meal, attracting the attention of every trooper in the diner in the process.

Dogma glanced towards the commander nervously, looking for a cue in case they needed to leave before the door to the kitchens swung open and every thought in Dogma’s head fizzled out as a besalisk stepped out.

Eyes cool in a dangerous way, Dogma barely even registered the shorter, wider appearance of the being now standing in front of the natborn, but he noticed the way two of his four hands drifted towards the blaster tucked into his apron. He may have been shorter than General Krell, but he still managed to tower over the rude natborn whose eyes flashed with a brief look of panic as the cook shared some words, tone quiet but deadly. Practically quaking in his boots, the natborn shakily rifled around for the needed credits (and maybe a couple extra in his haste) before making a break for it.

If Dogma had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the speeder lifting off just outside their window and vacating the premises with all haste. As is, his eyes locked on the besalisk giving the door a satisfied nod, handing the other table of troopers another order of fries before his eyes caught on their table, starting to make his way over.

Dogma could feel his blood rushing in his ears, and the tubers he’d just eaten felt like a brick in the bottom of his stomach, his jaw impossibly tight. He didn’t even register the tray laden with food that the cook had picked up on the way to their table, starting to hand out the assortment of burgers they’d ordered. The vode around him cheered, quickly digging in, but Dogma felt frozen in place as the besalisk started to talk.

“Apologies for the scene, boys. Patch! And Commander… Wolffe, was it? Pleasure to see ya here again! Think I see a couple’a new faces, yeah? My name’s Dex.” The besalisk, Dex, gave them a grin, but in Dogma’s mind’s eye, the image distorted into the cruel glee of the being that still haunted his nightmares, and he knew he couldn’t stay here.

“I-I need to go.” Dogma muttered, standing up abruptly and leaving the diner in a rush, narrowly avoiding bumping into Dex in his haste.

Letting out a noise of confusion, Patch felt himself rising to follow, only to be stopped when Wolffe gave them all a settling motion, standing and gesturing for them to get back to their meals. “I’ve got him, vode. Eat your burgers.” And with a respectful nod to Dex, he was gone. Dex nodded back, having stepped back when Dogma made a break for it, and returned to passing out their meals.

“A-Apologies, sir. I’m not sure what–” Patch started to apologize, eyes drifting to Dogma and Wolffe’s retreating forms, the diner’s door still swinging on its hinges.

Dex waved them off, picking up Dogma’s still untouched plate. “Ah, ‘s fine. A few of the boys in blue— I’ve seen ‘em have the same reaction in recent months. I don’t take it to heart.” His head fins twitched in what Patch had come to recognize as sympathy. Dex still dabbled in information broking, as far as Patch was aware, so it was possible he knew what that was about even more than they did.

“I’ll pack up his portion to-go, the Commander’s too; let ‘em try the bantha burger later, yeah?” He said, an intentional lightness to his deep voice. “Can I trust you boys to get this back to them?”

“Yessir.” Their response was firm, if a little quieter than their usual volume. Patch’s growing confusion and concern reflected back at him on his brother’s faces, but Wolffe said he had him, and he’d trust his ori’vod with Dogma for now, so he tried not to worry too much.

Thinking about it, Dogma from even a month ago would’ve sat through the meal, ignoring his limits and working himself halfway into a panic attack before anyone noticed something was wrong. And as abrupt and worrying as it was, Dogma’s willingness to recognize his limits, and his security in knowing they wouldn’t hold it against him, were pretty good signs.

With that in mind, Patch allowed himself to turn back towards his meal, eventually pulled back into light conversation with his vode. Wolffe’s presence was enough for now, and if the others joined him, it’d only end in Dogma berating himself for ruining their time together. The others seemed to think along the same lines, although Patch wasn’t the only one keeping a weather eye on his comms. Just in case.

————————————————

“Hey kid! Dogma, wait up!” Wolffe called out, catching a glimpse of armor disappearing around a corner, leading to a lesser-used set of alleyways. They weren’t quite in the seedy parts of Coruscant, but it was still far down enough that Wolffe sighed in careful relief when he found Dogma. Crouched down and leaning against a wall, a faraway look in his eyes, Dogma’s muted expression made Wolffe want to curse under his breath.

This one, at least, he should’ve seen coming. Between the natborn throwing invectives at well-meaning vode and Dex’s unfortunate resemblance to a particular darjetii, Wolffe didn’t blame Dogma for his timely exit.

Settling next to Dogma for as long as it took for him to come back to himself, Wolffe startled but didn’t protest when the kid leaned slightly into him. Bringing an arm up around Dogma’s shoulder, he could feel the kid’s intentionally deep breaths and the slow but sure slowing of his breaths.

Finally, he asked, “You good now, vod’ika?” He waited a second before adding. “Don’t even think about apologizing for that.”

