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Boba had come to them entirely by accident, found by Weave running from a gang he’d mixed himself up with after vanishing months before from Geonosis. The barracks were never inspected, nobody aside from them ever even entered them, so they’d given him a bed and blankets and food and a medical check-up. He'd been fussy at first, distant, tried to escape twice and yelled about Buir, about things Fox knew he didn’t fully understand yet, but he’d responded well to them bringing him to training to teach him tricks.
Though his youth had worked against him, he’d known Fox from Kamino, and to Fox’s joy, trusted him.
The entire Guard knew Boba adored his ori’vod, and that Fox loved Bob’ika.
Part of Fox had wished desperately to keep Boba close, keep him on base, hidden away from Senators and criminals and any and all danger. Keep him away from the war and from gangs and from harm. Keep him by his side so he could never lose his baby brother again, not like before...
But if he’d stayed on Coruscant, in the base, Fox knew Palpatine would know.
Palpatine... he was not getting Fox’s baby brother.
He was not taking Boba from them again, not that Boba even remembered the first time. He'd been so young when the Kaminii, when Palpatine, had reconditioned Buir, and aside from Boba’s vent crawling escapades, Boba had been kept from them, from their hugs and warmth and the protection they’d promised him so young.
But Fox knew his vod’ika well.
Boba didn’t want to stay, not forever, and he knew there would have been nothing he could do to keep him there. Boba had that wanderlust, the one Buir had once had, the one they all did. Fox couldn’t leave Coruscant, none of the Corries could, but Boba... they couldn’t deny him that.
There was a lot more they could do to help him, they could make sure he had a good reliable ship, one they would upgrade and service when he dropped in. They were going to make sure he had good weapons, food, medical supplies, make sure he had good training and knew all the sneaky tricks.
They’d made sure he knew he was always welcome on their base, always welcome there, always welcome with them.
He’d also made Boba promise to comm once a week.
Boba had kept that promise.
Before they’d let him leave, they'd modified him some armour, each piece a spare of their own resized for Boba and then painted the mix of colours and patterns Boba chose. Green and red and yellow, a Guard cog and their Buir’s sigils... Fox knew he wasn’t alone in his pride.
Each time he was away they’d design a new modified set, ready for his next growth spurt. Fix had managed to work out how much he’d grow in each gap, so they could always be prepared, so the next size up could always be ready for him when he needed it, laid out and ready for him to paint.
Despite having Boba’s growth calculated, Fix marked each growth spurt on the door of his office. It was a silly ritual, but none the less Boba joined in every time, straining as tall as possible for Fix to the medic's amusement. Fix always pushed his head back down with a laugh, ruffled Boba’s curls, then marked on the line, having long since dropped his protestations.
Boba always found excuses to stay for a medical lesson and Fix always somehow found the time to teach him.
And he called Fox a softie.
.
.
.
Fox slipped quietly into the medbay. It was fairly empty, but the bed in the corner was the one that interested him.
The figure curled up, far smaller than the rest of the room's occupants.
Bob’ika.
Apparently, he’d slipped in and gone straight to the bunks, curled up with some vode in blankets and passed out. One of them had noticed him and taken him straight to Fix, who’d cleaned and bandaged his wounds, then, and only then, commed Fox.
He hadn’t run to med bay, but it had been a close thing, and one of his datapadd stacks had become a little less stacked in his wake.
“Hey Fix, how is he?”
“Bruised ribs, though only bruised, and a few gashes on his arms, a small burn on his thigh. Not bad, could have been worse. I've given him painkillers and treated everything. He's all yours ori’vod.”
“Thanks Fix, I promise I'll try not to return him until tomorrow at the earliest.”
Fix snorted in amusement and shook his head.
“Go, and don’t work too late, you’re overworked at the best of times. Spend some time with him while he’s here.”
“Yes buir.”
“And eat something, please.”
“I know, I know, I'll eat something... ah, ah, and I'll sleep. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’m second eldest, I'll always worry about you, it’s my job. Now get the sprout out of here before he grows again.”
