“Cody, look, can we just talk about this some other time?”
“No, Fox, we really can’t.”
“Listen. I get that you’re pissed, but—”
“‘Pissed’ does not even begin to describe how I’m feeling right now. Honestly, Fox, what’s wrong with you? What happened to you?”
At that, Fox’s face falls. He looks down and away, and Cody hates the stupid sad look on his stupid face. He hates that they all have the same face. It makes conversations like these harder. No privacy.
Well, maybe once upon a time. Now, seeing Fox for the first time in nearly six months, Cody’s not sure if he ever really knew him. How well can he really read his brother’s face?
When Fox starts to speak again, it’s halting, flat. He sounds as tired as he looks, and the scar coming up his chin twitches with every word he says. “I had my orders. ARC Trooper Fives was a threat to the safety of the Republic and the Supreme Chancellor, and in keeping with—”
“You know what, Fox? I don’t really care.” Cody pushes away from the desk, sliding back on the wheeled desk chair. It creaks when he leans back and crosses his arms. Like everything else in this office, it’s seen better days. Reused Senate shit, he assumes. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Then why did you come up here?”
I don’t know.
Cody hadn’t even bothered to message Fox, let alone book a meeting. He’d left Rex in the care of Kix and Jesse and gone straight to the Guard headquarters, using his clearance codes to get as far inside as he could and letting the look on his face do the rest of the work. It hadn’t been hard. No one wants to be the vod to tell Marshal Commander Cody “no.” He’d wanted to talk to Fox, to get his side of the story. He still does. He wants to know what he’s missing, because Rex’s account and the security footage painted a picture Cody is still struggling to reconcile with his batch brother.
Cody’s killed sentients before. It’s inevitable. He imagines Fox has, too. Fox has probably done it more than Cody, considering his posting. It’s not that Fox would kill that bothers him. It’s not even the lack of hesitation. Nothing that happened in the moment is particularly hard for Cody to come to terms with. Sure, he wishes Fox had at least tried to talk him down. Sure, he wishes code didn’t dictate the use of lethal charges for rogue trooper scenarios. He wishes a lot of things, but they’re just wishes, and Cody is just a clone. Fox is, too.
It’s this part that’s getting him. This part now, sitting at Fox’s desk in his dark little box of an office trying and failing to get Fox to show any emotion whatsoever. The part before this, where Rex had told Cody about how Fox just walked away. Didn’t even join the vigil for a fallen brother.
This part is the hard part.
“Cody?”
Right. Fox.
Cody takes a deep breath, plants his feet on the floor, and looks back up to Fox’s face. He’s just wearing the bottom half of his armor, so Cody can see the shaky rise and fall of his chest through his own steadying breath. Good. Maybe this is getting to him, after all. “Why did you do it?”
Fox keeps making these little faces like he’s chewing on the inside of his lip. Cody tries to remember if he’d ever done it before, as a cadet. He doesn’t think so, but it’s been so long. Things fade.
“I had my orders,” he says. Again. Cody’s eye twitches. “The Chancellor told me to neutralize the threat and return to base. I f-followed those orders. I’m sorry, Cody, but you-you know how it works. You do your duty, too.”
Cody can feel his heartbeat in his fingers and against his gauntlets where the straps press into the palms of his hands. He swallows once, twice. Fox doesn’t move.
“Stand up,” Cody says.
“What?” Fox asks, but he’s already following Cody to his feet.
Cody sidesteps the desk and waits for Fox to join him in what little bit of free space is available beside it. Then, he winds back and punches Fox as hard as he can across the face.
It hurts. His knuckles crack against Fox’s cheek and his hand stings, but the little noise Fox makes when Cody hits him is worth it. The feeling of Fox’s face giving way under his hand is worth it. Cody’s blood roars in his ears.
It’s vindictive, cruel. It tastes like blood in his own mouth, watching Fox stagger and fall. Cody hates the stupid shocked look on his face. He’s not sure he’s ever hated so much before, not so quickly, not so deeply. Fox doesn’t fall backwards, though. He crosses one foot over the other in an attempt to regain his balance and falls sideways.
Cody’s only ever heard a slugthrower discharge a handful of times. When Fox’s head hits the edge of his desk, it’s the only sound he can think of that even comes close to comparing. It’s a sharp crack, no hollowness like hitting your head on the pavement or against a wall, and Cody feels it in his own teeth. The side of Fox’s head hits the edge of the desk and Fox goes completely limp. He’s dead weight on the way down, unconscious before he hits the floor. There’s blood on the desk now, and a line of it’s sprung up on Fox’s cheekbone where Cody’s punch had hit him.
Oh, shit.
Oh, shit.
