Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts like this—with a question.

“Why do you like the Chancellor?” Quinlan asks him one day, sprawled on a couch in his office. They’ve had this conversation before, and it never fails to irk him.

“Why don’t you?” He retorts, not even bothering to look up from the stacks of documents before him, waiting for Quinlan to jab back with some witty remark, a familiar routine now.

He doesn’t. Instead, the room falls silent, a strange tension in the air. Mildly concerned, Fox tries to glance at him discreetly. The Jedi is sitting up, staring at his lightsaber with a strange look in his eyes.

“I don’t trust him,” is what he eventually settles on, a quiet admission.

“Why not? You should, the Chancellor is leading the side of the war you fight for.”

Fox signs the flimsiplast, setting it aside. He sighs. One down, another four-hundred and twenty-seven to go. He reaches for the next document, but there’s a hand atop the stack, and when he looks up to glare at Quinlan, the man simply fixes him with an equally intense gaze.

“What-”

“He’s not a good man, Fox.”

Dislike is one thing, trust is another, but to openly disrespect the man in charge of the entire Senate? The man he’s been assigned to defend? He can tolerate many things from Quinlan, but this is a line no one is allowed to cross.

He swipes at Quinlan’s hand, a quick precise cut that makes the Jedi recoil with a hiss. 

“Ow! Hey-”

Fox ignores him, snatching up the next flimsiplast.

“Respectfully, sir,” he says, a little too icily, “you should watch your words.”

For a moment, Quinlan is quiet, and even though Fox has the Force sensitivity of a rock, he can sense the shock exuding from the Jedi. Just when he thinks he might finally get some peace, Quinlan explodes.

“I don’t get it. Why are you so insistent on defending him?!” He paces frustratedly, throwing his arms in the air. Recognising he’s not about to get anymore work done, Fox stands and rounds his desk, crossing his arms to meet the Jedi’s gaze defiantly.

“Why are you so insistent on hating the Chancellor?”

“I don’t-..look, Commander. I get he’s the guy in charge of the entire Republic. He’s the head of the Senate, which in my books, just makes him one of those stuck-up ignorant Politicians-ah, no, let me finish-but! He’s a busy man running almost the entire galaxy, so fine, I get that, but then explain to me one thing: why isn’t he doing his own paperwork?”

By the end of his rant, he’s breathing heavily, no longer trying to conceal the disdain in his voice. Fox barely manages to restrain his own anger.

“The Chancellor has many responsibilities to attend to-”

“Yes, of course, I know,” Quinlan interrupts, rolling his eyes impatiently, “but it sure doesn’t feel like it. You’re his guard, Commander, not a personal secretary. You shouldn’t be doing all his paperwork for him.”

That’s the problem? That he thinks the Chancellor is overworking them? Oh, if there were a more ludicrous idea in the galaxy-

He inhales deeply. Exhales. He’s still a Commander. Quinlan is still a Jedi. It would do him no good to scream at a superior. When he finally speaks, it is with a practiced calmness.

“It’s the least I can do. It is my duty to serve the Republic, this is just one way of doing so. Besides, if I can repay even a fraction of the kindness the Chancellor shows to us clones by assisting with paperwork, then so be it.”

“Kindness?! Since when has he been kind to clones?” Quinlan exclaims, incredulous, as if the notion itself is ridiculous. Fox has never been one to back down, matching his tone in kind.

“He always has!”

“Oh really?”

Doubt. Skepticism. He doesn’t take his words seriously. Fox hates it.

“He addresses us by name-”

“What a saint that makes him.”

Sarcasm. Indifference. Fox hates it, he hates it.

“He speaks to us like we’re people, not tools-”

“And that’s the bare minimum! Does he show this ‘kindness’ to you by forcing you to do his paperwork? By exploiting his subordinates to do his dirty work for him?”

How dare he. How. Dare. He. To imply such a thing about the Chancellor he serves is-

Insolent. Treasonous. Fox forgets himself, loses his temper and snaps.

“The Chancellor never forced me! The Chancellor offered and I accepted. The Chancellor treats us with respect, which is more than I’ve ever gotten from you.”

The words slip out, bitter and venomous and it shouldn’t, but it feels so good. He opens his mouth to lash out more, to really speak his mind, but then he looks up, really looks, and Quinlan…

Fox falters.

Quinlan is distraught, his shoulders stiff, his face pale, expression one of utter hurt and disbelief. And then he shudders and curls into himself, pain melting into quiet resignation, and oh no he didn’t mean-..he never wanted-...

The words die on his tongue, all traces of anger withering away, and Fox remembers himself, regrets with a ferocity he never has before.

“I…” 

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I never wanted to hurt you, is what he means to say, but the words catch in his throat, and he drops his gaze, stares at the carpet, shame burning in the pits of his soul. There can’t be more than five steps of space between them, but the distance suddenly feels uncrossable, and briefly, he wonders if he’s ruined everything between them in a dozen hasty words.

He wants to laugh at himself, or maybe cry. Now he’s done it, and not for the first time. There goes another person, gone from his life, because of bad decisions made in split-seconds. He can’t even remember why he was so angry. What was the point? What a meaningless conversation to lose someone over. 

Quinlan turns away, and for a moment Fox thinks this is it, that the Jedi is just gonna walk out and leave without another word, but then he speaks, and his voice is soft, Fox has to strain to hear it.

“You’re right,” Quinlan says, and it feels like a knife has been slid between his ribs.

“I’m sorry. I overstepped. I haven’t been the best to you. It’s hypocritical of me to criticise the Chancellor for something I’ve failed to do myself.”

The thing is, the thing is…

Quinlan is brash. He’s loud, and arrogant, and has no regard for rules whatsoever. But he’s a Jedi, and he’s good, he’s kind. He treats Fox like he’s a real person (and that’s the bare minimum!), but most importantly, he talks to him like he’s a-...

Like-...

A friend. He treats him like a friend.

Most senators look down on him. Few respect him for his service to the Republic, even fewer eye him with something that isn’t pity or sympathy. The Chancellor thanks him for protecting him and carrying out his duties. But Quinlan…

He jokes with them. He laughs. He breaks laws and smuggles drinks in, contraband alcohol that Fox can’t help but close one eye to.