Dogma froze for a moment, nodding. “Y-Yeah, I’m okay… thanks.” He said instead of an apology.

Silence hung between them for a while longer before Wolffe spoke again. “I read your file, earlier. Don’t blame you for needing to get some space.”

Dogma shrugged, shoulders starting to relax. At this point, he’d told them almost everything, and it was more of a relief than anything that he didn’t have to explain himself, at least not to Commander Wolffe. He grumbled to himself, “Still feel bad though… Dex didn’t do anything wrong.” Far from it, actually— he’d stood up for clones. He even knew Patch and the Commander by name. Most natborns wouldn’t even bother with that much.

Wolffe shrugged, “He’ll get over it. If you’re not ready to go back there yet, that’s alright, kid. Dex is… he’s good to the vode, better than most, and if and when you feel ready, he’ll probably try to slip you extra dessert or something.” He huffed, shaking his head. “Used to do it to Comet all the time back when he was a shiny.”

Dogma scowled, just a little bit, muttering, “I’m not a shiny.” His blank, white armor did nothing to refute that statement, though, so Wolffe shook his head in amusement.

“Dex isn’t gonna know that, kid.” He huffed in amusement at Dogma’s grumpy expression.

He glanced back at Dogma, deciding to broach the question that’d been bugging him for a while. “Can I ask, is there a reason you haven’t painted your armor yet? I can make assumptions, but I don’t always know what’s going on under the bucket.”

Dogma blinked in surprise at the statement before grimacing self-depricatingly, looking down at the bucket in his lap.

“I just… armor paint’s for vode who’ve earned it, and I… haven’t.” Dogma curled into himself a little bit more, voice small and ashamed.

Wolffe shook his head in fierce disagreement, “You’ve earned your paint twice over, vod’ika. I’d be tempted to award you some jaig eyes after taking down that demagolka if it wouldn’t attract so much attention.”

Dogma blinked like he’d been stung, looking up at Wolffe with disbelief and painful hope. “Really?”

“Kriff, if anyone deserves it, kid, it’d be you.” He nodded before giving Dogma a smug look. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Captain Rex got his jaig eyes after biting Fett during training, back when he was still a cadet.”

Dogma snorted in disbelief, “There’s no way that’s true.”

Wolffe shrugged, not proving or disproving the story, but his eyes were shining with mirth. “Believe it or don’t, pup. I’m just saying, you’ve done a lot since joining us, more than enough to earn it. Probably saved my life a couple times over. Even if you hadn’t done any of that, though, you’d still be worth your armor paint. Don’t let that shabuir Krell convince you otherwise.”

Dogma was silent for a long moment, before responding quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

Wolffe’s expression relaxed, not quite a smile but close enough. “That’s all I ask.”

“Come on, kid.” He said finally, pulling Dogma along with him towards the nearest shopping center.

“What?”

“Might as well do some shopping while we wait. What do you say, pup?”

“Uh, sure. It’ll get Comet and Warthog to stop fighting about it, at least.” He replied, a small grin on his face as Wolffe drew him in for a moment before releasing him, dragging him towards the largest civvie shopping center Dogma had ever seen.

——————————————

“Commander Wolffe, sir?” A hesitant voice called Wolffe out of his musings. He’d been halfheartedly looking at some supply shipments on his datapad, but nothing he couldn’t do later, as he turned to look at Dogma. The kid was standing in their leave barracks, still fully kitted out in his too-white armor, looking unsure.

“What is it, vod’ika?” Wolffe asked gently, sitting up in his bunk as the not-shiny seemed to draw himself up, taking a deep breath, eyes blinking open again with a glint of determination before he spoke again.

“Do we have any armor paint on-planet?” Dogma asked, and that question struck like a bolt of lightning to the entire room.

“Do we ever!” Fixer cheered, scrambling for his gear kit as Sinker and Boost joined in, practically in tears as their eyes shone with pride. Comet started chattering excitedly about armor designs, causing Warthog to start sharing his own armor’s stories. In the middle of everything, Dogma smiled, hesitantly at first but practically beaming by the time they’d sat around him in a loose circle, making the first few strokes of paint on his armor.

Looking back now, he still wasn’t sure if he deserved it– deserved having paint, having vode again. But he was starting to learn who he was; not who the Kaminoans– or even his vode wanted him to be… and maybe for now, in this place and time, Dogma was enough.

————————————————

“I don’t see him.” Dogma grumbled, worried despite himself as he stood on the landing platform in his freshly painted armor, waiting for the familiar sight of 501st blue.

“He’ll be here, vod.” Comet reassured him, earning a snort from Dogma.

“I know. He’s been sending me a comm message every ten minutes since they got within view of Coruscant.” Dogma chuckled, calmed by the reminder of his batchmate’s enthusiasm.

