Work Text:
Of course Vos is in his office. Of course he is. With the kind of week, month, year, life Fox is having, of course the universe would see fit to toss him another problem in the form of an obnoxious, egotistical Jetii. Especially one, to Fox’s eternal chagrin, he keeps sleeping with .
“General,” he says, tone flat and uninviting as Fox walks past him to sit at his desk. He gets a wide smile in response, Vos moving from his ridiculous sprawl on Fox’s other chair to lean forward, muscles rippling. Fox very carefully keeps his eyes focused on Vos’s face, and not the wide expanse of dark skin revealed around the stupid little vest Vos is wearing.
“Vixen. Thought I’d stop by, see how you’re doing.”
“Fine. Thank you for asking, General.”
Fox puts his hands on his thighs, so Vos can’t see the shake in them, or how tight he’s clenching his fists. He’s just tired, that’s all. That’s all.
“ General , huh? You call everyone you sleep with that, or am I just special?”
“Vos.”
“Maybe you’re into it. Are you into it?”
“ Vos.”
“Actually, I think I- ”
“Vos, shut up .”
Vos lifts his hands in supplication, eyes apologetic. ”Sorry. Really, I’m just joking, you know that, right?” His vest shifts with the movement, riding further up his abdomen, and Fox isn’t going to look, he isn’t, he- Wait. Kriff.
“I can go get you some caf, make it up to you, or…”
“You can make it up to me by taking that vest off.”
“ Foxy . I’m flattered, really I am-”
“Not like that,” Fox snaps, face burning. “I mean, you’re bleeding.”
“Oh,” Vos says, and looks around nervously. “No I’m not?”
Fox is going to kill him himself. He deserves it. As a treat.
“Take the karking vest off, Vos.”
“Fine, fine, don’t freak out, it looks worse than it is.”
What it looks like is four long, deep cuts along the side of Vos’s abdomen, haphazardly wrapped in what Fox strongly suspects is Vos’s shirt, and currently bleeding through said makeshift bandaging. Not the worst injury Vos has strolled into his office- or bed, because nothing says sexy like three broken ribs - with, but certainly too nasty just to leave to fester on its own.
“Stay here. I’m getting a medic.”
“Uh. Please don’t do that?”
Vos smiles at him sheepishly, and Fox stops, inhales deeply through his nose and then exhales through his mouth, privately indulges in a small fantasy where he shoots at least a third of the senate and Vos himself, privately questions why the thought of shooting a Jedi keeps providing him the satisfaction of an order carried out to the letter, and finally meets Vos’s stupid gorgeous gaze.
“And why shouldn’t I do that?”
“Because I’m not technically supposed to be here?”
Of course he isn’t.
“As in, you’re here on Shadow business, or as in…”
“As in, technically I’m supposed to be on the Outer Rim, please don’t tell anyone, seriously, Fox, I’m begging you.”
Meditatively, Fox considers pushing Vos out the window. Vos could probably survive it, he’s survived worse, and he’s a Jedi, they land like Loth cats anyway.
“I’m getting bandages and a sponge. Stay here.” As an afterthought, he adds, “and don’t touch anything, or move anything, or do anything. Stay.”
“Yes sir ,” Vos says, offering a smirk and a lazy salute that most definitely doesn’t go straight to Fox’s groin, because he is a responsible, disciplined soldier, who needs to stop sleeping with Vos, damnit.
For once, the universe is smiling on him, because when he returns, Vos is nominally at least in the same position, tossing a knife up in the air and catching it without even looking. He doesn’t look up when Fox walks in, and Fox takes a certain pleasure in snatching the knife from the air and setting it neatly on the desk.
“Hey, babe.” A smile and a wink, and Fox wonders why exactly he’s helping him, anyway. He moves to kneel at Vos’s side, prodding at the bandaging, and Vos winces.
“Easy, Vixen.”
Fox mutters something very uncomplimentary in Mando’a, and starts peeling the bandage away, Vos flinching the whole time like the child he is as dried blood pulls at the edges of the wounds.
A few silent minutes of cleaning, interrupted only by Vos’s occasional idiotic commentary, and Fox is willing to admit, though not to Vos, that it does look worse than it actually is. Quite a lot of dried blood, and the water is dripping, smearing faint red-orange across Vos’s stomach and Fox’s hands and wrist guards, just one more thing he’ll have to deal with before getting his few hours of sleep. Red like rust, Fox thinks, because it’s a better thought than red, red blood staining his hands and armor, red like rust, he repeats, red like copper.
“Red like foxes,” Vos says, voice low and rough, and Fox hadn’t even noticed that Vos’s bare hand is on his shoulder, and it must be some kind of equipment malfunction, or else a Jedi trick, because somehow Fox can feel the heat of Vos’s hand straight through his armor, sinking into his bones.
“Don’t do that,” he says instead, and Vos moves his hand away, apologizing, and Fox feels colder for it, and for once in his life, he decides he can have just a little bit of what he wants.
“You can still touch. Just don’t read me.” Vos nods, returning his hand, rubbing circles into the armor.
“Thanks.” Fox shrugs.
“Clearly you weren’t going to a medic. Why are you even here?”
The look Vos gives him should be illegal. Fox is going to make it illegal. He knows senators. He has ways.
“Wanted to see you.”
He can’t. He can’t do this , say things like that like they’re true, like either of them can believe it.
“Remember when you used to tell lies that actually had a chance of being believable? What changed?”
“Not lying,” Vos mumbles, but he shuts up, gaze skimming away from Fox to focus on the floor, and Fox pretends it doesn’t twist in his gut.
Fox finishes bandaging him quickly and efficiently, doing his best not to linger on bare skin.
Vos offers him a hand up when he stands, and Fox still takes it, leaning half into him. Vos grins at the motion, spins Fox around so his back is against Vos’s front. Despite himself, Fox leans into it, tilting his neck so Vos can press warm kisses into it, teeth scraping along his neck.
“No marks above the black,” he gasps out, twisting in Vos’s grip.
Vos hums behind him, and Fox feels him nod as he strips the armor from him. Fox tries to start stacking it, tries to make cleanup at least a little easier, but Vos is turning him, pressing him against his desk to kiss him deeply, and Fox stops caring about everything but Vos, and his hands and mouth.
Vos leaves once they’re done. Fox always insists on it in his office at least, the only variable is whether or not he’ll allow him to help put his armor back on. It’s different in his bed, where Vos often spends the night simply because Fox is too tired and too weak willed to tell him to leave, but he’s always gone in the morning. Anything else would have too many implications, too much meaning. It’s just convenient, just casual. He doesn’t even like Vos. Fox stares at Vos’s retreating back through the door, wills his eyes not to blur. He doesn’t.
“Hey,” Vos says, pausing to look at him.
“What?”
Vos is hesitant for once, looking like he’s struggling for words, before finally deciding.
“Have a good night, Foxy,” and then he leans in, presses a kiss to Fox’s helmet, and then he’s gone.
Even through the helmet, the touch lingers for a very long time.