Summer on Coruscant hits fast and hard, humid and smoggy and chokingly heavy. It makes doing rounds worse. It makes filling out flimsiwork worse. It makes standing in Senate meetings worse. It makes sitting in Defense councils worse.
It really makes swallowing your own bile during any of the aforementioned activities worse. Fox doesn’t really have a choice, though.
(Briefly, he entertains the notion of simply opening his mouth and vomiting stomach acid and last night’s latemeal all over the datapads and Republic-notarized flimsipads. It’s kind of funny. He smirks into his caf.)
Washing acid reflux down with caf probably isn’t the best idea, health-wise, but it tastes a lot better than grimacing through the ordeal unaided. Besides, he needs the caffeine. He’s starting to float around in his head again, a precursor to nodding off and distractingly miserable in its own right. He slept last night, for six hours, even. And five the night before. He’s got what he needs, he’s just got to put his head down and do it.
“...But considering the circumstances, I don’t feel comfortable working with such a large margin of error. Commander Fox, your feelings?”
Shit. Shitshitfuck, what are they talking about?
“Commander? On the extrapolated fourteen percent margin of error?”
“Ah, considering the, the circumstances,” Fox hedges, skimming the slide at the front of the room. It’s the data-rich one, thank ka’ra. “Ah, I would disagree, Corporal Skinner. Fourteen percent is an unfortunate, but ultimately workable margin…”
Another thing about the summer heat: it makes people want to do things, especially if those people are troopers on leave. Especially if those things are drinking and roping other vode into drinking.
Fox is in the middle of his first patrol of the day when Cody messages him. Cody, evidently, is in the middle of his first leave of the year.
Cody: hey do you want to go to 79s later
Cody: it’s gonna be me and rex and like 3 cts
Fox rounds the corner and sweeps the room ahead of him. It’s another lobby, usually empty this time of day, but frequented by aides around lunchtime, so he likes to make sure everything is as it should be: empty. He looks back down at his comm.
Me: what time
Me: I’m on shift until 2045
Cody: shit, vod, who did you piss off?
Fox frowns. No one. This is his shift schedule.
Me: no one
Cody: okay how about 79s at 2130 then?
Fox thinks for a moment. If he gets out on time, it’ll be fifteen minutes in his quarters changing and shoving something down his throat, then twenty five minutes to 79’s if he gets lucky with traffic. It’ll be close, but, well, Fox hasn’t seen any of his batchmates in a long time.
Me: works for me
Me: i can’t stay late though
His alarm goes off at 0500 on Taungsdays. He’ll probably get five hours of sleep tonight. That’s enough. Fox can do that.
Cody: awesome k’oyaci
Me: k’oyaci
Fox reaches the far door of the lobby and takes a moment to breathe. He’s going out with Cody and some of Cody’s friends. He feels giddy. And a little light-headed, but maybe that’s all the same thing.
The closer the lift gets to Palpatine’s office, the tighter the sick, anxious feeling in his stomach gets. He finds himself counting the seconds and wishing the ride could take longer.
It’s stupid, he knows. He shouldn’t be nervous about a meeting with the Chancellor, something he does nearly every day. It’s stupid because the Chancellor is nice to him, has never done anything to hurt him. Palpatine deserves better than Fox’s hysterical anxiety.
Still.
Something about the Chancellor, the way he talks, makes Fox feel like he’s being flayed open. He has this way of seeing right through him and picking out the things that bother him, like Fox is a patient and Palpatine his psychiatrist. Fox doesn’t like facing the things that Palpatine tells him about himself.
He shakes his head. They have things to talk about, real, serious, war-related things, and the Chancellor probably won’t have time to discuss Fox’s personal problems. Hopefully.
The lift reaches the top floor.
“Commander Fox,” the Chancellor greets, sweeping out from behind his desk to greet him. “How good to see you.”
“Sir,” Fox salutes, coming to attention.
“Do take that helmet off, Commander,” Palpatine orders, relaxing again to sit behind his desk. Fox complies and Palpatine grants him an indulgent smile. “Good, good. It’s nice to be able to see your face during these meetings, don’t you think?”
Fox actually doesn’t like it at all. It makes the sick feeling worse. He nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, about those reports from level 4280.”
The meeting is fairly straightforward. Fox is well-briefed and the Chancellor is satisfied with his interpretation. Standing begins to wear on him after about fifteen minutes, knees locked and head swimming, but Fox tries to ignore it. What sort of soldier is he if he can’t stand for a single meeting?
Palpatine finishes the interaction with a swirling flick of the wrist and a signature on an order authorizing an investigation into the spice trading ring on 4280. Fox bites down on a yawn. It’s nearly 1630. After this, he can go take his break.
“Commander,” Palpatine begins. “Are you tired?”
Fox snaps back to full attention. “No, sir.”
