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Wolffe has come to Guard Headquarters voluntarily exactly once. Naturally, the receptionist treats him like a suspicious package.
Wolffe checks in at the Guard Headquarters front desk wearing dress whites, two command ropes, and the last scraps of his patience.
Cynthia Hale looks at his identification card, then at him, then back at the card as though clone Marshal Commanders are known for forging their own faces.
“Purpose of visit?”
“Personal.”
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
“No, I won’t.”
Her mouth tightens. “This is a restricted military facility.”
“I noticed.”
Wolffe gestures toward his uniform. The white jacket carries his campaign ribbons, Marshal Commander insignia, and enough evidence of military service that a reasonably intelligent desk could process it.
Cynthia remains unconvinced.
“Only Guard personnel are permitted beyond this point.”
“I’m Clone High Command.”
“You aren’t Coruscant Guard.”
Wolffe’s cybernetic eye adjusts with a faint click.
He’s entered Separatist wreckage fields with less resistance.
Usually, when he comes to Headquarters, it is to retrieve Wolfpack troopers from Stone’s drunk tank. Those visits use the detention entrance, where the Guardsmen take one look at Wolffe, point toward the cells, and let him collect whichever brother or sister decided shore leave required fighting a decorative fountain.
Today he arrived voluntarily.
That had been the little Pantoran senator’s fault.
Riyo Chuchi had walked into 79’s alone, found Wolffe in a rear booth, and asked him to help Fox. Not ordered. Not threatened. Asked, with worry drawn tightly around her gold eyes.
Thire likely sent her.
From what she described, Fox was in one of his moods, which could mean anything from working for four days without sleep to quietly planning the murder of an entire committee.
Wolffe should have noticed sooner.
He had excuses. The Malevolence. Losing most of his men. Losing an eye. Learning to tolerate a cybernetic replacement that sometimes focused on reflective spoons instead of active threats.
The Wolfpack stopped socializing after that. They kept to themselves, General Koon, and occasionally Commander Tano when she entered one of her hunting moods and needed live targets to ambush from ceiling vents.
Wolffe still spoke to Cody, Ponds, and Bly.
Fox became weather on another planet.
Wolffe knew he was Chief of Defense; knew the Guard had expanded.
Knowing was not paying attention.
Once, Fox and Wolffe had been inseparable. Trainers called them twins until Dred Priest noticed Fox and began the special sessions.
After the reconditioning, Fox returned with the same face and none of the shared memories.
Wolffe suspected he remained the only one from their first batch who knew.
“Marshal Commander?”
Cynthia taps the desk.
“You cannot enter without a Guard escort.”
Wolffe leans closer. “Call Fox.”
“The Chief is unavailable.”
“Call Thorn.”
“The Marshal Commander is unavailable.”
“Hound.”
“Unavailable.”
“Stone?”
“Also unavailable.”
“Is anyone in this building available?”
“I am.”
“That is becoming the problem.”
A security door opens behind her.
Commander Thire steps through in red armor, takes in Wolffe’s dress whites, Cynthia’s expression, and the identification card trapped beneath her hand.
“Let him in.”
Cynthia frowns. “He isn’t Guard.”
“I’m Fox’s batcher.”
That changes something in Thire’s face.
He releases the inner door.
Wolffe retrieves his card. “Senator Chuchi found me at 79’s.”
Thire’s shoulders sink.
“How bad did she say it was?”
“Bad enough to ask me.”
Thire steps aside.
“Then you’d better hurry.”
-
Wolffe remembers how to reach the brother Fox used to be. Unfortunately, the method involves fists, old scars, and making him angry enough to stop lying.
Fox stands in the center of the Guard war room radiating enough menace to qualify as an active defense system.
The room is busy around him, though nobody gets closer than necessary.
Officers move between tactical displays with careful efficiency. Guardsmen deliver reports, receive clipped instructions, and retreat before Fox can find another problem in their work. Even the women and men who have served next to him since the Guard’s commissioning keep watching him from the corners of their eyes.
Fox notices.
He notices everything.
He simply does not care.
He is still wearing the red-and-black armor he brought back from Kamino. Salt stains the lower plates. One shoulder bears a fresh scoring mark, and the kama at his waist has a tear near the edge. His helmet sits on the main tactical table beside three casualty reports and a reconstruction schematic of the Senate Rotunda.
The lobby is marked in red.
Wolffe stops inside the doorway.