Cody drops to his knees in a clatter of plastoid, kicking the chair out of the way to make room in front of Fox’s crumpled body. There wasn’t much room to fall into, and he’s still propped up against the desk and the wall. Cody takes him by the shoulders and pulls him up straight, grabbing his lolling chin with one hand and using his teeth to pull the glove off his other. He feels along the back of Fox’s head. Wet already. Swelling. Not good.
“Fox?”
Nothing. His eyes are half-closed, and from this close, Cody can see just how deep the circles under them are. He looks dead. “Fox, hey. Wake up.”
Contrary to Jiji’s belief, he does have some medical knowledge. He knows he’s not supposed to shake injured soldiers, but it’s hard to suppress the urge to try anything to wake Fox up, and, well, he shakes Fox. Just a little bit.
For one sickening second, Fox just ragdolls in his arms, head rolling on loose shoulders. Then, his eyes slide open and he goes stiff as a durasteel beam in Cody’s grip.
Watching awareness come back to Fox is jarring. He sucks in air like a drowning man, eyes snapping to Cody’s face the instant they’re clear enough to focus, and he reels back so quickly he hits his head on the wall. He shoves Cody’s hands off him and brings his knees up to his chest, one arm around his shins and the other up in front of his face. “Get back,” he snaps, and the fear in his voice is so raw that Cody’s stumbling backwards before he’s conscious of his own motion.
“Fox, hey, it’s just me!” Cody regains his balance, rocking back on his heels and putting his hands in the air. “It’s Cody!”
Fox jerks again, pulling his legs in closer, then squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head once, twice. If the way he blanches is any indication, the motion doesn’t help. “Cody,” he croaks. “What?” A drop of blood runs from the scratch on his face down to the scar on his chin. He wipes it with a clumsy hand and shoves himself further upright, braced between the wall and the desk.
“Shit, Fox, are you alright?” Stupid question.
“...Huh?” When Cody leans forward, Fox doesn’t track his movement well. Definitely concussed. “Cody, what…?” He cringes back from Cody again, even though Cody came in slowly this time.
This isn’t good. “Fox, you need to go to the medbay.”
He levers himself up to standing and reaches down to help Fox up.
Fox’s eyes snap wide open. He makes this awful strangled little sound and flinches back so hard he nearly bashes his head off the desk again. “Sorry,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut as he scrambles to get his hands under him. “Sorry, please—sorry.”
Cody recoils. “Fox—“
But it’s too late. Fox manages to get himself up enough to cram himself into the corner formed by his desk and the wall, arms up in front of his bleeding face. “S-sorry, please, I’ll—I’ll go,” he stammers.
Fox has never had a stutter before.
What the fuck is going on? Why is Fox acting like this? Why is any of this happening? What the fuck?
He’s still looming, he realizes, towering over Fox with a hand stretched out and a scowl on his face. Whatever’s happening, whatever Fox’s problem is, this isn’t going to help. Cody drops back to his knees.
“Fox,” he tries again. “Fox, it’s me. It’s just Cody. I’m not—fuck. I’m not going to hurt you.” Fuck.
He touches Fox’s arm gently, but Fox still recoils. After that, though, he lowers his arms and blinks dazedly up at Cody.
“Oh,” he breathes. “So-sorry, Commander.”
In the minute Fox has been on the floor, the cut on his cheek and the skin around it have turned livid pink and red and his nose and the cut are truly bleeding now. He’s a mess, Cody thinks. Cody’s made him into a panicky, bloody mess on the floor of his own office. Cody’s brought a brother this low.
But Fox has started it. And Cody couldn’t have known he would hit his head on the desk.
Shit, the desk. “Fox,” he starts again. “We should get you to the medbay. Can I feel the back of your head?”
Fox fixes blown-pupil eyes on him. He looks woozy, still, and when he speaks, it’s hesitant and fuzzy, like his tongue is thick. “I think I hit it,” he tells Cody. “My, my head.”
Oh, boy. Definitely concussed. “Yeah, Fox, you did. Now, can I take you to the medbay?”
Fox blinks at him. “Hemlock might be busy.”
“Still, we should go.” This time, when Cody reaches out a hand to Fox, he’s careful to keep it slow and low between them. “Let me help you up. Come on.”
Fox eyes the hand, then Cody, then the hand again. The edge of Cody’s gauntlet has a smear of blood on it.
Fox takes his hand.
The trip to the medbay is slow and difficult and the whole way, no one stops them or asks what happened to Fox. This is remarkable considering the only thing between their commanding officer and a fall face-down onto the dark cement floor is Cody’s shoulder. Fox stumbles down the hall like a drunkard, leading Cody deeper into the maze that is the Guard barracks, weaving into walls and once, terrifyingly, collapsing entirely, forcing Cody to take his full weight for almost thirty seconds before coming around again. At no point does a Guardsman ask what happened. At no point does Fox ask what happened, though he doesn’t seem to know.