And that’s the difference, isn’t it? The good senators pop by with a request and leave with a word of thanks. Quinlan stays with takeout food from his favourite underground Coruscant restaurant and shares it around with the latest gossip.

A friend. He was a friend. And now... 

“Sir, I-”

Quinlan whirls around, smiles at him, but it’s vulnerable, and fragile, and Fox regrets .

“Thanks for telling me, Commander. I’ll leave you to it.”

He steps towards the door. Fox doesn’t stop him. It slides open, and the corridor lights cast an orange silhouette around him. He pauses in the doorway, tilting his head.

“Just…” 

A beat. Two beats.

“You forgot to eat today.” Again, he doesn’t say. Fox startles, a hand flying subconsciously to his stomach.

Oh.

“You know where the Chancellor is now.”

Not a question, because he does know. He knows everything. The Chancellor is-

Oh.

The Chancellor is at a dinner party.

“Take care, okay?”

The door slides shut with a hiss. He should check the thermostat. It shouldn’t be this cold.

Slowly, Fox turns around. The stack of paperwork from the Chancellor seems to tower over him. The thought of spending the next few hours clearing it all for the chancellor is…

The Chancellor—the title weighs heavy in his mouth now, a lingering sour taste. He drags his feet over, seats himself behind the desk. There’s a box that he hadn’t placed there, the last piece of flimsiplast he’d been looking over crumpled underneath.

With trembling hands, he reaches out, lifting the lid. A puff of steam curls around his face like a warm hug, the spicy aroma of Tiingilar filling the air.

His throat feels tight as hunger pangs in his chest, clenching painfully—he’s been a liar all evening.

The stew is only lukewarm by the time he stops shaking enough to know he won’t spill anything. Still, as he drinks it all down, he thinks of Quinlan, his smile, his voice (take care, okay?)

The next morning, when he reports to the Chancellor’s, his hands are empty and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Apologies, Chancellor, something urgent was called to my attention last night. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle the matter of paperwork on your own.”

He asks questions. He seeks out answers. He sees Quinlan twice more—once when he brings food and stilted words, the other with nothing more than a fleeting glance. Both times, Fox fails to muster up the courage to apologise. Both times, he lets Quinlan leave without another word.

All the while, he searches, he digs, and then he digs deeper. The more he looks, the more it fails to add up.

The Chancellor summons him weekly. Fox learns to take a page from Quinlan’s book. He makes excuses, fabricates diversions, falsifies other duties and lies through his teeth to the most powerful man in the galaxy. He is running out of favours to call upon and reasons to use.

That’s the other thing. The Chancellor is a powerful man—too powerful. How did he come to accumulate that much control over the Republic? Fox looks, and he doesn’t like what he sees. 

Gradually, that’s how. Slowly, over the course of the war, through Constitutional Amendments that appear necessary in a variety of crises. The Emergency Powers Act, the Reflex Amendment...Fox was never trained for politics, but the puzzle he’s piecing together is ugly.

Slowly, so no one thinks to question it. Gradually, so no one thinks twice about the amount of power the Chancellor has now.

It’s weird. It’s suspicious. And then there’s the question of the clones. Fox has investigated, made a list, catalogued his thoughts.

Here is what he knows: Palpatine is the Chancellor. The Chancellor is kind. The Chancellor treats the clones respectfully and speaks patiently to all of them. He is a good man. The general consensus is in agreement, both nat-borns and clones.

Here is what he also knows: He has no idea how or why he knows this. When he scours his memory, he cannot remember his interactions with the Chancellor in the last six months—anything earlier, and he remembers it in flashes of vaguely appeasing smiles and unspecific kind-hearted gestures. Not a single solid recollection, and when he subtly interrogates his brothers, he realises he is not an isolated case. The pattern is the same—gaps in memories surrounding the Chancellor, and despite that, iron-clad loyalty to him.

So here are the facts of the matter: he and his brothers have undeniable loyalty towards the Chancellor. He does not know why. He cannot remember why, neither can he fathom how.

The reason comes to him one night, in a stroke of horror—perhaps, their loyalty was not earned, but instilled.

Emotions are fickle. Security cameras can be tampered with. Maybe, he thinks grimly, so can emotions.

He has no evidence. No proof. Only speculations, things that can be explained away as coincidences, flukes.

Thorn comms him with a message from the Chancellor. No word from Quinlan. He is running out of time.

He takes more pages from Quinlan’s book, sneaks into restricted areas, slices into restricted folders, grasps at straws.

He is out of time.

It ends the same way it started—with a question.

In all honesty, the day had started out good. Quinlan had commed him after eleven days of total silence, and Fox would never admit the wave of relief that washed over him at the message.

From jetii: hey commander, been a while, just got done with a case, anything in particular you or the boys fancy eating?

From CC-1010: Anything will do.

From CC-1010: Stone wants something from Dex’s. Your pick.

From jetii: sir yes sir!!

From jetii: i’ll see you then <3

Fox had stared at the message, debated with himself for five minutes, then reminded himself he’s the Commander of the Coruscant Guards dammit have some courage.

From CC-1010: Hey

From CC-1010: Can we talk?

From jetii: about??

From CC-1010: I meant in person.

From CC-1010: Without my brothers.

From jetii: sure, of course

From jetii: i gtg, i’ll leave the food with Stone and swing by your office

From CC-1010: Okay.

From CC-1010: Thanks.

So that’s how he found himself cashing in the favour Senator Amidala owed him for two bottles of highly expensive Corellian whiskey, disguised as a package of casefiles to review from the Senator.

He’s walking back to his office, mulling over the current bare-bone plan of apologising to Quinlan over drinks, when he rounds the corner and sees a familiar figure waiting by his office. 

Ah fuck. He spins around, praying he wasn’t noticed, quickening his footsteps as much as he dares without drawing suspicion. 

“Commander Fox.” 

Fuck.

He stops in his tracks. Caught. Be cool, be cool.

Slowly, he turns around, voice curt.

“Chancellor.”

“It’s good to see you. Would it be too much to request you accompany me to my office? I have some rather pressing matters to discuss with you in private, if you don’t mind.”

The Chancellor smiles at him. Fox struggles to keep his heart-rate under control.

He had phrased it like a suggestion instead of a command, a question instead of a demand, and Fox meant to exploit that, spin another tale about an incident to address and make his escape, but then the Chancellor’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder and he freezes.

