Work Text:
1)
“For the milionth time, Thire. No.”
Thire could feel blood burning in his cheeks. He clenched his fist by his sides to stop them from shaking.
Fox was drinking his caff, looking at him with that tired smile one has for little cadets who can’t understand why they can’t go to war yet. Like he’s too cute to be angry at.
If he would ever tell him he’s cute, Thire would break his nose, chain of command be damned.
“Why? You think I can’t do it?”
Fox said nothing. He leaned closer, hoping that it would provoke Fox out of his arrogant calm.
“You don’t, do you? You’re just afraid that I could…”
“Yes.”
Thire stopped, his nose wrinkling in confusion. “What…”
“You can’t do it. Just look at you!” Fox stood up, suddenly so much higher than Thire: “You still stutter every time you have to speak with a natborn! You can’t fill in a flimsy without making five mistakes! You are coming late to your post because you’re afraid to go past the Blue Guys!”
Thire stepped back. Fox's voice was cold, calculated, cutting straight into every single of Thire’s insecurities. He could feel his eyes burning.
“And you cry when someone raises their voice at you! Do you really think I can let you go there like that?”
“B-but sir…”
“But what?” Fox hissed, and he swallowed whatever he wanted to say: “But I really want to embarrass the whole Guard in front of the most important man in the universe? But I really want a new job to mess up? But I really want you to skip my older brothers because I need to feel important?”
Thire shook his head. “No, sir,” he whispered.
“That’s what I’ve thought. Dismissed.”
Somehow, he managed to hold it together for long enough to walk out of the office and into his room. There, away from the security cameras and questions of the others, he curled up and started sobbing.
It was stupid, so stupid, but it still hurt every time.
He was just trying to do more, to be a commander. And every time, Fox just pushed him back down.
Maybe he was ashamed of him. That’s why he’d never let him speak to Palpatine.
2)
Hound was pissed off beyond belief.
He’d spend the last two hours on his knees, scrubbing the floor of the Guard’s communal fresher. Anywhere else, this would be work for a sanitary droid, but the Guard’s budget was evidently too tight even for that, so the cleaning fell to the shiny that was slowest at picking up the chores for the week, or to whoever made the commander angry. Like Hound right now.
The worst thing about this whole situation was how unjust it was. Hound would be the first one to admit he wasn’t a perfect soldier. He’d never kept his appearance to the exact standard of the GAR, with the scratched armor and his hair way too long for the regulation haircut. He’d never paid enough attention to time, oversleeping and coming too late for the meetings. He got into fights sometimes - even though never with anyone too important, and always for good reasons. For any of these, he would go scraping the mold from the shower stands without a word. But he hadn’t do anything. Fox just came, screamed at him for ten minutes, and then sent him here to work off whatever fictitious sin he’d committed.
This wasn’t the first time Fox did something like that. Most of the time, he would let Hound go with a slap to his wrist, sometimes even laughing with him when a natborn, fuming about Hound’s massifs marking their speeder, had left the office. And suddenly, he was cleaning the fresher or sorting through the backlog of the flimsywork or even sitting in the brig overnight, seemingly for nothing. He’d learned to live with Fox’s weird moods like he learned to live with luke-warm caff and glitchy datapads.
He straightened up, his spine cracking like a rusty droid. The fresher looked much better, even if it reeked with enough chemicals to make his eyes water. Even the grout between the floor tiles was several shades lighter than before. Hound felt an absurd flicker of pride in his stomach.
The door slid open.
“The floor’s still wet, go…”
The words died and crumbled in his mouth.
A clone staggered across the floor, boots leaving muddy, rusty imprints behind. He was silent except for labored breathing. As he walked, he was pulling off the armor he had on. A white and grey armor, with jagged teeth painted on the helmet. His helmet.
“Fox?” whispered Hound. His commander turned around. There were bruises around his eyes and blood dried under his nose. He grinned, teeth pink.
“You’ve missed a spot over there.”
3)
“Both of us! Why do they need to see both of us?”
Fox was pacing around his office, fast enough to make Stone dizzy, mumbling and raking his fingers through his hair until they turned a frizzy mess.
“He probably just wants to make sure we are not all pissy caff addicts with stomach ulcers,” said Stone: “pick out someone nicer to talk with.”
He meant it as a joke, but Fox almost tripped over his feet, looking at him with desperate eyes. Stone raised his hands in defeat: “Don’t worry, I could never replace you.”
“No, you couldn’t, you…” Fox took a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s up with me.” He sat down, hands clasped on his knees white knuckled. “Maybe I’ve really overdoing it with caff, I’m getting a migraine.” He looked at Stone and smiled: “Do you think you can bring some water?” He nodded.
It took him a little time to find a clean cup in the kitchenette, most of them stacked in the sink and crusted with dried caff. Finally, he located one in the back off the cupboard, a little dusty, but mostly clean. He turned on the water, letting it run for a second.
In the next room, something whooshed and then clicked closed.
“Fox?”
When he looked out, the room was empty.
“Fox!”
He ran to the door, punching in the code. The lockpad beeped, but the door stayed stubbornly closed. He entered it again just to be sure he’s not making a mistake. Nothing. He found Fox’s name on his comlink. It rang for minutes without any one picking up before the link dropped the call. Second call went the same way, and when he tried for the third time, Fox hung up on him. After that, the comlink just gave him an unavailable tone.
He banged on the door until his hands were bruised.
He called Thorn.
It took him an hour to get to the office, hunting down their slicer, and getting the door open. By that time, Fox was already back. His hand was broken, bruises on his fingers painfully similar to the sole of the Senate Guard boots, but he stayed silent no matter how much they tried to shake it out of him.
4)
Thorn wasn’t naive. He knew bantashit when he saw it, and what Fox did was the purest banthashit he’d ever seen.
“So there’s suddenly this emergency on the other side of the city”
Fox nodded.
“Which, for some reason only I can fix…”
Fox nodded again.
“And exactly at the moment the chancellor called me into his office.”
“What are the odds,” deadpanned Fox. Thorn wasn’t sure if Fox was too tired to lie properly, or if he just couldn’t be bothered. No matter what, he was done listening.
“You don’t want me to go to Palpatine. Why?”
Fox smirked, or at least tried to. The result was wobbly and strained.
“You know me. I don’t want you to steal my spotlight.”
He could feel a headache starting to build behind his eyes. “Fox…”
“Please, just…” Fox sighed. “Do you remember what I told you the first day you came here?”
“That I’m going to be safe.”
“Then please, let me keep that promise.”