Fox slung the blanket off his shoulder and wrapped Boba into it, careful not to jostle him. Boba was growing, but he still fit comfortably into Fox’s arms, unconsciously curling closer and smiling softly in his sleep. If he wasn’t in such danger here, if he wasn’t a vod they’d helped train, Fox would break every time he left the base. Instead, he simply fretted until their baby brother came home to them.
With Boba bundled tightly and safely in his arms, he headed back to his office. He still had paperwork he needed to get through, but he wasn’t letting Boba go anytime soon. Not a chance.
Once in his office, he skilfully shed his chest plate without dislodging his baby brother and sank into his chair, made sure Boba’s head was pillowed comfortably on his shoulder (pauldron also removed) and tucked the blankets a little tighter before he started work.
While he was working, he nibbled on one of the ration bars he kept in his desk. It tasted like ash, though whether that was the bar or a side effect of his ‘session’ with the Chancellor earlier that day he wasn’t sure. Still, he managed about half of it before folding it back into its wrapper and going back to his work, one hand writing, the other gently stroking through his baby brother’s hair, humming songs from his childhood, ones Buir had once hummed to them.
The paperwork was boring, it was a chore and not one he enjoyed, but he had Boba on his lap, safe and sound and home.
The work went faster like this, and for the first time in a long time, he stopped before he was done. It was late, and Boba would be more comfortable in a real bed. With his vode. With all the most pressing work done, he packed up, stood without dislodging his vod’ika, though he shifted a little to make sure he wouldn’t be dropped, and carried him through the base to the main barracks.
Boba had a bed there, a little nest of his own, and with the next shift change in less than an hour, Fox had no doubt the two of them would be joined quickly.
And if reports spread through the base of the soft smile on his face reserved for Boba alone, well, maybe it was true, but Fox’s soft smile was for the care of any vod’ika, that Boba was the only one he could carry in his arms this way was beside the point.
His armour piled neatly next to the bunks set out for Bob’ika, and he settled in next to his baby brother, making sure he was safe and warm.
He slept better than usual, only stirring when they were joined at the end of the shift, but then, he always slept better with his vod’ike beside him, safe and sound.
Safe and sound.
.
.
.
Fox placed his helmet on the desk and, as ordered, stripped his armour down to his waist and peeled his blacks to his hipbones, then knelt.
It was a practiced routine, too practiced, and if he thought about it too much, it made him feel ill... and dirty. Nobody could know, nobody could ever know how weak he was, how little fight he gave. He couldn’t bare anyone finding out how pathetic he was. How... broken he was.
“Good, pet, so obedient.”
The voice came from behind, but he didn’t flinch or startle, just knelt in place, hands on his lap, eyes ahead. He could see Palpatine in the window reflection, taking something off the wall near the doorway and coming up behind him, pressing a hand to the back of his neck and guiding him until he was face down flat against the floor, hands folded behind his back.
Fox felt the metal tip of something press into the meat of his shoulder, deep and hard enough to leave a mark if not break skin. Catching his reflection, he braced himself.
No matter how much he braced, it was never enough when it came to electrostaffs.
He couldn’t help but thrash and kick as the sensation tore through him, pulling every muscle tense and tight. And he couldn't help but pant when it ended. The second burst of electricity had him gasping and tears starting to well in his eyes, shaking on the floor. He could feel the burn forming on his shoulder, one that would make wearing his pauldron a pain for weeks.
To make sure he remembered his lesson.
He wasn’t sure what he’d done, he wasn’t sure if Palpatine was just waiting for him to slip up and spill it, if he was waiting, or if he was just tired from manipulating the Senate all week and needed a boost.
He stayed there, just panting through the fading pain, as Palpatine moved around him, the pressure lifting from his shoulder.
“These are useful, aren’t they? I chose these especially for the Red Guard, much more fun than simple blasters.”
The metal pressed at the juncture of his neck and chin, before shifting slightly and forcing his chin to rise. Forcing his head up until his neck burned from the stretch and he could see Palpatine’s gentle grandfatherly smile.
Under his chin, the staff crackled a little making his breath hitch slightly, and Palpatine smirked, before yanking it away and leaving Fox to slam his chin and face into the floor.