He smiles, gentle. “Really? Because that looked like a yawn to me.” Fox says nothing. “Am I working you boys too hard?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Palpatine smiles again, setting his hands palms-down on the desk. “I’d hate to think so, especially considering how much worse your brothers on the front have it.”
Fox bites the inside of his lip hard.
“Of course, you know that. Some people just aren’t made for the same type of action as others, I suppose.”
Fox isn’t made for that kind of action. Fox is weak and lazy and flawed and even the Chancellor can see it. “I understand, sir.”
The Chancellor raises his eyebrows. “Oh, Commander, I didn’t mean that as any slight against you or your men, of course not!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. Run along now, Commander Fox. I’m sure your brothers in the 212th and 501st are eager to see you.”
Fox’s head fucking hurts.
Fox almost backs out of drinks. He has his comm out and everything, ready to type something, anything to get him out of this overwhelming disaster and into his bed that much sooner.
He hurts, and he is so, so tired.
No. He should go out. Who knows when he’ll get the chance to see Cody again? If either of them will still be alive the next time the 212th is on Coruscant? Fox needs to suck it up and go to 79’s and get a drink with his brother.
Fox hates bars. Granted, he’s only ever been in a few, but still. They’re loud, with bass-heavy music, and the lighting is often strange. It makes Fox’s head spin.
Thankfully, it’s easy to find Cody. He’s at the bar, right next to Rex and a few troopers Fox is completely unfamiliar with. He hopes they don’t expect him to talk too much.
“Fox,” Cody calls, all smiles. Fox smiles back. “Get over here, I haven’t seen you in an age!”
It’s true. Fox feels like he’s lived three lives in the time since they’d last been together. He approaches the bar.
“You good with shots?” Rex asks, holding up a tray of what looks like whiskey. Fox shrugs and Rex shrugs back.
The table the ARCs lead them to is empty, despite the vode standing around them. Reserved, somehow, without words. Idly, Fox wonders how one goes about doing that. Sometimes, people do it for him. He never means for it to happen, and he’s never sure what he does that prompts people to do it.
“Hi,” greets one of the unfamiliar troopers as they sit down. “I’m Echo. This is Fives.”
“Fox,” he says, and Echo smiles.
“I know.”
“Yeah, we know, Commander,” the other ARC, Fives, quips, flopping down into the seat next to Fox’s. “You’re kind of a big deal.” He throws back a shot and grabs another before Echo can stop him. “It’s good to meet you, though. Not what I thought you’d be like.”
Fox raises his eyebrows and Fives throws his head back and laughs.
At 2200, Cody gets up and returns with two colorful, sweet drinks: one for him and one for Fox. It’s good. Sugar is always good to Fox these days, like his body is crying for it. Anything with carbohydrates.
The drink’s better than anything Fox remembers drinking recently, but then again, the whiskey helps. Everything’s sweet in comparison.
“Gods, I’m fucking done for,” Fives says, burying his face in Echo’s shoulder. “That campaign was too fucking long. No more. I’m retiring. Rex, drum me out.”
Rex snorts. “You figure out how to leave, you tell me.”
Fox takes a sip of his drink and hums in earnest agreement. “Then me,” he adds. “Could use a break, considering ‘m out on my fucking sleep cycle right now.”
The table laughs, and Fox warms for a moment, but then Cody says, “Gods, it feels like that, doesn’t it?” and Fox realizes they think he’s joking.
Every time he lets himself go still, he starts to fall asleep. It’s alright, he tells himself. He’s been up since 0445 and it’s (he checks his communicator) (he checks his communicator again) 2314 now. That’s, fuck, that’s eighteen and a half hours? That’s a lot. It feels like a lot. He wonders what a lot is to the other people at the table.
His eyes drift closed, heavy and dry, and he feels himself lean towards the table.
Someone kicks him under the table.
It’s Cody. He’s laughing, wide-eyed and happy. “Are we boring you, Commander?”
Fox digs his fingers into the softest part of his thigh and tries to laugh.
It’s nearly 0100 when he stumbles into his quarters, too drunk and too tired to even try and take his blacks off. They hate him, he thinks. They hate him.
He’s so tired.
Shit.
Fox slogs his way up to the Chancellor’s office for the second time in a day. Distantly, he wonders what this is about. He’s already been through their daily briefing, held today at 1030. Anxiety burns at the back of his throat.
“It’s good to see you again,” Palpatine greets, not even bothering to rise from his desk. They’re past those formalities now. “I assume you received my message?”
No, Fox wants to say, I just came up here for a cup of caf and a fucking chat. “Yes, sir. What did you wish to discuss with me?”
The Chancellor steeples his thin, brittle fingers on the desk in front of him. “It has come to my attention, Commander, that a medical report was added to your file earlier this morning.”