“Lieutenant Thire has graciously offered to take over all of your duties while you’re busy. Shall we then, Commander?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. At least he has his helmet on, he’s not sure he wouldn’t have given it all away with his expression. He shrugs away the hand, eyes the Chancellor cautiously. 

“Of course, sir. If you would excuse me for a moment, I’ll put this down in my office.”

A statement, not a question. Fox has spent enough time around silver-tongued Politicians and witty Jedi to pick up a few things.

He keys into his office and steps past him, feeling the Chancellor’s eyes on his back. Writing a note now would be too risky. In the event he does not, in fact, manage to get away from the Chancellor by sundown, he’ll just have to hope this box is conspicuous enough to Quinlan for him to use his special Force ability on. At least then he won’t think Fox stood him up.

If he plays his cards right, that won’t be necessary. If he doesn’t, well…

“If that is all, Commander, let’s be on our way.”

He’s already slipped up. He can’t afford to hesitate anymore. He steels himself, whirls around and hurries to the Chancellor’s side. He nods politely.

They set off towards the Chancellor’s office, Fox following a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. Fox can’t help but feel like he’s walking into something he won’t be able to walk away from.

Sorry, Quinlan. Guess you won’t be seeing me after all.

Chapter Text

Please.

He sprints down the corridor, skidding around the corner. 

Please, please please.

He doesn’t run into anyone on the way, not with the strength of the Force suggestion he’s putting out, more a repellent than a suggestion really—turn away, go around, don’t take this route, nothing to see here, none of your business, nobody is here nope no one at all.

At best, Politicians are a nuisance, but at worst they’re a hindrance to his Mission, and they cannot get in his way, not for this. No one is allowed to interfere with him. Honestly, even if a senator were to somehow get around his Force influence and appear he would run them over because fuck all of them (most of them...all of them...?)

Please be there.

One, three, seven...how many doors was it, is he even on the right floor, Force he should have paid attention that one time Fox told him.

Please don’t let me be too late.

Here, it should be here. He considers knocking for half a second, because this is the Chancellor’s office, but he never knew how to respect hierarchies anyway and he’s out of patience. He jams at the control panel and slams against the door with his body, expecting it to swing open, but it doesn’t give because of course it’s locked.

Eh, Fox’ll forgive him. Probably. And he doesn’t care for the Chancellor’s.

He slices the lock without a second thought, bursting through the door before it even slides fully open. Immediately, a flood of acrid darkness overwhelms his senses, and he struggles not to stagger at it, and then again at the sight before him. He swallows down the panic, and maybe also bile, stumbling to his knees in front of Fox—Fox, sprawled against the wall, bloodied, motionless, so so still Quinlan can't even tell if he's breathing, he might be dead, oh Force what if he's dead-

Trying to will away the tremble in his hands, he reaches around the back of Fox's head and unclasps the seal, pulling off his helmet, a movement somehow both gentle and hasty. He presses two fingers to Fox's exposed neck, searches, maybe even prays.

"Don't you dare, Fox, don't you dare-"

A dark-hooded man with piercing yellow eyes leans in close, caressing his cheek, and he feels dirty, violated, but he’s frozen at attention and he can’t move away, can’t do anything besides scream in his own head, trapped, trapped, trapped-

“Commander, you were of great help to me, but I’m afraid your usefulness has expired.”

The control relinquishes. He falls with a shuddering gasp, a marionette with strings cut. And then...and then…

Pain. Excruciating pain. It burns through every fibre of his body, burning, just burning, he feels like he’s on fire, maybe he is on fire, but he can’t see, can’t breathe, only agony and screaming and chilling laughter and let it end please let it end no more no more-

“I think not. I think your insolence must be dealt with appropriately. You must be punished for the nuisance you’ve become. You were so obedient in the beginning too, how disappointing. I might have granted you a quick end had you followed my orders, what a shame.”

Merciless force closes around his throat, strangling him, hauling him up off the floor into the air and-he’s going to die right here, an excruciating death, but not right now, because he’s being played around with like a toy, his death drawn out for a sadist’s pleasure, and it’s cruel, it’s torturous, it hurts so much, no more, please no more, it hurts, it hurts, everything hurts-

“Do you know what you could have cost me, clone? You nearly ruined it all. I have worked too long and hard for the likes of you to hinder me.”

Falling, falling, falling, the sheer rage, the darkness, it all threatens to devour him alive, and he can’t breathe around his own fear.

“Die here then, clone. Die.”

The pressure around his neck lets up, only to fling him backwards, crashing hard into something solid. Something cracks, him or the wall—or is it a desk?—he has no idea. All he knows is pain. Blinding white hot pain, it hurts, it hurts so much, please, end me, end me-

“To die in this office, in the heart of the Core, surrounded by ignorant people, how ironic. There are senators working a floor below, the Jedi live just a few sectors over. How does it feel, clone, knowing that not a single one of these million people will notice you gone?”

Why won’t it end? It hurts...it hurts the most how right the words are. He’s just one in a million, a million other identical brothers, all invisible to the world, he might have been at the top but still, he’s nothing special, nothing unique, ultimately he’s still just a clone to be used and discarded, negligible, forgettable, replaceable-

“Ah, so you do know your worth. Tragic. It might have spared you the agony.”

Something wet and sticky seeps under his armour, into his blacks. Laughter. A door slides open. He doesn’t have the energy to look up, he’s tired, so tired...the darkness closes in, and he fights, but it is all-powerful, and he’s just so tired, he wants it all to stop, it hurts so much-

“And now, you will die alone. Your demise will be a sweet release to you, and a good riddance to me. I shall return, long after the blood has drained from your cold body, to dispose of your corpse. Until then, steep in the consequences of your actions, and suffer .”

The door shuts. Locks. He’s alone. Trapped. Hurting beyond salvation. And yet, as the darkness beckons at him, the chill settling into his bones, hot liquid slipping down his face, a name pops into his mind, warm and safe.

He was wrong—both of them. There is someone who would notice, one person who would raze all the buildings to the ground to look for him, one person who wouldn’t rest until then. He knows exactly who will find him, come bursting into this room with a reckless abandon unbecoming of a Jedi, only to find him sitting in a puddle of his own cooling blood.

