Chapter Text
Thorn looks dead.
His skin is still warm to the touch but his head hangs low, his body slumped as Fox clutches his hand and presses against him. He lets out increasingly pained sounds, then gasps, shudders, head resting on Fox’s shoulder. The cloth wrapped around his stomach is already stained with blood and so is Fox’s armor.
Thire sits up against a crate. He can’t seem to swallow his exhales either. Fox watches him closely, takes note of the blood running along Thire’s leg, red on their white armor. Thire hasn’t been in active combat since his endeavor with General Yoda and immediately managed to injure his still fragile limb again, albeit in a different way this time.
Fox stands from where he had pushed Thorn behind the nearest wall in an effort to hide him from the incoming group of soldiers. Shots ring out. Thire manages to duck, then props himself up using his arms. One of his shots goes through one man’s head.
The others back up. They scream into their devices. They make excessive motions at one another. It’s obvious by that point.
They fucked this up.
Fox can’t carry both Thire and Thorn back to the ship, and dying here would be of no use at all. Thorn’s dead, anyway. Fox doesn’t let it get to him yet. Still, he’s aware. Shot through his guts with no medic in sight: That’s death. It’s certain death.
Still, Fox clutches Thorn’s hand one last time, and his heart threatens to break out of his chest when he realizes that Thorn has stopped squeezing back, that his weight against Fox is too heavy.
Fox has no time to think. He lets go, gently pushes Thorn back, turns and goes to collect Thire off the floor. Thire attempts to push him off. “Sir, I’m–"he starts.
Fox rearranges his hold to reduce struggling.
Thire wails. That’s a thing about him. He’s emotional for a soldier. It’s expected of them that they keep a straight face even when a bullet goes through their knee and shatters bone and this is not something Thire has managed to learn yet. Fox thinks it’s because Thire is younger. His training was different. He blames it on that lesser training that he now has to listen to Thire dissolve into sobs as he presses his helmet against Fox’s chest and holds onto his neck.
The unnamed shuttle they came here on sits somewhere on the other side of the Jungle with a good fifty minutes of walking to go. In the distance Fox can make out the outline of another ship. There's a familiar humming in his ears.
Fox could make it back through the jungle but Thire wouldn’t. Fox will not fail anyone else today.
After that, it’s blurry. Red light, shouting, dirt road. In the blink of an eye he finds himself standing in the entrance of the star destroyer, surrounded by Wolfpack troopers. Fox is not supposed to board this ship. The Guard and the Wolfpack are here for entirely different reasons.
The troopers encircling him press hands onto his shoulders and arms. Their mouths move. Thire has gone limp.
Fox snaps out of it.
He doesn’t hear a single spoken word but he can finally bring himself to help lift Thire into someone else's arms. Thire’s not unconscious, Fox realizes then, but his knee is bloody and his eyes flutter. Fox tries to follow him but he’s pulled aside by multiple hands. They push at his back. He’s led somewhere else. Hands on his arm. Armor pulled off. Fox holds onto his helmet with all he has and they let him keep it on. Needle. Blood rushing past his ears. Commander, are you there? Commander, talk to us. It’s the shock. Something happened out there. Why are Guardsmen here? His helmet stays on. Keep him calm.
A door opens. Fox looks past the medics, all breath suddenly knocked out of his lungs.
Oh. Of course he’d be here. He always seems to be where Fox is.
Quinlan Vos hasn’t changed since they’ve seen each other last. Fox focuses his eyes to take him in. He’s in casual clothes, or what counts as casual for Quinlan, and his hair is pulled back into a messy bun. Quinlan pushes himself through the troopers, and once he reaches Fox he makes an effort to take his hand. Fox notices that Quinlan’s gloves are off. That’s a big thing. They’re always on, usually.
Fox pulls away before their hands can touch. A medic next to him yelps at the sudden movement.
“Don’t you dare,” Fox says.
“Fox,” Quinlan says.