He smelt metal in his nose. Fix was going to kill him if it was broken, again.
“Up.”
He gathered himself, getting back to his knees, hands back on his lap, as ordered.
Fox did what he was told, he wasn’t stupid enough to do otherwise, not with his vode’s lives on the line and especially not when Palpatine was like this, feeding off of his suffering and bolstering his power and not willing to stop until his needs were sated and his strength restored. If Fox disobeyed, if Fox didn’t suit his needs, he’d comm for one of his vod’ike to come up and join him. If Fox wouldn’t give him what he wanted, he’d just find someone else. He had all the Guard to choose from.
He only had to make that mistake once. Never again. This was his job and his punishment and not his vode’s, never his vode’s. He would not disappoint.
Especially not with Bob’ika on base.
Kriff, someone needed to keep Boba away when he got back, he couldn’t see Fox if this got bad. A broken nose and a burn on his shoulder, maybe some bruising on his chin, he could lie. Tell Boba it was a fight, something on a patrol, tell him... anything but the truth.
The whip cracked against his back and he bit through his lip, feeling blood well and dribble down his chin.
He cursed himself for losing focus, for losing track of the Chancellor, of what he was holding.
The second blow he was better braced for, and the third.
The fourth caught where the electrostaff had been and he screamed, he couldn’t help it.
The blow to the face that followed, worsened by the hilt of the whip, had him clenching his jaw, wondering how he was going to manage paperwork if his eye started to swell. It felt like it would.
Joy.
He took 6 more lashes before Palpatine deemed his back torn up enough for now.
He gathered himself and breathed, straightening his back in spite of the pain, keeping his head forwards as Palpatine circled, and dropped to one knee in front of him, the flash of silver making him tense just a little.
Fox choked back a gasp as the metal bit into his skin above his collarbone, pulling along slowly and snagging on flesh as it went. Through the burning tearing snagging sensation, he could feel the warmth of his blood seeping out, and head hung low, he watched it appear, almost entrancing. Before any of it could make it to the floor there was some sort of vial below the wound, and Fox watched as the little trails of blood all flowed themselves neatly into it under the Sith’s control.
Fox watched it start to fill, and Palpatine extended a hand, fingers tracing across the wound and sewing it back together, before he reached that hand to his lips and lapped up the blood, Fox’s blood, making sure not to leave any behind.
The first time he’d done this Fox had shuddered, but the Sith was a monster and Fox was growing painfully used to many of his likes and dislikes.
Palpatine drew a bottle of expensive looking wine and poured some into a goblet that he set aside, then mixed the blood into the bottle and whispered something in that language, eyes burning sulphur yellow.
Fox swallowed and tried to focus forwards tried to ignore what that meant, but knowing that when there were spells like this, he always ended up drained like he was being bled dry.
The staff drove itself deep into his ribs in his distraction and he contorted at the volts running though him, ending up curled on his side.
“Come, pet, you’re usually better than this.”
He pulled himself back to his knees, dutifully, ignoring the way his new scar tugged when he moved his arm. Head bowed, back straight, hands on lap. Ignore the pain.
“Good pet, you’re trying so hard. Have a reward.”
The goblet he’d poured earlier was pressed to his lips, the smell of alcohol in the wine made his nose crinkle in distaste, the liquid lapping at his top lip.
He didn't want it, but if he refused...
He tried not to gag at the taste, bitter and burning, that alcohol taste he’d always hated washing over his tongue and down the back of his throat.
The goblet pulled away and some of it dribbled down his chin, and a second later the rest of the wine was emptied over his head, onto his hair and down his neck, running down his face and onto his chest and back. He could smell it, and it burned his eyes, forcing him to blink rapidly against the stinging and the trails that reached the open lashes on his back burned.
It hadn’t been cold, but the shock of it had forced a gasp from his lips, and the burning only made it worse. His eyes stung and ran and he couldn’t help but raise a hand to wipe them, to wipe the liquid out of them but something wrapped itself around his wrists and slammed his hands back to his lap.
“No, stay. Behave.”
His cheeks burned with humiliation as the droplets from his hair landed on his shoulder, on his face, down the back of his neck.
