Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Fox."

"Hrm."

"Fox."

"Hrmg."

"Fox. Youre crushing me."

"'m not doin' a g'd job if y' can still talk."

Rex huffed, hands slapping Fox on the back, but Fox didn't fear no man or ARC or Captain of the 501st. Instead he shifted, and now Rex's chin was digging into his sternum.

"Fox I can't breathe around your big fucking tits."

"Ugh."

Rex was too wiggly for Fox to get any sort of decent sleep. So he rolled them both over since Rex was a big baby and couldn't handle Fox's brotherly smothering.

"Baby," he muttered, feeling Rex turn his head at a weird angle and sucked in a deep breath in the gap between his pectorals.

"I'm older than you," Rex grunted, but plopped his cheek back down onto Fox's "big fucking tits".

"Whatever you say. Baby."

The pinch to the fleshy meat of his flanks nearly had Rex make an immediate one way trajectory straight to the floor. Nearly.

Piett sighed as he sat down in the cheap, uncomfortable chairs, his feet welcoming the relief regardless of how his back will complain later. Undercover missions were rare for anyone in the Navy, let alone some nondescript Lieutenant like himself. They far better suited the Army, or better yet Intelligence, whose very job description was to spy and weed out information. 

He didn’t rightly know how became his problem, but he would do as he was ordered. It wasn’t that he’s never ran incognito before- far from it- but it was the principle of the matter. 

Clearly someone high in the ranks liked to throw him into strange and bizarre situations just to see what he’d do as if he were some exotic exhibit at the zoo. But he wouldn’t disappoint- he’ll do his job to perfection, gain the information required, and go back to his day job with only his feet and spine being the casualties of his endeavors. Or so he hoped. 

He misses his uniform boots, the ones he’d managed to sneak liners into so he could withstand the hours on his feet. But they were far too noticable, and while the basic essamble he toggled together made him look like any other bland and forgettable traveller, the boots were slightly too small for his already small feet and had no padding to speak of. It made him miss the itchy starched collars and the endless polishing of his synthleather boots to a perfect sheen. 

No one in the spaceport cared as he absently rubbed at his knees, hoping to dispell some of the ache that was radiating up from his feet. It was on the fridges where Mid Rim met Outer Rim, and so the public transports were filled with the poorer folk and sketchier businessmen, farmers and small-time bounty hunters. People talking loudly into comms, bumping into each other, children trying to escape their parents or crying at the stimulation overload. It was chaos that didn’t exist on board Star Destroyers, and after years of living of the standard uniform life of the military, it was starting to get to him too, embarrassingly enough. Even clashes with the enemy weren’t this messy and disjointed. Hell, Axxila wasn’t this bad, for all its rough edges and colorful occupants. 

A body dropped into the seat beside him, a great big sigh escaping the fellow in the same manner that Piett had done just minutes earlier. A warrior type, considering the armored plates along his thighs and his boots. Piett gave him a cursory glance- a man with dark hair and grey at his temples, a marring of scars crawling across his face and a permanent crease at the edges of his mouth from how often he frowned. Bounty hunter or mercenary of some sort, no doubt. 

“Can you believe this? Two hundred credits for a sandwich.” The crinking of parchment paper drew Piett’s eyes to the man’s lap, where the saddest looking sandwich with wilted lettuce was unveiled. It let off a stench that made him involuntarily wrinkle his nose, frowning at the plausible edible item as well.

“I think the meat is past its expiration date,” Piett couldn’t help but comment with a murmur, the mercenary snorting. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” And yet he picked it up and took a bite out of it anyway, pieces of wilted lettuce making a bid for freedom into his lap. “Tastes like shit.”

“It’s spaceport food- expensive yet underwhelming.” It was why Piett didn’t bother buying anything- he would live until he got to his destination. “How else could they rob us blind legally?” 

“Taxes,” the mercenary stated gravely as he picked the thinnest piece of onion off his knee. “Its what the governments do. I don’t even have a legal residence or citizenship on any planet and I still get them pulling credits out of my asshole one way or another.” 

Piett snorted, leaning back in his uncomfortable seat. They fell into a natural lull as his temporary companion polished off the rest of his poorly sandwich. All around them the crowd swelled and waned as people scurried off to their destinations, absorbed in their own tasks and problems, leaving the two men alone in an invisible bubble between them and the chaos of the rest of the spaceport.

It was oddly peaceful.