Finally, in a shuffle of movement, he sees him. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Fives, Tup’s grown into himself since Dogma saw him last. Armor weathered by months of experience on the front lines, his familiar bucket under one arm, it took a moment for Tup’s eyes to lock onto Dogma, still recognizable despite the new armor design.

He’d kept it pretty similar to his old design, more paint than white armor now, but his telltale V was larger, larger than the space available on his bucket, and between the two peaks there was another jagged edge, just off-center, almost reminiscent of a mountain, or maybe a scar. It reminded him of Comet’s helmet design and Wolffe’s, but the chevron was still 100% Dogma, and apparently it was enough to assure his batchmate, who raced across the landing pad before colliding with him with enough force that it might’ve bowled him over, back at the beginning of his time with the 104th.

He didn’t even care when his helmet clattered to the ground, letting himself be pulled into a fierce keldabe, treasuring his batchmate’s familiar presence. And when he returned Tup’s vice-like grip, whispering, “I’m alright, Tup,” he actually meant it.

————————————

AO3 Link:

[bloodmoonmelony]

“Wolff’ika?”

The voice is quiet and hesitant from the pod beneath him, and Wolffe knows without hesitation which one of his batch mates is whispering to him in the dead of night.

“Yeah, vod’ika?” He replies just as softly. His vod hasn’t yet chosen his name— is the only one in their batch to remain nameless. Wolffe wont do him an insult by even referring to him by his number in his head.

The silence stretches for so long after his question that Wolffe almost drifts off. It’s only then when he hears the subtle sniffles, the rustling of a hand moving to wipe away tears.

“I don’t think I should be alive.”

There is nothing Wolffe can say in reply that could soothe the raw heartbreak in those seven simple words. Instead, he clambers out of his pod and down the ladder, ignoring the weak cry of protest as he shimmies himself into his vod’s pod. Their limbs awkwardly tangle together as Wolffe tries to get comfortable.

“Yes, you should be alive,” Wolffe says fiercely, his whisper coming out more like the growl of a baby lothwolf. “You should be alive because you are my brother, and you are strong and smart and the best of us all.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” his vod murmurs, hiding his face by pressing it against Wolffe’s shoulder.

Wolffe doesn’t let him hide for long though, instead carding his fingers through his vod’s hair and gripping tight to guide their faces together until their foreheads gently touch. “It means everything because you mean everything to me,” he hisses. “We’re twins; I don’t care what Cody says. You wouldn’t leave me without my better half, would you?”

His vod huffs, humor escaping despite his precarious mood. “I would be taking all the shared brain cells with me…”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. “There, see? You should be alive, if only to be a pain in my shebs.”

His vod finally gives in with a watery chuckle. “I’ll try for you.”

“No, vod’ika,” Wolffe disagrees. “Try for you.”

[bloodmoonmelony]

Watching from the Shadows

By blackat_t7t, for Siderea

Rated T

9,300 words

Feral Opress/Commander Fox

Feral is supposed to be keeping an eye on Sidious and reporting back to Maul. What happens to the Commander of the Coruscant Guard really shouldn't be any of his business.

[bloodmoonmelony]

Just posted a new fanfic:

Here’s the summary:

Cody wakes up in a body that is not his own and comes to some realization, but most importantly that his brother has been lying to him.

Or the one where Cody and Fox swap bodies.

I hope you guys enjoy because this is some brotherly angst!!!

[bloodmoonmelony]

“Are you sure you can’t come?” Rex asked. Fox longed to join them at 79s but he must get this flimsiwork processed. Then he had to ponder the problem of housing fourteen Corries because they were informed that one of their buildings which had been a barracks was being co opted for…storage? He thought?

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, well aware that this was the fourth time in a row he’d made an excuse. Wolffe would have dug out the problem, but Wolffe wasn’t here and Rex was more polite.

“Well, I’m sorry too. We’ll miss you,” Rex said, clapping him on the shoulder companionably. Fox made certain not to flinch.

It had been a rough patrol the night before and Klatoonians were not easy to deal with even when they weren’t drunk as hell.

Fox remembered that moment for a long time.

It was the last time Rex spoke to him as a vod. As a friend.

[bloodmoonmelony]

(In the Command Batch group chat)

CC1010: So, what do they give Supreme Chancellors that lets them shoot lightning?

[5 people are typing]

[bloodmoonmelony]

New chapter!! It’s been almost a year since I updated this fic so my bad y’all

[bloodmoonmelony]

Fox being homeless AU is on my mind

The war ended and he was relieved of his job and maybe he was given some credits to start his life but everyone knew of the Commander Fox and so no one would hire him for any jobs

He struggles to make a living, maybe not even enough for rent, that he has to find places to sleep at

Maybe paying enough to afford a membership at a gym and he stays there to shower and maybe if he’s lucky, overnight to sleep

Or crashing on vod’s couches when they hang out, not too much to arise suspicion but enough times to get a nice couch to lay on instead of the ground

He stays late in bars when out with the boys, only getting water because how often can he stay somewhere alone and just get water?

