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Everything smeared into a blur. Fox didn’t quite know how they left the cell, left the prison itself and boarded Wolffe’s ship, but they must have. He just focused on clinging to Wolffe’s armor and let Wolffe’s unfamiliar voice wash over him.
The war was over. The war was over, somehow, and Wolffe was trying to tell him everything. Everything, starting from how after his trial the Jedi Council had grown suspicious of Chancellor Palpatine, and how they’d employed a Jedi Shadow to investigate. How the Shadow had dug into the whole Fives debacle, how there were chips and Sith and toxins and -
How Fives had been trying to save them.
And Fox, on the command of a Sith Lord, had killed him, because he was too stupid to look further, too cowardly to accept the consequences of his failure.
Cody had been right to court martial him, Cody had been right to put him away -
“----Fox? Fox??”
Someone was shaking him, very gently. Fox looked up at Wolffe’s worried face, couldn’t hold it, and darted his gaze away again.
“Let’s get you in the shower, ok? And then you can get out of those clothes,” Wolffe said, motioning at the prison fatigues. Fox nodded, and spread his arms, in preparation for the Wall and the droid with the little sonic wand-
“No,” Wolffe said, his voice barely on the edge of cracking. “No, Fox, we’re in my quarters. Real water, see?”
Hot water gushed out of the tap, steam rising in curls around them. Fox stared, transfixed, until Wolffe shoved a towel and a spare pair of base layers into his arms. “I’ll be right outside,” he said, when Fox just looked at him mutely. “It’s ok.”
“And then what?” Fox asked. Wolffe’s face creased in confusion.
“What?”
“Where - where are we going?” Wolffe had said they weren’t going to Kamino, but Fox’s eventual decommissioning at Kamino had dominated his thoughts for three months. He just wanted to hear Wolffe say it, one more time.
“Coruscant,” Wolffe said, and tried to smile. “Commander Thire’s waiting for you.”
Fox nodded silently and closed the door, mechanically stripping out of his prison clothes. Coruscant. That was - that was good, maybe. At least it was familiar ground.
He stepped into the hot spray of water and almost moaned. The heat soaked into his bones, eating away at the heavy chill that had overtaken Fox in the prison. Droplets beat a rhythm on his back as Fox leaned his forehead against the tile walls.
He was out.
The war was over.
Wolffe was here, and Thire was waiting for him.
He was still a murderer.
The guilt was even worse now. It swelled up from the pit of Fox’s empty chest, a yawning abyss of shameful disgust. Fives’ face flashed in his mind - smoke rose from the wound in his chest.
He’d never been a rogue clone hellbent on assassinating the Chancellor. He’d been a hero.
And Fox had been the fucking fool who’d shot him down.
His chest heaved as Fox panted for air in the steam; dizziness brought him down. He fell ungracefully to the floor and curled up in a ball, the familiar wall of his cell pressing at his back. Tears dripped down his face but he was already wet, already drowning.
How many lives had been lost as a result of Fives’ murder? How many troopers could have been spared, how many brothers, all because Fox was too fucking scared to defy his superior officer.
In the shadow of Fives’ bravery, Fox was a rat. A worm. Everything Cody had said that day in Fox’s office was true. Not a brother not a soldier not a batchmate-
Muffled banging on the door. “Fox?? Fox are you alright?”
What a question. Why even ask.
“Fox? Fox, did you fall? I heard a bang-”
A bang. A bang, bangbangbang and the gun fell and Fives fell and Fox’s panting breaths turned into wheezing laughter. The war was over, he was out of prison, and he’d never felt more like a murderer.
“Fox?” The voice was closer now. He was cold - the water was gone. Someone threw a soft fuzzy weight over him; Fox clutched at the towel, then clutched at the hand that smoothed over his shaking back.
“Gonna put me back up on the stand, Wolffe?” he said wildly. “All those brothers that Fives could’ve - could’ve saved-”
“What?! No, I wouldn’t-”
“You should,” interrupted Fox. “You should. I killed them.”
“No, Fox,” Wolffe said brokenly. “You didn’t.”
“But Fives, I - I -”
Wolffe was trying his best to be soothing; it reminded Fox viscerally of Ponds. Another lost brother. How many more, how many -
“You didn’t know. Nobody knew,” Wolffe said. “Nobody blames you. It's not your fault.”
“Cody does,” Fox whispered. “And Rex. And they should.”
Wolffe sighed, but his hand was steady in Fox’s. “Cody wanted to come get you out. He wants to apologize, but Thire said just me, for now.”
Thire. Thire was waiting for him ,and the knowledge was a kernel of warmth in the chill. “And Bly? Thorn? Stone?”
There was a pregnant pause. “Bly and Stone are waiting too,” Wolffe said finally.
No. No.
“No,” Fox sobbed, raising his eyes to meet Wolffe’s miserable expression. “Not - not Thorn, please-”
Wolffe tugged him in; Fox collapsed against his chest, wet hair and hot tears soaking into Wolffe’s armor. “I’m sorry, vod,” he whispered into Fox’s ear, rocking him back and forth. “Ni ceta. Ni ceta.”
Kneel to him, no. Fox should kneel to Cody. Kneel to Rex, Thorn, to Fives-
The war was over, sure. Fox had somehow still managed to lose.