“I don’t want you to do it just because you feel like you have to. You don’t want to feel it. You don’t want to see it. Get away from me.”
“Fox, I want to.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. Are you injured?”
“No.”
“It’s either this or I’ll harass you for answers for the next few hours,” Quinlan threatens.
Fox considers this.
“I warned you,” he says.
“You did.”
“Don’t say I didn’t.”
“I won’t,” Quinlan says and once more reaches for Fox’s hand.
It’s called Psychometry. Force Echo. Receiving information about something by touching it is not something most Jedi can do. It’s not something most Jedi want to be able to do, either.
Nothing happens, of course, not anything that Fox would feel. Quinlan’s eyes flutter, though, and no matter how much he tries to keep his calm, Fox notices the small things. A shake in his arm. A grip on Fox’s fingers. Lips pressed together tightly.
“Vos,” Fox says, and his voice breaks, because he doesn’t know how far back Quinlan can see, what he knows. Quinlan just squeezes his hand. He opens his eyes, hesitates a moment and then examines the medics.
The room turns. Fox is going to throw up. He doesn’t, though, just keeps looking at Quinlans face. Quinlan asks him something. Fox nods absentmindedly and in response Quinlan helps him stand, then intertwines their fingers and pulls. Fox goes with him.
Out in the hallway, he pulls his helmet off with one hand.
“I left Thorn,” he says “He’s still there. I should–I have to go back.”
Quinlan stops. He turns, curses and refuses to meet Fox’s eyes. One can almost see the cogs in his brain turn as he looks at the ceiling and chews on his bottom lip. “No, no, absolutely not,” he then says. “I’ll go.”
Fox opens his mouth but nothing comes out. There’s no better option, he knows. He’s completely out of it and would be of no help at all trying to drag his little brother's corpse out of there.
“Okay,” he says, focusing on each of Quinlan’s features, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. “They’re not droids, Vos. There were at least five more men. I’m not sure. They’re armed.”
“I’ll bring him,” Quinlan says.
“He’s dead,” Fox says.
That confident expression is wiped off of Quinlan's features in a matter of seconds, and when he exhales sharply he sounds as though the news were actually hurting him. “Are you sure?” he asks.
“I'm sure.”
“Alright. I’m so sorry, Fox.” Quinlan rubs his thumb along Fox’s knuckles. “I’ll–Wolffe’s gonna be here any second now to pick you up. I’ll be back. You should get some sleep, and I’ll take care of everything.”
“I don’t like that you’re going there by yourself.”
“I know.”
“I’d go if-"
“I know, sweetheart,” Quinlan says, softly. Fox clenches his teeth.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he ends up with.
“I won’t,” Quinlan says. Hesitates, then adds: “Don’t tell them I’m gone. Plo would worry even more than you. At least you trust me.”
“I don’t know if I trust you right now,” Fox says. The thought of losing him, too, is unbearable. If first Thorn and then Quinlan died, both because of his shortcomings, he’d eat his blaster for breakfast.
Quinlan kisses Fox. Fox forgets everything he was thinking about. It’s a quick kiss, lips barely brushing, but it feels like it lasts forever. Fox wants to hold onto him and never let go, but he knows that not possible, not right now and not in general. Fox has made his peace with that fact. He really has.
Quinlan leaves, then, almost in a hurry, as though there was still a possibility for Thorn to be saved.
Wolffe appears an unidentifiable amount of minutes later. Fox is still standing in the hallway, swaying from side to side, and only stops swaying when Wolffe hugs him. It’s a new thing for both of them.
“You fucking idiot,” Wolffe says, although he can’t have known what happened. “You look like absolute shit,” he adds, which is true. Wolffe doesn’t seem to care that Fox isn’t responding and Fox is thankful for it. There’s nothing either of them could really say.
Wolffe takes him to his private quarters, where Jedi General Plo Koon is waiting for them, and Fox turns a whole lot less thankful.
Plo Koon greets them, too politely, inquires if Fox is injured, too, If he had seen Quinlan already, if he was feeling alright.