Fox looks worse than Riyo Chuchi described.
The little senator had said he was avoiding Medical, his quarters, and her. She had said it quietly, like the final detail was the one frightening her most.
Thire had led Wolffe upstairs, then vanished before Fox could blame him for arranging this.
Coward.
Smart coward, but still.
A young officer approaches Fox with a datapad.
“Chief, Engineering needs authorization to remove the damaged support ring beneath the Rotunda lobby.”
“Denied.”
“Sir, they’ve classified it as structurally unsound.”
“It’s evidence.”
“They said the entire floor may collapse.”
“Then tell them to support it without altering the blast pattern.”
The officer hesitates. “They’re also asking what to do about the circular cut through the foundation.”
“Ask General Skywalker why he carved through a government building.”
“He was saving the hostages.”
“I’m aware.”
Fox’s voice turns sharp enough to draw blood.
The officer salutes and escapes.
Wolffe walks farther into the room.
“Your officers look happy.”
Fox’s gold eyes snap toward him.
For an instant, surprise breaks through the fury. Then the walls slam back into place.
“Wolffe.”
“Fox.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to admire the new décor.”
Wolffe looks toward the holo of the ruined Rotunda. The projected blast damage flickers through the floor where civilians and troopers had been standing only hours ago.
“Very open design.”
Fox’s jaw flexes.
“Go back to your ship.”
“No.”
“This isn’t your command.”
“That’s why I’m enjoying myself.”
Several Guardsmen become fascinated by their terminals.
Fox steps around the tactical table.
His posture is wrong. Too rigid. Weight slightly forward. Hands half-curled beside his thighs. His body is preparing for a fight that nobody in the room intends to give him.
Wolffe remembers that posture from Kamino.
Fox used to get it after Dred Priest’s special sessions. He would return to the barracks silent, shaking beneath the skin, and looking for an excuse to hit something that could hit back.
Before the reconditioning, Wolffe had known how to draw the anger out.
Afterward, Fox no longer remembered why Wolffe understood.
“Thire let you in,” Fox says.
“He did.”
“I’ll deal with him later.”
“He seems terrified.”
“He should be.”
“Everyone here seems terrified.”
Fox’s gaze sweeps the room.
Several officers look away too slowly.
Wolffe tilts his head toward the corridor.
“Spar with me.”
“No.”
“You look rusty.”
“I just came back from Kamino.”
“So you are rusty.”
“I don’t have time.”
“You’ve got time to threaten engineers.”
“They’re trying to destroy evidence.”
“They’re trying to stop the building from falling into another building.”
Fox reaches for a datapad.
Wolffe takes it first.
The room goes silent.
Fox looks at Wolffe’s hand around the device.
“Give that back.”
“Make me.”
One of the nearby Guardsmen quietly leaves the room.
Another follows.
Fox’s eyes narrow. “You’re in dress whites.”
“You’re in armor. Afraid you need the advantage?”
That does it.
Fox snatches the datapad from Wolffe and sets it down hard enough to crack the casing.
“Workout room. Now.”
Wolffe smiles.
There he is.
They remove everything except fatigue trousers and undershirts.
No armor. No boots. No weapons.
Fists only.
Fox stands across the workout mat, shoulders tense and bare feet planted against the padded floor. Fresh electrical burns disappear beneath the collar of his shirt and emerge again along one arm.
Wolffe doesn’t ask.
Not yet.
The observation windows are dark, but Wolffe knows half the Guard is probably watching through the internal cameras. Guardsmen possess a supernatural ability to locate violence involving senior officers.
“First one down?” Wolffe asks.
“First one who can’t get up.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“You started this.”
Fox attacks before Wolffe finishes speaking.
Some things have not changed.
Fox still favors speed over weight. He gets inside Wolffe’s reach, drives a fist toward his ribs, and turns the next strike into an elbow when Wolffe blocks.
Wolffe catches the elbow against his forearm.
Pain shoots to his shoulder.
“Still angry,” he says.
Fox punches him in the mouth.
Wolffe tastes blood.
“Good talk.”
Fox comes at him again.
Wolffe lets him.
They had done this as cadets whenever words became too dangerous. The trainers thought they were competing. In reality, Wolffe had been teaching Fox how to be furious without letting Priest see.
Fox swings hard enough to bruise bone.
Wolffe blocks, counters, and catches him across the jaw.
Fox barely reacts.
He drives Wolffe backward with three fast strikes, grabs his undershirt, and tries to throw him.
