Work Text:
Riyo’s apartment looks as though a legislative archive has been struck by artillery.
Datapads cover half the dining table. Printed amendments cover the other half because Riyo stopped trusting digital copies after someone altered evidence during Ahsoka’s trial. Three empty tea cups sit between stacks of witness statements, security reports, and angry drafts that will never be allowed near the official record.
Her outer robe lies over the couch.
One slipper is beneath the table.
The other has vanished into whatever pocket dimension claims unmatched clothing.
Riyo stands in the center of it all, hands on her hips, while Fox surveys the room with the grave concentration he usually reserves for battlefields.
“I know it’s a mess,” she says.
Fox picks up a datapad, checks its title, and places it on the appropriate stack.
“No, this is not a mess. You know what I consider a mess?”
“Your life?”
Fox pauses.
“I... well, yes, but that wasn’t the example I intended to use.”
Riyo presses her lips together.
Fox points the datapad at her. “Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“That isn’t prohibited.”
“It should be.”
Riyo loses the battle and laughs anyway.
Fox’s eyes narrow, but there’s no real offense behind it. He’s in fatigues rather than armor, his sleeves pushed to his elbows and his hair slightly flattened from wearing his helmet most of the day.
He looks tired.
Not physically. Fox can hide physical exhaustion until his body shuts down and Scalper begins making threats.
This is different.
He has looked this way since Ahsoka left.
Fox resumes sorting the datapads. “A mess is twelve departments using incompatible evidence systems during a military tribunal. A mess is discovering that the Temple’s internal security procedures depend on everyone politely agreeing not to commit murder.”
“That does seem optimistic.”
“A mess is the Chancellor’s office requesting every investigative update while refusing to explain why he requires them.”
Riyo’s smile fades.
Fox moves another datapad.
“A mess is 412 media requests addressed to a defendant who is 17.”
Riyo blinks. “You remember her birthday?”
“I remember everyone’s birthdays.”
Of course he does.
Fox sets the datapad down more carefully than necessary.
“A mess,” he continues, quieter now, “is proving a soldier innocent and still losing her.”
There it is.
Riyo steps around the table.
Fox keeps sorting as though the proper alignment of her committee reports is now essential to planetary defense.
“She didn’t leave because of you,” Riyo says.
“I’m aware.”
“You offered her options.”
“I offered her a commission she didn’t want.”
“You offered her somewhere to go.”
“She said no.”
“She said she needed time.”
Fox’s jaw tightens. “The galaxy is not known for leaving unaccompanied teenagers alone while they self-reflect.”
Riyo reaches for the datapad in his hand.
He doesn’t release it.
“Fox.”
“She has no income. No established residence. Her legal identity has been tied to the Jedi Order since she was three. She surrendered her military commission, and the Order retained control of nearly everything she owned.”
“You gave her a private commlink.”
His gaze snaps to hers.
Riyo raises an eyebrow. “You told me.”
“I know.”
“Then you gave her a way to contact someone who won’t demand that she become a Jedi again, return to command, or explain herself before she’s ready.”
“She may never use it.”
“She may not.”
Fox finally releases the datapad.
Riyo places it on the table without checking which stack it belongs to. Fox notices. His fingers twitch.
She takes both his hands before he can correct it.
“You cannot arrange every person you care about into a neat line where nothing can reach them.”
“I can attempt it.”
“You do attempt it. Constantly.”
“It occasionally works.”
“It also explains your life.”
Fox stares at her.
Riyo smiles sweetly.
He exhales through his nose. “You’ve returned to the original insult.”
“It was an observation.”
“It lacked constructive value.”
“Fine. Your life is a mess, but it’s a very organized mess.”
“Contradictory.”
“You have labeled sections.”
“That does improve it.”
Riyo leans forward and presses a kiss against his mouth.
Fox’s hands settle automatically at her waist. He kisses her back, but she can feel the distraction still lodged beneath his ribs, the part of him tracking one more person he couldn’t protect by simply issuing better orders.
When she pulls away, she keeps her forehead against his.
“Ahsoka knows where to find us.”
Fox is quiet.
Then he nods once.
Riyo glances toward the table. “Now, since this apparently isn’t a mess, you won’t mind leaving it until tomorrow.”
“No.”
“That sounded suspiciously immediate.”
“The printed files contain sensitive information.”
“We’re in our home.”
“The window faces another residential tower.”
“We’re over four kilometers away.”
“Modern optics are excellent.”
Riyo takes his hand and begins pulling him toward the bedroom.
Fox resists for exactly one step.
“Riyo.”
“You haven’t slept.”
“Neither have you.”
“We can make poor decisions together.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It convinced you to marry me.”
Fox considers that.
“Accurate,” he admits.
Behind them, the datapads remain scattered, the tea cups remain empty, and the amendments remain unfinished.
It isn’t a mess.
It’s only a life neither of them expected to have, waiting for morning.