“Knight Vos told me to sleep,” Fox says. Leave me alone, he means.
Plo Koon nods. His head tilts towards Wolffe. Wolffe nods subtly, and Koon continues. “That’s very sensible. Before you do, though, may I ask you a few things? If not, I understand. Your health is a priority. I’m just quite worried about this whole situation.”
Fox couldn't care less.
“Fine, Sir,” he says.
Plo Koon makes them sit across from each other at a small table, with Wolffe in between. Wolffe hasn’t said a thing since they entered this room, although he’s staring Fox down with a look that speaks volumes.
“Commander, if I may be so blunt, why are you and your men here?” Plo Koon asks.
“I cannot answer that question.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s classified.”
“What does that mean?” Wolffe asks.
“What do you think it means?” Fox bites, annoyed that this is one of the first things Wolffe says to him after a traumatic experience. Wolffe’s eye twitches.
“Why weren’t we aware that you’d be this close?” Plo Koon asks. “If we had known about you, we could’ve provided backup.”
Fox doesn’t have anything to say to that. The Chancellor’s orders rarely leave anything up for interpretation and Fox never finds himself questioning them. But because he’s tired, numb and unsure of why exactly he’s not meant to tell people, he decides to make an exception. For Thire’s sake. For Thorn’s sake, dead as he is.
“We were instructed not to interfere with the Wolfpack but I chose to go against that order to ensure the safety of Sergeant Thire.”
“You report to the Chancellor,” Wolffe says. “No one else. Right?”
Fox’s eyes dart to Plo Koon, then back to his brother. “Yes.”
“Did he send you here?”
Fox says nothing.
“Where was it you were sent to?” Plo Koon asks.
Fox considers this.
“The old factory in what remains of Tretir, Sir,” he says.
He’s said enough, apparently. Wolffe and Plo Koon exchange glances (as much as Fox is able to tell, with Koon’s mask and all), then Wolffe nods and grabs a datapad lying on his bed. He types.
“Why is Quinlan Vos here?” Fox asks.
“Tholme and I are good friends. He wanted me to take Quinlan along for some low effort journeys,” General Koon says, still looking worried. “Quinlan also did want to come. He said he had a feeling he should be here. Speaking of Quinlan, where is he?”
“Waiting for me,” Fox lies.
Plo Koon looks at him. How Wolffe can tell any of his emotions with that mask, Fox doesn’t know. He’s starting to get sweaty.
“Sir, permission to leave,” Fox quickly asks, tired of Koon’s vaguely intimidating aura.
Plo Koon tilts his head again. “Of course. I’m not keeping you here, Commander.”
“I am,” Wolffe says. “General, if you’d excuse us?”
General Koon regards Fox, turns his head to Wolffe. Then, with a wave, he leaves. Actually leaves. Listens to Wolffe when he really is in no position to follow any kind of request from his subordinate.
(And Quinlan would’ve done this too, but Plo Koon isn’t Quinlan Vos, and the General isn’t to Wolffe what Quinlan is to Fox. That much is obvious. Fox doesn’t know what to make of the almost parental relationship between Wolffe and the General, is unsure of if he approves or not, but everything is better than whatever the fuck is going on between Cody and Obi-wan Kenobi. They make Fox want to gag. Why Cody sees anything in Kenobi’s vague patheticness, Fox doesn’t know.)
Once General Koon is gone, Wolffe fixes Fox with an ice cold glare. “You and I both know you’re not supposed to be here, Fox.”
Fox opens his mouth to defend himself. Wolffe makes some motions with his hands. “Stop, I don’t need you to explain, I don’t want you to. I know you can’t. But let me fucking tell you, I am tired of things like this happening. You’re–This isn’t you. We’re not strangers, Fox, why are you acting like we are?”
What?
“I’m not–"
“Is it just you or is it the entire guard?”
Fox looks at Wolffe, which he finds himself doing a lot lately.