Panic takes all the weight out of his bones and Fox’s vision goes a little grey around the edges. He’d been to the medbay last night after his shift ended. He doesn’t make a habit of going, but last night had been… he’d been having a rough time. He’d been exhausted, no—
Not exhausted. Words don’t cover how tired he’d felt. Every step he’d taken from the Senate floor to his quarters had been counted, because the numbers were all that kept him from collapsing into a pathetic little puddle right there on the floor. He’d gotten nauseous taking his kit off and stumbled to the ‘fresher just to bring up nothing but bile. Time to have something to eat, he’d thought, and stood to drag himself to the cafeteria.
He’d thought he was feverish. It was the only explanation for the way he was feeling. Everything hurt and he was so, so cold. Eating just made it worse and worse until finally, Hound said, ‘You don’t look so good, boss,’ and walked him to the medbay.
Very low fever, Hemlock had said. Not much wrong, but he was very tired.
‘Thanks,’ Fox had said, ‘I could have told you as much.’
Hemlock had told him, ‘No, you don’t understand, you’re very medically tired and it’s making you feel like shit.’
He hadn’t known Hemlock would file a report.
Force fuck, he didn’t know the Chancellor would get a karking notification.
“Yes, sir,” he finds himself saying. “I was in the medical bay last night.”
The Chancellor gives Fox one of those odd little smiles, like he’s biting down on a secret, or maybe a sour joji fruit. “So I read, Commander. What I didn’t read, though, was a reason.”
“Sir?”
The Chancellor cocks an eyebrow. “According to your chief medical officer, you came in complaining of symptoms of a fever. However, he was unable to find anything wrong with you. The final note lists all bodily systems in perfect working order.”
Fox blinks. No. No. He knows that’s wrong. Hemlock had made a final diagnosis: acute fatigue. He’d told him himself. Why would the Chancellor lie about that? “Sir, to my knowledge, CMO Hemlock did list a diagnosis.”
Palpatine pulls out a datapad and taps at the screen, leaning back and squinting. “No, no, I’m reading it now. No final diagnosis. No reason for any discomfort.”
Fox just stands there gaping.
Waking up is hard these days. Everything is hard, but waking up just seems to be that one thing that Fox sticks on. It’s painfully difficult and it sets the tone for the whole day.
Somehow, he drags his eyes open and keeps them that way long enough to get out of bed. The world spins as he stands and he seriously contemplates just… Going back to sleep. He wonders what would happen.
Hah.
It’s early still, 0445, and he’s got a shift in twenty minutes. If there were a window in his quarters, he imagines the light would be faint and blue and calm the way it was that one morning on Alderaan.
He’s not sure exactly what happens between getting out of bed and showing up at his first assignment of the day. Anything routine seems to get deleted lately. Like Fox is a computer running out of storage, finding the best ways to conserve space.
“Morning, Commander,” Captain Recoil yawns, stretching his arms over his head and then flopping down to touch his toes with a clatter of plastoid. “Ready for an exciting new day?”
Fox flips him the bird. He snorts.
Recoil and Fox watch that stupid landing pad for hours, walking around and around and around until Fox’s legs are so numb he’s not sure how he’s moving them anymore. Nothing happens, of course. In Fox’s experience, things will wait to happen until the worst possible minute.
Ships land, ships take off. Delegations arrive and reporters bustle around, not bothering to listen to Recoil and Fox’s demands that they step back and stay in order.
Fox is so fucking sick of not being listened to. It really gets to you after a while, the way crowds will pretend you don’t exist even when you’re shouting at the top of your lungs. It’s a fluttery panicky feeling and Fox hates it.
He swallows it anyway, like the acid reflux-vomit bullshit he deals with every time he gets too stressed out. It’s not worth letting up from inside.
Recoil, evidently, is scheduled to take lunch at the same time as Fox. This wouldn’t be Fox’s problem were it not for Recoil’s insistence that he come to the mess hall with him, if only to garner the ‘cool points’ of being seen with ‘the Commander of the whole Guard, do you even understand how cool you are?”
Fox has work to do.
Recoil does not accept this excuse.
Fox tries to simply walk away.
Recoil does not accept this escape attempt.
Fox is eventually left with no choice but to sit with Recoil, Hound, and a handful of K-9 troopers he’s unfamiliar with, robbed even of the opportunity to do some work on his datapad, which Hound says is rude to have out at the table.
Actually, if he wasn’t so karking wound up about falling further behind because he had to sit down and eat, it might have been a good time.
Of course, Fox is present. It can’t be a good time. That contradicts the laws of the Force, or something.
“Are you going to 79s later, Commander?” Hound asks, shoving a bite of Recoil’s sandwich into his mouth before Recoil can do more than gape in horror.
Fox frowns. “No. Why would I?”
“Oh, well, it’s just that some of my vode from the 212th invited me out for drinks and I know Commander Cody’s going to be there, so I thought…”
Something of Fox’s mind must show on his face, because Hound stops talking. He wonders if Hound would tell him what he sees. Fox certainly doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now.
