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There is something wrong in Washington D. C. and he is the only one who will be able to figure it out. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself through the sleepless and lonely nights, as his brothers knock at his door, begging to be let in, only to get shut out. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended.
C ommand er Fox Fett is almost 30 years old, and knows that he has the memory of someone at least two time his age. Things slip by him, as if going through a sieve, there one moment. That, perhaps, is why he doesn’t recognise Gregor until he’s stood right in front of him and he sees his own eyes looking back at him.
He’d been…calling his name, Fox thinks. Followed him, probably directed by Thorn to his location, trying to catch his attention. Fox, too lost in his own worries, had passed it off, not recognising the distinct voice. He hadn’t recognised Gregor until his younger brother stopped him in the middle of the hall and made him meet his eyes.
“Gregor?” He says dumbly after a minute, tilting his head. Gregor nods, looking less than impressed with his older brother, but oddly concerned all the while. Fox licks his lips, glancing around. “I…uh, what are you doing here?”
“I called you yesterday?” Gregor says, crossing his arms and staring Fox right down–and while it’s entoned like a question, the accusation is clear. A cold sweat breaks over Fox, as he realises that he’d forgotten, once more. His eyes narrow at Fox, probably taking in the shadows under his eyes, the weight he’s lost from stress, the new shoots of white in his already peppered hair.
“Oh, right,” Fox laughs, with an uneasy smile. “Sorry, slipped my mind. Been pretty damn busy.”
Busy trying to figure out who the mole in The White House is. The mere thought of it makes Fox’s head throb. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended.
“When was the last time you took your meds?” Gregor says suddenly, and Fox pauses, smile falling away as he and his brothers stare one another down. When had their roles switched? Fox had always been the one protecting Gregor, always the strong one in their tumultuous childhood. But now, it’s Gregor who looks Fox down with a critical eye that nothing can bypass. When he stays silent, Gregor says, “ Fox. ” Low, warning, dangerous.
“Gregor,” he says right back. He doesn’t like this line of questioning, and Gregor knows it, but he can’t remember why Gregor was supposed to be here. There's a massive blank spot, as empty as most of his early childhood is, as most of his life is. His memory is fraught, yes, but it’s been a long time since he forgot something this mundane this quickly.
Gregor appears to be, unfortunately, right, when he puts his hands on Fox’s shoulders, and gently tells him that he needs to take his meds and get some sleep. Fox grinds out some half baked reply about doing it after his shift, and Gregor looks discontented, but thankfully, doesn’t say anything. And that is that. The day continues on, and two hours later, Fox has forgotten most of it anyways.
His mother is, perhaps, the most stereotypical image of a Mandalorian in appearance. Dark, catching eyes that are hard to bypass. A well maintained body, lithe with muscle, her strength unmissable. Dark curls pulled high and tight, a few stray curls falling out, twisted around long, thin fingers. In appearance, she may be the most stereotypical Mandalorian around.
In temperament…that is another story.
Fox regrets every part of himself that feels obliged to come to meals like this the second he sees her across the overtly expensive restaurant, all dolled up and fake. She glances up at him as he approaches, her gaze critical as he sits down. At least she does say hello, but she sounds a little detached, and already miffed. Fox doesn’t care to know what he’s done that pissed her off this time.
“You should dye your hair,” she says almost immediately, and Fox bites down on the resounding sigh. Of course she’s noticed the white and grey peeking out from the crown of his head, a trait he got from her. She’s been dying her hair back to black since before he was born, so the knowledge that her own son got that trait is probably not one that flatters her vanity.
“Dye’s expensive nowadays,” he says offhandedly, perusing the menu. At least she’ll pay, so Fox is willing to give into some more expensive tastes, even if it means she’ll be gloating about how kind and gentle and courteous she still his to her estranged son. “I don’t even have the time. It’s fine, really. Doesn’t even bother me.”
“It’s unprofessional,” she says immediately, and Fox forces himself not to roll his eyes. “Say what, I’ll get you in contact with my girl. She’s a dear, really, and not even that expensive–”
“Mom,” he grinds out, meeting her eyes to seal the nail in the coffin, hands clenching imperceptibly on the menu. “It really is fine.”
She regards him sharply, clearly not used to the shut down. Of course not, her doting husband always cares about her and their children’s lives and opinions, same with her. The first of her two eldest, products of one night stands with a fucked up and not quite so picturesque Mando, like her? The mere thought that they wouldn’t want to simply worship her and her husband is out of all comprehension to her. So, here they are.
Inscenat buzzing from his phone draws his attention as she begins to ramble on and on about one thing or another, about what her friends from work and her newest kid’s school are doing, about workplace drama he doesn’t care about. She doesn’t seem to notice as he reads the messages in his lap, a low buzz of nerves growing in his stomach.’
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended.
Jango’s Mistakes (and Omega and Numa)
huntah: can anyone drive into ord mantell
huntah: echo stormed out a few hours ago and he’s still not answering his phone and im freaking out
srexy: wait what
srexy: hunter what happened
huntah: i said shit and we got into an argument but he’s literally gone and i know he doesn't have his wallet on him, and it’s going to rain soon and i don't think he has a jacket
srexy:
can you guys not drive in?
huntah: tech works late, cross has the jeep, truck is in for repairs
huntah: bus would take too long, would get there after the rain
kegor: @thebox want an excuse to escape mom
the box: she’s in a mood. worse than normal. won’t be able to leave for an hour or so but yes.
the box: hunter, chill the fuck out it’s echo, he’s very capable
huntah: he also is missing three of his limbs so excuse me for caring, fox
So Echo is missing. Fox glances up at his mom, still lost in her own conversation, quietly making a note to himself as a reminder, not trusting his fraught memory. Setting his phone down, he tries to give the illusion of paying attention. The waiter comes and goes, and Fox is willing to let his mom preen about footing the bill, because he’s not gonna complain about a good steak. He can handle mom if it means good food.
Ten minutes pass slowly, and Fox is really beginning to regret coming here, even with the concept of food on the horizon, when Fox’s phone begins buzzing in his pocket, which his mother does notice this time. She quiets as he pulls it out, brow furrowing as he reads Gregor’s contact name.
“One second,” he says, standing, walking away before she can protest.
“What?” He snaps as he answers the second he gets out of the door, glancing back in, glad his mother can probably not see him as he tears a hand through his hair. He can see her, vaguely, though, and the uppity and displeased expression on her face.