Wolffe turns with the movement and brings them both down.
They hit the mat hard.
Fox twists free before Wolffe can secure him, rolls onto one knee, and lunges again.
“You’re sloppy,” Wolffe says.
“Shut up.”
“You’ve had four openings.”
“Then use one.”
“I’m waiting for a challenge.”
Fox’s next punch misses Wolffe’s head by less than a centimeter.
Wolffe catches his wrist, rotates behind him, and forces the arm up between his shoulder blades.
Fox drives his head backward.
It clips Wolffe’s cheek.
Wolffe tightens the hold.
“Temper.”
“Get off me!”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Read the report.”
“I don’t read reports unless Plo makes me.”
Fox struggles harder.
Wolffe hooks one leg around his and forces him down to both knees.
“Chuchi came to 79’s.”
Fox freezes.
Only for an instant.
Then he nearly throws Wolffe over his shoulder.
Wolffe shifts his weight and locks the hold more tightly.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” Fox snarls.
“She thought you needed help.”
“I don’t!”
“Clearly.”
“Let go!”
“No.”
Fox’s breathing turns ragged.
Wolffe can feel the tremors moving through his shoulders now. Not fatigue alone. Something deeper, held so tightly that the effort is tearing him apart.
“Why are you avoiding her?” Wolffe asks.
Fox jerks against the hold.
“None of your business!”
“She made it mine.”
“She shouldn’t have come near the Guard!”
“Bit late for that.”
“She should stay away from me!”
Wolffe’s grip loosens slightly from surprise.
Shame.
He hears shame in Fox’s voice.
Fox, who distrusts natborns on principle and Jedi as a matter of professional survival, has let a senator close enough to frighten him.
Closer than Wolffe realized.
“You care about her,” Wolffe says.
Fox’s entire body locks.
Wolffe almost laughs, but the sound would be cruel.
“Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Shut up.”
“The terrifying Chief of Defense compromised by a tiny Pantoran.”
“She was in the Rotunda!”
The shout explodes out of Fox.
He surges upward with enough force that Wolffe nearly loses hold. Wolffe braces and drags him back down.
“I didn’t know,” Fox yells. “I didn’t know she was there!”
“There it is.”
“We had the shot.”
Fox’s voice fills the workout room, raw and furious.
“My snipers had clear lines on Bane and his team at the prison. No civilians behind them. No hostages in the way. Bane already escaped once. He endangered thousands of Force-sensitive children, and I wasn’t going to let it happen again!”
Wolffe says nothing.
Fox fights the hold as though he can reach backward through time if he moves hard enough.
“The Chancellor ordered us to stand down.”
His voice cracks across the final word.
“Two seconds later, the bombs went off.”
The fight drains from him.
Not gradually.
One moment Fox is trying to tear free, and the next Wolffe is holding up nearly all of his weight.
His breathing comes in sharp, uneven pulls.
Wolffe eases the arm lock without releasing him.
Fox stares at the mat.
“Troopers died,” he whispers.
The words shudder out.
“Thorn’s in critical condition. Scalper won’t tell me whether he’ll wake up because she doesn’t know. The lobby’s gone. Skywalker cut a circle through the floor to stop the blast reaching the lower levels.”
Fox swallows.
“All for some stupid Hutt.”
Blood runs from his right nostril.
Wolffe sees the first drop strike the mat between Fox’s hands.
“Fox.”
Fox does not seem to hear him.
“Good soldiers follow orders,” he whispers.
Another drop of blood falls.
Wolffe releases him and moves around to kneel in front of him.
Fox’s eyes are unfocused. One hand rises toward his right temple but stops before touching it.
Wolffe has seen stress injuries, head trauma, cybernetic rejection, and men whose minds never left a battlefield.
He has never seen this.
“What’s happening?” he asks.
Fox wipes his nose with the back of his hand and stares at the blood.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“It stops.”
“When?”
“When I stop thinking about it.”
Wolffe’s stomach turns.
“Then don’t.”
Fox gives him a hollow look.
“I learned afterward that Riyo was one of the hostages.”
Wolffe sits back on his heels.
“She’s alive.”
“Bruising. Smoke inhalation.”
“That’s alive.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you avoiding her?”
Fox looks toward the dark observation window.
His anger is gone now. What remains is younger, frightened, and painfully familiar.
“I don’t want her to see me like this.”
Wolffe had expected fear for her safety.