“...So I’d like your permission to request leave for the men affected,” Fox finishes, clasping his hands ever tighter behind his back and watching for any signs of the Chancellor’s feelings on the matter. The boys in Jumpstart Company need a fucking break after being exposed to that neurotoxin, and Fox really doesn’t want to have to send them out with half-functioning faces and numb hands.
The Chancellor purses his lips, deep in thought. This meditation lasts so long, and the look in Palpatine’s eyes is so distant, that Fox nearly breaks the silence himself. He’s just on the verge of taking a breath when Palpatine fixes his gaze on him.
“Commander, is something concerning you presently? Something beyond the confines of this room, this job?”
Fox shakes his head. “No, sir.”
Palpatine pouts. “Hmm. I feel that there is. Do not lie to me, Commander Fox. I have been truthful with you thus far and expect to see it reciprocated.”
It’s the oddest feeling, being the focus of the Chancellor’s attention. Like for one moment, one conversation, the entirety of the galaxy stops spinning and fixes its eyes on you. “I am not distracted by anything of importance, Chancellor.”
“Is it not important merely because it distracts you? You have a very important job, Commander, and I’d hate to see you fail.”
Fox swallows. He’s a bit put out by Cody and his lack of invitation, sure, but distracted? And how had the Chancellor known? It’s none of his business, Fox reminds himself. Fox’s personal life is none of his business.
In the brilliant orange of Coruscant’s sunset, Palpatine looks even whiter than usual. The wrinkles on his face stand out in sharp, backlit relief. He simpers. “Commander, I’m not trying to make this difficult. I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours so that I can see your perspective and take better care of you and your troops. Don’t you want that?”
Oh. Oh. Oh, fuck. Is this...? Would he really…?
“In short, Commander, tell me what’s on your mind so that I may ease your troops’ burden.”
Fox thinks of the shinies and their terrible rattling coughs in the wake of the attack. He thinks of his veterans with old aches made worse by the gas, the ones that need time to heal.
He swallows his pride.
“Sir, I was merely preoccupied with the arrival of the 212th on Coruscant. I hadn’t known they’d been granted leave until one of my troopers mentioned it, and I was simply wondering why Marshal Commander Cody hadn’t informed me beforehand.”
“Ah,” the Chancellor chuckles. “An interpersonal issue, then. I understand why you hesitated to tell me, Commander, but I’m glad you did. I take it the good Commander did not invite you out for drinks, then?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm. Well, Commander, people drift apart when distance comes between them, and some friends, bluntly put, simply aren’t worth the effort. Commander Cody may be discovering this.”
Fox bites the inside of his lip until he tastes blood and he does not cry.
Jumpstart Company gets their requested leave. Fox gets a panic attack in a Senate maintenance closet.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Fox stands in Palpatine’s office dripping rainwater and sewage onto a million-credit rug. Palpatine smiles.
“Good work, Commander! You’ve done very well. I’m proud of the progress you’ve made, both physically and mentally. Take the rest of the day off, why don’t you? I’ve got to push this equipment order through if you boys are to get the new gear I requisitioned.”
“And, you know, these Guard boys aren’t exactly us, are they?”
“Yeah, I mean, have you heard the stats coming out of their division? What are they going to do, politick at us?”
Fox thinks they don’t see him. They must not, otherwise, why would they say those things?
They turn around and make eye contact.
“I don’t know, I would request a transfer, if I were them.”
Sometimes, Fox fantasizes about leaving. Leaving via paperwork, via desertion, via a step off the edge of the Senate building. The fantasies never last long. They take up too much valuable energy.
Fox nearly collapses when he hears the news. Three of his best sergeants gone. Just— killed, decommissioned with the flick of the Chancellor’s wrist. He brings it up at the next morning’s briefing. Palpatine just looks at him for a moment and says, “Commander, did you finish the tasks I gave you last rotation?”
He has to finish this. He has to finish this. He’s going to be good, he’s going to do the.
He’s going to.
There is no right thing.
No, no. Palpatine is the Chancellor of the Republic. If there is a right, surely he knows it. Fox doesn’t.
Fox knows what happens if he doesn’t do this.
He pulls the trigger.
Gree: arrested for dumbass little baby crimes
Cody: someday you’ll all meet your maker and then you’ll be sorry
Gree: unlikely. I don’t plan on dying.
Neyo: why was a full stop necessary
Bly: why are you necessary
Fox: why is any existence necessary
Wolffe: since when is Fox is this chat lmfao
Fox: ?
Wolffe: i just mean you never say anything so i figured you left tbfh
Fox: oh
Fox: no
Bly: fox you alright?
Cody: fox?
Fox: fucking what? Do you want me to say something in the chat or not? Make up your fucking minds
Gree: jesus fox we just asked a question
It comes to him suddenly, with no conscious preamble. One day, Fox is standing at attention in the corner of a meeting room, looking blankly down the long, crowded table when he thinks to himself, I am lonely. And he is. He is lonely, and has been, but somehow, the thought makes it worse. The thought, more than the feeling, has teeth and little needling barbs that get under his skin and make him dream of soft sheets and softer touches and someone, anyone, looking his way.