Somehow, that hurts most—maybe it would have hurt less if no one had cared at all, because then no one would have to carry the burden, because then the one person who does care wouldn’t have to be traumatised when he finds his mutilated body.

Can he see the memories of the dead too? He’d never thought to ask, but then again, why would he?

Sorry , he thinks anyway, helplessly, desperately, as the darkness claims him and draws him into its grasp.

I’m sorry, Quinlan, sorry for everything .

A pulse, fluttering weakly under his shaking fingers. Quinlan wrenches his hand away with a cry, skin tingling, phantom pain dancing through his muscles. He almost crumples from the amalgamation of emotions he feels right now. 

Alive, Fox is still alive, he could cry from relief. He’s not dead.. yet. 

But they are so far from being out the woods, not with the blood pooling under them and the electrical burns—Quinlan can see them now, recognise them now that he’s up close and he wants to vomit—and the rattling breaths slowing with each exhale and-

"I’m here, Fox, I’m here, you stupid, stupid-you’re wrong, you idiot, wrong. I didn’t come here for a-..a recovery. This will not be a recovery op, you hear me? This is a rescue mission, so you better get your ass up-...”

He’s tempted to tear a strip of cloth off his clothes and use it to staunch the blood, but the red is everywhere and he can’t see where it’s coming from and he’s never hated Fox’s red armour more. He doesn’t have the time to strip him of it, nor the time to peel away his blacks and find the source. Their best chance is to get him emergency medical ASAP for proper assessment and treatment. Even with his next moves cemented, Quinlan’s not foolish enough to believe survival rate is anything but bleak and it’s devastating.

“Fox, you're gonna have to wake up now, buddy. I told you not to overwork yourself," he laughs, right side of hysterical, ignoring the sting in his eyes and his hands still tremour.

“Won’t you show me those pretty eyes of yours? You know how much I like them,” and what the fuck is he even saying anymore. He never really had a filter before but what little he had is well and truly gone. The flirty remark spills from his mouth thoughtlessly but it’s pointless, useless, meaningless, without Fox there to jab back and make some witty retort and-…

Force, what’s he doing? Why’s he missing and mourning someone not yet gone? He’s a Jedi, a Shadow no less, he knows all the shortcuts and secret entrances back to the Temple and his commander is right in front of him within arm’s reach, but he’s here panicking like an idiot.

He channels the Force, gathers himself and tries one more time, shakes Fox lightly, insistent, voice cracking.

"Come on, please please please, you've gotta wake up.”

And Quinlan’s about to crumble away because a hint of Force suggestion might have slipped in there but there’s still no response, and he's so still. Gingerly, he slides an arm under Fox's knees, wraps the other around his body and hoists him up. In his arms, cradling him close, his commander's head lolls against his chest, and Quinlan's heart clenches painfully as he blinks away the flashes of memories not his own.

"Force, Fox, don't do this to me, come on, you'll be alright, you have to be alright..."

Next course of action: getting the fuck outta here. He scans the room once more, yanks Fox's helmet into his hand with the Force, then sweeps out the door, moving as fast as he can without jostling Fox too much. He mustn't have been very good at that, because two corridors down, Fox's head shifts against his chest, ever so slightly.

Hope. Quinlan glances down, and unfocused brown eyes squint up at him, half-open.

“There you are, there you are, Commander,” he chokes, against the lump in his throat and the blur in his vision. 

“Had to get back at me, didn’t you? I couldn’t be the only one bleeding out onto your office carpets every other week, huh? You just had to one-up me there too,” he laughs wetly. Perhaps he’s going insane. 

The corner of Fox's lips twitch up in a ghost of a smile, and his eyes may be glazed but miraculously his commander must recognise him because there's no denying the sheer awe and..and adoration reflected in them.

"Quin..." he breathes, so soft, so vulnerable, and Force if it doesn't hurt so much. 

He wanted to hear his name on Fox's tongue, wanted to reach the day when he wasn’t just “sir” or “General” or even “Vos”. He wanted them to finally be able to see each other without all the walls of formality and duty between each other, but not like this, never like this.  

If he wasn't so damn scared right now, he might have had time to parse through all the emotions charged in the slurred murmur of half his first name. As it is, he's terrified, he's frantic, there’s blood dripping down his arms and he's on the verge of collapsing, but time is slipping away, and so is Fox, his Force signature a dimming glow, and Quinlan clings to it like a lifeline, holds himself together by the barest frayed threads and blinks away the burn in his eyes, pushes on.

"I..I've got you…I've got you now, so you better not die on me, you hear?”

Fox wheezes mirthlessly, mumbling a jumble of syllables Quinlan somehow understands.

“…must be…far along for you t’……” he trails off, eyes sliding shut again.

Desperation sinks its claws into Quinlan. He shovels the fear and anger into the Force like he never has before, and it feels much like trying to drain a flood with a pail.

“To what? Not want you to die? Come on, Fox, you don’t think so lowly of me now, do you?” He says distractedly, trying to calculate the quickest route back to the Temple without encountering anyone.

His words are nothing more than a half-hearted joke, but Fox shakes his head, wincing at the movement. 

“Hey, it’s okay, don’t move-”

Fingers tug at Quinlan’s shirt weakly, and he looks down again, meeting Fox’s flickering gaze. Later, Quinlan would wonder what made him say it—a pain-induced delirium, or maybe an adrenaline-fueled haze from teetering on the brink of death. He’ll never know. All he knows is he’ll never forget.

“…probably…too much of th..the opposite…”

The words crash into him with the force of a Venator-class ship, he breaks stride with the slightest pause. He allows himself a half-step falter, half a second for the barrage of thoughts and questions to flit through his mind, gripping him with joy and dismay.

Then he shoves it all away, pushes enough emotions into the Force to rival Obi Wan and presses onwards.

Fox is silent in his arms again, maybe even lost to unconsciousness, he can’t bear to look. Instead, he bounces him lightly, speaks to him with a fevered determination a better Jedi would’ve frowned upon.

“Hey…hey. I swear on the Force, Fox, if that was a confession, if you confessed to me now and then have the audacity to die on me, I swear, I swear-...”

He’s broken too many laws in too many ways to stop now. He stops short, before a full-length glass window. Outside, the sky is painted an array of warm colours as the evening sets in, traffic building up in winding lines of ships around the buildings, and beyond all this, the Jedi temple.