Finally, they make it to the medbay door. Cody hikes Fox up further onto his shoulder to stabilize him as he reaches for the control panel, but before he can so much as choose a button, the doors slide open and a vod in scrubs and latex gloves bursts out.
“Commanders,” he says, already moving to support Fox’s other side. “Stone let me know you were coming.” He starts walking into the medbay with Fox and Cody has no choice but to follow.
The medbay is packed. Cody’s not sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t a ward full of beds full of vode, all in various states of distress. In the far corner, two Guardsmen float in two bacta tanks. One of them is missing an arm. The medic leads Cody and Fox to one of the only open beds. There is no privacy, no curtained off triage area. Fox sits without protest, and the medic pulls a cart over and starts scanning him.
“I’m Hemlock, by the way,” he tells Cody as he runs a sensor over Fox’s whole body. “Where did you find him?” He sets the first scanner down and picks up a second. With this one, he focuses on Fox’s head. “Do you know where he was coming from?”
Cody’s not sure what to say. Why does this seem to be a practiced routine? What’s been happening on Coruscant? “In his office, I—”
Hemlock throws the scanner down. “Shit, Commander, really did a number on yourself with this one.” Then, back to Cody, “Doesn’t matter. Get me that gauze?”
Cody hands him the gauze from the other end of the cart. Hemlock wipes the blood from Fox’s upper lip and starts dabbing at the cut on his cheek. It’s still bleeding. Fox is hardly conscious, swaying back and forth between Hemlock’s hand and the wall with his eyes half-closed, but he winces when Hemlock touches the swelling. Cody’s hand aches.
Hemlock mops up the worst of the blood and takes another look at his ‘pad before taking Fox by the chin and tipping his head up into the light. “Open your eyes for me.” Fox opens his eyes. “Shit, your pupils are fucked. Scan says you’ve got a grade two concussion and a gash opened up on the back of your head. Do you remember where you were?”
Cody’s stomach turns.
Fox blinks sluggishly up at Hemlock. “Was wi’Cody,” he mumbles.
Hemlock starts feeling the back of Fox’s head. “No, before. Do you remember who,” he glances to Cody, “how you hit your head?”
Fox yelps when Hemlock finds the spot where his head hit the desk. “Tol’you, was wi’Cody.” Hemlock pulls his hand back covered in blood. “He pun-punched me.”
There it is.
Hemlock freezes. His bloody hand hovers in the space between him and Fox. Through the blue latex, Cody can see the dark splotch of a tattoo.
Fox, sensing that his examination is momentarily over, leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. Hemlock turns, just his head, keeping the rest of his body eerily still, to look at Cody. When he speaks, though, it’s clear he’s still addressing Fox. “What did you say, ori’vod?”
Fox hums unhappily. “Said, ‘Co’y punched me.’ In-in the face. ‘Cause I des-served it.”
Cody’s face feels very warm.
“Okay, ori’vod.” Hemlock places his clean hand on Fox’s forearm. “Commander Cody,” he says, deathly even. “Go out in the hallway and wait. I’m going to give Fox stitches and an ice pack and then I’ll come talk to you. Do not leave.”
Cody presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, then turns on his heel and goes out to wait in the hall.
Hemlock doesn’t leave him waiting for long. Whatever treatment Fox requires (stitches and bacta and an ice pack and probably some antiinflammatories for the bruise Cody’s given him) takes maybe fifteen minutes. Cody spends those minutes checking his comms, investigating what he could see of the Guard barracks, and studiously avoiding eye contact with any and all passing troopers. He should have taken his bucket with him when he left Fox’s office.
This time, Hemlock’s entry into the hallway isn’t nearly as dramatic, and his hands are bare. The tattoo Cody’d seen through the gloves is evident now, a delicate rendition of some sort of plant on the skin between his thumb and the top of his hand. His face, tired and lined with the same dark circles as Fox’s, is frozen in a somber mask. Cody’s known enough vode to learn all the flavors of furious they take. This is the cold kind.
Hemlock stops a meter or so in front of Cody, keeping him pinned against the wall. “Marshal Commander Cody,” he begins.
“Hemlock.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Hemlock.”
“You broke Fox’s cheekbone.” Hemlock doesn’t so much as twitch as he says it. Cody tries not to, either. “I put two stitches in his cheek and six in the back of his head. He has a grade two concussion.”
“I didn’t mean to—“
“I don’t care,” Hemlock cuts in. “I don’t care how hard you meant to hit him. I don’t care why you did it or what he said. I don’t care that you didn’t know he’s had repeated head trauma, and I don’t care that you probably don’t know how susceptible to concussions that can make a person.” Hemlock crosses his arms. “I don’t care, Commander Cody.” Cody stays silent. Hemlock nods.
“Don’t ever come near my brothers again, Commander. Do I make myself clear?”
Cody swallows.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. See yourself out.”