Thire should have worn his kit. His gloves might be thick enough to keep his nails from digging into the palms of his hands. Maybe they wouldn’t be, though, because his fists are balled so tightly that he can feel his own blood dripping over his knuckles. A drop lands on the floor. He keeps looking straight ahead.
Fox’s blood is flowing, too, heavily and freely from the long, ragged cut on his left biceps. His blacks and skin peel back to reveal deep red muscle and Thire imagines if he had any fat on him it would hang loose, too. He's seen it happen before, with his batchmate on Kamino. They were seven then. He had needed stitches.
Palpatine stands poised as if for a photoshoot in the office window, bathed in the pinkish early morning light. “Get up, CC-1010.” Fox twitches, gets his arms under him, and then falls back on his face. Thire bites the inside of his cheek. “Come on, now, it hasn’t been that long.”
The Red Guards prowl closer, stepping into Thire’s line of sight. When they shock Fox again, he can’t see it.
“Ah, there we are. Good clone,” Palpatine croons. The Red Guards step back again and Fox is on his feet. He makes eye contact with Thire for the briefest moment, just long enough for Thire to see tears gathering on the red rims of his eyes. Then, Palpatine waves a maroon-gloved hand and the training session resumes.
Thire goes somewhere else. While Fox dodges and kicks and grunts and dives, Thire checks his math on this week’s prison rotation shifts. One Guard for every ten prisoners, and they’d just received a batch of transfers from one of the District jails. Had he put enough vode on the second floor sweep? Yes, yes he had.
The paint on his greaves is chipping. Holly’s got a worn spot on his chestplate. Maybe they’d have time to do some painting over dinner tonight. According to Thorn, there was more than enough red to go around.
Fox slips in the shining pool of his own blood and hits his head on the corner of a chair.
Tomorrow, Senator Chuchi goes home for a week of leave. She’s going to bring them Pantoran candy when she comes back. Thire will have to return the favor and make sure she gets one of the good landing pads for her return. It’s supposed to rain next Taungsday and it’s always windy and cold when it rains and he doesn’t want to make her walk through all that. He can rearrange and put one of the assholes on the outer pads instead. Maybe Gin. He deserves it.
Fox rolls through the blood to avoid another shock. His blacks shine and his hair sticks to his forehead. He spits red on the floor. The Guards advance.
From this position, with their backs turned, Thire could choke the first one out before the second made it around the table. Then he’d be armed (Ah-ah-ah, CC-1010, no weapons). Taking out the second would be a matter of seconds. With the way this idiot keeps dropping his guard, a fourth-cycler could do it.
Fox isn’t getting up.
Goon Number One raises his staff. Overdramatic asshole. Thire could gut him for that mistake.
Fox isn’t getting up.
Goon Number One goes for the stomach. Electricity arcs through Fox’s body and when he starts to thrash, it lacks some of the coordination of earlier in the fight.
Fox isn’t getting up.
Goon Number Two adds his own shockstaff. Fox isn’t screaming. Blood bubbles out of his mouth in a pink froth. Thire hopes he’s bitten his tongue.
“Enough,” Palpatine calls. “I said enough, men, we don’t want to permanently damage the poor Commander. It’s not his fault he’s a bit lacking in skill. It’s only the way he was made, after all,” Palpatine chuckles. “You’re dismissed,” he tells the Red Guards. One of them limps on the way out. Thire bites his cheek again, so as not to smile.
Fox isn’t getting up.
Palpatine rubs his hands together as if brushing off the dust. “You’ll have to excuse the Commander, CC-4477,” he says. “Sometimes, it takes him a moment to collect himself after a training session. I’m sure he’ll be available to assist you shortly.” With that, he settles back in his high-backed chair and begins to poke leisurely through a datapad.
Fox isn’t getting up.
The puddle of blood spreads, leaking from Fox’s temple now as well as his arm. At first, Thire sees his open eyes and thinks he’s awake, but he’s disabused of that notion after a minute or two of half-lidded staring. Red trickles from his nose. He keeps breathing, isn’t choking like he would be if he’d punctured a lung or torn something deep inside, but
Fox isn’t getting up.
Thire takes a step forward.
“Stay,” Palpatine barks. “Do not help it, CC-4477.” He snaps back to attention. “Good. Wait.”
Thire stares out the window and waits like a good soldier.
Without his HUD, he can’t be sure of exactly how long he stands there, but when Hemlock presses him for an answer he guesses maybe five minutes. Ten, max. Not long. His comm goes off several times, but he doesn’t dare move to check it. Palpatine reads on.
