“We’re just trying to—”
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do,” Thire snaps. “Get out. Both of you. Now.”
Cody and Wolffe blink up at him like a couple of empty buckets. They’re sitting at Fox’s bedside, still, after Thire’s told them in no uncertain terms how he feels about that. He’ll wake Hemlock if he has to, and get Hedge from the nurse’s station. He’ll rain hell down on them if they don’t get away from Fox now.
“Did I fucking stutter?”
Wolffe stands, but Cody stays, and the look on Wolffe’s face says he’s not done arguing yet. “Listen, Cor—Commander.” Listen, Corrie. “We brought him in here. He’s been damn near glued to Cody’s side every time he wakes up. We’re his fucking batch. We’re not going anywhere.”
Thire’s too tired for this. He’d be too tired even if it was midday, but right now it’s just past two in the morning and he’s more tipsy than he’d like to be and he’s still trying to grapple with the fact that he got Fox to come out with them for the first time in months and someone from the five-oh-fucking-first poisoned him. He’s a little past tired.
He’s past decency, too. Past niceties and past coddling Fox’s batchmates and past patience with the fact that he’s not in Fox’s cot right now, holding him and offering him some semblance of comfort through one of the worst nights since Thorn died. “Worst night” is a high bar in the Guard, but being poisoned by a brother will do it every time. Fox doesn’t need this false olive branch, too. Its absence will just shatter him when he comes back to himself and honestly, Thire’s not too sure Cody and Wolffe will even stay decent while they’re here. This is the same bed Fox cried in after Cody broke his cheekbone. Thire wants them out of it.
Cody glances down at Fox’s prone form. A bit more of Thire’s patience fizzles out.
“Commanders,” he sighs, dropping his head into his hand to pinch his nose. “Just leave.” He just manages to catch the last of his dignity before it leaves his mouth in the form of a please. He’s just so tired.
Maybe it’s something in his expression, or maybe it’s just that it’s two in the fucking morning and Thire’s sure they have better places to be. Whatever it is, Cody’s face softens and the tight knot in Thire’s throat that starts to wind up whenever a confrontation gets a little dicey starts to unwind.
“Thire,” he says. “We’re just trying to help. I know we haven’t been… there for him, recently, but we want to fix that. We want to be here now.”
“Tch.” They could have been there when Quinlan fucked off to the other side of the galaxy to head up the Perseverance. They could have been there when the Chancellor passed down another ration cut order. They could have been there when Thorn died.
They were there, Thire thinks, bitter amusement curling his lip, in the aftermath of Fives’s death. Some good their presence did then. Fox’s face had been swollen for a week and a half.
Still. Still, this is a chance to try again. He knows Fox would never forgive him if he drove Cody and Wolffe away now. Fox doesn’t know what’s good for him, though. Thankfully, Thire does, and arguing at his bedside won’t help him recover right now. He needs attention, medical and emotional. He needs his vode.
“Save your help,” he tells Wolffe and Cody.
Wolffe looks like he might keep arguing, but Cody casts another look down at Fox and catches his arm. A quick shake of his head is all it takes to have Wolffe shouldering past Thire towards entry to their little curtained-off room, Cody hesitant on his heels.
“Good night,” Wolffe grinds out.
“Night.”
They’re ducking around the curtain when Thire calls, “Commanders.” They pause. “I said, ‘save your help.’ We might need it later.”
They don’t linger.
Fox wakes up. Of course he does. Of fucking course, because everyone on this godsdamned planet has to make Thire’s life as difficult as possible all the time, so Fox wakes up just as Cody and Wolffe are leaving. He would kill them if he thought he could get away with it.
Tears are already streaming down Fox’s face by the time his eyes are open. Hedge had said he’d be hurting, but Thire hasn’t seen Fox cry in pain in a long time and it’s more upsetting than he’d imagined it would be.
“Thire?” he croaks out.
Deep breath in, then out. Release the tension from your shoulders. Sit down on the edge of the bed. Fox needs you right now. “Yeah, Fox, it’s me.”
“C-Cody ‘n Wolffe?” Fox’s eyes are fever-bright and swimming with tears and confusion. His cheeks are flushed and his hair sticks up on one side of his head. Thire slides a hand across the blankets and the grip Fox catches it in is weak at best.
“They had to leave.” It’s better to be honest, he’d discovered, even if Fox won’t remember this later. Lies upset him more than most truths.
Fox glances around, then tries to sit up and get a better look. Thire reaches out too late and he falls back with a pained whimper. “Oh,” he whispers.
Thire hates himself.
He hates Cody and Wolffe.
He hates himself.
“It’s okay,” Thire soothes. “I’m here now.”
