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“Do you really think behavior like this is acceptable —“
“No, sir.”
“—ought to have you fired, get you thrown out of the senate doors —“
“Yes, sir.”
Jesse watches, bewildered, as the trooper just stands there and takes it, posture perfect, and some random, no-name senator screams in their face.
“—so don’t let it happen again, you hear me?!”
The Corrie dips their head, every movement perfectly calculated to make themself appear smaller, less threatening.
“Yes sir. Of course, sir.”
“Good,” the Senator sneers, and roughly pushes past them, the vod stumbling in a way that Jesse knows must be entirely fake, if only because a trooper in full armor won’t get knocked over for anything, and especially not a fragile natborn three inches shorter than them.
The Corrie stands there for a moment longer, head bowed. Jesse itches—should he go say something? Should he try to address whatever that was?
He begins to move, reaching out a hand, when a curious voice brings him to a halt.
“Lieutenant Jesse?”
It’s Senator Amidala, hands folded over her stomach as she tilts her head.
Jesse turns, giving her a sharp salute. “Senator! Are you ready for your escort?”
She smiles at him, eyes crinkling. “I am indeed, Lieutenant. Thank you for walking with me. I’m afraid that I’m not as mobile as I used to be.”
No kidding. Her pregnancy is major gossip at this point, and Jesse knows that it has to be General Skywalker’s, but no one has confirmed anything about it, so he keeps his theories internal.
“The rest of the squad will be waiting outside, Senator,” he assures her, gently taking her arm. “Your handmaidens are already working to secure your apartment. Everything should be all set by the time you arrive.”
And General Skywalker will be waiting, probably, though Jesse keeps that bit to himself.
He gives one passing glance to the Corrie as he and the Senator go by—they’re walking away, a hand pressed tightly to their side.
He frowns, biting his lip. Maybe with everything about the Chancellor being revealed, the senators have been anxious. It’s only natural for tempers to flare.
But still, Jesse makes a mental note. The war is over now. The clones will probably be getting their official personhood any day now—no one has the right to treat them like that.
Maybe Rex will know what to do?
…
Rex is beginning to think that Jesse was right about the Corries being a bit run-down, because this is the third time Fox has nearly face-planted onto the table.
79’s was a bit quieter than usual, for once, so they’d decided to take advantage of it and have a bit of a reunion. Rex knows most of the Commanders there—even though he wasn’t a Commander himself, he’d snuck into enough training sessions on Kamino to be able to recognize many CCs.
Gree’s in the corner, talking animatedly with Blackout, who’s nodding along with enthusiasm, both drinking something green and slightly smoking. Wolffe had been there earlier, but he’d already bowed out—looking after a restless Wolfpack was no easy task.
Havoc has an entire crowd around him as they all compete to throw darts, and Rex is ninety-nine percent sure that he’s cheating, even if he can’t prove it. And no, that isn’t simple bitterness because he lost eight times in a row.
After that humiliation, he’d slunk back to the booths, ending up squished between Bly and Bacara while Fox and one of his Commanders, Shrike, sat opposite them.
“Woah, you okay there, Fox?” Bly jokes, as they all watch Fox jolt back into awareness. “Don’t worry, vod. You can catch up on your sleep tomorrow. For now, celebrate with us!”
Fox remains stone-faced, staring down into his drink. Shrike doesn’t look much better, lip curling with distaste—but Rex notes, absently, that he remains pressed up against Fox’s side, almost protectively.
“I mean, come on, now that the Sith is out of the Senate, it should be smooth sailing, right?” Someone says—Rex doesn’t catch who.
At that, Fox shakes his head, lifting his drink to take a swig as he responds.
“Sure wish it was that simple. Still more work to be done.” He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it, but Rex can understand that. It’s been a long three years for all of them, even those who haven’t been on the frontlines.
Someone, apparently, didn’t get that message.
Bacara scoffs, giving the two Corries a discerning once-over.
“You mean it’s finally time to start working?” he says, and he looks directly at Shrike when he says it.
Rex knows that the two of them trained together on Kamino—he saw them sometimes, Doom, Bacara, Faie, Shrike and Neyo, some of the scariest bastards on the planet, and they always sniped at each other like this, little digs intended to inspire competition and challenge.
He’d thought, once, that picking on each other was how that group showed that they cared.
But this time, Shrike doesn’t look too amused.
“Watch your mouth,” he says lowly, glaring at his squadmate. “If all you’re gonna do is spout bullshit, someone might take offense.”
Bacara blinks—Rex thinks he sees a hint of surprise there, for a moment, though it’s always been hard to read him—and then scowls.
“What, letting a Sith run wild in the most important seat of government in the entire karking Republic wasn’t enough responsibility for you? Still looking for something else to fill the time?”
Rex fidgets, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
“If you start this, I’ll end it,” Shrike says flatly, a very real warning in his tone.
“Don’t try and make yourselves look good now,” Bacara dismisses, something frustrated lingering below the surface. “Show’s over. War’s won. And as per usual, we have to sweep in and take care of your mess.”
“Okay,” Bly interjects, laughing nervously. “Let’s be real, here. We all do important work to serve the Republic. No need to quibble over who has it harder. Regardless, the threat has been dealt with. We should all be happy about that!”
Fox tenses. Rex’s eyes dart to him, trying to see what caught his attention, but Fox isn’t looking out into the bar.
He’s looking at all of them. Like he’s judging a threat.
What?
Suddenly, Shrike is on his feet, shoving his chair back violently.
“You don’t fucking get it!” he burst out, a wild light in his eyes. “Chancellor this, Sith that. Who gives a shit?! It was never about the fucking Chancellor, you idiots! Who do you think gave him all that power to begin with? Who kept voting for more clones? Who do you think is debating our fucking right to exist on the Senate floor right now?!”
“Vod—” Bly tries, uncertain in the face of that anger, but Shrike whirls in his direction with a snarl.
“Don’t you fucking call me that! I don’t need that from you!”
“Hey, watch it!” Rex jumps in, shoulders drawing up defensively, but before he can say another word, Shrike gives him such a disgusted look that all the fight drains out of him.
Shrike opens his mouth, ready to unleash another tirade, when Fox holds up a hand.
The other Guard halts, still shivering with rage, but obediently turns towards his Marshall Commander.
“That’s enough, Shrike,” Fox says quietly. There is no anger in his voice. No disappointment either. In fact, when Rex glances at him, Fox’s expression is entirely empty. Uncaring.
He’s looking at them like they’re strangers.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” Fox continues, turning to face his trooper—and then, Rex sees it; a small spark of life. He can’t quite name it—maybe something like contentment? Whatever it is, Shrike must understand it, because he visibly begins to lower his hackles, posture loosening from the tight attacking stance it had been in before. “Don’t say anything that you know you’ll regret.”
Shrike snorts, at that, finally letting go of the death grip on his beer, letting the bottle thunk onto the table rather than smashing it over someone’s head like Rex half-feared he would.
“I don’t have regrets,” he says, and it’s half a joke—but half a warning, too. He sweeps his gaze over the table one more time, an arctic cold in his eyes, before he turns to leave.
No one stops him.
Fox, sitting at the table, stares at his drink for a long moment.
Then he sighs, standing up.
Bly tries to protest, albeit weakly, but Fox just shakes his head.
“Listen. I’m tired, okay? I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.”
His words are simple, concise—there can be no argument. He leaves with his posture slumped, exhaustion heavy on his shoulders.
Maybe, Rex rationalizes to himself, it’s better that way. Everyone is stressed, right now. There’s a lot going on.
Fox clearly needs some downtime, and with the Galaxy on the mend, he’ll get it.
They all just need time.