Work Text:
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
Fox sighs, signs his name, and moves on to the next datapad.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Vos, I don’t have time,” he says, without looking up at the Jedi he can just feel leaning casually against the door to his office.
“But you just got back from that mission to Scipio, and I know for a fact Thorn is still in the medbay, because I went there first.”
“Why are you skulking around my medbay,” Fox asks flatly. Vos shrugs.
“I was looking for you.”
He says it so simply, so casually, and it’s like he doesn’t know how the words slice into the center of Fox’s being. Quinlan - Vos, General Vos - was looking for him. For Fox.
The pleasant warmth lasts for half a second before Fox’s sluggish brain catches up.
“What did you need, sir?” he says professionally. He even lays down his datapad and makes eye contact with the Jedi - whatever Vos is here for, Fox will deliver.
“What? No. I’d heard about the mission and just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Vos frowns, warm brown eyes raking over Fox in a way that sends heat right to Fox’s chest. He’d been feeling warm and woozy ever since he’d left the medbay, and the additional heat wasn’t helping him focus.
“I’m fine, thank you. Thorn’s worse off.” But he’ll live. Thorn will live, and that’s worth the bullet wounds Fox had acquired on Scipio. Thorn’s continued existence was worth anything.
“Worse off? Fox, that’s-”
Fox’s comm beeps, and Vos breaks off in a frustrated sigh.
“Sorry,” Fox says, and he actually means it. “The Chancellor would like to meet as soon as possible.”
He stands up and seals his helmet on - Vos’s voice comes through the speakers.
“Is it ok if I wait for you, then?”
“As you like, General,” Fox says, and is grateful that the helmet hides his sudden blush.
He’s never had anything waiting for him after his meetings except more work. It’s a nice feeling.
–
Fox drags himself back to his office eight hours later.
He can’t - he can’t go anywhere else. He has an assignment, work to complete before he can even try to go to the medbay. Chancellor’s orders. ASAP.
His shoulder bell scrapes against the wall as he half-leans, half-stumbles along the corridor with single-minded determination. The wall is being a very good friend and holding him upright.
The door, when he leans on it, is not a good friend. It slides open too fast, and Fox spills into his office, collapsing to the floor in a clatter of armor.
He’s - he’s awake. It all went black for a minute there, but he’s awake now, and the floor is blessedly cool under his bare cheek.
Someone’s talking to him.
“-ox? Can you - en your eyes -”
He forces his eyes open and sees a vast grey expanse of floor. It’s dirty. Those mousedroids are not up to snuff, he thinks, and-
His eyes close without his permission.
“No, stay with me,” says the voice. Right. He’s got - he’s got work. Then he can yell at mousedroids.
“Mhhf,” he says into the floor, and pushes.
“Whoa, hold on-” says the voice frantically in the background, but Fox knows the power of momentum. Can’t stop once you get started, or it’s harder to get going again. It’s the way of life for the Corrie Guard - work hard for as long as you can, then drop.
Anyway. Momentum. It carries Fox up to his hands and knees, his arms trembling with effort. A sharp flare of pain in his gut brings everything to a screeching halt, and he topples forward-
Strong arms catch him before he hits the floor. “Easy, Fox,” says Vos, and the warm timber of his voice is enough to send Fox back down into blackness.
When he comes back to, he’s cradled close to a broad chest. His head’s tucked so close he can hear another heartbeat, jarringly out of sync with the beat pulsing in his own ears.
Fox tries for words but all that comes out of his mouth is a slightly pathetic-sounding grunt.
“Hey, Foxy,” rumbles Vos. “Don’t try to move.”
Not moving sounds like a good plan, but unfortunately, Fox’s life is made up of bad plans.
“-’ve got work,” he mumbles.
“It can wait.”
‘No - no.” It can’t. Why can’t it wait?
Fox doesn’t know. He never fucking knows anything.
“You’re bleeding, sweetheart. Your gut wounds reopened and you half bled out. No more work.” Vos’s voice is very final. Fox wants to listen, he does, but-
Maybe he can try to explain. “Have to,” he says, blinking very slowly to try and clear the fuzzy black clouds from his vision. “Chancellor’s orders.”
“Well I’m sure the Chancellor will make an exception when he knows your goddamn gut wounds reopened. How’d you do that anyway, Fox?” Vos asks.
Fox thinks back. Everything’s kind of dreamlike. He’s been in and out all day, but he remembers flashes, dim reflections of his shift. “Um. Stood guard and. Trained.”
“You trained? Fox, no, you know better than that!”
He does. Of course he knows better, and even though Vos is comfortable and warm and gorgeous, Fox is offended on his own behalf.
“Whacha want me to do, huh?” he asks angrily into Vos’s chest. “Just - stand there and get hit?”
“No, of course not! But - who’s hitting you, sweetheart?”
Is Fox sweetheart? He wants to be sweetheart.
He tells Vos this.
“Ok, sweetheart,” Vos says, voice warm with affection. “Tell me who’s hitting you, please?”
Fox explains about how he helps train the Red Guards, sometimes, although it’s less training and more Fox getting beat to shit by six assholes in red condom outfits with sticks.
Vos doesn’t laugh. Instead he asks in an impossibly gentle voice if the Chancellor knew Fox was injured when he’d asked him to train.
Fox has to laugh, even if it sparks more agony in his stomach and sends black fuzzy clouds scurrying across his vision. “Thought I told you not to ask stupid questions,” he scolds Vos. “”Course he knew. He wanted to see how long I could stand guard, an, and, then got mad that I bled on his new rug.”
Vos goes quiet for a bit, and Fox snuggles closer into his arms and lets his consciousness drift into blackness.
He comes back to with a jolt - still held in Vos’ arms, shit the guy is strong - because he forgot about the work, the paperwork he owes the Chancellor, it was supposed to be done as soon as possible and if he doesn't do it things will be even worse-
Fox only realizes he’s been speaking aloud when Vos shushes him gently. “I’ll take care of it, Fox,” he promises, an odd note of venom in his voice. “Go to sleep.”
He kisses Fox on the forehead, and that’s nice and all, but Fox’s inhibitions seem to have bled out of him along with a quarter of his blood volume.
Vos laughs when Fox motions to his mouth, but obligingly leans in close and presses his lips to Fox’s, just a gentle, achingly light touch.
“Just rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, and Fox finally does.