“I need you to go after Echo,” Gregor says, not even commenting on Fox’s rudeness. He’s plenty used to it now. “I know you’re with mom, but the second you can finish up, please go find him. Hunter is really freaking out, and someone needs to get Echo somewhere safe before he or Hunter does something they’ll regret.”
“Gregor,” Fox hisses between his teeth, before sighing, “I’ll try to see if I can go after I finish. I think it just got delivered. She’s in a mood though, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull away.”
“I know,” Gregor says gently, “Just be firm with her. I’m still sorry I can’t be there.”
“Don’t be,” he says bitterly. “You know how she is. I’ll deal with her, and then I’ll get Echo. Please tell Hunter that, you and I both know this isn’t going to be good for him if he keeps up like this.” Fox sighs. “I’ve got him. Don’t worry.”
When he returns, his mother is already curious about who exactly called. He knows that he shouldn’t tell her, aware of the multitude of ways she can react, none of them good, but he doesn’t care. He’s on edge and frustrated, already, how much worse can it get. “It was Gregor,” he tells her. Her eyes brighten. It’s no secret that she’s always liked Gregor more, but even that is less than she likes the rest of them.
“Oh?” She asks, “What did he say?”
“Some stuff is going on with one of my brothers,” he says. Her eyes narrow, but he presses on. “He’s just being an idiot.”
“Your brother s? ” She sneers. “So you can drop everything for them, but your actual siblings you just ignore–”
“My actual siblings?” He says with a laugh. “You mean you and Thomas’s kids?”
“They are your siblings, more than any of Jango’s bastards, ” she snaps, sneering out his father’s name. “You grew up with them, Fox. And Thomas is your father–you better treat him like it.”
“Sure, he’s my father, legally,” Fox says with a shrug, his mother’s face twists. “But he’s not my dad. Jango is my dad, and believe it or not, Mother, I’m also one of Jango’s bastards. If you want me to care about you and his kids, how about you actually care about me and Gregor? How about you actually bring us into your perfect lives?”
“This is why we don’t reach out!” She snaps. Fox resists the urge to roll his eyes, as she continues, “Always going on about how hard everything is for you, never caring about your siblings. All you prioritise is Jango’s children, not your own family.”
“Jango’s children are my brothers, and most of them aren’t half my age, so sorry I connect to the actual adults more than I connect to the teenagers,” he snaps right back, and his mothers face twists as he stands, dome with his food in this conversation. “I will talk to you later. I have things to do.”
“Fox?” Thorn asks oddly timidly from the doorway to his office. Fox glances up and resists the urge to groan when he sees the youngest of his crew, Thire, peeking out from behind Thorn. Of course Thorn, the traitor, brought Thire in to speak to Fox. It’s hard to say no to him, young and shiny as he can sometimes be.
And yes, Thire is a grown adult, but he’s also the same age as some of Fox’s youngest brothers, so…sue him.
“What do you want, Thorn?” He asks as he swipes through some of his notes. There’s a massive discrepancy, still, even with all the information he’s been slowly connecting, well hidden but there. Once Fox had noticed it, he hadn’t been able to overlook it, and the thought of it is enough to make his head throb already. The presence of Thorn and Thire isn’t helping much.
“Um,” Thorn begins, uncharacteristically timid. Thorn, who isn’t afraid to snap right back to even Fox, his eyes dark and unamused all the while. Looking at him now, he looks like he’s poking at a wasp’s nest with a stick. “Well, we’ve noticed you’ve been working a lot recently, and it’s clearly important, but we want to help, because you seem stressed out…”
Thorn trails on, but Fox has stopped listening, a cold tendril of fear over taking him. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
He doesn’t know quite what is going on, but he knows it’s something big, bigger than him, bigger than all of them. It’s big and that means it’s dangerous. Whoever is funnelling this money, leaking that information, causing the massive hole in all the reports Fox has slowly compiled, they are powerful. More powerful than Fox can imagine.
If they figure him out before he does, he’s dead, and anyone who has a whiff of what he’s been doing is too. The fear is overwhelming–not the fear of his death, but someone else falling in collateral. His death is concrete, in an odd sense of the way, accepted. But their deaths? Gregor or any of his brother’s deaths?
He can’t imagine the thought.
Thorn is still looking at him, silent, imploring. Fox knows that look; Gregor had it on his face not a week ago. Silent. Begging him to let him in, let him see the grand scheme of this. But the thought is terrifying beyond all words, the one thing Fox knows he absolutely cannot do. The only way he can protect them is to keep them away.
“...Fox?” Thire, now, asks, voice gentle and kind. He sounds more and more like Gregor everytime Fox hears him, gentle and prodding, young and something Fox has the carnal desire to simply protect. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Fox, please.”
“No, Thire,” he says, voice like gravel. “I…I know what I’m doing, I promise you. I need you two to trust me on this one, please. I know what I’m doing, but you can’t be involved, not this time.” He meets their eyes, seeing worry and love and fear reflected back at him. “Trust me. Please.”
None of his brothers ever call him during the week. None of them ever really try to see him, which doesn’t bother Fox all too much, because it’s nicer to think that he’s not going to be disturbed rather than having to constantly worry someone will encroach at the wrong time.
So, that’s why when Kote calls at seven o’clock in the morning on Friday, he stares despondently at the screen, squaring his jaw. If he outright ignores Kote, it will only worry the man and make Fox’s life harder as a result, so he resigns himself to conversation, reminding himself to keep it short. He needs to leave for work soon.
“What do you want?” He snarls, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The first sip is absolutely delicious, settling him and all his nervous energy down just a bit. On the other end of the line, his brother is silent, but Fox knows he’s there, and can hear his steady breathing. “ Kote. ”
“Hello to you too,” his brother sighs, voice tight with displeasure. Fox rolls his eyes–of all his numerous relations, Kote is the one with the true complex about prying into people and getting them to open up, no matter what. Fox just knows that he’s about to try, so he opens his mouth to nip it in the bud–
“Whatever you’re about to tell me, Fox, whatever excuse you have, I don’t want it,” His brother says. Fox almost feels uncomfortable from how well he knows him, how easily he can still read him. That’s more dangerous than he realises. “What is going on?”
“The hell are you talking about?” Fox snarls, hand tightening on his mug, shaking slightly. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
“Fox,” Kote all but snaps, voice dark. “You’re avoiding us, not answering our calls, not letting anyone in. And it’s not like last time, there’s something else going on isn’t there? You barely recognised Gregor when he saw you–”
“–Gregor needs to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut first,” Fox snarls right back, betrayal coursing through him. He was just tired. (He’s always tired now, he knows that the fact that his mind is drawing up blanks isn’t anything good, knows that it’s going to make him a liability sooner or later, but…still.) “I’ve had a long week, and wasn’t really that focused. I’d forgotten to take my meds, but I have now, and I’m fine, so leave it alone, Kote. I don’t need your help. I’ve got this.”