Fox comes around with a blink and a wet cough and Thire’s knees nearly give out. Palpatine leans around his desk and says, “Ah, nice of you to join us, CC-1010. I believe CC-4477 is in need of your assistance.”
Fox gasps out a noise that might be Thire’s name and begins to move. It takes him a few tries and he slips around some more in the puddle, smearing blood across his face and hands, but he manages to get onto his stomach. He goes to speak again and manages a garbled, “Ready for duty, sir.”
Come on, Fox. Come on, ori’vod. Get up.
Fox is dripping red by the time he gets to his feet. He shakes and wheezes and blood runs out of his nose and drips from his chin and hands and hair, but he doesn’t reach for a chair or the wall. He staggers forward, making it just clear of the puddle before falling to his knees. Thire keeps looking out the window. The sun is almost fully risen.
Fox is panting now, and each exhale sings with a high-pitched whine. It’s so quiet Thire wonders if Palpatine can even hear it. Fox is closer to Thire than the desk now, after all. He rises once more to his feet.
Thire’s hands are shaking and there’s nothing he can do to stop them. It’s never been this bad before. His own blood stains the front of his dress slacks in tiny drops.
Fox makes it to Thire’s side. Thire’s hands twitch convulsively.
Fox makes it to the door.
“I’ll be seeing you later, Commander,” Palpatine says as the door swishes open.
Moving is now, perversely, difficult. Every muscle feels frozen, every joint feels locked as he turns on his heel and marches out the door.
The locking mechanism hisses behind them and suddenly it’s a race between Thire and gravity. A few steps ahead of him, Fox goes limp and Thire dives to catch him, going to his knees as Fox falls and pulling his head into Thire’s lap. His blood, still hot, stains Thire’s greys.
Fox blinks up at him with unfocused eyes. “Whaddaya need, Thire?” he slurs. “Make it quick.”
“Shut the fuck up, ori’vod,” Thire chokes as Fox’s laughter brings up more crimson blood. “Let me—just, just stay still, alright?”
Fox does not take orders well. “Gotta get out of here. Get out of the lobby.”
“We will,” Thire promises. He might not spend as much time as Fox does with Palpatine, but he knows well enough the danger of lingering in his territory. “Let me tie your arm off first.”
“If you give me a tourniquet, I’ll bite your legs off,” Fox warns. He’s still twitching from the shocks, but he manages to coordinate himself enough to free his arm from under himself and offer it to Thire.
“No tourniquet, I promise,” Thire says as he rips a piece of Fox’s blacks free and ties it just above the beginning of the cut. “Not that bad, but I will need to—”
Fox bites through his lip when Thire tightens the knot.
“Sorry, sorry, I know. Alright, let’s get out of here.” He hoists Fox up and over his shoulder, already reaching for his comm with his free hand.
He leaves a trail of red footprints behind him.
Hemlock’s waiting just outside the elevator with a team of medics and a stretcher. “Put him down,” he snaps at Thire, already digging through his bag for Force-only-knows-what. “Mini, vitals. Joan, bacta shot. Tipsy, you know what to do.”
Thire jogs beside the gurney as they hurry back to the medbay. Fox had passed out again around the 358th floor and now he’s semiconscious, hazy eyes rolling and good arm lashing out at anyone who gets too close to his face.
“Thire,” Hemlock snaps again. Thire grabs Fox’s hand as he takes a swing as Joan and laces their fingers together, holding on as best he can, what with all the blood and thrashing. It’s ice-cold.
They burst through the medbay doors. “I need a transfusion set up now,” Hemlock yells. “Alright, Mini, send the scan over to surgery. Thire, get the fuck out of here.”
“But—”
Hemlock whips around so fast he almost knocks Thire over. “Do you know how to perform trauma surgery? No? I thought not. Get the fuck out of my way.”
Thire gets the fuck out of his way.
“Deep breath in, good, and out. Now in… and out.” Thorn rubs Thire’s back in wide, soothing strokes, split knuckles catching on his greys. “Deep breath in… and out. There you go. Just keep breathing.”
It’s as difficult as breathing through a straw and about as satisfying, but Thire keeps breathing. He presses his hands to his eyes, but the starbursts that form are red, so he stops. Deep breath in and out. Thorn knocks their shoulders together and giggles when Thire falls against the stall wall. Deep breath in and out. At least he isn’t crying.
