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“Will you stop wriggling?” Fox huffs, longsuffering, as Thorn shuffles himself around for the third time in as many minutes. Fox knows this as a fact because he has counted each and every one of them.
They're in his office on a rare, shared downtime, in which Fox is forcing himself to concentrate on requisition forms for the 91st and Thorn is doing his best to distract him, having asked for his company on the couch when he’d first appeared from the medbay, and having been staunchly refused. Fox is really too busy to be laying around, and trying to work when Thorn is lounging on top of him is nigh impossible.
The constant shuffling is not entirely on purpose, probably. Thorn had taken a bad fall on the lower levels during a tussle with a Chagrian the day prior, giving himself a concussion and a nasty set of bruises across his shoulders and ribs, mottling black and purple over his skin. Nothing broken, which Fox is eternally grateful for; just a few ribs cracked, but Oryx has put him off heavy duty for a few days anyway.
Which is why he's here instead of out patrolling, sprawled with some difficulty across the office couch, shirtless for reasons Fox is certain have to do with manipulation, and showing his bruises in all their glory.
“I'm not wriggling,” Thorn says indignantly, as he wriggles over onto his back again. The couch creaks with the motion, and Thorn winces as he settles down, picking up his own datapad to keep on with whatever it is he’s doing, assuming he’s doing anything at all. He’s not supposed to even have his ‘pad, on medic’s orders, but Thorn is nothing but stubborn and Fox is nothing but tired, and he’s not going to be the one to snitch. He’d never hear the end of it.
Fox rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his own ‘pad. “You're wriggling,” he tells him, and then, kinder and for the second time since Thorn appeared, “You can go back to the bunks, if you like. You don’t have to wait for me. And Oryx might give you a bit of bacta if you pout hard enough at him.”
“I’m not wasting bacta on this, and I don’t pout,” Thorn pouts, and yeah, that’s fair enough. Fox would do the same, if it were him. The bacta supply is running too low to use it on things that will heal by themselves, even if it would give Fox some peace of mind. The bruises are truly awful, and Fox both can’t bear to look at them and can’t tear his eyes away.
Thorn had beaten the Chagrian, though. It had been very impressive.
Fox is trying very hard not to think about it. He signs off on more boots for the 91st instead, and hopes they’re grateful for them.
“And besides, me go to bed and leave you here all night alone?” Thorn continues with a snort. “Not a chance. You’d only do something stupid and decide not to sleep again. And I've got to get this report done, so I might as well get it done now.”
“The report can wait,” Fox tells him, ignoring the insult, because Thorn isn’t exactly wrong and trying to argue will be like trying to persuade a wall to move. He doesn't know exactly which report Thorn means, but it’s probably true that it can be left for the morning. All the work requiring immediate attention is done; he’s just trying to get ahead of the work that tomorrow’s shitshow of a Senate vote will undoubtedly generate for them.
“So can the requisitions,” Thorn says, without looking up, because he can also see the inbox and thus also knows what’s left in it. It’s very inconvenient. “So really, we’d be much better calling it a night. We could be in bed, all comfy and warm –”
“If you’re cold, you can put your blacks back on,” Fox suggests, and earns a quick wink and an eyebrow waggle for his trouble.
“And deprive you the view?”
Fox tosses a pen at him, which Thorn doesn’t even attempt to dodge, and doesn’t give Thorn the pleasure of a reply. It’d only be embarrassing, and Fox has very little dignity left as it is.
There’s silence for full two minutes this time before Thorn moves again, shuffling over onto his side, where he would be giving Fox a full view of his pecs if Fox weren’t staring dead ahead at his ‘pad.
He’s read the same sentence three times without taking in any of the information, which isn't great. He thinks it’s to do with gym equipment, which fortunately isn't important.
Thorn wriggles again. The couch creaks even louder, as though it’s in cahoots with its occupant.
He turns to Thorn, who’s deliberately not looking at him, and narrows his eyes. “You're manipulating me,” he states flatly.