“Got what, Fox?” His brother presses right back. “What is going on that you aren’t telling us? Your exhaustion, I know what it looks like. Something is going down, and you’re shutting everyone out now. We’re worried about you, Fox. All of us–especially dad.”
“Oh, he set you on me didn’t he?” Fox sneers, his anger curling low in his gut. “Figured you could pry it out of me and tell him. Well, you tell him this: if you want to help, get the fuck away from me. Stay the fuck away, and I mean it, Cody. ” His voice softens as he hears the tell tale silence of shock. The softening is tiny, almost imperceptible. He’s only half sure Kote will catch it. “Let me handle this.”
“Fox–”
He’s already hung up before Kote can say whatever else he needs to stay, standing and shaking in the middle of his kitchen, a thousand ill contained emotions boiling up in him. Terror and the need to protect, the desire to just be loved and held cut through with betrayal and the firm knowledge that it is just Fox against the world. That is how it is, that is how it will always be.
Fox, armed with only his mind and cunningness, against all the whole wide world.
Fox was thirteen years old when Mom and Thomas (Dad, he tried to remind himself, but the word would never quite stick), tell him that they’re going to be having another child. Fox tried to act surprised, but he’d overheard them talking about weeks ago. Either he sells it, or they don’t care, but they don’t seem to notice it. Gregor seems happy, that’s good.
Later on, people may think that everything suddenly changed with the news of his youngest sibling, but…no, not really. Thomas never really cared as much for Fox and Gregor, although he hid it better before. Mom had fallen out of Momma a long time ago, and Buir long before that, lost in her own self image. They were content to let Fox and Gregor run wild, and that's how it had always been.
But, with the new kid, young Philip, Fox actually realised it. His mother never cared for them the same way she cared for her perfect little Philip. She stopped coming to Fox’s games, stopped checking their report cards. Fox naïvely thought, at least for a little bit, that it was just the stress of the new child. But it wasn’t, and never had been.
Fox and Gregor were bastards, products of her past she hated to acknowledge. She was enough of a human to not abandon them to the streets, but that didn’t mean they had something to carry them. Well, Gregor did. He had Fox, tall, unshakable, Fox. His big brother, who kissed his wounds and made them dinner on the nights Mom and Thomas didn’t come home, out somewhere that they didn’t bother to name.
Fox…well, Fox had himself. He had himself and Gregor to take care, and that was life, even as more children were born, as the truth got brighter and brighter. Their mother didn’t care for or about them, and that was just how life was. Fox got over it, quickly, but when Gregor cried for Mom and asked why she was like it, the only person who answered was, as always, Fox.
So when Fox first realised he couldn’t remember things, he didn’t tell anyone because there was no one to tell.
It’s odd how quietly the end of the world started.
Fox is in his office, still reeling from Kote’s call, reading over the newest set of notes he’d written up. He can feel how close the breakthrough is, in his bones, in his heart, and the adrenaline is making him sloppy. He has all the pieces he just…
He throws his notebook down with a huff, running a hand through his hair, before rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. His vision swims dangerously, and he takes a sip of coffee to knock it back. He begins to pace, running through all that he knows. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
Someone high up has been feeding information to foreign bodies. Information regarding military structure and numbers, especially within the mixed metropolises of Coruscant and Washington D. C. and the Military personnel in The White House. Military Personnel that Fox is in charge of.
This person has been using money to cover up what they’ve been doing, and the amount is not enough to draw most attention at first glance, but enough that when you dig in, it makes it clear that they are quite wealthy. This, in turn, has made Fox very confident in the assertion that whoever it is, is of higher power than Fox himself, which narrows it down a bit, but not enough.
And then he sees something on his desk, a report handed off to him a few days ago. He’d requested it because he needed to check where his guys were needed more and where they were needed less, but that’s not what tugs at his mind. He’d…he’d picked it up after a meeting with the President, Palpatine. He doesn’t remember that meeting well–never does, but…
Oh.
Oh Fuck.
The Mole is Palpatine.
The weight of it all sends Fox stumbling back, choking for air. It all comes back to him, has to. Hell, even some of the shell accounts were based out of Palpatine’s home state, but he hadn’t thought much of it, because they were from all over. But now, he thinks through all of it–the money, the cover ups, the kills, the information leaked. It has to be him.
Fox starts to pace, heart beating rapidly in his chest. His watch buzzes a warning at his heart rate that he ignores, tearing a hand through his hair. There is nothing he can do, quite yet. He glances at the clock. It’s…late, but not too late. If he works through the night, he could have a formal report written up. Tomorrow is Friday, anyway. More relaxed.
Inhale. Exhale. He needs to breathe or nothing will get done and this will only get worse.
He sits down at his desk, and begins to write, before his traitorous brain makes him forget. The reminder of his pension to amnesia makes his headache worse–Palpatine knows about it, asks about it often, always pretending to care. But all of Fox’s memories around meetings with the President and the things he has him do from time to time are all fuzzy in a way that makes him sick.
Did Palpatine only care because he could use it against Fox? Did he do things that he knew would trigger the trauma response so Fox could forget? If so, what does that mean for Fox? What has he done for Palpatine, who knew he’d never remember it? In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
The worst part of Fox’s epiphany is there isn’t much he can actually do about it right now. He needs to spring a trap that will end in the least amount of casualties, and that requires thought that he cannot dredge up. His head hurts like nothing else, and coffee and tylenol is doing jack shit to help it.
He’s walking through the halls, heading to a planning meeting with Thorn about what they want to do with Hound and his K-9 unit this month, seeing as the man has just gotten a new batch of pups to play with. Fox has seen all the photos, heard all the stories. Best to actually put Hound to use, so he stops sending Fox images of his beloved dogs at oh fuck o’clock in the morning.
And then, Thire shouts for him, “FOX!” He whirls to see the man, waving like mad at him, a gaggle of kids and two oddly familiar adults nearby. A field trip, no doubt. He waves back at him, confused. “YOU DIDN'T TELL ME YOUR LITTLE SISTER WAS COMING HERE TODAY!”
Wait, what? Little sister?
Fox rubs at his temples, as his mind slowly catches up. Oh, right. Omega. He…he has a little sister? How had he even forgotten that? That’s not something he often forgets–Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. He has a little sister. Her name is Omega.
