Fox doesn’t think they’ll take him back. There’s no reason for them to, not when he’s done so much, not now that everything’s over and done with and it’s time to go their separate ways and leave Fox to… something. Whatever he’s going to do next. Rot.
They don’t, though. Wolffe beckons him into the barracks and, at first, Fox can’t fathom what he means. The barracks are currently filled with vode, CCs, mostly, and there’s no room for Wolffe to have any kind of a conversation with him. Then, Wolffe pats the open spot next to him and Fox pinches himself because surely he’s dreaming. He’s just-
They won’t take him back. This is a one-off thing, or he’s misunderstanding something, or something, but it’s Wolffe and he knows Wolffe would never trick him or hurt him, so he goes.
He goes, and he curls up in the space between Wolffe and a vod he can now see is Cryo, and he makes himself small and tries not to touch anybody.
Wolffe makes an annoyed noise and grabs Fox by the back of his blacks like he’s a shiny and drags him close, shoving at him until he’s on his side with his head and shoulders in Wolffe’s lap and Wolffe’s hand in his hair. Cryo’s forehead is pressed against his back.
“This good?” Wolffe asks, voice soft and low.
Fox can’t even begin to speak, so he just nods. Wolffe hums and starts carding his fingers through Fox’s hair, occasionally singling out a curl and twisting it around his finger.
Fox begins to cry, silent and hot and choking, tears sliding down his face fast enough to pool under his cheek.
“Hey,” Wolffe says, more rumble than word. “‘S alright, Fox’ika. I’ve got you.” A calloused hand wipes tears from his face.
“S’goin’ on?” Cryo says into Fox’s back. An arm flops over his side, tugging him closer to her. “Hi, Fox.”
Fox tries to respond, but it comes out a pathetic squeak. Cryo’s arm tightens around his waist.
“It’s alright,” Wolffe repeats. “I know. I know,” he says when Fox begins to cry harder, little noises escaping him with every breath. “It’s a lot, I know.”
Then, Wolffe shifts, moving Fox from his lap. For a single, panic-stricken moment, the part of his brain that is an open wound cries out for Wolffe to stay, and Fox’s hand tightens around Wolffe’s wrist.
“Easy, Fox,” Wolffe soothes. “I’m staying right here. I’m just going to lie down with you.”
I know, Fox wants to say. I know, but I can’t trust.
Wolffe replaces his leg with a pillow he’s stolen from another vod and shuffles down until he’s on his side facing Fox. “Oh, kid,” he says, and Fox doesn’t protest even though they’re almost the same age, Wolffe. “Oh, kid. Come’ere.”
Fox ends up sandwiched between Wolffe and Cryo, with Cryo’s legs tangled with his and his face pressed into Wolffe’s throat. It’s warm there, and private. No one can see him cry. He’s alright.
He’s alright.
Fox falls asleep.