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Fox has the capacity for one monumental disaster each day, give or take an explosion. As long as he gets two hours of sleep and three times that many cups of caf, he’s able to guide his team through crises with a clear head (read: screaming internally until he falls asleep).
It’s not often that two monumental disasters happen in one day, but Fox has never been ignorant about how much the galaxy hates him, so when Hound literally skates into his office, boots slipping and sliding on a sheet of ice covering the floor, Fox listens and accepts what he can’t control.
“Fox! Fox,” Hound laughs as one of his feet tries slipping out from under him. He grabs onto the rickety doorframe with one hand, and Grizzer’s back spikes with the other, nearly flattening the massiff where she struggles to keep her balance.
“The central plumbing burst overnight,” Hound laughs again, gleeful and giddy as he slides his feet back and forth over the ice, “And the weather’s set to freezing today, so all of the water that flooded the floor froze. It’s ice, Fox! The whole building is one giant ice rink!”
Fox blinks blearily at Hound, wondering if his vod’ika can tell that he was just dozing beneath his bucket in his chair. Fox’s brothers have scolded him for sleeping in his office before, but when the stacks of datapads he needs to get through literally block his doorway, he doesn’t have much choice. Now they’re toppled and scattered over the ice on the floor, most likely ruined and costly in terms of repairs.
“Grizzer got her tongue stuck to the floor,” Hound continues rambling, given that Fox hasn’t started shouting yet, “And Thorn fell right onto his face- busted his nose pretty bad. But it was funny watching Gauze try to skate over to him and stop the bleeding. Thorn’s fine now, we’re all getting the hang of skating.”
Grizzer disproves Hound’s point spectacularly as one of her claws slides out from beneath her and sends her sprawling, belly on the ice as she drifts listlessly over the threshold of Fox’s office. She stares up at him with pitiful eyes, begging to be saved from this slippery new terrain, and Hound’s inappropriately-timed laughter returns as he bends over to haul her up by the stomach.
“Come on, Grizzy-girl, up y’go, it’s not that- hard!”
The credibility of Hound’s statement flies out Fox’s non-existent window as he plummets to the ice himself, unable to keep himself upright while hauling Grizzer’s weight. He lands like a baby eopie, a pile of limbs and awkward angles. But he’s still laughing, damn him, as he hauls himself up onto his hands and knees on the ice.
“Okay. Okay, I’m gonna use your couch to get up, and then I’ll help Grizzer, and then you, Commander,” Hound stares far too mischievously at Fox for someone who’s still on the ground, “Are going to join the rest of us out in the hallways for some ice-skating.”
Fox takes immense pride in making his voice as dry as possible when he drawls, “I think I’m okay right here, Sergeant.”
“No,” Hound grunts, hauling himself up on the edge of Fox’s worn-out, ratty couch, “I think you’re going to run out of oxygen if you’re shut up in here for another day, and we’ve already picked teams for ice hockey scrimmages. You’re with me and Stone, the shinies rotate in and out.”
“Yeah? And which team is Grizzer on?” Fox watches faux-scathingly as Hound hauls the chubby massiff up by the belly, her claws slipping and sliding on the ice, leaving scratches behind.
“She’s our cheerleader, di’kut.” Hound scoffs, like Fox is the biggest moron in the GAR for not assuming the K9 was going to play a supporting role, “Although I’ll have to have a few shinies hold her down so she doesn’t come after our makeshift puck.”
“Which is?”
“Chancellor’s comm.” Hound grins, and it’s so wolfish that Fox remembers the true origins of his name, “One of the troopers came across it on the floor outside his office. He must have dropped it doing some old man thing like falling and not being able to get up.”
Fox neglects to point out the irony of Hound’s example, considering there’s still ice shavings on Hound’s kneepads.
Grizzer, previously discouraged by her new, inexplicable clumsiness, clamors excitedly towards Fox when he stands from his chair. Immediately he rocks backwards, hands thrust out to keep his balance, and he wonders if this ice is already beginning to melt from how slippery it is. Temperatures were scheduled to be extremely cold today, to give the population some safe weather variation, but this can’t be how ice skating was intended, can it? Natborns can’t really enjoy this, dragging their feet at a boomsnail’s pace to try and avoid falling on their shebs.
