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It goes like this, Rex lunges and Fox is a blank sort of angry, a numb sort of vicious.
Rex lunges, and Fox puts all of his weight behind his move, sends Rex down hard and stays like that, rage shimmering under his skin and feeling out of place with himself.
It is a familiar feeling after so long on Coruscant, this special type of rage and wrongness mix of emotions after the Chancellor smiles and entreats and wheedles his way into loading the Guard down with enough work to make them all drop and the type of stupidity that will get men killed as he looks over all the missions, all the assignments.
It goes like this.
Fact: Fox sends Rex down.
Fact: Fox isn’t present enough to spar anymore.
Fact: Rex knows this and hasn’t said anything yet, eyes watchful.
Fact: Fox needs to check Rex for injuries because this is the 7th time he has either sent Rex down, or hit, hard enough it’s a worry.
Fact: He had a meeting today with the Chancellor and he is loyal to the Republic, a good soldier in his bones, bought and bred and born for it, but Fox thinks that if the Chancellor disappeared he might be able to sleep for longer than a fucking second, might be able to convince himself not to murder the next Senator to ask him to do their fucking paperwork for them, might be able to wrestle the anger under his skin back to manageable, keep it from spilling over.
Fact: Fox has not slept in over 48 hours.
Fact: Fox can hold anger like he can hold hope, burning and bright and grasped in the palm of his hand, strangled and contained.
Fact: Rex’s hands are kind.
It goes like this, at some point he lets go of Rex, body settled atop of him, hands gripping his own wrists and laying on Rex’s chest as he hits his head against Rex’s with as much gentleness as he can muster.
Fact: Fox is not a man made for gentle things.
He tries anyway.
It goes like this, calloused hands gripping tight, nails digging into skin. Mind heavy and skin buzzing.
It goes like this, Fox burns with rage and Rex stays on the ground, reaches for Fox’s wrists and presses gentle calloused hands over the welts Fox’s nails have left on his own skin.
The buzz under his skin is slipping away and they are sweaty and disgusting and in need of maybe ten showers and Fox still has things he has to worry about and people he needs to check on and a list of things to do so long it strangles him.
His breathing evens out slowly as Rex soothes hands up and down his sides and his body aches with bone deep exhaustion.
This isn’t something he would allow himself normally, isn’t something he would let happen, and it isn’t something he asks for. It’s too exposed, too vulnerable and feels like splitting his chest open and ripping his insides out. He hates it, this being known, this being seen. Prefers the snark and the banter and the dry humour to this ugly precious thing.
Rex knows this, accepts this, doesn’t find it a hardship most of the time.
Softness though, in this moment, helps, so Fox rests and lets Rex do all of the caring he normally doesn’t let him do.
He gives himself a few more minutes and then pushes up, holds Rex down with careful hands and a quiet, but firm, ‘Hold’.
Rex rolls his eyes, but listens, stays still as Fox runs through checks.
Nothing is broken, no serious injuries, just bruises and what will be some lingering soreness. Rex huffs, pushes up and raises an eyebrow. Fox sits back, lets him do a check and slips his anger back inside of him, let's most of it drain away and tries to push past the exhaustion.
He stands when Rex finishes — some bruising, and his bad ankle will need to be iced at some point, he’d fucked with it when he’d gotten up wrong, but clear — sways and pushes back against the black spots in his vision.
“Am I gonna have to call Woe to hypo you into sleeping?” Rex drawls, eyebrow raised.
Fox ignores the poorly hidden concern with a huff. “Fuck off, I’m sure your medic is just thrilled with you right now.”
Rex neither confirms nor denies that, face blank. But Rex’s Sabaacc face has always been poor, Fox snorts.
“Quacta, Stifling, Captain.”
Rex rolls his eyes, stands and stretches with a wince, and Fox checks the chrono.
He has eighteen minutes til shift, needs to make sure that none of the shinies are assigned to the Senate floor right now with two of the Senators in a rampage and more of them in a mood. Rex has only an hour or so until he needs to get his men ready to ship out.
It goes like this, they are sweaty and tired and buried in duties and responsibilities and war presses heavy on them from all sides.
Fox grips Rex’s wrist, squeezes once, face neutral.
“Try not to get yourself killed.” he says, and means, ‘don’t you dare fucking die on me before I figure out how to be what you want.’
Rex’s lip twitches up, and he doesn’t catch all of what Fox means but that’s fine. He knocks his hip against Fox’s, presses his hand to Fox’s arm and let’s his lips brush over Fox’s cheek in an almost kiss.
“Will do, Commander.” Rex snarks, and for all that he is painfully easy to read, Fox can’t read the emotion that flickers through Rex’s eyes for the life of him.
It’s gone soon enough and Rex smiles, wry, “Don’t murder anyone while I’m gone, yeah?”
Fox grunts, “Officially as Commander of the Guard I take offense to that, you little shit.”
Rex tilts his head, raises an eyebrow, “And unofficially?” he prompts, like he doesn’t already know the fucking answer.
Fox grins, sharp toothed and maybe slightly unhinged, “Unofficially, I make no promises.”
Rex laughs, and it makes Fox forget for a second, all of the things he is and is not.
Fact: Fox is not built for love, but if he was, it would be too easy to fall into it for Rex.
It is a heady feeling.