Thorn pulls him back up and wraps a warm, solid arm around him. Thire leans into his side, glad beyond words that he took the top of his kit off.
“Good job, vod,” Thorn praises when his breaths stop whistling in his throat. “Let’s get you out of these, yeah?” He tugs at Thire’s greys and Thire almost spirals again.
He saw himself in the mirror when he stumbled in here, crashing into the bathroom with all the grace of Fox in the Chancellor’s office or Hound drunk on a Benduday. His whole left side is covered in blood, some sort of awful Fox-shaped print, abstracted by the dripping and the jostling. He needs a shower.
“Yeah,” he says to Thorn’s shoulder. “Probably should.”
“Okay, up. Can’t stay here, it smells like literal osik.”
“You would know.” Thire stands and stretches, cracking his back.
“What does that even
mean?
See, this is why you’re no good at insults.”
“Shut the fuck up, Thorn, you think ‘your cloning vat’ is still a funny joke.”
“Because it is—”
Thire’s comm chimes.
Hemlock: fxo in recovwry
Hemlock: stable
Thire’s comm chimes again.
Holly: Hemlock’s exhausted, don’t mind him. Fox is stable and in the recovery ward, you can come see him at the end of your shift.
Me: thanks
Me: tell hemlock thanks too and good luck putting him to bed
Holly: I will lol thanks
The soundproofing in the Amedda Room is shit. Thire can hear every droning word of the meeting behind the door. Unfortunately, protocol prevents him from turning on exterior sound-canceling for the duration of his shift, and he’s not fool enough to break a rule that could so easily get him caught. At least being back in full kit means he can talk with Hound while he waits.
“Brings new meaning to the word ‘reds,’” Hound snorts over the sound of massifs barking.
Thire chokes. “Hound!”
“Hey, you know I’m right. Oh, Force imagine getting your reds all covered in blood. What would that even look like? Would they be brighter? It’s probably itchy.”
“I think at that point you’d have bigger problems than itchiness or color,” Thire drawls past the lump in his throat. It’s not tears, just his heart pounding faster and faster, threatening to send him back to the medbay early. “Besides, you could just step outside and let the rain wash it off.”
“Do you think the aiwhas can smell blood? Like, do you think they’d come and try to eat you?”
“Not you, you smell so bad it’d cover the blood.”
“I re—” a booming bark “—I resent that. Grizzer, down. I know, pretty girl, I’m sorry.”
Thire rolls his eyes at the image of Grizzer, undoubtedly drool-covered, giving Hound begging massif eyes. “You should.”
“You wound me. Hey, do you think I could bring Grizzer around later to see the Commander? Or maybe one of the puppies?”
Thire thinks of Hemlock’s irate face from hours before. “Maybe one of the puppies,” he says.
There’s a clatter on the other end of the call, and then the sound of many massif feet on duracrete as Hound lets them out into the courtyard. “Is Fox’s boytoy coming around to see him?”
“General Vos? I haven’t seen him. Fox hasn’t heard from him in months.”
Hound hisses. “Ooh, ghosted by the Jedi. That’s gotta hurt.”
“I don’t think so. Apparently, no one else has heard from him, either.”
“He’s a spy, isn’t he? That’s pretty normal.”
“I know, but I heard from Cryo that Kote’s Jedi was Vos’s handler for his last mission and he hasn’t had contact in almost a month.”
“Have you told Fox this?”
“Do I look stupid? I tell Fox and Fox has a heart attack and then Hemlock will finally have an excuse to poison me. It’s better he thinks Vos just isn’t messaging him.”
“Ouch. I should definitely bring puppies.”
“Puppy singular,” Thire warns. He snaps a salute to the natborns as they file past, counting to make sure all thirty seven attendants leave. They’ve had a few odd and unfortunate incidents in the past. “Singular, do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Hound laughs, and before Thire can respond, he cuts the line.
“Fucking menace.” Thirty five, thirty six… Thire sticks his head into the meeting room. An elderly Dathomirian with a walker is making her way down the aisle.
“Oh, don’t mind me, young man,” she calls. “I’ll get there eventually.”
Thire smiles. “No worries, Mrs. D’oro. I’m not in a rush.” He steps around to hold the door with his heel as she shuffles her way out. “Was the meeting productive?”
She laughs. “Is it ever? No one fought and I’ve lived another day, what more can I ask of the universe?” She pauses in the threshold and places a hand on Thire’s elbow. “You’re such good boys,” she says. “Every one of you.”
