Gentle, Hemlock had warned him before he left them alone. You have to be very gentle.
Quinlan holds Fox like he’s made of spun glass. He holds him like it’s a fucking privilege, because it is. Holding Fox will always be a privilege, but two hours ago Quinlan thought he would lose him and now Fox is so sick Quinlan has to maneuver around an IV and a cannula and a pulse-oximeter in order to cuddle him.
He cradles Fox in his lap, back-to-chest, holding him upright so he can rest his head on Quinlan’s shoulder. Fortunately, that also leaves Quinlan in the perfect position to nose at Fox’s neck and shoulder, pressing soft, dry kisses to his flushed skin.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs into Fox’s neck.
Fox sighs shakily, turning a bit to press his forehead against Quinlan’s jaw. “Hi,” he breathes. Gods, his voice is wrecked. “Quinlan, you don’t have to stay. I’m not going to be very entertaining right now.”
Maybe it makes him a bad Jedi, but Quinlan wants to rip out the throats of everyone who’s ever made Fox feel like he’s not worth more than what he can do for people.
“Fox, that’s not… I’m staying because I want to be here for you. I want to be near you, even if it’s just to watch you sleep. Actually, right now, especially if it’s just to watch you sleep. You need rest, baby.” He rubs his hands up and down Fox’s shaking arms, trying to convince his fevered body that he’s warm enough.
Broken ankle, Hemlock had said. Cracked ribs, severe bruising, chronic exhaustion, old sprain in the right shoulder, concussion. And, to put the cherry on top of the horrible cake, Fox’s immune system had finally given up the fight against the pneumonia he’d been holding off for weeks. Apparently, an hour was all it took for Fox’s body to realize it was time to shut down and recover.
Fox makes a little noise like he wants to say something, but it’s lost to a sudden bout of coughing, wracking and painful.
“Easy, Fox. I’ve got you,” Quinlan soothes, keeping Fox upright and rubbing his chest as his body throws strength it doesn’t have into the fit. “I’ve got you, baby, it’ll pass.”
Fox swipes his hand across his mouth and it comes away streaked with infected, yellowish phlegm. “Ugh.”
Quinlan reaches off the bed and grabs him a handful of tissues. “Here. Spit it out if you need to. Do you want water?”
Fox, panting and clearly exhausted by the ordeal, nods, wiping his face and hands before spitting into the tissues. “Water, please. That’s so gross.”
“Yup! Sure is.” Quinlan takes the tissues back, setting them on the side table and handing the water to Fox. The plastoid water cup Hemlock left for Fox is still cold, and Quinlan wraps his hands over Fox’s to help him raise it to his lips. “There you go. Easy.”
Fox slumps back against him, nearly spilling water everywhere before Quinlan can steady the cup and take it back. “Quin, don’ feel good. Tired.”
“I know, baby.” Quinlan wipes sweaty, tangled curls back from Fox’s forehead and Fox keens, leaning into his hand. “Do you think you’ll be able to get any sleep?” He presses his hand against the side of the cup until it’s painfully cold, then goes back to massaging Fox’s temples and forehead.
“Nngh. S’nice.” Fox nuzzles his hand, directing Quinlan to rub at the bridge of his nose and his sinuses.
“You,” Quinlan laughs, “are the world’s biggest tooka kit.”
Fox frowns, tipping his head up like he would try and bite Quinlan’s fingers if he was any more awake. “Mmmm.”
“Yeah. You’re my kitten.” He slumps down until he’s nearly horizontal, pulling Fox along and draping him over his chest. “Sleep, Fox. I’ve got you.”
Fox is pushing at him, trying to get out from under his arm. He’s not even strong enough to sit up, though, and it’s not working. Quinlan hums a vague protest, opening his eyes and blinking as they adjust to the dark.
Next to him, Fox freezes, trembling. His breath rattles wetly through his chest.
“Fox?” he tries, and the trembling redoubles. “Hey, Fox, do you need help?” Maybe he’s trying to get to the bathroom, Quinlan realizes. He might be nauseous. He flicks his free hand to turn the lights up a fraction. “Wha— Oh, baby.”
Somehow, Fox has taken his cannula and pulse ox off. He’s lying stiff at Quinlan’s side, tears pouring down his flushed face. His lip is bitten bloody and his eyes are hazy and scared, darting around the room. “General,” he rasps. “I—I apologize, I’ll leave, I shouldn’t be here, ‘m neglecting my duties—”
“Fox.” Quinlan grabs Fox’s wrists, steadying him before he can fall off the bed in his escape attempt. “Fox. You’re okay. You don’t have any duties to get to. The war ended yesterday. It’s the middle of the night and you’re in the Guard medbay and you have a really high fever. You’re confused, baby, but you’re safe.”