“I would never.” Thorn looks up, faking hurt, and bats his eyelashes. It looks ridiculous. “At least come and sit over here, it's making my back hurt to look at you.”
“I think that's probably the fractured ribs talking,” Fox replies, and Thorn throws his head back and laughs, full bodied and warm, and well. The idea of joining him was a tempting one before, and it’s getting harder to resist by the second.
The laugh is cut off by a cough and an “Ow, fuck,” as Thorn’s hand comes to clutch at his chest, muscles spasming around his damaged ribcage. Fox knows the feeling well, and would sympathise if Thorn weren’t provoking it on purpose.
The problem is that it’s working, and Fox can feel his resolve crumbling, which will not do at all.
“Idiot,” Fox tells him, and earns himself another falsely hurt look.
“It'd be far more comfortable to be propped up,” Thorn says, once he's got his breath back, casual as anything. He's still looking at Fox, dark eyes warm and crinkled with amusement as he gives up on the pretence of work. Fox can count that as some kind of victory, at least.
“Get a pillow, then,” Fox tells him, because he won't give in so easily. If he lets Thorn get away with it once, he’ll never hear the end of it, and even worse, he’ll have set a precedent. Thorn gets away with more than he should as it is. He cannot be encouraged, even though Fox kind of wants to, just to see what he’d do.
Thorn sighs heavily, and promptly coughs again. It's really rather pathetic, but the sound pulls at Fox's chest anyway - he doesn't like Thorn being hurt, even superficially. He doesn’t like anyone in the Guard being hurt, of course, but Thorn has lived up to his name and burrowed himself deep under Fox's skin, ever present in a way that’s both irritating and a comfort, because Thorn knows him so well that he can annoy him like no other and yet makes Fox feel safe and warm and all kinds of other un-Fox-like emotions. Fox likes him. Very much, in fact. It’s almost embarrassing.
It helps that Thorn likes him back, though. Especially since he does know him so well. It’s still a shock, sometimes, a fact that had made Thorn look achingly sad about when Fox had told him.
He decides that now is not the time for weird emotions, and it’s something he's not going to think about any further until he’s behind a locked door and maybe drunk on liquor or sex.
So he pushes it down, picks up his canteen of water and tosses it at the couch; it lands neatly on Thorns lap, making him squawk.
Thorn glares half-heartedly instead of being grateful, but has a drink all the same. He doesn't return the canteen, which Fox should really have expected.
Fox makes a grabby hand for it. Thorn ignores him deliberately and puts his new hostage down the side of the couch cushion.
“Thorn,” Fox says, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of his voice. If it was anyone else, he'd be at least a little bit annoyed.
Unfortunately, Thorn knows this.
“Fox,” Thorn replies, in the exact same tone and with a vague attempt to keep a straight face, which is about as successful as Stone’s attempt for a moustache. Fox is going to sit on him.
Fox closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten. Thorn coughs sadly.
“You have not won,” Fox says, even as he stands up, legs clattering against the desk where he’s still wearing his cuisse and greaves. “I’m not doing this for you.”
“And yet,” Thorn grins, victorious, and stretches his arms above his head with a wince that he doesn’t manage to hide. “Take your lowers off, I don’t want even more bruises.”
“Bossy,” Fox tells him, even as he does get to work in stripping off his armour, neatly depositing it on his rack by the door. Thorn watches every move with hooded eyes, the bastard, and Fox can feel himself flushing at it.
Thorn heaves himself up to sitting with a muffled gasp, breathing sharp through his nose at the pain that comes with the motion. Fox folds his arms and comes to stand in front of him, sticks his datapad within easy reach, and tries not to hover.
He might have a few painkillers left over from his own previous wounds, but he knows from experience that Thorn will not accept them. It’s like he enjoys suffering, really.
“All good,” Thorn says, once he’s breathing normally again, and leans back to smile up at Fox. “Want to join me?”
“If you don’t tell me where you want me in the next ten seconds, I’m going back to the desk,” Fox threatens.
Thorn tilts his head, considering, then motions to the end of the couch. “If you sit, I’ll lean back on you? I wasn’t joking about being propped up.”