Fox peers at the kids, and yep, there she is, Boil and Waxer’s girl, Numa, right next to her. Both Omega and Numa preen at him as he draws closer, introducing himself to the tour guide and the school chaperone, pointedly ignoring the two little imps as they hug his waist, smiling up at him all dumbly. He’s still not over their treachery from Christmas, now that the memory comes back.
“Leave Thire alone,” he tells them seriously, and they both giggle. He crouches down, waving a finger in front of their faces, “I’m being serious. Thire has things he should be doing right now, and you’re only further distracting him.” He glances up at their teacher, who looks amused, “If they give you any trouble, seek me out and I’ll right ‘em.”
She laughs. Fox thinks it’s actually quite a pretty sound, if he was into that type of stuff, straightening and turning to Thire to tell him to get going and stop sidetracking tours. But he never gets the chance, as a large boom reverberates through the building and alarms start screaming.
The world snaps into attention around Fox before he can think. In an instant, he and Thire are tearing down the hall, the tour and his little sister and niece left behind, feet pounding on the floor as they run.
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
It’s called crisis mode. Fox has always thrived in the adrenaline rushes that come with it–That is a fact, really. He’s always been a little too good at cutting away everything to focus on what needs to get done. On his first deployment, though, it hadn’t done him any good. He’d been too focused, lost sight of all the wrong things, and paid for it dearly.
He’s never been able to get the images out of his head. Of his men, dead or dying, their blood on his hands. He’s forgotten almost every inch of his childhood, save for a few memories, and there’s definitely gaps in the past few years spent working here, but that one image? He’s never been able to dislodge it, no matter how hard he tries.
He races through the hallway, heading towards the explosion site. The sirens still scream, desperate and angry, blaring red. Tourists and White House workers alike move through the halls, making it harder for Fox to bob and weave through them like his life depends on it. It very well may.
Fox isn’t a dumb man. That’s how he pushed through the plot in the first place, noticing things that others didn’t, his eyes drawn to what most ignore. The first sign had been when a report had crossed his desk, and it had been odd enough that he’d decided to do some digging. And look where it got him.
He’s not an idiot, and this has got their resident mole all over it. Whatever the purpose of the bomb is–to cripple, to distract, to do whatever Palpatine wants, it doesn’t matter quite yet. He needed to be steps ahead of Palpatine days ago, and now he’s paying for it, and paying dearly.
Someone has attacked the White House. Fox is in its epicentre, Palpatine too. His men may get caught in the crossfire if things go wrong, but that’s okay, that’s manageable. He can plan around them, plan for them, plan for the civvies. Or, at least he could have, twenty minutes ago. But now…
Omega and Numa are here. His little sister and his niece. Young girls who are far too close to his heart for comfort. Things that can be used against him if he doesn’t play this smart. The fear is all encompassing in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
Breathe, ori’vod, please just breathe, you’re alright, it’s just me, it’s just–
He thought he was afraid when Gregor pulled too close, when Kote pressed. And he was, but he knows the pair of them enough to know that they’re smarter than he is, sometimes. They’ve got their own strengths and Kote especially has dad behind him, tall and looming. A Mandalorian general with enough weight on him that he can throw it around as he pleases.
Fox couldn’t pull from them for this, had to make sure he was alone. And he almost was, would have been, if he hadn’t gone down that hall. He would have been none the wiser to the fact that two people nothing short of close to his heart are in the blast zone of whatever plot is being cooked up here.
Suddenly, he’s a child again, trying to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. Trying to protect Gregor from shitty people and helping him as he began to understand that mom was never going to love him like she loves the rest of her precious children. That’s just the way it is, for better or for worse. There’s another kid to keep safe, to help and hold and protect, and Fox doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself if this goes sideways.
He keeps running.
When they get to the site, Thorn is on the phone with someone, jaw squared. He glances up at Fox and motions him over, as someone swoops in and talks to Thire about something or another. Fox doesn’t bother with it–Thire is a good kid, he can handle that.
Thorn hangs up, and tells Fox, in no uncertain terms, “You need to go back, now.”
“What, why?” Fox asks sharply, eyes narrowing at his seconds, silently reminding him who is in charge here. Thorn meets his eyes, a challenge in his eyes as well. Neither men back down, the tension thick between them. Fox is his father’s son and his father is a Mando’ade. He will not be told to do, far too stubborn for his own good.
“The tour group,” Thorn concedes finally, and Fox’s heart lurches, “With your sister? Yeah, they’re missing two little Fetts.” Thorn grabs Fox by his shoulder, voice low, “We will handle this, talk to the right people. You need to find your sister and niece.”
Fox should argue, remind him of their relative ranks. But the need to protect is filling his lungs, making it hard to breathe around his panic– I am my father’s son and my father is a Mando’ade and Mando’ade protect their own– He nods, once, and turns on his heel, diving back into the folds of the crowd before they can exchange any other words, eyes searching for a flash of blonde, a flash of blue. He sees many, but none belong to the girls.
He dives into a less dense part of the crowd, climbing a set of stairs, trying to get a good look. His eyes are sharp, good at catching things. Eyes of a Fox. Clever little Fox. His father’s voice echoes in his ear, the memory of his praise warming Fox. It’s traces of him he searches for as he peers through the crowd, hoping, praying, desperate–there.
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended.
The people you love are alright. I am my father’s son and my father is a Mando’ade.
He’s at the girls' sides in an instant, grabbing their wrists and hauling them to the closest corner, devoid of people. He can barely think around his panic and fear and the anger at the entire situation, crouching in front of them, grabbing them by their jaws to look them over. A memory rises, unbidden.
Christmas. Their eyes shone as he tickled them because they threw snowballs at him. Their laughter echoing across the snowy field that was dad’s backyard, cheeks flushed. Happy.
He looks at them now. They both look shades of afraid and close to tears, staring at Fox. He startles as he realises that they’re looking at him like they’re afraid of him, swallowing tightly. “I…” he begins, voice hoarse. “What happened?”
“We got separated,” Omega says weakly. “We didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“I know, I know,” he says shakily, finally pulling them close. His body is wracked with adrenaline shivers, his mind moving at a million miles per minute. Memories rushing by, mixing with echoes of fear and regret. “You’re okay,” he says, repeating it until he believes it, the atrium quieting a bit. He glances around, and then at them.
“I need to get you girls out of here,” he says, trying to keep his voice firm. “I know you’re probably scared, and that’s…that’s okay. I’m a little scared too, but I’ll be right here. It’s going to be okay.”