“You’ve done well, Commander. Perhaps a reward is in order.”
Fox cowers. It’s not something he was engineered to do; it’s something new and uniquely Fox in its timidity. He cowers and the Chancellor rages.
“—Don’t understand what’s so hard about this, clone! I’ve given you chances. I’ve given you second chances and third chances and now you’ve made mistakes that wouldn’t have happened if I’d simply listened to reason and disposed of you myself. Do you see what you’ve done?” Palpatine roars, pacing around his desk like a man possessed. Fox wonders if the offices nearest them can hear this and, if so, what they think.
Palpatine pauses for a moment, bracing his hands on his desk and turning his back to Fox as he catches his breath. Quietly, he asks, “What did you do wrong today, CC-1010?”
Fox winces. “I allowed the target to escape and put the lives of multiple Senators in jeopardy, sir. I failed to fulfill my duty and let my fear of personal injury supersede my loyalty to the Republic.”
The Chancellor goes still. With nexu grace, he turns to face Fox and, for a moment, the mood lighting puts an odd yellow glint in his eyes. “No, Commander, you misunderstand me. Starting from the moment you came on shift this rotation, what did you do wrong? I want a comprehensive list.”
Fox’s mouth opens and closes, empty of sound save for the wet click of his painfully tight throat.
“Now.”
Time hazes and warps around Fox, blurring things like cause and effect until he’s missing whole days and weeks of his life. According to his Commanders, his former friends who know him best and still have the stomach to talk to him, he’s been different. Angrier, tenser, more tired. Fox apologizes, but he knows he won’t be able to change. This job is just peeling back the mask, letting people see the charade that Fox has become too tired to keep up. This is the real him, and there is no changing that.
With cause and effect head and shoulders above anything Fox is able to comprehend, he’s not sure how he ends up at 79s, sitting between Thorn and Stone and sipping a beer. They might have invited him. They might have found him here. Hell, he might have invited himself, worn down by months of desperation for social contact.
Months?
Has it been…?
Two years and change. Force fuck.
He’s shaking. Thorn leans against him and Fox, selfish, stupid, lazy Fox, leans back, tucking his head into the crook of Thorn’s neck and relishing the hum of his voice against Fox’s cheek.
The night doesn’t stick out, not really. Not until later. Fox is too foggy to process anything properly, more focused on Palpatine’s parting words (Think about the consequences, Commander Fox. Think about making your brothers proud) to really bother with deciding right from wrong. Those choices aren’t his to make, anyway.
It’s good that they aren’t. The past years have shown Fox that his moral compass is and always has been irreparably skewed.
Something else his brothers are better at.
He just pulls the trigger. He wants to go back to the barracks and fucking sleep. He knows it makes him pathetic and weak and morally bankrupt, but at this point, he needs to rest or he’s afraid he’ll die.
(He needs to pull the trigger or other people will die.)
That’s an excuse, Fox, he reminds himself, not a justification.
Cody follows him all the way back to Palpatine’s office. He’s a Marshal Commander, he says. The Chancellor won’t object to his presence and, if Fox is going to give a report, Cody wants to hear it.
He hadn’t known Cody was on-planet.
Fox suspects Rex would have followed as well, but the good Captain couldn’t stomach being around Fox any longer. He’d gone to see his man off to the incinerators.
The lift rises, as does Fox’s anxiety, all the way up until they can see the curve of the planet and Fox can feel his stomach in his throat. He stares out at the night sky and controls his breathing.
Cody shifts his weight. Fox does not move away or flinch. Cody clears his throat. Fox does not move away or flinch. Cody takes a breath.
Fox has never been brave.
The words die stillborn in Cody’s throat when Fox twitches, but they’re quickly replaced by new ones. “Okay, what the fuck,” Cody begins. “What the fuck is that. The flinching. Why are you acting like that?”
Fox glances at him, glad for the helmet. Cody’s not wearing his. “I’m not acting like anything,” he says.
“Yes, you are,” and shit, he sounds just like he did when they were cadets and they would go endless rounds of I said, you said in the barracks. Then, he squares his shoulders and starts over. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. What were you thinking?”
The front of the lift’s all glass. Fox stares through it and bites the inside of his cheek.
Palpatine opens the door just as Fox and Cody reach it. He always does that. Fox doesn’t think he makes much noise when he moves, even in his armor, but he must.
(But Cody doesn’t. But maybe Fox is losing his hearing.)
“Commander,” he greets, all warmth even at 0330. “And—who is this?”
“Commander Cody, sir,” Cody says, saluting.
“Of course! Commander Cody, to what do I owe the pleasure? I was under the impression that Fox was here to give a mission report.” The Chancellor steps out of the doorway, welcoming them into the dimly lit office. “Sit, please,” he says.
He’s never let Fox sit before.