Fox has seen ice skating rinks before, he’s had to stand guard near them for at least a few weeks every year. He’s observed the skaters having their fun with glazed-over eyes from beneath his bucket. He’s seen couples holding hands, he’s seen toddlers fall on their butts, he’s seen adults fall on their butts, and he’s seen whiz-kids racing laps around the slowpokes, sending ice shards flying in their wake.
Unfortunately, he seems to be the type of skater to grasp onto the edge of the rink the entire time- however, due to his luck, there’s no wall to hold. Not one that’s conveniently waist-height, there’s only the shabby walls of his broom-closet-turned-office. He grasps firmly at the edge of his desk and braces for impact with Grizzer, who should be moving much faster for how much energy she’s exerting flailing around to reach him.
Fox has a soft spot for Grizzer that he won’t ever admit to, which is why he lets her barge into him with all of the grace of a shiny getting yelled at by a natborn for the first time. She’s whining (happily, Fox has come to learn- he’d previously assumed he just brought tragedy wherever he stepped), stuffing her nose in between his knees to presumably hide out from her icy demise, and her tail wags fast enough to melt the frozen floor beneath her when Fox carefully leans down to whack his palm against her back plating.
It’s when she tries scrabbling up the plastoid of his shin guards that he has to correct her, “Grizzer, no, I- I can’t carry you. I can barely keep myself upright.”
“Grizzer,” Hound croons, chuckling sympathetically as Fox nudges her off of him, “It’s okay! It’s just ice. It’s just ice, baby, come on.”
He squares his shoulders, bending over and play-lunging for her in the way that he knows will get her riled up to play. It works like a charm, and the pair clumsily slide across the floor and through the doorway, leaving Fox alone in his icy office.
“Come on, Commander!” Hound calls, and Fox can hear Grizzer growling, play-nipping at his heels, “Scrimmage starts in five!”
Excellent. That means Fox has five minutes to learn how to skate, or he’ll fall on his shebs in front of every one of the men in these buildings that’s supposed to respect him.
--
“He’s coming! He’s coming,” Hound promises, checking the structural integrity of their makeshift hockey sticks. They’re technically dummy lightsabers, wooden staffs left behind by the Younglings of the Jedi Temple after new ones were handcrafted by some of their older initiates. Jedi Master Vos had intended for them to be used as kindling by the Guard, knowing full well that the central heating system the Chancellor swore was hooked up in their facilities doesn’t exist in the slightest. But no one had the heart to burn them, not even as the weather dropped below freezing, so the troopers huddled for warmth instead, and the dummy sabers now offer an alternative to a hockey stick.
“Alright troopers,” Hound whacks his stick against the ice a few times, “These aren’t really the perfect shape for a hockey stick, but they’re all we’ve got.”
The Guard, scrappy and used to being resourceful, let out a resilient whoop.
“They’re more of a staff, but this will be a good exercise in hand-eye coordination.” He decides, “Which is something our dear Marshall Commander will appreciate as soon as he skates his way out here.”
Around Hound, the troopers will snicker at Fox, led on by his courage. Now Fox silences the laughter with the way he shoulders through the crowd, facing down Hound like they’re opponents and not on the same team.
“Sergeant,” Fox nods at Hound, feet steady on the ice despite his earlier struggles, “Let’s play some hockey.”
The rowdy troopers clap Fox on the shoulder for his confidence, rallied behind their famed Marshall Commander. Hound doesn’t let it faze him, though, his smirk once more dogged and determined.
“You found your balance, then, eh Commander?”
Fox, who has had plenty of practice staying steady on his feet despite his whole world crumbling around him, silently thanks the Chancellor for one thing: being forced to stand amidst a lightning strike has given him impeccable balance.
Fox glides towards Hound, one foot leading and the other supporting as troopers ooh and aah at his impressive coordination, “You, me, and Stone. Thire, Thorn, and Gauze?”
“Gauze is on the sidelines waiting for one of us to break our tailbone.” Hound explains, “Mouse is their third person.”
Fox recalls one of Hound’s K9 officers, polite towards him and good with his massiff. He's big and buff, a good goalie, and he's usually on senate duty for it.
“Alright. How many to a team?”
“6, including a goalie. Shinies,” Hound calls, and most of the hallway stands at attention, though a few troopers wobble on their feet, “Pick your teams. Three at a time will be put on the ice. The rest of you, try to keep Grizzer from chewing on the puck.”