An announcement rang over the intercoms, causing the mercenary to grunt and crumple up the parchment paper littered with the remains of his sandwich. 

“Well, that’s me.” 

“Oh.” Wasn’t it weird, for Piett to feel a little bit of loss from that simple sentence? Did he miss companionship that much that he would latch onto the first person who held a non-work-related conversation with him in… too long? “I wish you safe travels, then.”

“You too. Wait, here-”

Suddenly a colorful bag was tossed into his face. Piett spluttered, catching the thing in his hands before it could drop into his lap. It was… a bag of crisps?

“Eat that before you keel over,” the mercenary stated bluntly with a gleam in his eye. “Count your lucky stars Hacksaw isn’t here. You’re just the type he’d try to smuggle back to take care of.” 

And without waiting for a response from the flabberghasted Piett, the mercenary disappeared into the throngs, quickly being swallowed from sight.

"So, what's with the paint?"

Bacara, at least, had the decency to turn one dark eye towards Thire as he spoke. Neyo didn't even bother turning around, focused solely on dismantling his blaster at the workstation with practiced hands.

"...You know..." Thire gestured vaguely to their armor with a flap of his hand. "Why does everyone in the GAR have to wear similar colors?"

"...They're not." Neyo was the one who answered- so he was listening!- although his curt tone held an air of "your're an idiot" to it.

Thire squinted at his back, wondering if he was falling into some sort of inside joke.

"No, I'm pretty sure most of them are almost the exact same color. In fact, you two are just a few shades apart."

Thire flicked his gaze over to Bacara, who was watching them both with the same silent intensity of a bursa right before it charged. Neyo had also stopped working and was staring Thire down with a thinned mouth.

"What colors am I wearing, Thire?"

"Uh.... Red?"

"And his?" Neyo jerked his chin towards Bacara.

"A... slightly different red?"

"...What color does Cody wear?"

"What kind of question is that?" Thire scoffed. "It's definitely pink!"

Neyo and Bacara shared a look that was not at all suspicious.

"How the hell did you make it off Kamino?" Neyo wondered aloud, which, true, but rude.

"Hey!"

"You're colorblind," Bacara's gruff voice cut through whatever further argument they were gearing up for.

Thire blinked. Then blinked again.

"Oh."

A pause.

"...So... Commander Cody doesn't wear pink?"

Neyo sighed loudly.

"No."

Kitsune awoke with a start as something tickled against his arms.

"Sorry kid," the familiar rumble sounded from somewhere above him as he tried to blink the shadowy dredges of sleep from his eyes. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

"F'x?" he slurred, trying and failing to lift his hands to rub at his face. Big, warm palms stopped him before he could struggle with whatever was weighing him down, thumbs soothing over his skin and coaxing him to settle back down. He could feel his hands trembling under the gentle hold, rattling through his bones and up his arms, but the pain was muffled, muted under the medications the Jedi Healers gave him.

"Heard it's a bad day."

"Hmn."

It had been an okay day to start. He woke up, dressed himself, and stepped out of the private quarters the Jedi had happily given him within their own Temple just to keep him close at hand. It was a good thing they did, because by the time he finished his morning walk around the gardens, his fingers were starting to ache. By breakfast, the needling pain was shooting up his arms and down his spine with every beat of his heart, and the trembling had gotten so bad that he tried to press his hands between his knees, only for the pain to turn into agony.

He didn't really remember the trip to the medical wing, or back to his room, where he'd been tucked into bed. The medication made him lethargic and everything else foggy, and he could already feel himself slipping back into the numbing grey.

A heavy weight settled down beside him on his bed, a warm hand taking his own.

"Don't worry, kid, I'll keep watch. Go back to sleep."

And Kitsune let himself drop off once more, knowing with certainty that Fox would keep him safe.

"Are you sure we cannot host a little tournament?"

Nox knew they were, perhaps, being a little dense on this topic of inquiry, but they were honest in their confusion. It has been many, many years since they last stepped foot into any sort of leadership role, and the galaxy had gone so far and yet nowhere at all since they'd holed themself away in their temple, content in their weaving, their collections, and The Darkness.

The teenager at their elbow suppressed a sigh, but his scent was an exasperated tinge on their tongue- the corners of their mouth curled ever so slightly in amusement.

"No, Senator Nox. Fighting rings and gladiatorial combat had been barred from Republic Space since before the Ruusaan Reformation."

