Chapter Text
The first time Fox returns to the Den with an injury that none of them are able to explain, it isn’t Thire that notices first.
They’ve barely made it through the doors at the back of the building and into the Den proper – the part of the Republic military base that includes the barracks and mess and everything else that makes the gray and silver walls feel remotely like home – when they are stopped. Because of course as soon as they get within spitting range of the medbay, Kova is right there, physically blocking their path forward as best he can. Like he can smell blood in the water.
“Commander,” he says, staring Fox straight in the bucket. One finger taps ominously against the back of the datapad he holds in both hands. And oh, here they go.
Fox isn’t an idiot. In fact – questionable caf and sleeping habits aside – Thire knows him to have an excellent sense of self-preservation. You don’t survive being on the front lines in the lower levels as long as Fox has without knowing when to shoot and when to duck. Which means he, unlike some of his batchmates, isn’t a medbay-dodger. At least, not for anything that he can slap his own bacta on and that won’t get in the way of his paperwork.
But unfortunately for him, Kova is almost more stubborn than he is. And he’s better at being a pain in the shebs.
“One time!” Fox had complained to Thire about their chief medic only once, after they were already a few drinks in on a rare night off. “I passed out in my office while I was bleeding once and Kova won’t karking let it go.”
Now, faced with a medic like a duracrete wall who stands resolute, undoubtedly determined to block any chance he has of sneaking by to his office unnoticed, Fox sighs. The volume and force of the huff turns the edges of the sound staticky through his vocoder.
“Kova,” he says, perfectly flat.
“You want to tell me more about that speeder you fell off of while we’re out here or in my office?” Kova says with a raised eyebrow and a barely-contained smirk. Immediately, Fox’s head snaps sideways to Thire, who raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Wasn’t me,” he says quickly, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. He makes a mental note to ensure whichever brother did rat their Commander out ends up with an extra night off sometime soon.
Instead of offering either of them a proper answer, Fox swears under his breath and sharply gestures for Kova to lead the way.
“You too, Lieutenant,” Kova says, giving Thire a sideways look.
“Oh, don’t worry; I’m not missing this story.”
That seems to be adequate enough reassurance, because Kova nods and then turns immediately on his heel. Thire happily trails along as he escorts them both to a private exam room. Almost as soon as they’re through the door, Fox starts to pull off his bucket and Thire follows suit. Kova hops up on one of his custom-painted Guard maroon plasteel stools without ever diverting focus from the datapad in his hand.
“How far did you fall?” he asks, speaking almost before his shebs hits the seat.
“From the speeder to the ground,” Fox deadpans, and Thire can’t help his snort. “Now can we please get this over with? If there was something wrong, I would tell you. But I’m fine and, more importantly, I have a whole karking pile of paperwork to do after this bust. Just a few of those rustbuckets could have made my life hell if these idiot bot modders had–”
Kova doesn’t appear to be listening to the Commander’s argument, however, because he has since looked up and is frowning hard at something that Thire can’t see on Fox’s other side.
“What is that?” he asks, tone laced with accusation. Thire straightens up instantly, pushing away from the hover-stretcher he’d been leaning against with one hand. He circles around behind Kova, who has already stood up and set his datapad aside in favor of reaching for Fox, who takes a step back.
“What is what?” their Commander huffs, brow furrowing. To his credit, he seems genuinely taken aback by the question. A fact that, amazingly, does not reassure Thire in the least.
Kova, who has enough bedside manner and common sense not to grab for Fox when he’s starting to look like a cornered tooka, stops with his hands raised in midair. “It looks like some kind of bruise.”
Just as he says it, Thire finally catches sight of what he’s seeing. Sure enough, the blemish is visible there on the side of Fox’s neck, partially obscured by the collar of his blacks. It stands out starkly against the brown of his skin, a dark splotch of color tinted purple. Thire barely has enough time to wonder what in the stars could have caused it before Fox is slapping a hand over the spot, effectively obscuring it from sight.
“That,” he snaps, eyes going wide, “is nothing.”
“So you know what I’m talking about?” Kova sounds distinctly unamused now, but the edge to his voice speaks more of concern than frustration. “When did you first notice it?”
“No, it’s really–”
“Fox,” Thire cuts in. Fox’s eyes flickering up towards him finally draw his attention away from the hand still held tight against the side of his neck. “Ori’vod–”
“I said it’s nothing,” Fox insists with an aborted gesture of reassurance. The tips of his ears flush as he pulls somehow farther into himself, looking almost apologetic. “I appreciate the concern, vod, but I’m fine. If anything changes, I’ll come right back. Ni haata.”