He had not expected Fox to be ashamed of needing her.
“She came looking for you,” Wolffe says.
“She came looking for you.”
“Because you wouldn’t let her find you.”
Fox’s mouth tightens.
Wolffe reaches out and grips the back of his neck, the way he used to when they were cadets and Fox needed to remember he was not alone.
Fox does not pull away.
“You had a direct order,” Wolffe says carefully.
“I know.”
“You obeyed it.”
“I know.”
“And people got hurt.”
Fox closes his eyes.
“I know!”
Wolffe feels the words waiting before Fox says them.
They frighten him enough that the blood begins again.
“I should’ve taken the shot.”
The whisper barely reaches Wolffe.
Fox opens his eyes.
“I knew Bane would do it. I knew standing down was wrong, and I obeyed anyway.”
His hand closes around Wolffe’s wrist.
“If I’d known Riyo was inside…”
He stops.
Wolffe waits.
Fox’s breathing steadies, though his fingers remain tight.
“I would’ve disobeyed.”
There is no shame in that admission now.
Only certainty.
Fox looks at the blood across his knuckles, then toward the wall separating them from Medical, Command, Thorn’s unconscious body, and the senator waiting somewhere for him to stop hiding.
“I should’ve disobeyed for all of them,” he says.
Fox arrives bruised, exhausted, and very bad at pretending any of this is normal.
Scalper had listened to Fox and Wolffe explain the injuries with the expression of a woman deciding which one to sedate first.
Fox claimed it was a training exercise.
Wolffe called it an aggressive discussion.
Neither mentioned beating the kriff out of each other as emotional release.
Scalper believed none of it.
The bleeding from Fox’s nose had started before the sparring, when thoughts of disobeying the Chancellor drilled into his right temple. The swelling came later, after the heartfelt conversation ended and Wolffe suggested they finish the match.
Wolffe landed one excellent hit.
Scalper reset Fox’s nose while informing both Marshal Commanders that she regretted saving them from Kamino.
Now Fox stands outside Riyo’s apartment with a bacta strip across his nose and no remaining excuses.
The door opens before he presses the chime.
Riyo looks up at him.
Her face is pale beneath the bruising along one cheek. She wears a loose nightdress and a blanket around her shoulders. The faint rasp in her breathing is the only sign of the smoke she inhaled.
Her eyes drop to his nose.
“What happened?”
“Wolffe.”
“Should I ask?”
“No.”
She studies him for another second, then steps aside.
Fox enters.
The apartment is warm and dim, every curtain closed against Coruscant’s lights. A cup of tea sits untouched on the table beside a medical inhaler.
Riyo turns toward him.
He prepared several explanations.
None survive seeing her alive.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Her expression tightens. “For avoiding me?”
“Yes.”
“For making me send Wolffe instead?”
Fox looks down.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
“I was nearly blown up, Fox. I wasn’t expecting you to arrive cheerful.”
“I was angry.”
“You had a right to be.”
“I was angry enough to hurt someone.”
Riyo reaches for his hand.
“You went to Wolffe.”
“He goaded me into a fight.”
“That sounds like Wolffe.”
“He broke my nose.”
“That also sounds like Wolffe.”
Despite everything, Fox’s mouth twitches.
Riyo’s fingers close around his.
“You still came,” she says.
Fox looks at their joined hands.
“I should’ve come sooner.”
“Yes.”
There is no accusation in it. Only honesty.
That makes it easier to breathe.
Riyo leads him toward the bedroom. Neither bother discussing whether he should stay. Fox removes his boots and lies beside her, careful of her bruises and his own collection of injuries.
She curls against his chest.
Fox settles one arm around her waist and rests his head close enough to hear her heartbeat.
Steady.
Alive.
He listens until the sound pushes the Rotunda explosion farther away.
Riyo’s fingers trace lightly over his wrist.
“You’re staring again,” she murmurs.
“I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“Your heart.”
She goes still.
Fox closes his eyes.
He’s known for longer than he admitted. Maybe since she first brought decent caf to Headquarters. Maybe since she spoke the names of dead Guardsmen in the Senate and refused to let anyone reduce them to numbers.
The truth no longer feels dangerous.
It feels necessary.
“I love you,” Fox says.
Riyo’s heartbeat stutters beneath his ear.
Then her arms tighten around him.
“I love you too.”
Fox listens until her heart settles again.
This time, he lets himself believe he will hear it tomorrow.