Fox stops struggling. “I… Did we… Oh, gods.” His face crumples and he chokes on a few wet coughs before continuing to ramble. “Quin, they’re gonna kill me, oh, Force, I’m going to die, they hate me, please, I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Quinlan tugs Fox to his chest, wrapping him up as securely as he can. Discreetly, he presses the ‘call’ button. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe, Fox. No one’s going to hurt you.” Fox is hyperventilating now, or he would be if he could draw a full breath. “Breathe, baby. You have to breathe.”
“Quin—can’t breathe, Quin, fuck…”
“I know. Medics are on their way. Sit up with me, baby, there you go.”
Fox coughs and coughs again and then he can’t stop, he’s coughing and crying and when Quinlan puts his hand on Fox’s chest and tastes blood on the back of Fox’s throat, blood and salty phlegm and panic.
“Medics,” he calls, even though he had already pressed the button. “Medics! I need a medic in here!”
“Coming, I’m coming,” someone calls, and Quinlan can hear running in the hall.
It’s Holly, skidding around the corner. “Shit! Fuck fuck fuck Fox what were you thinking?”
Fox flinches, trying to hide in Quinlan’s chest. “Sorry.”
Quinlan stares at Holly over Fox’s head. Don’t, he mouths, and Holly looks appropriately chagrined.
“It’s alright, Commander,” he amends. “Let me see?”
Fox shakes his head, clinging harder. “No, sorry, I’ll be better in a minute, please don’t.”
Carefully, Quinlan sits up, taking Fox with him. “It’s okay, Fox. Holly’s just going to help, he’s not going to hurt you. You don’t have to go anywhere. You can stay right here.” He turns to Holly again. “He’s burning up, way hotter than before.”
“Okay.” Holly steps closer to the bed, careful not to touch as he runs the scanner over Fox’s back. Shit, he mouths to himself, and Quinlan knew it was bad but now that little irrational part of himself that lost his parents and lost Tholme and lost Asajj is telling him that Fox is going to die right here in this bed, just when he’d finally managed to escape. “Okay, 40.3C, very low blood oxygen,” he says over Fox’s desperate coughing.
Fox whines, pushing his face into Quinlan’s shoulder. “Sorry. Trying.”
“It’s alright, Fox,” Quinlan says into his hair, struggling to keep his voice even. “No one blames you. All you have to do is get better. You’re safe. I’ll protect you.”
“Fox?” Holly asks? “It’s just me. No one else. I just want to get you in an oxygen mask and run another round of meds.”
Slowly, between coughs, Fox raises his head, examining Holly with fever-bright eyes. “...’Kay.”
In the end, Holly dosed Fox with clonazepam and Quinlan held him until he passed out. It was the best they could do. Every time Holly got close, Fox would get worked up again until Holly started getting worried he would hurt himself or one of them. Only then were they able to get him into an oxygen mask and reattach his pulse oximeter.
Now, he’s fast asleep, clinging to Quinlan’s robes and drooling under the mask. It’s been an age since Quinlan had the time and proximity to just look at him, and he’s not planning on wasting it.
Fox has a sprinkling of freckles just a touch darker than his skin spread over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. One of the bigger ones, just under his eye, is bisected by a thin, silvery scar, distorting the freckle until the left side sits below the right.
Quinlan rubs his thumb across Fox’s cheekbone and Fox huffs, nuzzling the junction of Quinlan’s neck. He’s cooler now, and his hair’s started to dry into a curly mop of frizz. Quinlan shifts a bit, finding a good position for finger-combing his hair.
It’s gritty and slick with sweat, and Quinlan’s sure he’ll want a bath as soon as he’s able. Even so, Quinlan untangles the worst of the knots, sinking into a light moving meditation as he works.
Fox loves having his hair pet.
This is thought.
Quinlan loves making Fox feel good.
This is thought.
Quinlan would do anything for Fox.
This is thought. This is attachment. Breathing in, I acknowledge the impermanent nature of all things. Breathing out, I let go.
Fox’s hair is greasy.
This is thought.
Fox leans into him, then shifts again.
This is thought.
Quinlan has been so scared.
Hello, fear. Come sit with me. We’re cuddling with Fox. We’re okay right now.
Quinlan has been so angry.
Hello, anger. Come sit with us. We’re cuddling with Fox. I will take care of you.
Quinlan’s hands have gone still in Fox’s hair.
This is thought.
Somewhere, a bed alarm goes off.
This is thought…
…
…
…
“Tch.”
“What?” Hemlock comes up next to Holly, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Them.” Holly points. Vos and the Commander are passed out in Fox’s bed, tangled together so thoroughly Holly couldn’t separate them if he tried. Vos must have fallen asleep combing Fox’s hair, because his hands are still on Fox’s head, fingers wrapped in dark curls. “Think they’ll be okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Me, too.”