This time a heavy weight settled on his shoulders, pressing down. Heavier and heavier, until his shoulders started to shake and buckle and the tears on his back burned and breathing became harder and harder and...
“None of that pet, upright. You are a Commander, surely you can maintain your posture?”
He forced himself back up through the weight as best he could, but it felt like he was being crushed.
Everything was aching, everything hurt, the wine dripped down his face, down his back, his shoulders shook and he could feel the blood slipping down his back and his arms were going numb and his stomach ached and his chest burned. Every single breath was agony and still the weight grew.
He was losing the feeling in his legs, his knees and hips were starting to burn, and the weight only grew and grew.
Black dots started to dance in his vision and he could smell metal and the world spun and faded in and out and he couldn’t breathe but he had to stay up he had to stay upright, he had to...
“Well done, pet, that’s enough. So obedient.”
The pressure vanished, and he slumped, gasping for air, not daring to fall but unable to keep his spine straight.
The spots kept dancing as he gasped and footsteps moved around the room.
He didn’t have the energy to startle at the hand on his shoulder, nor the force that wrapped itself around his throat and under his shoulders and pulled him across the carpet. He dropped face down, weak as a tooka kitten, noticing it was the soft carpet of the too fancy side room, and that his armour was already piled into the corner, at eye hight.
“I have meetings all afternoon in my office. You need to stay here, but I expect you to be kneeling when I get back.”
He groaned out something that sounded like “Yes Sir.”
He hoped.
“Good boy.”
The door hissed closed.
Fox let his face fall gently into the soft carpet.
The cleaning droids already took care of far worse than blood and wine.
Palpatine's office would be spotless before any of his guests arrived.
.
After a while, maybe half an hour, he managed to pull himself up onto his hands and knees, then, with a deep bracing breath, up onto his knees. His back tugged and he felt fresh flows start, and everything protested, his ribs burned, but none the less, he was on his knees.
The door was a regular solid door, and the walls the same, but there was a screen for the cameras on his office. So Fox could watch.
He did this a lot, left Fox brokenly exhausted in his side room to watch the meetings, relishing in the knowledge that no-one in that room would have any clue. He had to watch as they discussed destroying the rights of his vode, exchanging money and favours and worse to better their own planets agendas even against what was best for the Republic, planning the deaths of innocents.
And there was never anything he could do.
And none of the people in that room would know he was there. Or care.
He had to stay awake.
Or at least, he had to be awake when he got back.
He ran a hand through his drying, sticky hair and wished he could get rid of the smell and the sting.
The first guests were Senators, and the Chancellor calmly sipped his wine as they spoke. Fox could feel his energy wane with each sip, not unusual when he did ‘this’, but he could also see him swaying them with the Dark. See the way he spoke, soft and gentle, and the way they buckled to his whims, like the things they said, the things they believed were theirs, not his. Wordsmithing, charisma and the Dark, it was no wonder he was Chancellor.
The drink was not new, he’d used it several times, once going so far as to tie Fox down in the other side room and bleed him half dead for the exact same potion. Sith Alchemy, he called it. Blood magic. Using Fox’s life force to keep him young. Given willingly it had another purpose, one Fox didn’t know, but Fox did know it’s purpose when taken forcefully. It boosted Palpatine’s connection to the dark, boosted his energy reserves.
Gave him what he needed to sway people for meetings like these.
But most importantly, it gave him the ability to cloak his force signature. To look completely null, and for as long as he was mixing Fox’s blood into the drink, to cloak Fox from anyone he didn’t want to see him.
He could be in the same room as the Jedi, kneeling in the corner, and between this and a force suggestion, none of them would know he was there.
But Palpatine kept him in the side room just in case.
He enjoyed his games but he didn’t want to make any silly mistakes.
Fox let himself drift as the meetings dragged on, thinking about his aliit.
About Bob’ika.
He had to make sure Bob’ika didn’t see him like this, beaten and broken, humiliated.
Sticky, stinking, wine wet hair, his whole upper half was sticky. And somehow, that was worse, worse than the beatings and the whippings and the bruises.
He'd never done anything this humiliating before.