“Fox?” Numa asks, sounding so much like Waxer when she does. Gentle, prodding, open. Kind. Overwhelmingly and unshakably, kind. I am my father’s son and my father is a Mando’ade, and Mando’ade look out for their own. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he confesses, the words ringing hollowly in his chest. He doesn’t know, and that is possibly the most terrifying part of this whole day. He suspects things–who’s behind it, what the goal of this may be, who the target was–but only suspects. He knows nothing, if anything at all.
“I don’t know.”
His mother never asks him where he was, and he’s fine with it. He’s 17 anyways, almost an adult. She never cares where he or Gregor go, barely notices when his car doesn’t get back until after dinner. She doesn’t care, and never has.
Fox fucking wishes she did, though, as he stalks into the principals office, nose broken. He doesn’t regret that half of it, but the other kid has both his parents behind them and Fox is all alone as they stare down the Principal. He only half listens when they suspend him. His mother won’t care, and he sure as hell doesn’t.
The only worry he has is military college, but this is just one infraction, right? It won’t be the end of the world. That’s what he tells himself as he climbs the steps to their house, a couple hours later, soaked from the rain, miserable and cold.
Thomas and Mother are waiting for them. She looks scandalised and he looks oddly furious. It is then that Fox realises his mistake–he’s put their precious reputation on the line. Now everyone will think their eldest is a delinquent, someone who can’t control himself. Nevermind the kid had been bullying Gregor, nevermind that he’d taunted Fox before. All that matters is that Fox threw the first punch.
I am my father’s son and my father was a Mando’ade and Mando’ade are supposed to fight to the end of the line.
Later, he lays on his bed, holding two bags of peas to his ribs and nose. He’s long past feeling sorry for himself, content to just simmer in his misery, being ignored by the rest of his family. His mom knows better than to take his car keys away, because that means she’ll actually have to drive him to school. That’s just how it is in her wannabe butt fucking rich circles. They seldom care for their kids when they get as old as Fox is.
Those kids drive to school, never get punished for conduct unbecoming. For better or for worse, Fox is right there too, never punished because that doesn’t look good to Mother and Thomas’s fake friends. It’s the only mercy that he gets from it, and he wishes it was different.
He hears the door open quietly, and he closes his eyes, already aware of who is coming in before he says anything, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Hey,” Gregor says quietly, and Fox hums, hissing as his brother lays his hands on one of the makeshift ice-packs, holding it so he doesn’t have to.
Fox doesn’t say thank you, but the thought is communicated anyways.
The girls have his hands in vice grips as he finally makes his way out of the rush of the crowd, immediately being directed to the med-tent where it seems the rest of their school trip group is waiting. The relief that crosses the teacher's face as she sees the trio unlodges something deep within Fox, a current of exhaustion making itself known. He shakes his head.
“Fox,” the familiar voice of Thorn pulls him out of his watch of the small group. He turns, brow furrowing as he sees the troubled look on his second’s face. He nods silently, allowing Thorn to continue. “The President wants to see you. Oval Office, soon as you can.”
Fox’s stomach goes cold, and he finds himself staring at Thorn, his friend and his second, and the man at his side, always. The man who had, not two weeks ago, begged Fox to let him in, see the inner workings of what he was trying to uncover. Begged Fox to let him help, only to be shut out and away, because that was who Commander Fox Fett was.
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The city isn’t on fire.
The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
Cruel. Vicious. Always pushing away those who loved him, biting the hands that tried to feed. His brothers and friends have worried about him for god knows how long, ever since the weight of what he was slowly realising got heavy enough he could always feel it. Commander Fox Fett was impassive and uncaring.
Commander Fox Fett’s heart feels like it may damn well careen out of his chest from the way it beats against his ribs from love and friendship mixed with fear and grief. He cannot ignore the summons, but he can buy Thorn some time.
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The city isn’t on fire.
The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
That’s it’s Fox’ika, it’s me, your buir. Don’t you know your buir? Shh, all is well. Just breathe.
“One moment,” he says roughly, before crouching in front of the girls, and pulling them into a bone crushing hug.
It’s not that Fox isn’t good with words, in fact, he’d probably say he’s pretty damn good with them. He can manipulate and lie and spin stories faster than the brain can catch up, a skill he uses enough that it’s never quite rusty. Such is the way when your life is like his.
But today it’s more that there are no words in this accursed world that could conjure words for this moment. His phone rings in his pocket, but he ignores it. He can feel Thorns eyes on him, that same plea once more on his lips. Let me help you. Trust me Fox. Let me take care of you. Breathe, just breathe.
Fox has spent his life alone and the past few months afraid that when he dies, he’ll take everyone he loves with him. And now, he has reached that hour, pulling away from the girls and their confused looks, his gut twisting as he meets Thorns eyes again, his voice raw as he speaks.
“In my office, I have a report about a mole in the White House. Thorn, no matter what happens today, I need you to make sure that Report and all its evidence gets to the press, you hear me? You release it to every major news adjacency, and then you run like hell. Run until I tell you it’s okay, and if I don’t, you keep running.” He pulls the key that he’s kept around his neck off before Thorn can reply, handing it over to him.
“Fox, what are you doing?” Thorn asks, glancing over at the girls. “What the hell are you even talking about?”
Fox shakes his head, “Don’t worry about me. Do what you’re told. I will buy you time. It’s in the Third drawer on the left.” He meets Thorn’s eyes, shining with tears. “It’s been a pleasure to serve with you, Thorn. I’ll see you again.”
Fox makes the walk as long as possible, phone open onto a chat he doesn’t have quite enough courage to say anything in, not quite yet. It isn’t until he reaches the door to the oval office that he finally sends his only goodbye.
Private Chat
Fox: I love you.
He turns off his phone and pockets it. He won’t read his brother’s replies for days. I am my father’s son and my father is a Mando’ade I am my fathersonandmyfatherisaMando’ade–
Gregor:
Fox? What’s going on?
Gregor:
Fox what are you talking about.
Gregor: Fox you’re scaring me
Gregor: FOX
Fox opens the door to Palpatine’s office, barely remembering to knock through the terror clawing in his throat. This. This man has been committing treason and executing mass amounts of terror for months. Unbeknownst to Fox, this man has been a thorn in the FBI, CIA and all those people’s sides for months now. They knew they had someone who was a traitor, and was selling them all out.
No one expected it to be Palpatine. No one would have been able to guess that the guy who figured it all out was the son of a Mandalorian General who was incharge of the security of anyone important in the city. No one expected that a kid who grew up on the bad side of Coruscant before his mom got hitched and got fake would be the guy to uncover a plot decades in the making, least of all the kid.