The corridor behind him is lined with offices, and distantly he wonders if the senators inside will hear him, if there are any there. Not that it matters much.

The Force buzzes around him as he calls on it. The window shatters outwards, refracting the sunset in a shower of shimmering fragments. Maybe a door opens behind him, and someone shouts, but he can’t be sure. He leaps out, into the city, above the rush-hour craze, propelling through the air with ease. The Force guides him, lowers him down so that he lands lightly in a crouch on a rooftop. He spares a glance behind him.

The window from which he jumped looks like a speck from here. He breathes in deep, pushing off, bounding from rooftop to rooftop. If he’s mapped it out correctly in his head, with the amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins and the Force at his fingertips, he should reach the Jedi temple in under ten minute. Before the last daylight disappears, maybe before whoever was back in that building realises what’s happened and the news gets around to the Sith, before Fox-...

Fox is still silent, hasn’t made a noise since that—dare he call it a confession? And yet, Quinlan talks anyway, pleading to him or maybe the air or himself or no one at all, so much for being a Shadow. (“You never know how to shut up do you?” “Nope! Don’t lie, Commander, you enjoy it.”) 

“Stay with me, Fox, stay with me. We’re almost there so please…”

The tears finally break free, but they’re lost to the wind. In the distance, the Jedi Temple crawls closer.

“Don’t go.”

A prayer. A chant. He repeats it, over and over, even when he finally arrives at the Temple grounds.

“Don’t go.”

Even when he barrels past younglings and brushes past Masters. 

“Don’t go, please.”

Even when the Healers pry his hands loose and take Fox from him, ushers him back through the door and shuts him out.

Standing there, alone, unmoored in the corridors of the Halls of Healing, he feels himself unravelling under the weight of the past hour. He slides down, back against the wall, and presses his forehead to the bloodied helmet still clutched in his hands, mutters to himself, to the Force, to anyone listening at all, once more, fervently.

“Please don’t let him go.”

Chapter Text

The first time he wakes is a chaotic affair. An abrupt, messy affair. It’s a finger-snap moment, he’s blissfully out one moment and yanked into cruel wakefulness the next.

His ears ring, those terrible words locked in a torturous loop, echoing all through his mind, reverberating through his skull— Die here then, clone. Die. Die here then, clone. Die. Die here then, clone. Die .

Those hideous yellow eyes tear into his soul and the cold slick darkness squeezes around him. He chokes on his own fear and he can’t breathe, can’t breathe. He’s dying, he remembers, he’s dying and he shouldn’t but he wanted it, if only to end the pain, if only to stop the hurting and the suffering and be free of this nightmare-

Die here then, clone. Die. How does it feel, clone, knowing that not a single one of these million people will notice you gone?

He’s dying, he’s dying, and he failed his mission. He didn’t tell the Jedi, didn’t tell his brothers, didn’t get to tell anyone, and they don’t know, no one knows, they’re all going to die -

“No one is dying, Fox, please, calm down.”

Someone...is here. Someone’s here and oh he needs to tell them, he needs to...he’s dying, they’re all dying and they don’t even know it, they don’t know, and he needs to tell them before it’s too late and he’s a failure, failure, failure .

“Please, Fox stop, just stop, you’re safe, you’re okay now, I…”

Someone is here, someone’s...that...voice……

Ah. So he made it after all. If only he’d cared a little less, maybe he’d have been a little slower. Maybe he’d have found a corpse instead, that would’ve hurt him less, probably. At least he wouldn’t have to watch. At least it would’ve spared him that.

“Don’t say that, Force, don’t say that . Come on, you’re okay, please…”

He forces his eyes open, and his vision swims, but this is important, this is everything, if he can die having accomplished this then maybe, maybe it’d have been worth it after all, maybe, maybe...

“No, lie back down, you’re not dying please-”

A barely there pinprick in his arm. 

“N-No…”

He struggles, kicks and flails until his feet connect with something, or someone, he doesn’t know. 

“Stop, s-stop!”

There’s shouting, cursing, the scrape of metal against the floor. He flings his arm out, shoves at the hands holding him down and the distinct sound of something shattering fills his ears.

The room is spinning and the lights are blinding but he squints past the coloured blurs, launches forward and just grabs . His fingers curl into fabric, and there’s more shouting, more pulling, but there’s familiar brown eyes and yellow tattoos so he clings tighter.

“Chancellor, it’s the Chancellor,” he feels his mouth move, but he can’t hear his own voice and the words are jumbled together on his tongue.

He swallows, tries again, tugs a little too insistently, speaks a little too slurred.

“The Chancellor, Palpatine, he’s...he’s the one, he’s the…”

He’s slipping, the dark creeping in at the edges of his vision and he’s out of time. Still, Quinlan stares down at him, bewildered, not understanding, why isn’t he understanding -

“Wait wait! Fox-..I don’t-..who? The one what?”

“The one . The only one. You know, you know …”

He’s fading. Warm fingers pry at his, guiding him back down.

“It’s okay, just go to sleep, go-”

Worried eyes. A warm grip. The darkness calls to him, nudging at his mind. He shakes his head, fights, even though he can’t feel his own panic anymore and the sense of urgency is dissipating away.

“No! You must...Chancellor...war…”

Listen to me, just this once listen to me please.

“The one...the one behind everything...behind it all...the war…”

The last of his energy drains away and he sighs, murmurs last words.

“...him…was always..him……”

Wondering if he was ever heard, he drifts away.

When he next wakes, he has forgotten it all.

Bacta. 

That’s his first thought, as he slips into consciousness. The distinct scent of bacta and the stickiness in his mouth. 

Medbay, then.

The next thing he realises, as he blinks his eyes open, is that someone has graciously dimmed the lights. It appears he was mistaken about being in the Medbay though because the ceiling and walls are not sterile white. Still, there are bandages swathing his body, he can feel the material wrapped around his torso, so where-

“You’re awake.”

Shit . He’s not alone. He jerks his head to the side towards the voice, immediately regretting the movement as pain lances through his skull.

“Hey, hey easy, it’s just me.”

Despite being more awake, it still takes a moment for the voice to click in his brain, and then-

“...Quinlan?”