Fed him by hand, beaten and belittled him, petted his hair, he’d done far worse, but this felt worse. The forcing him to drink the wine, sloshing it down his chest, then pulling it back and upending it over his head, the dripping, the sticky feeling, the smell...
It made him feel sick.
Boba couldn’t see him like this, battered and bruised and reeking of alcohol after a Senate Shift. A patrol he could excuse, but Boba knew where he was today, he couldn’t know the truth.
Boba was young, he’d seen more than a child his age should ever have seen, but there was so much he’d been spared from. And Fox would spare him for as long as he had the strength and choice. Boba looked up to Fox, he couldn’t see him so beaten, so broken.
Boba needed joy, happiness, love. Boba needed freedom and the belief his leaving wouldn’t be the last time he saw them. He needed safety and to have Fox to trust and turn to. He needed to be able to take down his walls because he knew Fox could keep the monsters away, time when he didn’t have to be on guard. He'd lost so much already.
Boba didn’t need to see this.
And no-one outside the Guard could know.
He couldn’t bare it.
Couldn't bare how they'd look at him, how they’d mock his weakness, mock his suffering at the hands of an old man, not even a warrior or an enemy. As far as the galaxy knew the Chancellor was the Galaxy’s grandfather, the kind old man. They didn’t know what he was capable of, and they’d never believe him.
They could never see him on his knees, never see him battered and broken, bloodied and soaked and...
His vode would never have ended up in this position, they were strong, they were warriors.
Fox's head hung with the strain and the shame.
He was weak, he couldn’t even protect his vod‘ike all the time.
But he could keep Palpatine happy.
If it was all he had left driving him, it would be enough. As long as he could take a blow for them, he would. He'd stay Palpatine’s favourite, he’d stay the target, the whipping boy, the pet, if it kept even one of them safe.
Fix and the others called him strong for it, for never breaking. Palpatine mocked him, called him ‘oh so strong’ when he refused to break.
But Fox wasn’t strong.
He was tired, scared, humiliated, sore.
Broken.
No wonder his batch had left him...
The Senators were leaving his office and Fox tried to refocus on what was happening in the other room.
Palpatine poured himself a second glass of the wine, and his next guests entered.
Fox let himself drift again, let himself slump and wait for the meetings to be over. He only had to be kneeling when the meetings were over, and he was so tired.
It just hurt so much, and the more Palpatine drank, the more his eyelids drooped and his limbs became heavier and he was just so tired.
He was so tired.
Just a few minutes of rest, just a few.
His head snapped up.
The senators were gone from his office, and a third (or fourth) group had entered.
Three Generals, three vode.
Without even thinking, without even realising what he was doing, Fox pulled his mental shields beskar tight.
He couldn’t be found like this.
Palpatine had done this before, left him broken in the side room, his GAR brothers in the main office partaking in a meeting utterly oblivious.
He knew he could end everything right now.
He could open the door and reveal himself and Palpatine would be exposed.
But he couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t take that risk. If he failed, his vode would be tortured and slaughtered. If he mistimed it, the Jedi and commanders in the meeting could be killed or fooled into believing some sort of lie and still his vod’ike would pay the price.
Palpatine could find a way out of it, like he did every other attempt to expose him, like he did any scandal. He'd made himself untouchable.
Fox was a weak, broken clone.
He didn’t stand a chance.
It could only go badly.
And worse, it wouldn’t fix anything for his vod’ike. The GAR already believed them weak and useless and lesser because they weren’t soldiers, this would only confirm that.
The Guard were beaten by weak Senators, the Guard were tortured by the kindly old chancellor and didn’t even fight back.
Fox didn’t fight back.
Ever.
Even now he chose to comply, too useless and broken for action.
Palpatine had yet another glass of wine poured.
How was Fox supposed to be awake and kneeling if he kept draining him like this.
Unless he wasn’t, and that was Palpatine's plan. To force him to fail then punish him for it.
Another game.
Those were his brothers in there.
Stood to attention but sending each other looks, little messages with their body language.
Ponds... Bly... standing with Bacara while their Jedi spoke with the Chancellor...
He missed them dearly.
He wondered if they were still vode.