Yet, here they are. Palpatine smiles at Fox in a way that makes his stomach twist. Before, he’d been appreciative of Palpatine’s way of staying calm under pressure, but now. But now, it just fills him with rage. He doesn’t care. This is all going exactly how he wants, because he’s got to be behind this too.
And Fox’s baby sister is out there. He barely knows her, barely knows anything, but he knows that he is not going to let his father bury another child. I am my father’s son and my father is a Mando’ade and Mando’ade draar digu. He forces himself to remember, forces his mind to stop drawing blanks over the information that matters. He doesn’t care if it destroys him.
“Oh, Fox!” Palpatine says, eyes bright. Fox doesn’t reply, face growing dark. Palpatine pauses, his own facade falling away, dark eyes growing murderous. Fox draws his gun. Palpatine doesn’t truly flinch, but Fox can find some sort of grim satisfaction at the man’s wide eyes. “Ah,” Palpatine says. “ You figured it out. You always were so clever.”
Clever little fox. That’s what Mom’s husband always sneered at him, always called him. It never felt like a compliment, it felt like a degradation. You think that you’re so smart and clever, but I still caught you. But when his father looked at him and said to him My little Fox, look at how clever you are. You could outsmart gods if you put your mind to it, his head pressed against Fox’s, it feels like a prophecy.
So there they stand. A Mandalorian and a Politician. A loyal soldier and a traitor. A bad son and a bad man. A gun between them. A thousand unsaid accusations hanging in the balance, tens of lives on the lines, no more than Fox’s.
There is a moment where the two of them stare at one another, and at Fox’s gun. His hands are mercifully not shaking as he holds them out, jaw squared. Palpatine’s eyes are dark, his hands flat on his desk.
“You,” Fox finally manages to sneer, eyes tearing away from the gun to meet Palpatine’s eyes. “You malignant fucking monster. Why? What is the reason? You’re supposed to protect and serve, not conspire with our enemies!”
Palpatine shrugs, tone still so effortlessly casual. “If that’s what you want me to be, so be it. No one will get to hear your opinion on the matter anyways.” Fox doesn’t get the chance to ask, before Palpatine is moving.
It’s hard to be faster than a man like Fox. But Palpatine still has an advantage–this is his court. It’s his word against everyones. It’s Fox against a monster with more power than he can imagine, Fox against the world. Fox has a single gun, and Palpatine has an intelligence beyond him. Fox knows a lot about what he’s been doing, but not everything. Not everything.
Everything happens in slow motion really. He sees Palpatine’s hands dart under the desk, sees the gun clear the desk and fire in a short breath, feels his own finger squeeze on the trigger right before an odd sensation makes itself known in the right side of his chest. He has just a moment to register that his own bullet has caught Palpatine’s shoulder before…before…
He stumbles back a single step before his legs just completely give out on him, from the force of the pain running through him. Breathy, gasping noises escape him as he presses against his chest, trying to breathe. The bullet hit a lung, the bullet hit a lung, holy fuck, he can’t breathe– hislungishit–hecan’tbreathe–
In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The city is on fire. The world is ending. The people you love are going to burn with you.
Palpatine circles him, clutching his arm, a smile on his face all the same. He’s saying things to Fox, words he can’t process, let alone hear, over the roaring in his ears. All the anger and the fear and the pain in him is making a noise so loud nothing could break it. Nothing, he thinks. Until the door is kicked down, and a saviour arrives.
His vision is swimming as a task force team storms the room, wrestling Palpatine down. He nearly laughs at the sight, because Thorn did it! He did it! He tries, but that only makes the pain worse, and his vision goes even more spotty, consciousness slowly slipping. He can feel his lung slowly failing, feel his body slowly give in. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this afraid. He can’t remember ever feeling so much pain in his entire life.
He really hopes his mind chooses to force this into whatever dark corner the rest of his missing memories are locked away in. The memories that contain the parts of him that are messed up, the child that was forced to face the world too young, the part that makes it hard to recognise his own family–
God. God. Omega will have to see this. Gregor will have to bury him, and so will dad. What had he said to Echo, all those months ago, while they sat on that bench? Maybe I’m just trying to make sure the old man doesn’t bury another one of his sons. Echo had replied with his typical sharp tongue and sharp cruelty, hitting Fox where it hurt, in one of the blankest spots. Shooting Fives, accidently, hitting his lung, just like this, messing him up in a way that very well may have spelled his death–
Something hits him across the face, and the feeling has his eyes flying open. A man in full combat gear is leaning over him, brow set and eyes dark with concern. His mouth is moving–he’s saying something, but Fox still can’t hear. He tries to move, but the man shakes his head and holds him steady, barking out something to his men.
Pressure on his chest, on his back. The pressure makes the pain worse, the pain makes his vision grow even spottier. The pain makes his terror grow tenfold. The noise is getting louder with every minute, and he can barely make out voices through it, barked out orders, shouts, loud sirens all around. Someone is screaming. The world is on fire.
He blinks and a team of what is unmistakably paramedics are racing to him, a stretcher pulled with them. He smiles listlessly, and his vision grows black as shouts rise around him. He doesn’t feel them start the chest compressions, doesn’t feel them put the oxygen mask on. He doesn’t feel them wheel him through the senate, passing a group of school kids. A blonde girl and a brunette with blue braids force themselves not to look.
He doesn’t feel himself code. Doesn’t hear the shouts, the orders. Doesn’t get the sensation of prayer as tens of people all across the world start praying, most of them his family, some complete strangers watching the news. Doesn’t feel much of anything, except a lightness that he’s not sure he ever wants to let go of.
It’s just past 8pm in Mandalore when one of the Duchess’s aides knocks on the door to his office, face nervous and hands wringing in her skirt as she greets them. “Sir?” She asks him, and he nods, motioning for her to continue. “I have news, but it would be easiest to explain if you just turned on your TV.” She gestures to his TV.
Exchanging a glance with Kryze, he does that, switching to the International News channel. Immediately, an aerial shot of the White House pops up, and the pair of them startle as the Reporter’s voice is heard “...Palpatine, President of the United States, has been arrested on Grounds of Treason. Reports are suggesting it was revealed by the head of the Senate Guard, Commander Fox Fett.”
Jango’s heart soars with pride, a wide smile stretching across his face at the news. The reporter drolls on, commenting on the arrest. Kryze growls lowly as the camera footage cuts to someone on the steps, as Palpatine is escorted out of the building in cuffs, his arm bloody. Jango severely hopes that’s from who he thinks it's from.