“You just want me for my body,” Fox grumbles, even as he does as he’s told, tucking his legs along the couch behind where Thorn is sitting and leaning back against the meagre pile of cushions so that he’s almost fully reclined. Thorn barks out a laugh and joy leaps in Fox’s chest in success, because he likes being the source of the noise. It’s truly pathetic. If Alpha-17 could see him now.
“Always,” Thorn replies, and wriggles himself yet again as Fox settles, before moving gingerly to drape himself across Fox’s legs, pillowing his face in the middle of Fox’s sternum and tucking his forearms under the small of Fox’s back. He’ll complain that his arms are numb, later, and it’ll probably make Fox’s back ache from the pressure, but for now it’s warm. Safe, even, despite the fact that Fox is now entirely immobile, pinned from the chest down by Thorn’s bulk.
He lets his arms drop down across Thorn’s shoulders, careful of the bruising and the boggy lines of swelling that are far more visible up close, and earns himself a huff for his trouble.
“I’m not made of paper,” Thorn complains, slightly muffled where his cheek is squashed onto Fox’s left pec.
Fox rolls his eyes. “You were complaining about your blacks hurting, earlier.”
“It was very convenient,” Thorn says. He’s radiating smugness. “You’re easy.”
“I am not,” Fox argues, because he isn't, overall – he tends to be extremely difficult, in fact, and they both know it. “You're just very distracting.”
Thorn picks his head up off Fox’s chest and grins at him. He doesn’t flinch at the careful pinch Fox gives his flank. “It's a gift.”
“And what a gift it is. Aren’t I lucky,” Fox sighs, aiming for sarcastic but missing entirely, resulting in something that's really far too honest for his own liking. He is lucky.
Not to be on Coruscant, of course, because it’s honestly rather a shithole, but Thorn is here, and he really kind of loves him, bruises and drama and wriggling and all.
He presses a kiss to Thorn’s hair, because he can’t quite bend his neck far enough to reach his mouth. There’s time for that later, maybe, when Thorn can move without wincing.
Thorn’s grin softens to something warm and fond, and Fox pinches him again in an effort to distract him from the blush he can feel creeping up his neck. He’ll blame it on the tiredness that’s now settling its way in, and not on the way Thorn looks at him, the feel of Thorn’s body pressing down against him, grounding and heavy and good. He knows Thorn knows, anyway, and that’s all that matters.
“Yeah,” Thorn says quietly, and drops his head back down, presses his nose into the meat of Fox’s pec. “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”
Fox strokes up his side gently, heart full in his chest, and says, “Good.”
There’s a moment of silence, broken only by Fox reaching for his datapad and carefully setting it down to rest on the small of Thorn’s back. He makes for a very convenient table, and Fox enjoys the thin pretence that he might get something useful done.
“Don’t work all night, please,” Thorn murmurs, limbs lax and eyes closed. He groans when Fox reaches to drag a hand under his hair, slowly working out the tie to let it puff around his shoulders. It’s softer than Fox’s own, the curls looser and finer and prone to tangling, but Fox is well practiced in teasing out the knots, and it’s a surefire way to get Thorn to sleep.
“I won’t work all night,” Fox agrees, scratching idly at Thorn’s scalp and enjoying the pleased hum he makes. He’s too tired for that, and Thorn was right. There’s nothing important left to do, and he’s got a long day tomorrow besides. He can finish this one form, and then call it a night.
He doesn’t manage to get that far, because he’s asleep within minutes.
-
(When Stone comes in, three hours later and far too busy for any bullshit, they’re both still asleep. Stone sighs the sigh of a man long suffering, gives up on his wish of collapsing on the couch for a while, and rescues Fox’s datapad from its precarious position on Thorn’s arse. The open requisition form is full of lines of h’s instead of anything remotely useful. He snaps a holo because he can, immediately forwards it to Thire and Thorn and sets it as Fox’s background, then leaves them to it. There’s another couch in the officer’s lounge, he’s sure.)