If he still belonged.
If they’d still accept him as one of them when he’d fallen so far and failed so completely and...
Fox shook his head sharply.
Kriffing Palpatine.
Kriffing potions.
He needed to keep the dark thoughts away, to stop thinking them. They would alleviate once he was back with his vode in the barracks, once he was out of these rooms and his grasp, once the blood had run dry.
All he needed to do was keep them at bay.
Kriffing sith, he’d like to shove an electrospear right up his polished...
He hissed, sudden pressure snapping each finger one by one, invisible force wrapped around his jaw, holding it shut tight.
Right, as Palpatine drank he drained him, increasing the strength of the bond as he did. That was why his thoughts became ever darker, and why Palpatine had known what he was projecting, hidden to the Jedi by his shields and Palpatine’s cloak.
He was stupid to let that sort of thing slip from his mind.
Stupid and so so tired.
Palpatine was taking so much, so much... how much was too much...
He wanted Bly holding him and reading passages from his books, words washing over him, he wanted Ponds, and the quiet hum of the songs of their childhood, so similar to Buir sometimes that it hurt.
He wanted someone to take the weight off his shoulders, just for a little while.
His eyes fluttered closed to Pond’s suggestions over the audio.
.
Fox snapped himself up, blinking rapidly, righting himself on his knees from his slump as the door opened.
He was kneeling, kneeling was good, good because he was with Palpatine.
In the time it had taken for him to catch himself up, Palpatine was standing before him.
“Oh what a mess, the droid will have to work hard to clean this up.”
Wine and blood, it had dealt with worse.
“My meetings are over, but I still have paperwork, join me.”
Fox was a good soldier, and drained. He followed.
Palpatine lead him to his desk, to the floor next to it, to a position he’d assumed before.
Palpatine had something in his hands, his chair back enough that Fox could see it.
His heart sunk.
“Now, I wonder Commander, what exactly is this?”
It was a drawing; one he’d had folded and concealed within his chest plate for months.
A gift from Boba.
Bob’ika had been 11, but only just, returning to them in time for his birthday, to spend it with them. He'd slipped in uninjured, and having outgrown his clothes and unwilling to wake anyone to find out if there were new ones for him, he’d found a pair of Fox’s blacks instead and fallen asleep in them. It had been adorable, and Ink had sketched it.
Boba had been embarrassed, but he’d also been fascinated. Fox hadn’t been surprised, Buir had never been much of an artist and he doubted Boba would have had any other real exposures to art.
Ink had taken him to one of the drawing classes he was running, and later that day Boba had presented Fox with the paper now held in Palpatine’s hand.
On one side, Thire, Thorn, Stone, Hound and Fix, on the other Cody, Wolffe, Rex, Ponds and Bly, and in the middle, Fox and Boba. Boba had spent so much time with them on Kamino, not enough, not as much as they would have liked, but enough that he’d trusted Fox, enough that he’d deemed them worthy of being on the picture, though he now scowled when they were mentioned. Fox had been shielding him from what Palpatine had been doing, how large the gap between them had grown, and Boba had still idolised them.
Fox hadn’t been surprised by their inclusion at the time, but he hadn’t been expecting them. Not like the corries, who Fox knew Boba adored.
Boba was more of an artist than Fox by a mile, though it was still clearly drawn by a child, and Fox had kept it in his armour above his heart ever since. He checked it when he missed his vod’ika, and when he missed his batch, when the loneliness sank in.
Now it was in Palpatine’s grasp.
“Commander, I won’t ask again. What is this?”
Had Palpatine just found it moving his armour, or did he know Boba was on base?
“A drawing, sir.”
“Indeed. ‘You are loved, always. Boba’. So, the little clone is still alive, Fett’s favoured chid. He finally showed up.”
Something in Fox broke.
His hands shook in place, his stomach turned.
Palpatine was smiling.
Fox didn’t feel tired or cold, just... hollow.
Boba.
Palpatine could summon him right now, have him dragged up, by Red Guards. Drag him in kicking or bruised, throw him to Palpatine’s feet.
He could...
He couldn't...
He couldn’t breathe...
“1010, Order 22!”