Fox’s eyes drift closed again. He nods into his tearstained pillow and Thire knows as soon as he opens his mouth that he’s not going to like what comes out. “‘S better this way,” he rasps. “They-They’re safe.”
Thire finishes unlacing his boots (it’s difficult with Fox clinging to one hand like a scared cadet) and kicks them off before tucking his feet up on the bed. “So are you, Fox. You’re safe right now. You’re in the medbay. Everything’s okay.”
Fox shakes his head minutely. “Hurts.”
“I know, Fox, I’m so sorry.” He slides under the covers and rolls onto his side. Fox is already moving towards him and before he knows it, he’s got an armful of shivery, feverish ori’vod glued to him from shoulder to ankle. Fox can really cling when he wants to. He strokes a hand up and down Fox’s back, feeling the bumps of each vertebra. Fox worms his way closer, whining softly into Thire’s base layer. “I’ve got you, ori’vod.”
“Thire…” He’s started to cry now.
“I’ve got you.”
When Thire left Kamino, he would never have imagined himself capable of wishing for another vod to get sicker. It’s been two years since then. He’s seen a lot.
He’s relieved when Fox passes out before he can really start to panic.
(He knows the nightmares will be worse. He tries to pretend.)
It’s dark and despite the burning in his cheeks and eyes, Fox has never been so cold. He can’t move, but he’s not sure if that’s the pain or something else. He can’t be sure of anything right now, beyond the pain.
Fox doesn’t remember what he did wrong, but then again, sometimes he doesn’t know he’d fucked up until the punishment comes. Sometimes, he doesn’t know until after the punishment, when the Chancellor lets him know. He casts around his recent memory for any fuck-ups, but finds it’s hard to recall exactly what he’d been doing before the cold and the dark.
Stupid, he thinks. Maybe this time, his screw-up was another episode of memory loss. It had happened before. The Chancellor would (presumably) realize he wasn’t acting right and would (presumably) try to beat him out of his trance. Fox would come back to himself mid-punishment, and sometimes it was like this. Especially when he’d hit his head.
That must be it. The memory issues. It would explain the headache, too.
“Fox.”
He opens his eyes, but still he can’t see. Is it dark, or is he—he—
He can’t even think it. It must be dark.
“Fox, hey, it’s okay.”
“Thire?” What’s Thire doing here?
Once the Chancellor brought Thorn along with Fox to a training session. Fox had to beg for every lash he got, since the alternative to the whip was a blaster bolt to the head. Thire wasn’t safe.
“Yeah, Fox, it’s me.”
“Thire, go. I’ll—I’ll be okay.” Gods damned stutter. The Chancellor would be on him again for that.
“No, Fox, it’s okay…”
Cody’s here. Fox’s cheek throbs. He should get up. He should make himself look more presentable. Sit up, at least.
He feels strange, though, strange like pain-beyond-pain strange, like weight on his chest strange, and he’s so tired. Sitting up proves beyond him.
“At least look at me, Commander!”
He flinches back. He’s got to get out of here, but Cody’s between him and the door.
“What, got nothing to say for yourself?”
He’s not sure what Cody’s doing that could hurt so badly, not sure how he’s done it but it feels like he’s sliced right into his nervous system and he’s ripping Fox up from inside, pain without point, pain without source or meaning. He aches deep and scraping.
“Cody, please, I’m sorry, please don’t leave.”
Cool. Something’s cool on his cheek and forehead even though he’s burning up, burning to pieces. He’s burnt most of his bridges, but apparently not the one with whoever’s wiping him with the cool washcloth. His hands ache, but when someone squeezes, he squeezes back. Vod.
Trick. That was a trick. It must have been some sort of mind trick to get him to let his shields down, because whatever his Master’s up to now must be mental in origin. How else could he be everywhere in Fox’s body? How else could he be so sick? His stomach twists around phantom hands.
“Woah, Fox, you gonna throw up?”
“Sorry, Master, no, please, I’m so-sorry.” He’s got to get a handle on that stutter. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
He doesn’t stop. He never stops. Why would he? This is what Fox deserves.
“...wearing off within the next hour. He’s almost through.”
Fox’s tongue is either dry or swollen. Either way, it hurts to move it and it hurts to swallow. He’s cold, so he turns into the vod next to him and cuddles closer. He must have gotten sick. Again.
“When will he wake up?”
A beat of silence. “See? He’s already coming around a bit.”
Fox doesn’t want to come around. He wants to be warm. He wants to sleep. He feels like he’s been through the wringer. “Le’me be, ‘Lock.”
An exasperated sigh. It’s alright. Hemlock hasn’t gotten sick of him yet.