It doesn’t matter. Fox is just going to be glad that he doesn’t have to stand on shaking, aching legs for a moment longer.
“Your Excellency,” Cody begins, taking a seat and settling his helmet in his lap. Fox does the same. “I wanted to sit in on Commander Fox’s mission report, if you’d permit it. I have some concerns regarding the death of ARC-5555 and would like to get a better feel for the situation in order to submit a full and accurate report.”
Fox’s heart lurches to a stop.
The Chancellor sinks into his chair with a tired sigh. “Ah, so it came to that, did it?” he asks Fox. Fox blinks. “Sir, you ordered me to terminate ARC Trooper 5555.”
Palpatine raises both eyebrows so suddenly Fox gets vertigo. “Ordered? Commander, I simply gave you the instruction to subdue Fives with whatever force necessary. In fact, I asked that you try and bring him back alive.”
There is only a certain amount of pressure any one being can take. There is only so much questioning of one’s sanity one can do. Sentients have breaking points.
“Sir,” Fox bursts out, suddenly breathless with anger. “You told me to subdue ARC-5555 with the implication that, should I not use lethal force, more of my men would die. I was simply following orders to the best of my ability and doing my duty as a soldier, a duty that demands the preservation of as much innocent life as possible.”
Cody pounds his closed fist against his thigh. “What? The Chancellor wouldn’t— He couldn’t—” Cody sputters, seemingly at a loss for words.
Palpatine is looking at Fox the way one looks at an old dog, one that needs to be put down and out of its misery. “Commander, I never said any such thing!” He shakes his head at Cody, ‘what can you do?” clear on his face.
No, Fox wants to scream, but you certainly implied it!
Didn’t you?
On the way back to the barracks, it’s Fox who trails Cody, running along at his heels like a beaten massif. “Cody, wait, you have to believe me,” he pants, and Cody finally, mercifully, stops at the intersection of two halls.
“Do I, Fox?” he demands. “Can I, in good faith, believe anything you say?”
His words are gutting. Gutting, like they’re reaching down Fox’s throat and ripping his heart out with righteous fingers. Fox chokes. “Cody, please.”
“I understand that you’re tired and stressed, but killing a vod? Blaming the Chancellor?” He shakes his head, just like Palpatine does when Fox is being a disappointment. “I can’t defend you, Fox. Not on this.”
“I didn’t ask you to.” Fox’s voice is hoarse and quiet, covered in cobwebby tears. “I didn’t ask for that, Cody.”
“Good.” He turns and walks away. It is very evident that Fox is not meant to follow.
In the aftermath, Fox is allowed to sleep. Actually, he’s granted two whole days off, handed to him alongside a missive from the Chancellor telling him to rest and that, should he be having persistent memory issues, he should consult a medic.
Fox drags himself to the Commanders’ quarters and passes out. He wakes in time to wish Thorn good luck on his diplomatic mission. Thorn pretends he doesn’t exist. He goes back to sleep.
He wakes up. Thorn is dead.
He goes back to sleep.
Fox used to think that things couldn’t get any worse or that, if they did get worse, he would simply die. Sitting here now, alone at his desk, picking rocks and glass out of his skin and trying to ignore the throbbing of his blackened eye, he wishes that were true.
There isn’t much point in anything, Fox realizes in that hazy intermission of weeks or months. Like running on a treadmill as the whole world strolls by.
Thire and Stone won’t talk to him unless it’s in an official context. Hound won’t talk to him at all. It’s alright, really. It’s not like Fox has the energy for conversation. Every day, he thinks he can’t possibly get any more tired than he is, and every day, he is proven wrong. Even when he manages to get a full six-hour sleep cycle to himself, he can’t manage to stay asleep for more than three or four hours. He wonders how the others cope. Considers asking. Throws that notion right out on its head.
“It’s simple,” the Chancellor tells him. “They are strong, worthy men, Commander. Their wills drive them to great heights.”
Fox thinks he’s used up all his will trying to stay conscious.
Fox sprints up the stairs, but the perp is fast and his chest hurts. Come on, Fox, he tells himself. Stop being lazy. You can do this.
The man’s jumping off the roof by the time Fox gets the fire door open.
He wakes in the middle of the night soaked in sweat and gasping for air that seems to dissipate the moment it reaches his lungs. Nothing is enough. He’s not enough. He needs help.
No.
He doesn't deserve it.
You have 1 new message from Commander Cody.
View message?
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Fox,
When are you free in the next cycle? I’ve received some intelligence and need your help reviewing the file.
Cody
Fox blinks down at his datapad. What? Cody doesn’t phrase things like that. What has Fox done wrong this time? Why does Cody need to see him, if not for military reasons?
Commander Cody,
I will be free from 1300 to 1325 and from 1955 to 2010 and will be in my office. Do either of these times work for you?
Commander Fox
Wow, packed day, huh? I’ll meet you in your office at 1300.