Fox felt himself sway, slump, his chest stop heaving suddenly, too suddenly, in a way that burned and made his head rush as it rested against the side of Palpatine’s chair. He couldn’t move, not a finger, and his body breathed like a man asleep and blinked on autopilot. 22 made clones stop whatever they were doing and go limp, he’d only been a victim of it a few times, when panic had taken over or he’d fought too hard or because he’d simply been more convenient limp than reacting naturally. The longer he was under 22, the longer any of them were, the worse it got, the further they drifted...
He couldn’t move.
His body didn’t respond to anything.
Could he do this to Boba? Could he get into Bob’ika’s head too, shut him down and Order him around and make him do anything he wanted. Twist his mind and take his memories.
Would he do it now, while Fox was like this?
Palpatine leant back in his chair, and a hand fisted in his hair, and he was dragged again to the present.
Apparently Palpatine wasn’t as disgusted by the feel, the smell, the remaining dampness.
His head was moved slightly, resettled against both the chair and his leg.
The hand in his hair started moving softly, awfully softly, and the kriffing Sith started humming. It wasn’t Mando’a, wasn’t a song Buir or his vode knew, but the motions were... almost kriffing soothing.
From someone he loved he’d be asleep in minutes.
With the exhaustion so deep in his bones, a day of being drained, and now Order 22, he wasn’t sure it would take much longer. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
His mind started to drift again, to Bob’ika, to his batch, to the people he loved. To when Wolffe brushed his hair on Kamino after his frights, what Fix now called panic attacks and anxiety attacks, when he brushed Boba’s the same way, for no reason except knowing the comfort it brought him. It had worked better than anything, and he’d give the rest of his life for one more night curled against his big brother as he ran a hand through his hair and whispered assurances.
Wolffe wasn’t here.
No matter how hard he wished it. No matter how hard he wished for the humming to deepen and change its tune.
It was good Wolffe wasn’t here.
Just like it was good Boba wasn’t here.
It meant they were safe.
And Ponds and Bly were safe, because they were gone. Hours ago they'd been right in this room, right across from where Fox was now, talking, clueless. But they’d left.
They were gone too.
And Cody and Rex were safe too, everyone was safe.
Fox was...
No, he wasn’t safe, he was in danger and they were safe.
Right?
Everyone was ok, everyone was safe, he was...
Where was he...?
Safe, was he safe?
He was floating, drifting, he was...
“Ok, that’s far enough, 1010, end 22.”
Fox stiffened immediately, careful of the now again very present hand in his head.
His breathing hitched, before he forced it to try to smooth. He didn’t want to be sent back under; he didn’t want to go back under.
He didn’t know how long he’d been under?
He scanned the room, terrified, but they were still alone.
They were still alone.
Thank kriff.
“You were getting all worked up pet, we couldn’t have that. But we still need to talk about this. Your little brother,” Fox stiffened far more sharply as Palpatine spoke, “the unaltered one, you’ve been looking after him. Well, I suppose your ‘buir’ is... indisposed.”
Kriffing shabuir. You twisted his mind and had him killed when he outlived your uses, how dare you be so blasé.
His own anger caught him by surprise, though he knew his emotions were always wild on days like this, but still...
Indisposed; Palpatine ordered his death; it was his fault he’d died.
“I’d love to meet him, pet. I'm sure he’s just like you.”
Fox felt the threat in that, in the ruffle of his hair that accompanied the words that tugged just slightly too hard.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer, you have so much paperwork to do. Do not disappoint me. I'd hate for you to become... indisposed.”
Fox understood his cue, slowly wobbling to his feet and stumbling over to the antechamber chair with his armour. He dropped gracelessly in front of it, shutting himself down to pull his blacks on and his armour and his bucket, not caring that it was dishevelled and not uniform, not caring about the rumours that would spring forth. He had to get back to the barracks. He could fall face down on the other side of the door as long as he was in the barracks.
And Boba.
He needed them to distract Boba.
He wobbled again as he stood, pausing as the world spun with grey spots.
“Commander, was there something else?”
“No... no sir.”