His elation, though, is short lived. The footage abruptly cuts back to the news station, and everything comes to a standstill as the reporter says, “Right now, it appears that Commander Fox is being wheeled out of the White House by Paramedics, and is in critical condition.”
No. Jango makes a noise, barely noticing as Kryze puts a gentle but warning hand on his back, all but holding him back from doing something stupid. Fox’s formal portrait pops up on screen as the news reporters inform the masses of who he is and why he’s important which means–
“The Commander is also notoriously, one of the few known sons of Jango Fett. Fett is the General of the Mandalorian Military, a position that was highly contested at the time, but he has since proven his worth and invaluableness. It remains to be seen what Fett and Mandalore’s reactions to this will be.”
Kyrze hauls Jango around at that, cutting him off as he opens his mouth to speak, “ Go, ” she says sternly. He shakes his head in protest–“Jango, go. Your son needs you more than Mandalore does right now. There will be fallout from this, but that is for me to fix, not you.”
“Go, Jango. Go. ”
When Fox wakes up, two days later, in an enormous and incomparable amount of pain, he thinks that he’s maybe dead. The world is all fuzzy and disconnected from him, hanging in this odd state of in between that sends vertigo through him. He feels…untethered. All too light and way too heavy at the exact same time. Groggy, mainly, but a little nauseous on the side, as well. All in all, he feels like shit.
He hears the beeping of machines, feels the scratchy hospital beds, is acutely aware of the odd sensation of an IV, but none of that really matters. What matters is the voices around him, gentle and coaxing, and the hand in his hair, warm and familiar. Fox peels his eyes open once more, (when had he closed them?), and it is mercifully more clear.
Three men sit over him. The first is his father, with the stern set of his mouth, the familiar twinkle in his eyes. His hand is the one in Fox’s hair, grounding and steadying. The next is Kote, his scar twisting around his eyes, furrowed with his brow, hair a little messy, but all himself. And then there’s…then there’s…
“Gregor,” he coughs, and his baby brother all but lights up. But the brightness quickly falls away as Fox reaches for him, his eyes darkening as he gently puts Fox’s hands back. “Hey–”
“Steady, Fox,” his father commands, voice a rough burr. “You’re okay, just still healing. The Docs don’t want you to move all too much right now, okay? But we’re here right now, we’ve got you. Just sit tight.”
“Buir,” he keens lowly, mind rushing with the drugs in his system. He needs, he wants, he needs and he wants but he doesn’t know what it is he needs and wants needsandwantsneeds –, “ Vode… ”
“Shh, shh, there, there Fox, you’re okay,” Kote says. Gregor is so quiet, why won’t he talk to Fox? He’s mad at him, no doubt, he failed Gregor again, couldn’t protect him, couldn’t… In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city isn’t on fire. The world has not ended. The people you love are alright.
“ Ori’vod, ” his word shudders to a sudden stop at the familiar sound of Gregor’s voice, those odd little inflections he gets. A byproduct of the first time Fox let his brother out of his hand and it all went to shit before he could stop it. His fault, his fault– “I’m right here, Fox. Just you and I right now, see?”
He’s right…Kote and Dad are gone. When had they left? Fox makes his confusion known with a ragged noise that breaks off into a whimper as Gregor runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice all but shattered, “I’m sorry for pushing you away, sorry for not telling you what was going, sorry for being a dick, sorry for not protecting you–
“Hey,” Gregor says firmly. When did he get this big, this old? When did that kid with a lopsided grin and a pension for trouble go, and when did this man replace him? Where has Fox been while that happened? “None of this is your fault. You were in a very difficult position Fox, and you know it. Palpatine…” Gregor’s voice trails off in dangerous notes.
“He knew about your history with amnesia. He rightly assumed that if he pulled too much, your brain would just shut it down. He was using you, and no one blames you for what happened. You saved the day, anyways. That will mean something.”
Fox knows he’s been used, but hearing Gregor say it is something else. Palpatine had used Fox’s loyalty and belief in him to make him do things he didn’t quite understand, trusting that Fox’s history with mental health would, if it didn’t just erase the trauma further, discredit him in the eyes of authorities. But here they are now. Palpatine arrested. Fox in the hospital.
“Fox,” Gregor says, voice dropping into a tone that sends Fox’s world into tilt. Like that, he sounds just like Fox which…isn’t supposed to happen. Gregor is supposed to be all their goodness and Fox is supposed to be the bad parts. In his mind, Gregor is always the best one of them all, always the one with a good record, always the good guy. But that tone…is all Fox. Not befitting of his polar opposite, the water to his fire, the plains to his mountains.
They are Silver and Gold. Similar. Different.
Fox, Silver. Tarnishable, heavier, a little less precious. Gregor, Gold. Shinning, expensive, always wanted, always sought after. He is the one they want from the pair of them, he is the one that is really something to value.
But silver and gold, at the end of the day, are both metals. They’re both loyal and dedicated to what they do. They’re hard to stop once they start, they’re both brilliant and sharp. Both precious, both rare, both so wholly unique. Reflections of one another, equals and opposites. Pieces of each other in the other makes for something new.
“Gregor,” he replies, voice shaking. “I…I’m sorry I’ve been cutting all of you away for so long. I’m sorry I wasn’t there after the explosion, that I’ve been such a shit big brother. You…you deserved so much better than what you got.”
“No, Fox,” Gregor says, sincerely and gently, his odd little laugh punctuating the end of his sentence. “You were a kid, most of the time. If anyone deserved better–it was you. Your amnesia and your grief speak to that itself. No one was there for you when you deserved it, but you were always there for me. Don’t let my own mistakes tell you that you failed me. You protected me. You made me who I am.”
Finally, Fox looks at Gregor, and when he sees the parts of himself that shaped Gregor, he does not look away. He does not cower in fear and shame for getting his fingerprints over someone like Gregor, someone indestructible and unshakable. He only smiles.
Fox turns eighteen, ships himself off to college, and never looks back. That is how he describes it, at least, trying to make something good out of the pain of his leaving. For the first time in his life, Gregor was alone without the too clever Fox at his six.
But Gregor grows up, nice and well, without Fox. The thought almost stings, definitely stings, as Gregor holds an ice pack to Fox’s face, the shit lights of Coruscant illuminating him and making him look older than he is. He’s barely twenty-one. Fox turns twenty two next month. And all he got for it was memories that won’t let him go and a tendency to bar fights, apparently.
Fox meets Gregor’s eyes. They are dark, sincere. He’d…he’d met his dad a few months before, and now he knows that their eyes are all Jango’s. Jango, who always tried to reach Mother, but was always bared. Jango, who reached out his hand as soon as he could–the thought of it tilts Fox’s word properly upside down. The care and intention is discombobulating. Terrifying, even.