"A pity." Nox let a molten golden eye roam across the Senatorial Dome, watching as another politician too high on their horse and looking down at the peasants below to see the branch about to knock them over continue to waffle on in their feeble attempts to solicit scraps into their pockets. "I would love to see some of our esteemed colleagues dabble in a touch of bloodsports."

"A pity indeed," Senatorial Aide Firmus Piett of Axxila intoned dutifully, if not a little dry.

Ah, to be a spirited teen. The only spot of joy in this dreaded occasion. Now, if only they could convince him to break some of these pointless laws and live a little...

Piett put his head down on the desk with a muffled thump and let out a sigh so deep it came from the very tips of his toes and all the way up to his throat.

"Er." The poor clone trooper in front of him didn't know how to react, shifting from foot to foot at the unusual response from the teenage natborn. "Are you... alright, sir?"

"Just peachy," Piett muttered to his desktop. "Just... add it to the pile over there." Blindly he pointed to the direction he knew by heart, not once lifiting his head from his desk. He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to acknowledge it. That would make it real and therefore his problem.

"Are those... all complaints?" The trooper sounded incredulous, and a touch impressed- Piett would agree to that assessment, if it weren't his job to deal with it.

"Only the yellow ones. The red ones are fines, the blue ones are bribe attempts, and the green ones are business meetings that half will undoubtedly be reclassed to blue."

"...What's orange?"

"Corsec's friendly reminders of the all the laws Senator Nox keeps breaking and to not do again."

"Huh. I didn't expect Senator Nox to be that much trouble."

Piett's resounding snort was ugly, but he didn't care.

"Senator Nox's very existence is trouble. And they quite like it that way, much to my misfortune."

The trooper was quiet, the sound of the datacards being added to the towering stack nearby. They then cleared their throat, hesitating briefly if they wished to continue at all before deciding that the Senator's Aide wasn't going to get them in trouble for asking questions after already answering several of them.

"Would you like a filing script for your terminal? Commander Fox has one that's works really well in auto-sorting."

Piett finally lifted his head from his desk to blink at the trooper.

"That... that would be lovely. Thank you."

Threads knew they were too young to be off Kamino.

Barely seven, wasn't even at appropriate height, their armor didn't fit and their face still round. But medics were in short supply, and Threads was the highest ranking in aptitudes and hands-on skill testing, and so they'd been shipped off to Coruscant before they were even ready to.

They were lucky they had support of their fellow Guards. The Commanders were always checking in on them, the ARFs sneaking them takeout they brought back from street patrols. The few troopers handy with the needle darned spare blacks so the sleeves wouldn't fall over their hands, and Commander Fox himself had taken their armor and refitted the straps so it would fit better.

But the most help came from the shadow monster that lived under their bunk.

It was common in children, to imagine monsters and creatures. Threads wasn't a child, though, but that didn't make the shadow monster all the less imaginary. Its shadowy fur would sway like the seaweed that grew on the lower levels of Kamino's buildings, the ones below the ocean's surface, drifting in the current. Its many hands would reach out out of hiding to tuck away discarded socks back into laundry bins and straighten up haphazard boots. Its dozens of amber eyes would blink at them from below their mattress, a deep purr rumbling their whole bunk as they tried to sleep.

Apparently it'd always been there, or so the older clones claimed. They'd figured it had been living in the building prior to their occupation, so it made little sense to kick it out of its home when they were the ones invading.

Threads had been scared of it, at first. It'd taken a liken to them, apparently, its purrs trying to soothe them as they laid awake, exhausted but unable to sleep with the dozens of things they were trying and failing to accomplish.

But its many hands were surprisingly useful, as they found out, and the shadow monster was happy to assist. It at first held things for them- bandages, scalpels, sometimes a whole trooper if needed. It seemed to pick up a lot just watching Threads- or maybe it'd gone and watch around the hospitals- because one day it'd helped in suturing up a wound, and then it was helping set broken bones. Apply bacta. Clean wounds. It even help them performed surgery.

Threads had slipped into the darkness under they bunk and slept bundled in soft downy fluff they could only feel after that first surgery.

The thought of being the Coruscant Guard's only medic was no longer such a daunting thought- not when they had a shadow monster for an assistant.

The rain came down in a blinding sheet of grey, turning the street lamps into blotches of gold against the murky night.