K’oyaci,
Cody
It’s 1204. Fox has to stop shaking and get his flimsiwork done by 1300. He can do this. He can do this.
(A little voice with the face of a lion whispers in the back of his head, saying, Cody thinks you’re busy. Cody has more free time than this. You’re doing so much.)
Cody is fifteen minutes early. Fox considers sending him back out into the hallway to wait, but he looks tense and Fox doesn’t want to be hurt today. He’s pretty sure Cody would never, that he’s not like the CTs who made him stop even trying to go out in public, but still, it can’t hurt to keep him happy.
“Commander, come in,” Fox says, stepping back from the door and gesturing to his guest chair.
Cody takes off his helmet and fixes Fox with the oddest look. “‘Commander?’” he inquires. “Since when do you call me, ‘Commander?’”
Fox raises an eyebrow. “Since it’s proper protocol.”
Cody doesn’t laugh, doesn’t snark, doesn’t snap, just gives Fox that odd look again and says, “Sit down, will you?”
He’s got something very specific on his mind. Fox swallows around his pounding heart.
“How can I help you, Cody?” he asks as he sits.
Cody sighs, leaning forward and resting his crossed arms on the table. “Has there. Do you.” He shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just say it, Cody,” Fox advises. Just get it over with, he thinks.
Cody looks up at him, eyebrows drawn in and lips pursed. “Fox, are there any listening devices in this room?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
His hands tighten on the edge of the desk. “Very.”
Cody leans back and relaxes. Fox twitches.
“Are you aware of the investigation into the Supreme Chancellor’s conduct and allegiance to the Republic?” Cody asks.
Fox blinks. “What? No.”
“I didn’t fucking think so,” Cody mutters to himself. Then, to Fox, “Has the Chancellor ever acted… oddly towards you or your men?”
Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking shit. Whatever Cody’s digging for can’t be good. His heart beats faster. “Define ‘oddly.’”
Cody just looks disappointed. “Never mind, I, I’ve already seen that. What’s a typical day look like for you and the Guard?”
“Cody, just tell me whatever the fuck you’re dancing around.”
“Something is wrong on Coruscant,” he bursts out. “Something’s fucked up with this branch of the GAR and the information coming out of here. Something’s going on, and I want you to tell me what it is.”
Fox stands so quickly that his chair falls backwards and his vision goes dark with spots. He ignores it, baring his teeth and squaring his shoulders. “I don’t know what your problem is, Commander, but my men are fine. We’re doing our jobs.”
There’s a noise like Cody shifts, but Fox is having trouble hearing over the ringing in his ears. “Fox, what? I’m not accusing you or your men—”
“Then what are you doing?” Fox demands. “Why else would you,” the darkness isn’t clearing, “would you,” he really doesn’t feel well, “why else…”
“Fox?”
No. No. This can’t be happening right now. Not in front of Cody. He has to be better than this.
Fox is falling. Cody is saying something.
“I’m sorry,” Fox gasps, leaning against the wall and clutching at the void of panic behind his ribs. “I, I don’t know what’s happening, I’ll be alright in a minute.”
The black spots fade out, but Fox still feels weak and shaky, like he’s just done a half-marathon and hasn’t had time to eat. “Sorry,” he continues as Cody kneels down in front of him. “Hang on, I’ll get up, I’ll—”
“Stay down,” Cody commands. Fox flinches back.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Cody says, softer, and now he’s reaching for Fox, but the black is being replaced by grey and everything is muffled like Fox is under water. “It’s alright, hang on, I’m going to get medics.”
Fox tries again to get up. “No, no, you don’t need to do that. Nothing’s wrong, I’m just, I’m just being stupid,” Fox admits, struggling against Cody’s gentle hands.
“Fox, you collapsed. You’re not being stupid.” Calloused fingers press against Fox’s pulsepoint and a sweat-damp palm rests against his forehead. “Cool to the touch, racing pulse,” Cody says.
“What?”
“Not you, Fox.” The hand on his forehead moves to pet his hair. “He’s confused, semi-conscious. Alright. Just hurry, please.”
The pain in his chest is diminishing, but so is Fox’s awareness. “Cody,” he says, reaching out with blind hands. “Cody, how do you, how do you do it?”
“Do what, Fox?”
Fox sobs, unable to hold back the tidal wave of his own unworthy guilt for another second. “I mean, I’m just trying to figure out how much, how awful I must be compared to you all if I can’t even do the easy job. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be lazy. I’m not sure what else to do. How do you do it?” he pleads. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Absolution?
He can’t even stay awake long enough to hear the answer.
Fox has a collection of hazy memory-dreams where he thinks he woke up, but can’t really be sure. He’s in medbay; this, at least, he’s sure of. Cody was present at some point, and Hemlock. People talk around him and sometimes to him, he thinks.
His mouth is sticky and the inside of his nose is dry enough to make blood a relief. Everything hurts.
Shit.
What’s gone on while he’s been asleep? What does the Chancellor need from him? How far behind has he fallen?