With that, he slams his bucket back over his head, keeping his right side carefully angled away when he has to remove his hand from his neck in order to grab his helmet. He levels a final extra stiff nod at Kova before practically dashing out the door.
“That was… strange,” Thire says, blinking after him. He turns back to Kova. “We can both agree that was strange, right?”
The medic shrugs one shoulder, not breaking from whatever frantic notes he’s taking on his datapad. “Yep,” he says, releasing the p with a pop.
Thire raises an eyebrow. “Is that really the extent of your insight?”
“No. But you know Fox. I’m not getting anything else out of him if he doesn’t want to give it.” Kova sets the datapad aside and turns fully to face Thire now, knuckles cracking as he stretches his arms out between them. “I’ve made a note in his file, but that’s all I can do. Now you on the other hand, Lieutenant. What’s this I hear about an incendiary grenade?”
Scratch what he said earlier. Thire’s putting whoever ratted the both of them out on the rotation for latrine duty for the next month.
Fox practically tosses his bucket atop his bed the moment the door to his quarters locks behind him, and the top half of his armor follows not long after. He doesn’t bother with anything below the waist. As soon as his chestplate hits the mattress, he’s ducking into the private fresher that’s connected to his room.
As soon as he stops in front of the fresher sink, he’s staring sideways at his reflection in the mirror, and all the heat in his body rushes quickly to his cheeks. Sure enough, there, sticking half up over the collar of his blacks, is an unmistakable patch of splotchy, bruised skin in a shape he is all too familiar with.
That or’dinii. Vos is a dead man.
Before he can think better of it, he’s fumbling for his handheld holo-messenger. He punches the call through without even looking and sets it down on the edge of the sink in front of him. He doesn’t have to wait long; he’s barely returned his hand to his neck to tug down his collar before an all-too-familiar figure appears before him.
Quinlan Vos whistles lowly, gaze slowly and deliberately trailing up and down Fox’s torso. “Commander,” he practically purrs. His leer is searing even through whatever amount of distance currently separates them. “Warn me next time you’re going to call looking so… indecent. Be glad I’m somewhere private.”
Fox does not roll his eyes. But only because he doesn’t want to redirect the glare he’s levelling at the person who currently occupies the highest slot on a very long list of beings he would most like to dunk down the nearest reactor shaft.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about decency,” he snaps, twisting so the side of his neck – and thus, the mark on his skin in the shape of Quinlan’s mouth – is directly in Vos’s line of sight. “Do you want to tell me what this is? Or why I was just cornered by my head medic, who now probably thinks I’m finally losing it because there was no way in sith hells I was going to tell him where it came from?”
Vos squints, leaning subtly closer until his eyes visibly widen upon finally seeing just what Fox is pointing to. “Oh,” he says. “Kriff.”
“You agreed, Vos,” Fox growls, “not to– not to do this where it could be seen. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid!”
“I know, I know,” Vos says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “And I’m sorry, Fox, really. I guess I just… got carried away?”
Fox knows all too well that beneath his blacks (where they’re supposed to be) there are at least half a dozen similar marks painted erratically across the space between the back of his neck and his collarbone. If he thinks too much about it, he can still feel the wet heat of Quinlan’s mouth against his skin, murmuring sweet words in between caresses with teeth and tongue. Even the memory of it sends heat rushing quickly up the back of his neck, towards his cheeks. And alright, it’s not as though he had dis couraged Vos, exactly. Besides, up until now, he has always been careful…
“You know I just can’t resist making you squeal.”
Vos winks. Fox freezes.
“I’m sorry I commed you,” he deadpans. “Goodbye, General Vos.”
“Wait!” Quinlan says quickly, waving his hands frantically. Fox stops with his hand hovering just next to the holoprojector as the jedi’s expression falls. “Come on, Vixen, don’t be like that. I really am sorry! And I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
Fox’s nose scrunches up. “Don’t call me that.” A pause. “You owe me dinner.”
“Done,” Vos agrees without a moment’s pause, visible relief in his renewed grin. “Tonight? I might not be planetside until after nightfall, but–”
“Yes,” Fox says, surprising even himself with how quickly he answers. From the way Vos blinks back at him, he isn’t the only one. He clears his throat. “I will be in my office. Message me when you’re on your way.”
Quinlan nods, smile going dangerously soft around the edges in a way that sticks uncomfortably in the center of Fox’s chest. He tries not to read too much into the look Quinlan levels at him or the way it makes his heartbeat quicken in his ears.
“Alright, Commander. It’s a da–”
Fox cuts the comm.
The sudden silence is too loud and he groans louder to drown it out, burying his burning face in his hands. He can practically feel Vos laughing at him from wherever he might be, the insufferable bastard. He shuffles back into his armor, starting with shoving his bucket down over his head as quickly as possible.