He squints, eyes focusing on the figure, and sure enough, the Jedi is seated right next to his bed, leaning forward in a very uncomfortable-looking chair, expression concerned but relieved. 

He opens his mouth to speak further, but he’s abruptly made aware of how dry his throat is, with the lingering taste of bacta on his tongue. Quinlan helps him up, propping a pillow behind him, and holds a glass steady to let him sip from it.

“Thanks,” he croaks, voice still hoarse from disuse. He clears his throat for good measure before speaking again.

“Are you okay?” He asks, noting the weariness in his frame, the rumpled state of his hair and clothes. 

Quinlan scoffs, crossing his arms with a roll of his eyes.

“You tell me. I’m not the one fresh out of bacta.”

The smile on his face undermines all his efforts to appear stern. So do the worrisome bags under his eyes.

“How long have you been here?”

Quinlan quirks an eyebrow.

“You know, I really thought you would be more concerned about yourself, seeing as,” he gestures, “you’re the one in bed right now?”

“I’m alive, that’s more than I expected,” he jokes, but it’s the wrong thing to say, because Quinlan’s expression falls.

“Fox-”

Oh no, he can’t hear this right now.

“Just tell me.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, where Quinlan is clearly weighing the merits of pressing it. Luckily for him, Quinlan sighs, relenting.

“As long as you have, which, before you ask, it’s been six days since…” he cuts himself off, gaze hardening, “ since .”

“Ah,” he says, by way of response, because he’s really not sure how to reply. Quinlan sits back in his chair, folding his legs.

“You’re in the Halls of Healing by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

“Halls of Healing?”

“The Jedi Temple. It’s where I brought you.”

There’s more to it, and he kind of expects Quinlan to tell him what, but the silence settles and Quinlan doesn’t elaborate any further. Fox has the distinct feeling he’s missing something, but he has no idea how to approach it. He fights the urge to pick at his nails.

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

Oh. Oh no . 

He sorts through his memories hurriedly, filing away all the questions picking at his mind.

“I don’t...last I remember I was…”

Oh.

He inhales shakily, pressing a hand to his racing heart.

Alive. He’s still alive.

“I was dying.”

Quinlan flinches. His expression darkens, broiling with anger, but his voice is soft and soothing when he speaks.

“Yes, you were.”

He looks down, staring at his own trembling hands.

“I was hurt.”

“Yes.”

“It was bad.”

“Yes.”

“I should have died-”

“No.” 

A beat. Then, softer still.

“...maybe. It was...close. Your injuries were severe. For a long time we weren’t sure when-... if your condition would improve. You were in a coma for three days, bacta for the rest, before and after. It wasn’t until yesterday morning that they were sure you’d make it. Vokara told me if I were a minute later…”

His voice wavers, then dies. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Fox doesn’t need him to. Another thought occurs to him. He straightens hastily, ignoring the flare of pain.

“Woah, Fox don’t-”

“The Chancellor! He-”

“I know.”

He stills, staring at Quinlan wide-eyed.

“You do?”

“You were awake. Once. Do you remember?”

He combs through his memories again, but his head hurts and he presses his fingers to his temple, closing his eyes and growling in frustration. 

“Hey, don’t push yourself. You’re not fully recovered yet,” Quinlan murmurs, fingers brushing through the curls of his hair as he pulls his hands away. 

For a moment, Fox wishes he would run his fingers through his hair and massage his scalp. As soon as he realises what he’s just imagined, though, he shoots the traitorous thought dead and holds back the blush threatening to spread across his face by sheer force of will.

Instead, he focuses on the missing patch of hair he’s just noticed, and the gap in his memories.

“…I don’t remember...”

Quinlan laughs bitterly, shaking his head.

“No, of course you don’t.”

He sobers, his gaze growing distant.

“It was...messy. You broke from the coma. I don’t think you realised, but you were mumbling to yourself, moving too much. Delirious, probably. You were hurting yourself, and we couldn’t get you to calm down. The healers, they tried to put you back under too, but then you said things, about the Chancellor, about the war, told me all sorts of things that didn’t make sense, but enough for me to put the pieces together.”

Quinlan recounts as if he were there himself ( he’s been here all this time, don’t you think he really was? ) but there’s a detached sense to it, a numbness to his words, like it pained him to recall, like he’s rehearsed it all before, how to say this to Fox. Maybe he has.

“You were sent back to sleep. I was sent to the Council to call an emergency meeting.”

He falls quiet. Fox shoves down the tangle of anxiety. They’re both alive and here, so all must be well, right?

“And?” He prompts, as patiently as possible. “What happened?”

Quinlan bites his lip, as if he’s unsure how to go on and has to work himself up to it. Fox has never known him to be hesitant, and it’s scaring him.

“Is-”

“He’s dead.”

Fox’s question withers away on his tongue. His brain short-circuits.

“What?”

“The Chancellor. He’s dead.”

What. The. Fuck .

Quinlan must read that on his face because he quickly explains.

“The Chancellor was actually a Sith Lord by the name of Darth Sidious. He was the one working with Dooku, and they facilitated the creation of the clones some ten years ago, with the purpose of ending the Jedi through the inhibitor chips implanted in all of you and a list of orders to obey.”

Sith Lord? Ending the Jedi? Inhibitor chips?

“A GAR-wide comm black-out was issued and safe removal of the chips began as all Council members present on Coruscant went to confront him. Three out of the five council members that went were killed trying to subdue him. Windu lost an arm, Kenobi fell out a window, but they did it. He’s dead, and so is Grievous. Dooku surrendered, and the Separatists are currently in peace negotiations with the Republic. All the chips have been removed, including yours. The war is over.”

His mind is reeling. Six days, and it feels like the entire galaxy turned upside down without him. It’s a lot, too much, and apparently there’s more because Quinlan’s not finished talking.

“The Jedi are working on integrating you and your brothers into the Order as a faction of your own, and Kenobi’s working on drafting a bill to secure citizenship for all of you. With input from your brothers, of course. And some senators. The good ones.”

He’s barely moved at all, but he feels out of breath. He collapses back against the pillows, struggling for words.

“That’s…”

“A lot to take in, I know.”

Quinlan pats his arm sympathetically. It’s not the most information he’s had to digest in his life, but it sure feels like it. He’s trying to process it, he really is, but his head aches and it hurts to think.