Wolffe bares his teeth. “Don’t act stupid. You’re the smartest person I know.” He snaps his fingers in front of Fox’s face as if to pull him out of a non existent trance. “There’s something happening and you know about it, but you won’t tell.”
“Wolffe,” Fox says. “This is me. I haven’t changed.”
“You won’t even look at me,” Wolffe says.
That’s not right. Fox has been looking at him since they saw each other in the hallway. He tries to avert his eyes and Wolffe scoots over until he’s sitting directly next to Fox, leaning into his personal space.
Silence. Then:
“You don’t look well, Fox.”
“Thanks.”
“What can I do to help?” Wolffe asks, and it’s nothing like what Fox thought he’d say. No insults, or disappointment, no anger–some anger, maybe–but no blame. Instead, it’s an offer.
Fox thinks about it. He goes over all the facts and decides that he still doesn’t care enough. Then he thinks of Hound and of Thire. Of Wolffe, Cody. And then he thinks of Quinlan.
“I’m not sure,” he ends up with.
Wolffe suddenly grabs Fox’s head with both hands, violently smacking his forehead against Fox’s.
“Ngk,” Fox says.
“Something’s going to change, vod,” Wolffe says. “We noticed now. We’ll help.”
“Noticed what, exactly?” Fox asks.
“There’s something wrong with you, Fox, and you’re not bothered enough by it. I can’t tell you more than that either. You’re not yourself, not entirely. There’s–Something’s wrong. I know it. I just need you to trust me.”
Great to know you think so highly of me, Fox thinks. But he does trust him, that’s the thing. Wolffe is Fox’s batchmate, his big brother, and he’d trust him with his life. It’s just that Fox can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s supposed to say, something he’s meant to tell him, a low feeling in his gut.
He blames it on the fact that he can’t feel much of anything right now. I wish I was dead, he wants to say. Wolffe, I don’t feel real. I don’t care anymore. Nothing matters because I’ve messed it up, I’ve messed it up, I’ve messed it all up.
But he doesn’t say any of it because Wolffe doesn’t know that Thorn is dead.
Thire wakes up after two hours. He’s asleep again by the time Fox checks on him. The only person awake is the medic who overlooks the medbay.
I’m sorry, Thire had apparently said upon coming to, again and again, each time pouring more regret into his voice. Eventually he stopped. Eventually he went very quiet and stopped speaking at all. And then he fell back asleep.
Fox and Thorn were best friends, but Thorn was Thire’s older brother. He was to Thire what Wolffe is to Fox, what Fox is trying to be for Cody–far away as Cody always is. Thorn was the one person Thire went to whenever he had something on his chest and he was the person Thire would now have to replace.
Fox stands by his cot. He’s watching Thire’s face. Lying there, Thire looks younger than he is. Or maybe he just looks his age for once. Fox can’t decide which feels worse. He reaches out and brushes a curl out of his face, and in his sleep, Thire makes a small noise, leaning into the equally as small contact.
“You did good today,” Fox says even though Thire can’t hear him. “He’ll probably promote you, Thire. You’re gonna be a Commander. You should be proud of yourself.”
The longer Fox stays away from Coruscant, the more he starts to doubt his own words. There’s flaws in that logic. Thire isn’t ready to be a Commander. He’s too young. He’s too emotional. And in the end Thire failed the same way Fox did, in every way that matters. The mission was a success but Thorn is dead. Thorn is dead and he’s going to stay dead. That’s nothing to be proud of. That’s nothing good. His death means nothing.
Fox’s heart clenches again. But he can’t let it break through his chest–He can’t let himself fall apart, not now–preferably not ever–but especially not now.
It’s midnight. Fox waits outside of the ship, sitting on the ramp. He looks into the jungle in front of him, at the dirt road, then at the sky above him. Lacing his fingers together, he watches the stars. Many of them might be dead, too, and only shine because the darkness following the light hasn’t reached this place yet.
He’s been waiting outside for hours when Quinlan returns, carrying Thorn in his arms. He shouts something. Fox can’t believe him at all.