Gregor’s eyes trace Fox’s face, as if he’s trying to commit him to memory. And maybe he was. Two weeks later, he’d be deployed out on a mission that would end less than half a year later with an explosion that fucks Gregor up. Fox tries not to tell himself it wasn’t because he wasn’t there, but the thought lingers, even still.
When Gregor calls him, Fox doesn’t answer. He won’t answer, for a long, long time.
He’s not surprised, per se, that he gets pulled into the court case. It’s annoying, yes, and the stress of it isn’t doing anything for his recovery, but the US Justice System doesn’t sleep for stuff like that, so here he is, in the Supreme Court of the United States, being questioned by an attorney.
The questions are run of the mill, to a point, but before Fox knows what’s going on, the man starts making digs. It takes Fox a moment to register them–he’s not only digging at Fox’s history with amnesia and mental health but…his father? The shit does Jango have to do with this–oh.
The man thinks that maybe Fox was in on it. Feeding information to Mandalore, to his father, The Laamyc Alor of all the armies of Mandalore himself. Fox blinks at the accusation, mouth dry. After all he’d given to uncover Palpatine as the traitor, after nearly dying because of it, of course people still question his intention.
He’s known about what the tabloids whisper, the accusations levied against him for a long, long time, now. He’s a Mandalorian. He’s the son of an Immigrant. The Grandson of a dead King. He’s a foreigner to our lands, and he has a position that makes him privy to information on national security? He is more loyal to Mandalore than anything else.
He wants to look this man in his eyes and tell him to go fuck himself, right after he tells him just how loyal he is to this county. He doesn't love it, but it has his loyalty before Mandalore does. His relationship with the old country is complicated and messy, but his loyalty has always been to the United States.
Someone objects. The judge approves it, but even then, Fox finds it hard to breathe after being forced to stare straight into the eyes of how he is seen. Mandalorian. Traitor. One who cannot be trusted. Someone who will never be able to bleed enough for this country.
Fox takes a deep breath on the stand, his eyes closing briefly. Him against the world. Him against everyone. No, no, that’s not right. Gregor is waiting for a call once he gets out. His father had sent him a good luck text not thirty minutes ago. His sister had hugged him in a bone crushing hug when she’d visited his hospital room.
He’s got people at his six, people willing to be there for him, and the thought is so foreign and strange, he can barely wrap his head around it. It makes his head spin, but also makes him feel warm and fuzzy in a way that he can’t dare to indulge in. Inhale. Exhale. Recentred, he meets the attorney’s eyes.
Bring it on, he silently goads. I’m willing to talk.
Kote isn’t liquid courage, but Fox has been not so gently told to stave off the alcohol, so he’s at Fox’s side as he climbs the steps to his childhood home, knocking heavily. His mother, always worried about appearances, had obviously invited her son over to grab some of her homemade food, so she could look like she cared about her son who just made national news.
Thomas opens the door. At least he doesn’t look surprised to see Fox, but he’s obviously surprised to see Kote, with his sunglasses on, and frown that is all Jango. Not that Fox will ever tell him–Kote likes his individuality. “Oh,” he says flatly, ignoring Kote after a quick glance. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Fox nods silently, and that’s that. Both he and Kote tromp down the halls, reaching the kitchen quickly. One of Fox’s half sisters is sitting at the dining table, playing a game with a gaggle of other teenage girls, his mother making something on the island. The girls look on in confusion as his mother says, voice all fake and shrilly, “Fox!”
He nods mutely at her, allowing her to wrap him up in a hug, submitting to her fussing. He’s pretty sure she’s never cared this much about him being injured before, but the lurch in his stomach at the realisation is familiar enough he doesn’t say anything about it. She, too, ignores Kote, who seems content to be ignored.
“I didn’t know you had an older brother besides Philip, Sel!” One of the girls says a little too loudly to fifteen year old Selah. Fox was her age when she was born–now that’s one hell of a thought. She giggles dismissively, and the girls get back to gossiping about Kote and Fox like they’re not there.
“Who are you?” One of them asks Kote, who tilts his eyes towards them. Now that someone has acknowledged the stranger, his mother turns her eye to Kote as well, her displeasure well hidden but there.
“Kote,” he says. Savter, a Mandalorian in her own right, blanches at the name–Kote, meaning glory. His eyes flicker to Fox, then to his mother, an odd and sharp grin on his face. “Fox’s older brother.”
“Oh,” the girl says, glancing at Kote, as if trying to discern him.
“You’re one of Jango’s, aren’t you?” HIs mother says, good attitude gone.
Kote glances at Fox, dipping his head imperceptibly. Handing over the reigns. “Yeah, he is, Mom,” he tells her. “Just like me and Gregor.”
Two men stand on a balcony, overlooking Coruscant, not trading words. They have similar drinks in hand, their twin eyes reflecting the lights of the city. They are shoulder to shoulder. The late fall wind tries to bite through their clothes, but fails.
“Mother called,” The one on the left says, voice pinged with odd inflections, a result of a TBI. He laughs humourlessly, taking a sip of his drink as the one on the right hums. He already knows what she probably said. “I don’t think she likes that we know who dad is, and we’re okay with being his kids. Doesn’t fit her vibe, you know? Having willing bastards for sons.”
“No,” the one on the right chuckles, voice like gravel. His exhaustion and the crash of stress has made his voice hoarse, tight, even. “But she’ll just have to finally get off her cross and get over herself one of these days. I think we’re just helping speed the process along.”
Silence continues. They both finish their drinks, their tongues a little looser, their gaze a little softer. The one on the left tracks his gaze to the side profile of the one on the right, his older brother. When he was younger, this man was unshakable, unbreakable. If only he knew. If only he could extend the same hand that his older brother did, but what’s done is done.
The younger one knocks his shoulder into the older one’s, who hums, looping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, like they’re kids again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” the younger one says, voice gentle and sincere. “I’m sorry you had to face that alone. I’m sorry for all of it, F–”
“Please don’t be sorry,” the older one gently chides, shrugging a bit. “We all made mistakes–me most of all. I could have taken your hand, taken Kotes, answered Dad’s calls. I could have done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t, and that’s that. But I’m still here. You’re still here.”
“You know I’ll always be here,” the younger one, Gregor, says.
“Yeah,” the older one agrees. “Yeah, you always have been, haven’t you?” His little brother hums in agreement, and Fox’s eyes watch the city move on around them, lost in the moment.