It reminded him of home- his brothers- oh Force why- Kamino with its near eternal storms. But here on Denon, the rain was warm, humidity sticking to his skin and clothes to his wounds don't think about it, focus on breathing-

His boots were silenced under the patter of rain on the cobblestone streets, the ancient architect merged and blended with the comforts of modern society. Rivers raced through the valleys and water splashed under every footfall as he picked his way across the abandoned streets. His scarf, now turned into a makeshift hood, was soaked through and clung to his hair, but it would be enough to hide himself away from anyone daring to risk the storm.

Hide from them- no don't think about it! Focus!

Every shaky breath pulled his skin taut across his ribs, the pain lancing across every nerve as his feet carried him to a place he's only been to once before, early on in the war. He'd patched himself the best he could, but he didn't have the time to linger, not with... not when...

The light of the doorstep was a beacon as he stumbled up the steps, thumb jamming into the bell once, twice, thrice, before he found himself slumping against the doorframe, gasping for breath and limbs shaking.

"Excalibur?" the man on the other side stated, bewildered as the door opened, bathrobe hanging loosely over his shoulders. "What-?"

"Sir," he managed to push the words out past numb lips, a shadow behind the man's shoulder taking shape into his wife. "I don't- I haven't- I didn't know where else to go-"

He slipped off the doorframe, but strong arms caught him, hooking under his arms.

"Bring him in, dear," Cassandra Montón du Veers told her husband, already sweeping away to gather supplies. There was no questions, no argument, just a simple order.

And Excalibur had no further strength than slump into William Veers' arms and weep.

"How did he lose his voice?"

"Hm?" Ser Veers glanced up from his whittling to peer at his squire, who was squinting further afield at the shadowy form keeping watch outside the campfire's flickering light. "Hacksaw?"

"Jaqi says he's been cursed," Mycalith added, his voice dropping to a mumble as his confidence withered under Veer's gaze. "But that's Witch business, isn't it? Sorcery and all that?"

"You shouldn't listen to Jaqi- or Jaqa for that matter." The knife dug into the wood, carefully carving out another section of bark to further refine the rough outlines of a cockrel.

He could see Mycalith bite his bottom lip out of the corner of his eye, his small hands coming to wring themselves before him. Veers knew to wait him out patiently, letting him come to his own terms rather than push him for answers. His squire required a softer touch than most, his confidence a constant waver, but the Lord Commander was always a sucker to picking up strays- or so that ship-loving fool of a friend of his claimed.

(Veers would deny it with his dying breath).

"He doesn't sleep much. Always waiting and watching, like he's on a hunt." Mycalith found his voice once more, quivering at the edges in his hushed words. "He's full of scars not made by mere man or beast, wounds he should not have lived. He doesn't... he doesn't seem right. It isn't just the Altoros, I- the other knights have said things too. About him. Being a-"

"Mycalith."

Veers sighed setting down his project in order to turn to face his squire directly. His hands clasped his shoulders, grounding and steadying the boy before he could tremble himself into panic.

"Hacksaw is a good man," he told him gently but firmly, voice low in his throat. "And he will never hurt you. The men think less of him for being from Kamino's black waters and his secretive nature, but I've no reason to doubt him. Now, go get some sleep, kid. We have an early start tomorrow."

Mycalith's wobbly smile and stammered goodnight was expected, marginally relieved at the very least of Veers' steadfastness. But the knight's gaze soon drifted elsewhere as eyes prickled on the back of his neck.

Hacksaw's amber eyes stared directly at him from across the camp, oddly bright as the firelight danced off them.

Strange, for sure. Quiet and reserved as all good warriors tend to be. But Veers couldn't see the monster everyone was trying to pin on the silent tracker helping them cross this wretched forest. If he wanted them dead, he could've easily done so time and time again. But he hasn't, and they've traveled this dangerous woods without nary a casualty all thanks to his careful guidance.

Veers picked up his whittling once more, blowing a breath through his nose. He was going to have to talk to his men before they departed come morning. Telling fairy tales to the younger ones would only spook them- or exasperate the issue as in the Altoro's case. Hacksaw, a monster? Ridiculous.

Besides, Lycanthropy has been extinct for centuries.

"Would you like some wine, Madame?"

Etch didn't know whether to melt into the floor or strangle Thire as he appeared, fake mustache taped to his face and all. Where did he get a waistcoat, he didn't want to know, not with the Commander throwing a ridiculous hoity-toity accent on top of... everything else.

