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A knock on Fox’s office door can typically be attributed to bad news, but the worst news comes when there’s no knock at all. That news is Jedi Master Quinlan Vos, who barges into Fox’s office with all the courtesy of a rampaging zillobeast.
“Commander,” Vos greets, a sparkling grin on his face that compliments the bright golden tattoos spanning his orbital bones, “I come bearing gifts.”
Gifts from Master Vos typically include something explosive, something contraband, or on one occasion, a feral tooka.
This time it’s a box, white and taped on the top and sides. Nothing inside makes noise, nothing growls, nothing scrabbles fruitlessly against the walls of its prison, so Fox rules out another tooka.
Fox stays silent and lets Vos do all of the talking; he’s learned that he can and will. His findings are proven true once again as Vos launches into a story about Younglings and creche clans and cultural immersion, and Fox watches as he slits open the tape on the box with a knife he’d previously had concealed in a sheath on his belt. It’s a nice blade, something Fox can appreciate instead of the Jedi and their pretentious lightsabers.
“-anyways, all the kiddos baked these cookies for Initiate Kim’s planet’s holiday tradition, and somehow it turned into a clone trooper lookalike competition. There’s- uh, I think that’s Stone,” Vos plucks a clumsily decorated cookie out of the box, showcasing messy splotches of red and white icing in the vague shape of Corrie Guard armor, “And there’s definitely a Thorn or two in here. I know someone did Hound, that’s- there,” Vos holds up a trooper with gray teeth blobbed across their helmet, “And, there’s the Marshall Commander himself.”
Fox’s brows raise from beneath his helmet as he watches Vos pull two conjoined cookies out from the box. They’ve melted together, probably during the baking process, and they’re firmly melded at the hands. Fox’s telltale Corrie red armor covers the cookie on the left, but the cookie on the right-
“I made him as handsome as the real me,” Vos grins, wickedly charismatic, “The kids were using up all the white and red, which left me plenty of yellow for the tattoos. And then the muscles,” He gestures to black lines curved over the arms meant to mirror his own bulging biceps, “Those were a no-brainer. I tried my best with the tunics.”
They’re sloppy, but they’re unmistakable.
Fox and Quinlan hold hands in gingerbread form, and Fox’s jaw muscle twitches from how tense it is beneath his bucket.
“You made cookies of us holding hands?”
“He speaks!” Vos enthuses, eyes glimmering with mischief as he sets the cookies on a green and red napkin on the two square inches of Fox’s desk that isn’t cluttered with paperwork, “Here, Commander.”
“You don’t want yours?” Fox glares suspiciously up at Vos, who wasn’t lying about the biceps he’d drawn onto the cookie. They’re currently wrapped around the box, keeping it steady as Vos waits for Fox to take the bait. Around Vos, Fox never knows exactly what bait he’s expected to take, but there’s always something Vos tries to get out of Fox.
“Break them apart,” Vos snorts, “Unless you want to leave them connected, so we can each start with a hand and meet in the middle?”
Fox takes hot-cheeked, jaw-clenching pleasure in snapping the joint hands that the cookies share in two.
“Wrong one,” Vos neglects to take the cookie that Fox offers him, even though it’s got locs and golden tattoos and a green obi, “I want yours.”
Fox raises a belligerent eyebrow beneath his bucket even though it has no effect on the confrontation he’s having with Vos.
“I want mine.” Fox argues, and Vos reaches once more into the box.
“You can have this one. A lot of kids made you,” He passes over another cookie-fied Commander Fox, “I want you to have mine. I want yours.”
Fox swaps red-and-white cookie for red-and-white cookie with a broken hand, insistently ruminating on why Vos is oh-so-insistent on chowing down on a Fox cookie.
Luckily for Fox, Vos has never made his intentions unclear, painfully obvious about whatever he fancies, and he bites into Fox’s gingerbread foot with an air of triumph.
“I hope all those muscles taste good,” Vos muses, Fox’s icing armor staining his spit blood red, just as Fox’s teeth will shine like gold when he bites into Vos’s tattoos, “And whenever you’re ready to admit to me that you’d rather be licking the real ones, comm me. I’ll bring some mistletoe,” Vos winks, and Fox files the unfamiliar term away for later, when he’s not beet red beneath his bucket. Vos backs out of Fox’s office, box of cookies still tucked protectively under one thickly muscled bicep, “And I’ll bring some leftover icing, too.”
The door shuts on Vos’s salacious promise, and Fox searches the holonet for missile toe.
It’s apparently mistletoe, and it’s hung over a doorway to invite a pair of pining partygoers to kiss.
Fox sets his datapad aside with the force of a missile, and resigns to grinding the Vos cookie between his clenched teeth, comm safely across the room and out of reach. To Vos’s delight, not that Fox will ever tell him, he enjoys the biceps.