He scavenges for food in the dumpsters or trash cans, at first only at night because he was embarrassed and then slowly scavenging in the day time because all the good food is taken by night fall or he can’t see or it’s not enough or it’s covered in ants

He has a bag - small, almost like a backpack - that he carries with him everywhere that holds his necessities. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, a tiny towel, medicine, his ID, credits when he has some, and his comm

He never stays at one place too long, always changing, sometimes not even going to sleep some nights

He has canned food in his bag along with plastic silverware, available to eat a can a day

Maybe when going out with his batch or the other Corries who are doing good in life, they don’t know what he goes through, they don’t notice how much more tired he is or how thin he’s become

After all, he’s not plague by Darth Sidious anymore and it’s easier for Fox to fake a smile and pretend when his very soul isn’t being sucked out anymore

So he smiles and he laughs and he does care about the Corries and his batch and the other CCs and how they’re doing so it’s not like he’s pretending all the time

Maybe not drinking most nights when out with the excuse that drinking makes him remember the bad and it’s not as fun as it used to be and they respect his decision

Maybe poke fun at how much water he drinks - when the boys are out dancing, he’ll pour water into his water bottle or a traveling cup, something to take with him after the night

He eats what the Vod won’t finish, always waiting for the leftovers that they don’t want and won’t take home after they’ve paid because it’s the only food he’ll get that’s not canned food

None of the Vod’e notice how little he contributes with what’s going on with his life, not when Fox is so good at asking questions and getting them to talk

He truly is happy for them so even when Jedi get invited, they don’t notice anything off

They don’t notice when it’s all time for them to head out to their own places that he never takes up on one of the vod’s offer to be driven home or that sometimes he’ll take the offer of a couch to crash on most times it’s offered even if he doesn’t drink

It’s truly, to them, baffling and almost disbelieving to learn one day that Fox is homeless and has been for the past year or so

He’s so good at keeping it hidden, making sure to never be near them during day time, sticking to the libraries to catch up on reading or the gym to take showers - sometimes staying there when it’s raining really hard

If he has the credits, he’ll even stay at fast food restaurants, eating the cheapest thing with a water and staying there for hours and hours on end

Fox applies for jobs every day, from digital applications to going in person, and each time they realize it’s the Commander Fox, he never gets chosen for the next step

Sometimes it’s obvious why they don’t choose him. Other times they’ll be nice and lie and say it’s for another reason

He eats only one can a day and during the cold months, when credits are super hard to get by, it might be one can every couple of days

Dex is nice and will sometimes have him sit and order food, saying it’s on the house, even says Fox can come there anytime or if he wants a job, Dex will find a position

Fox will only go there when his situation turns dire like no food or no place to stay. He worked there for a time but even he noticed when customers refused to talk to him all because of his name. He refused to take Dex down with him and quit, lied about having found another job despite Fox knowing Dex knows it’s a lie

[bloodmoonmelony]

Alternate Love Lanuages

Also on AO3 @whumptober - day 19: “People don’t change people, time does.”, found family @clonefandomevents - Coruscant Guard bingo: small displays of affection

When they left Kamino, they promised that they’d keep in touch. That, even leading separate battalions, they’d embrace each other’s company while they could.

And it’s not as though Fox doesn’t want to catch up with his batchmates; he misses them, scattered across the galaxy as they are. But while the rest of the GAR comes to Coruscant to relax, Fox doesn’t get leave.

Bly and Wolffe arrange to stay on comms after an official meeting; Fox is called away by the Chancellor. Ponds comes past the Guard headquarters with midmeal to share; Fox is at the Senate Dome dealing with another assassination attempt. Cody and Rex convince him to go to 79s; Fox is asleep on the table after the first drink.

Eventually Fox stops accepting the invitations. Why bother making plans if he is just going to have to cancel anyway?

But his brothers refuse to give up. If he can’t spare time for their company, they will find other ways to ensure he knows he is not forgotten.

Fox checks his pad between meetings and finds cheerful messages and memes to make him smile. He gets back to his office after a long afternoon wrangling Senators and finds a cupcake sitting on his desk beside an origami frog. He wakes up after another failed night out and finds himself in his bed under a handknitted blanket, the softest plush fox tucked in his hand.

Fox might be stuck on Coruscant, with the same mind-numbing tasks day after day, while his brothers are out fighting to protect the galaxy. He might be left behind, lonely and exhausted, unappreciated by the citizens he is trying to protect. But he never doubts that his brothers remember him.

He never doubts that they care.