Etch had known something was amiss when the other Corries ganged up on him, saying he was needed someplace very important and couldn't wait. That place turned out to be Dex's, which had been decked out in drapes salvaged from the Senatorial Suites' dumpsters and karking candles for mood lighting.

Miss Haero, the blessing as she was despite having been lured in as well through his brothers' treachery, was taking it all in stride, a gentle smile forever present on her face.

"Of course, good sir."

Etch's glower could've incinerated Thire. Thire didn't even bat an eye, graciously pouring the Togruta a glass before sauntering off. Was Dex wearing a bowtie over top of his usual greasy garb? Even FLO had flowers woven into a crown on her head.

Several members of the Guard were also present, in terrible getups and pretending to be waitstaff.

"This is fucking hell," Etch grumbled, closing his eyes against the throb along the back of his neck and up along his knee.

Miss Haero's hand was warm against his as she rested her palm against his hand. A small light in this wretched hellscape he'd found himself in.

(He was going to murder those lousy bastards in their sleep later).

Thorn looked at Hacksaw.

Hacksaw gazed back, blood splattered across his armor.

"...Right." Thorn began then trailed off, clearing his throat a little as he looked down at the mess on the floor. Of what used to be the Chancellor of the Republic. Their boss.

In all honesty, Thorn wasn't entirely certain how all this came about. He'd come up here with Hacksaw with a mind to very politely argue with the Chancellor that the Coruscant Guard were being driven into the ground and the workload wasn't sustainable. They were doing jobs none of them were trained for and were- quite frankly- not something a military unit should be doing anyway. And the stress and overwork was detrimental to their morale and their physical and mental wellbeing, which would decrease their productivity and accuracy in things that were actually important, like finding spies and war criminals and assassins and actual Separatist plots. He'd even brought Hacksaw long because as a medic he had all the hard facts- and if that didn't work he could stare the Chancellor down until he caved.

Win-win, right?

The meeting started out normally, but somewhere along the way it went sideways and the next thing he knew Hacksaw's posture was suddenly alarmed and defensive and that kicked Thorn into instinctive reaction mode because nothing made Hacksaw alarmed.

And so without thinking at all, Thorn took out the source of the danger that made even the giant, stoic medic wary.

Which means now Thorn and Hacksaw were here, blaster still warm in Thorn's hand as they stood over the Chancellor's body, the point-blank shot having gotten them both covered in gore from the intensity of the impact.

"...Can we add this to our facts list?" Thorn suggested weakly in jest, causing Hacksaw to sigh.

They'll... they'll figure something out.

The waves sounded different here than what he was used to back on Kamino, rolling in along the coast and washing up onto the warm sands instead of crashing hard against the shields and sides of the floating facilities.

The sun was hotter here too- there was no weather regulation here unlike Coruscant. They had all found out the hard way of proper safety protocols and that exposure crept up on them under the cooling affect of the water- Thire had his whole back peeling for almost a week after their medics slapped bacta-infused cream onto the scorched skin. Which was why Fox was lounging under a very colorful umbrella, sipping his drink as he let the others prance around the beach, collecting shells or fishing up on the nearby pier.

Fox had been very patient since the war ended, waiting for the very moment the Senate voted in favor of giving the clones sentient rights. And then he slapped the entirety of the Republic with a lawsuit for damages, for undue harm, for the emotional stress, the list went on. At the same time he also served a suit against the Separatists for their maltreatment of the civilians under their care, the immoral crimes against his brothers, yada yada yada-

His team of small-time, Lower Level lawyers he'd recruited actually cried at the amount he wrote off to them once the governments decided to settle out of court. It wasn't like he was going to use all of it in his lifetime anyway. Hells, even all the Corries put together wouldn't be able to put a dent in it.

Especially since one tiny Separatist sector off in the middle of nowhere who hadn't even done anything at all during the war felt sorry enough to give them a whole planet. Apparently those were things you could just, give away now. Not that Fox was complaining- their new home was amazing.

His comm on the arm of his loungechair blinked once, twice, then immediately went to voicemail. Just like all the other messages. Eventually the rest of the GAR will figure out the Coruscant Guard were retired and didn't give one lick what they did with the rest of the galaxy. They could have a coup and take over the Republic for all he cared. Go marry their Jedi. Whatever.

Fox had sun, beach, his men, and margaritas.

There was nothing else he wanted.