“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have dumped all that on you in one go. I just didn’t want to keep you in the dark any longer than necessary. I thought you deserved to know what’s happened,” Quinlan rubs his head apologetically. 

Despite his building migraine, Fox’s heart warms.

“No, you’re right, thanks for telling me. I just…”

“Need some time?”

Fox laughs shakily.

“Yeah.”

“Of course, and you have it. All the time in the world now.”

He wonders if he misheard the fondness in Quinlan’s tone. The room is starting to spin and his head is pounding.

Great. Just a few galaxy-shattering revelations and all his energy is drained.

“I think,” he swallows around his pride, shutting his eyes, “I think I need to lie down again.”

“It’s okay, I think you’ve been awake too long,” Quinlan chuckles.

He hears Quinlan shift, the chair scratching against the floor. His skin tingles where Quinlan tucks the pillows back under his neck, guiding him to lie flat.

“Just rest, I’ll be here when you wake.”

Somehow, even though Quinlan’s under no obligation to keep a mere clone like him company, no guarantee that he won’t be called away for some issue or another, Fox doesn’t doubt it. He just sets his thoughts aside and lets himself slip back under the assurance of unknowingness. 

Floating away, he wonders if he imagines the warm press of lips against his forehead...

Chapter Text

There is a distinct lack of sensation in his entire left arm. This is, of course, alarming. He doesn’t think he had any issue moving his arms the last time he woke...not that he can remember anyway, and he remembers having memory issues.

Slowly, he inches himself to wakefulness, bearily blinking his eyes open. The room is darker than before, the lights dimmed to the lowest setting. Upon looking down, the reason for that and the numbness in his arm becomes apparent. Despite himself, he smiles bemusedly.

Slumped over on his bed, arms folded under his chin, Quinlan slumbers, entirely oblivious to Fox’s musings.

Just rest, I’ll be here when you wake.

The whispered reassurance comes to mind, and now, staring down and the sleeping Jedi, Fox can’t help but chuckle quietly to himself. Guess he never did specify if he would be awake himself when I woke, he thinks to himself, endeared anyway. 

Like this, Quinlan looks peaceful...content. Perhaps, if his hand weren’t trapped underneath Quinlan, he would have been tempted to reach out and pet his mussed up hair. As it is, maybe that’s just for the better.

Fox is...glad. Quinlan deserves the rest, probably needs it badly. He remembers the purple bags under his eyes, the exhaustion in his frame when they last spoke. Did the Jedi lose sleep over him? (Of course he did, he waited six days by your bedside for you to wake, what do you think that means?)

Careful not to jostle Quinlan, he pushes himself upright, into a sitting position, satisfied when the room doesn’t begin spinning. 

Six days…and so much has changed. He sighs, mentally recapping—war: over, palpatine: dead Sith Lord, clones: chipped and actually created to kill the Jedi but hey at least now they’re free and becoming a part of their Order.

Okay. Okay. This is fine. He’ll get used to it with..time. He just needs to give himself time.

Chipped…the unfounded loyalty, the inability to disobey him, it all makes sense now. They were..were wired to be obedient to him. He felt violated before, when Palpatine controlled his body like a droid and played with him like a toy, but inhibitor chips? 

No word can properly express how defiled he feels. The clones barely own anything, but at the very least he thought he owned his own person, he thought he owned his mind and body, the bare fucking minimum. (no you didn’t, it belonged to the Republic, it always did) To have his body listen to Palpatine instead of his own damn mind, to learn that a single verbal command could have wiped all of their minds…

Stars, they didn’t even have that. They really..they really had nothing at all.

“…mmmngh…Fox?”

He jolts out of his thoughts, looking down. Quinlan blinks drowsily back at him, yawning, and Fox files his thoughts aside, swallows down a coo.

“Are you…okay? You were thinking rather loudly,” Quinlan asks worriedly, voice still husky from sleep.

Fox shakes his head, smiling softly. Jedi and their Force osik.

“Just..thinking about everything. Did I wake you? You can go back to sleep if you’re still tired.”

Quinlan sits up, stretching his arms as he rouses himself fully. Fox determinedly does not look where his shirt rides up a little.

“Nah, I slept enough.”

“Good, that’s good.”

He can feel the feeling in his left arm returning, blood flowing back into the veins in pinprick sensation of pins and needles. Gently flexing the muscles—still tender and sore, but no longer throbbing with pain like the last time he woke—he raises a teasing eyebrow at Quinlan. 

“Rest well? Looks like I’m the one here when you wake.”

Quinlan’s cheeks dust pink with embarrassment.

“Ah…sorry, I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“Don’t apologise, you looked like you needed it.” Besides, it was cute. 

As soon as he thinks it, his heart flutters and he shoves it out the mental airlock. Vaguely he wonders if psychometry includes mind-reading, or if it’s just that obvious on his face, because Quinlan grins as if he knows , as if he’d said the thought aloud. Fortunately, he doesn’t mention it. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Better actually, thank you.”

A lot better, in fact. He’s a little surprised about that himself. His head doesn’t ache like it did before, and he didn’t need help sitting up this time. Actually…

“How long has it been?”

Quinlan shrugs, fishing through his clothes for his chronometer.

“Don’t know, probably only half a day though,” then, as if reading his mind again, “don’t worry, you weren’t out for another six days, you just looked like you were in a lot of pain last time, so I told Vokara and she adjusted your meds, gave you another hypo for the pain too.”

So, not magically recovered then. Just under pain meds.

…yeah, maybe his thought process is still a little woozy.

“It was late-night early-morning last you were awake, and it’s,” Quinlan pulls out his chrono with a triumphant noise, squinting at the numbers, “early-noon of the next day right now, so you basically had a full night’s sleep.”

A pause. Then a sigh as he flops back in his chair.

“Which is more than I was ever able to convince you to get in the war.”

Jedi and their dramatics, he rolls his eyes. Quinlan smiles at him, meets his deadpan stare headon with a gleeful little laugh, it almost feels like-…

The guilt that’s been simmering around in his chest for weeks bubbles to the surface again, remembering their argument, his cruel thoughtless words.

Quinlan must sense the shift in atmosphere, because his smile changes, takes on an edge of sadness, and he stands. His back pops audibly as he does, in several places, and Fox suppresses a sympathetic wince.