Thire’s breath catches. “Thank you, ma’am. We try.” He steps out behind her and lets the door fall closed. “Have a good evening.” He’s walking in the other direction too quickly to hear her answer.
Deep breaths, Thire. Deep breaths.
He’s okay. He’s fine. He’s going to see Fox and Fox is fine, he’s stable, why are so many of the carpets in this wing red, he’s fine, everyone is fine (Except for maybe Quinlan Vos, but he’s not Thire’s problem).
Fox is out of recovery and in the overnight ward by the time Thire’s showered and fed and ready to see him. He’s out of his bodyglove and in a clean hospital gown and his arm is in a sling and the swelling on his temple’s gone down and his cheeks and forehead are flushed with all the blood that’s supposed to be in them (almost two litres to get him stable, Joan told him) and Thire falls into the white plastoid visitor’s chair and finally, finally starts to cry.
He leans forward onto the edge of the bed and buries his face in his arms, breathing in the sharp smell of antiseptic and bacta and doing his best to muffle his sobs.
“Thire?”
Oops. “M’alright, Fox.”
“Hey…” A hand winds through his hair. Fox is warm again. “Aw, kih’vod, it’s alright.”
Another sob bubbles up through his chest and this time, he can’t keep it quiet. “Fox,” he gasps. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, but—something. “Fox.”
“Come here.” Fox tugs gently on Thire’s hair until he picks his head up, sniffing and rubbing his eyes. “Come on.” Fox extends his good arm in a demanding sort of invitation.
The chair makes an awful noise when Thire scrapes it across the floor, but he doesn’t have the patience to move it and he thinks his legs might give out if he stands up. He hugs Fox gingerly, trying to avoid the worst of his injuries and compensate for the way Fox is squeezing the life out of him. Fox’s hand is back in his hair. Thire can’t get enough breath to cry the way he needs to.
“Shh, shh, easy, vod’ika. I’m okay, see?” Fox presses Thire closer, encouraging him to tuck his face into Fox’s shoulder. “Let it out.”
Thire chokes on a particularly painful sob. “I thought he killed you,” he whimpers. “You looked—I can’t—”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Fox says. “Can you imagine what Hemlock would do to him? What Stone would do to him?”
Thire huffs a watery laugh. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Something wet lands on the back of Thorn’s neck. “That’s why it’s my Guard.” Fox huffs a suspiciously wet-sounding breath. “You did so well, Thire. Kandosii,” he whispers.
“I let him—”
Fox’s arm tightens around him. “Bullshit. You did exactly what you were supposed to, do you understand me? You did the right thing.”
“But—”
“No. The only thing you did wrong was show up in the first place. You know the rules about that.” Fox yanks at a piece of his hair and Thire yelps indignantly. “But once you were there, you did everything exactly right. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Thire’s trying desperately to process that and come up with a coherent response when Hound finds them.
“Oh, are we crying? Good, I’ve been needing a breakdown all day.” Thire sits up and wipes his face on his sleeve. “Also, I brought puppies.” Hound holds aloft two incredibly round and distressingly small massif pups, then sets them at the foot of Fox’s bed with all the reverence of a priest. The puppies immediately take to climbing Fox’s legs.
“What happened to ‘puppy singular,’ Sergeant?” Thire asks.
“I felt like this was a ‘puppy multiple’ situation,” Hound replies, settling himself in the space between Fox’s shins and the edge of the bed. “Don’t you think so, boss?”
One of the puppies is licking Fox’s chin. Fox is doing a very good job of pretending to be bemused. “No comment.”
Hound points at Thire. “See? Told you so. Anyways, you look like shit, Fox.” Hound turns to Thire. “So do you.”
“We all have the same face, dipshit,” Thire says.
Hound sticks his tongue out at him. “Anyways, I brought cards.” He pulls a chair up to the other side of the bed. “Any suggestions, or should we just play Vizsla?”
Fox falls asleep during the second round of Vizsla, so Hound and Thire play War until the lights switch to the night cycle and the puppies are curled up by Fox’s feet sleeping and they’re both nodding off where they sit. At around 2200, they pilfer a few blankets and pillows from the nearest cabinet and pile them up halfway under Fox’s bed. It’s the best place to sleep in medbay: not so far under the bed that you’ll startle someone, but out of the way enough to avoid being underfoot. Hemlock will be expecting them there.
Morning comes abruptly. Really, Thire’s not sure why he even bothered setting his alarm. Hemlock’s more reliable.
“Hound!”
“Shit