The Chancellor’s comm is thrown unceremoniously down onto the ice, and Fox squares up with Thire where the two face off for it. Once six shinies are appointed to the ice and both teams are evenly balanced, Gauze whistles sharply, and the game is on.
Fox whacks the puck away from Thire instantly, but they both wobble where they try skating around each other. Both Hound and one of the shinies on the opposing team aim for the puck, but it’s Hound who wins out, and he skates clumsily towards their goal (read: tipped-over garbage can) that’s defended by tough, broad-shouldered Mouse.
Hound is no match for the senate guard. Mouse kicks the puck away from his goal with ease, and Thorn snags it where it nearly slides right back to Fox.
On the sidelines, benched shinies cheer for their idols, and Grizzer barks happily when Hound swats playfully at her with his stick in passing. She’s held firmly by two shinies who stop her from joining the game, but she’s very vocal in her support of whichever trooper gives her attention as they pass.
One of the shinies manages to score on Fox’s own, his goalie slipping instead of knocking the puck away. Scattered laughter greets him when he manages to peel himself off of the ice, but Fox skates over to haul him back to his feet.
“Don’t let it happen again.” Fox’s voice is thunderous, and then he drops the act with a chuckle as the trooper’s face lights with fear, “Ah, I’m kidding. Just try not to fall on your face again, shiny.”
“‘Think we’ve got a name for you now!” Someone on the sidelines shouts, “Faceplant!”
Faceplant groans, letting Fox push him back towards the trash can, “Great. I’m never living that down.”
“Knock his teeth out,” Fox shrugs, his own grin resembling Hound’s wolfish one now, “That’s what hockey’s all about.”
There is, in fact, one lost tooth by the end of their third scrimmage, and Gauze mutters under his breath the entire time he’s staunching the bleeding. Fox’s legs are starting to burn as he uses muscles he typically doesn’t to keep himself balanced, and he gladly takes the invitation that Grizzer offers him to come and sit on the sidelines when she tries scrabbling across the ice to him.
“I’ve got her,” He folds himself clumsily into a seated position on the ice, letting Grizzer crawl over his crossed legs, “Take your turn in the game, troopers.”
Hound resigns after only one more scrimmage, taunting the troopers as he skates away that the game isn’t challenging without Fox on the ice. They bristle and vow to prove him they’re just as tough, thank you very much, and one by one, each of Fox’s closest vode drift off of the ice and onto the sidelines. There’s at least twenty troopers to a team now, all semblance of order lost as they ram into each other and abuse the Chancellor’s comm, and Grizzer rests her scaly chin on Fox’s shoulder where he sits with his men against the wall.
“Happy accident this all froze over,” Thire muses, “I’d have hated to clean up the water.”
“It’ll still melt, di’kut.” Stone shoves at his shoulder, “Do you think it’s just gonna disappear?”
The two begin bickering and Hound pokes playfully at Grizzer’s armored sides, prompting her attention away from Fox as Thorn rests his forehead against the Marshall Commander’s shoulder plating.
“My head hurts.” Thorn declares, and Fox snorts.
“Probably from when Hound rammed you into the wall.”
“He fights dirty,” Thorn gripes, “I’m gonna tell Gauze he tried to kill me.”
Fox’s attention drifts back towards the rest of his troopers, mostly new batches shipped out to fill their ranks. The Guard loses members fast, and he wonders how many frozen winters these soldiers will live to see. They’re all grinning, and even their aggression is friendly, a shove to the shoulder or an elbow to the ribs. The sound of camaraderie fills the hallway they’ve turned into their own personal skating rink, and for once, Fox is grateful for their shitty plumbing and ventilation systems.
“Here’s to making the squalor we live in work for us.” Gauze slides carefully across the ice with hot drinks in his arms, carefully passing out one each to the troopers that sit on the sidelines, “May the facilities freeze at least once a year so these men can take a break. Fox, yours is decaf.” Gauze adds, only after Fox has already taken a sip.
Normally, Fox would curse the medic for being so forcible about his caffeine intake. But here, slumped against the wall of his frozen-over hallway, Grizzer’s warm weight resting in his lap as she snaps at Hound’s gloved fingers, Thorn’s head on his shoulder, Stone and Thire snickering beside him- here he realizes he’s not in dire need of caffeine. He’s not sapped of energy like he usually is, he’s- he’s okay.
He sips his decaf and settles back against Thorn, watching his men have fun.