It feels like he’s slept for a long, long time. Lazy, stupid Fox.
He has to get up. He has to open his eyes and get out of bed and do something, but he’s so tired and in so much pain and it’s warm here, warm in a way Fox hasn’t been in months.
It doesn’t matter. He can’t wallow forever. He opens his eyes.
“Hey, Fox.”
Cody.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s alright, kih’vod.”
Why is he saying that? Of course Fox is alright. He tries to follow Cody’s hand, to pull it off his face, but his fingers are tingling and he bumps into a… cannula? Yes, that’s a cannula, and his clumsiness isn’t being helped by the pulse-oximeter taped to his index finger.
Cody meets him halfway, wrapping his warm hand around Fox’s and guiding it back down to the bed. “Don’t screw with it,” he chides. “It’s there for a reason.”
Fox frowns. Why would he need oxygen? Or a medbay? He hadn’t even felt that bad, and the last time he went to medbay for something that wasn’t actively bleeding, well…
Cody lays his free hand on Fox’s stomach. “Your heart called it quits, kih’vod. You were in shock.”
“Distributive shock,” someone amends, and Hemlock appears on the other side of Fox’s peripheral vision. “You had nothing running through your veins.” Hemlock fiddles with a machine Fox realizes is attached to the IV in his arm. “And low blood sugar. And—”
“Hemlock,” Cody interrupts. “Don’t.”
Hemlock scowls, but acquiesces. Fox is a little too fuzzy to think about why it would matter, anyway. Then, a cool, glove-wrapped hand drops onto his forehead and Fox startles so badly the bedrail rattles.
“Just me, Fox,” Hemlock murmurs, pressing Fox’s head back down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. You thirsty?”
“Very,” Fox croaks. Talking hurts, but he’s rewarded for his efforts when Cody presses a plastic spoon of ice chips to his cracked lips.
“Good,” Hemlock praises, rubbing his knuckles across Fox’s forehead before withdrawing his hand. “Good job, Fox.”
Being fed ice chips isn’t exactly an accomplishment. Cody keeps it up, anyway.
“You’re okay, Fox,” Cody soothes, wiping a tear from his face before Fox can even register its falling. “You’re okay. It’s over.”
“Over?”
“Everything. The war. Palpatine. Everything. It’s over.”
Fox is being a needy, clingy mess, he knows. He’s probably being more trouble than he’s worth. He’s probably being annoying and dramatic and a thousand other awful things, but he’s recovering from near-heart failure and shock and he’s got a shit ton of painkillers in him and Cody and Thire pressing him down into the bed like he’s someone, like he’s worth something, and Fox can’t help but go along with them. Just for now. Just because he’s so tired.
Thire sighs and tugs Fox closer, setting his chin on top of Fox’s head. Fox closes his eyes, settling into the warm dark safety of Cody behind him and Thire in front of him and a half-dozen other brothers draped over each other across the barracks.
They’re here with Fox, even though Fox is hurt and useless right now. They’re just gravitating to the nearest vode, he knows, but he can’t help but feel comforted. Even if it has nothing to do with him, they’re here, and that’s something.
Cody nuzzles the back of his neck, humming. “You know we love you, right, Fox?”
Fox stills.
Even before Coruscant, even before he let Palpatine get to him, Fox wasn’t a good person. He was honorable, sure, and strong and talented and smart, but good? No. That’s not a word that’s ever applied to Fox. And people who are good are loved. People who are loved are good. ‘Fox’ and ‘good’ and ‘loved’ aren’t really words that go together.
“Fox, hey,” Thire says, and he sounds… sad. Mad? “Hey, you know we all love you, don’t you?” He pulls back a bit and Fox whines, he whines because he’s a pathetic mess, and he pulls back, too. He doesn’t want to, but he will if it’s what Thire wants.
Thire presses his forehead to Fox’s, gentle as anything. “I love you, Foxy. You’re my big brother.”
“I love you, too,” he manages, surging forward into the keldabe. “All of you. So much.”
“Oh, kih’vod,” Cody breathes, and then he’s pressed so close to Fox it’s like he’s trying to stitch himself into Fox’s skin. “I never stopped loving you.”
Fox can’t—
He can’t.
So he doesn’t.
So he cries.
So he cries, and Cody and Thire hold him, and someone else falls on top of him and it hurts like hell but it feels so good and it’s Stone, fuck, Stone hasn’t talked to him in weeks, but he lays on top of Fox and says, “I love you, too, idiot.”
Fox has cried himself to sleep before, but he’s never had an outburst quite this draining. He’s not sure how long he cries for, but he knows the sounds and symptoms continue long after his body’s run out of tears. Cody and Thire and Stone hold him and pet his hair and keep up a steady stream of inane comfort and distraction. Fox soaks it up like an antidote.
“You’re going to be okay, Fox,” Cody says in that earnest, fatal way he has. “I promise you, you’re going to be okay.”