He saluted, and the Chancellor stepped forwards, grabbed the bottom of his bucket and pressed down on his pauldron, causing a flair of pain Fox couldn’t ignore.
“You are dismissed, Commander. Oh, and Commander, I'm keeping this... wonderful drawing.”
Fox gathered himself for half a second, then turned and headed for the barracks, as quickly as he could.
He wasn’t stopped or interrupted, though he failed to avoid people on his route, and he managed to shoot off a comm in the lift down to the barrack level to get Bob’ika away before he got into medbay.
To get Bob’ika somewhere he wouldn’t see this, wouldn’t see Fox like this.
The doors went woosh. Woosh was good. Woosh meant...
“Comman... kriffing hells, I need a hand!”
He slumped into the arms of a vod, Skinsuit maybe, and he was helped to stumble to a bed and fall face first onto it.
His new scar tugged slightly and he groaned.
“Help me get his legs on the bed, and help me with his armour. Fox, Fox, you with me.”
“Mmmmm.”
“Good, talk to me vod, what’s hurt?”
“Mmm ba... n’ mmmm.”
“Kriff, come on Fox, stay awake. Skinsuit, help me get this off of him.”
He felt his armour coming off and his blacks peeled back and his wounds exposed to the air.
“Kriffing hells.”
“Kriff me, ok, Fox, this is going to hurt, Skinsuit, I need the disinfectant and a needle, Fox, do you want to be awake for this. I have a sedative; you can sleep through it. Fox please, I've put my hand under yours please, tap twice for sleep and three times for awake.”
He tapped twice.
He was so tired.
Had Palpatine taken too much...
“Ok vod, you’re going to feel a little pinch. When you wake, we’ll be done. We've got you.”
He felt the pinch Fix had mentioned, and then the dark rushing over him.
.
.
.
Fox woke face down on a bed. From the sounds and smells alone, he knew he was in the med bay. One of his arms was under his head, the other was... over something.
Something that shifted and hair brushed against his nose.
A vod.
A vod’ika...
Boba.
Kriff.
He groaned and shifted slightly, careful not to shift his vod’ika, and Fix smiled over from his desk, standing and cracking his shoulders before walking over. Fox huffed, Boba wasn’t supposed to be here, and he could feel more than just bandages, IV’s and that stupid oxygen tube up his nose.
“You’re awake.”
“I said to keep Bob’ika away.” he hissed, throat burning until Fix squeezed the gel pack into his mouth.
“He’s a smart ad. He worked out you were hurt, wouldn’t stop arguing until he was allowed to come in here and see you. He's stubborn, like someone else I know.”
“He needs to leave.”
“But you both look so comfortable.”
“I mean Coruscant, Palpatine... he knows. Boba isn’t safe here. He has to leave. He isn’t safe here. I can’t protect him, not forever. He has to be safe.”
“Not tonight. Not just yet. You both need sleep, recover. Talk to him in the morning. Speaking of, how are you feeling?”
“Sore. Tired. What's the damage?”
“You’re a giant bruise, your whole back and torso, and your ribs are fairly bruised, as are your lungs so don’t take out the cannula yet. Your back’s pretty torn up, but we’ve stitched it together and wrapped it, and the scar on your collar is fine. Your nose wasn’t broken, it’ll be fine, and I stitched up your lip, and put a compress on your face to reduce the swelling and I set your fingers. Your body is exhausted and your vitals reflect that, worse than usual... you’ll need to rest to recover the energy he took. And we washed your hair, I know you hate the smell. We had you bandaged up before we let him in, he didn’t see you bloody.”
“I never wanted him to see me like this. I wanted to shield him.”
“I know vod, I know.”
Fox pulled Bob’ika tighter, ignoring the pull on his back, and hugged his vod’ika’s face into his neck and shoulder, pressing his lips into his hair.
He would keep Boba safe.
.
Fox placed his bucket on Palpatine's desk and knelt. Boba's drawing sat on the desk.
The urge to grab it and tuck it back into his chest plate was almost overpowering, but the Chancellor stood right behind him.
Two hands landed firmly on his shoulders, and he bit down a hiss as it pressed on his wound.
“Are we ready for our mission pet?”