“Water? Food? I only have fruit because apparently people have this stupid idea that you can only bring fruits as get-well gifts. Well, except Obi Wan, but Vokara’s no fun and she’ll confiscate whatever he brings because ‘it’s unhealthy’,” he finger-quotes in the air, keeping a light-hearted tone as he moves about the room, turning up the lights and fetching a glass.

Now that the room’s not shadowed in monochrome shades of darkness (do you mean, now that Quinlan’s drawn your attention to it? Since that’s all your attention has been on) he notices the baskets and baskets of fruits, all shapes and colours, crammed onto the bedside counter, with a couple of ribbons and a handful of cards.

“Who…” his throat feels dry. Maybe Quinlan was right about the water. He saunters over with a filled glass, gesturing off-handedly.

“A mix of everyone, really. Your brothers, mine, a couple of senators, I mean there’s gotta be a rare fruit in there that cost some dozen hundred credits from Amidala. Also the drawing’s a group effort by some younglings. I think Ahsoka roped them into doing it.”

Fox accepts the glass, drinking up the cool liquid to hide the lump in his throat. When he finishes, the right words still evade him. Quinlan squeezes his wrist, taking the empty glass from him to set aside as he finds his words. Fox can almost feel his heat through his glove’s thin material.

“I don’t…why?” He finally manages, a touch too emotional.

He’s confused. So confused. He’s never been showered with this much attention before, positive attention, however indirect it may be. all these well-wishes in the form of gifts…he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Quinlan turns to him, expression patient and understanding. 

“Why? Because you saved the galaxy. You might not have realized yet, but you’re a galactic hero Fox. Because of you, the war’s over, the galaxy’s settling into peace. Without you, we would never have exposed the Sith Lord’s real identity, or uncovered his plans before they came to fruition.” 

He smiles, and a part of Fox’s soul trembles, quivering, giving way. As Quinlan speaks, he reaches for one of the fruits, peeling away its delicate skin.

“Do you understand? You stopped a Sith Lord tyrant from rising to power and committing a galaxy-wide genocide on the Jedi. You prevented you and your brothers from having your minds enslaved into executing a massacre. You…you saved lives, a lot of lives, and people—or more specifically, clones and Jedi—are clamoring to thank you.”

Quinlan strips off the last of the fruit’s peel, offering it to him whole.

“Foremost of all being me, of course.” 

A hundred unbearable emotions burst at the seams of his glass heart. 

“Oh,” he breathes out, fragile.

Oh, he thinks, as he bites into the fruit’s flesh, exploding in his mouth, fresh and juicy and sweet, testament to people’s gratefulness, and a little something else, something…

O h.

Fox busies himself with devouring the fruit, ignoring the sting in his eyes, the quaver in the bowels of his being. He breaks off slices, hands them to Quinlan, who takes them wordlessly, looks away politely and begins talking about one thing or another, silly inconsequential little things to lift the mood.

The effort at distraction is kind but unnecessary. Fox allows it for the span of time it takes him to finish the fruit and scrape together the bare threads of his collectedness. 

Then, he figures, since they’re already in the middle of wading through sentimentality, no better time than now to address the bantha in the room. Quinlan probably avoided the conversation to give him space, waiting on him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Fox isn’t comfortable, but he takes a deep breath and steps into the deep end.

“Listen, about what I said…”

Incredibly, Quinlan’s head shoots up, his eyes sparkling with dawning hope.

“You remember?”

Not even ten words in, and Fox has an inkling they are not on the same page. This…will be harder than he thought.

“How could I forget? I…insulted you to your face,” his mouth twists in disdain, at himself, always at himself.

“Oh. That.”

The Jedi smoothens his expression, an admirable attempt at hiding his disappointment. Clearly, Fox doesn’t remember what Quinlan wants him to.

Right. Memory issues. 

“Why? Did I say something else?” 

“Ah, No no…” he says quickly, a little too quickly, then, “well, sort of…”

Fox fixes him with an unimpressed look.

“Sort of? How could I have sort of said something?”

“…It’s nothing,” he mutters, evasive.

“But-”

“You were saying?”

A beat. Fox considers pressing the matter, but Quinlan has let him off the hook once, and he does have things to say, so he returns the favour and drops it. 

“What I told you that evening…” he pauses, turning over the words on his tongue, speaking slowly, “it was wrong of me, to compare you to the Chancellor like that. You’re nothing like him, you’re better, you always were. You were just worried about me and I should’ve seen that, but instead, I just disregarded you…”

Regret, the same one he’s been carrying for weeks on end ever since, catches him in a chokehold, coiling tight under his ribcage. He bows his head in shame.

“I was the one who was disrespectful, not you. I meant to apologise to you over drinks that day but…well, you know.” 

He closes his eyes. That’s still not an apology. What he really needs to say is-

“I’m…sorry.”

There. A weight lifts off his shoulders. Even if Quinlan never speaks to him again, he can rest easier knowing the wrong was righted.

Easier, because he could never rest easy if Quinlan never speaks to him again. And because he can never really forgive himself for hurting Quinlan—the pain in the Jedi’s expression is branded into his brain, he will never forget.

Now, when Fox’s gaze flicks upwards with trepid anticipation, Quinlan’s face is unreadable. The suspense hangs in the air suffocatingly. And then…and then…

Incredulously, Quinlan smiles, wide and mischievous, and relief crashes over him.

“So…you admit that I was right and you were wrong?”

Wait.

His mind stutters to a stop. 

“Well…yes, but-”

Quinlan, honest to stars, lets out a whoop.

“Nope! No take-backs! Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guards just admitted to being wrong about something and I will be holding this over you for at least a year.”

“T-that..that was not my intention!” He splutters, because he meant to apologise not have his vulnerability exploited for blackmail. “I said so many other more important things, but that is what you chose to focus on?!”

Quinlan barks out a laugh, waving him off.

“Ehhh, better than the Sith? True. Nothing like him? Highly—and I mean highly—debatable.”

He gestures at himself, as if that was supposed to explain anything. He opens his mouth to rebut, because he didn’t just pitch an apology speech to the Jedi for him to turn around and imply shit about himself, but then Quinlan holds up a finger (strike three, he really needs to find out if Jedi can mind-read) and pouts at him. (oh no he’s cute) 

“I know I know, don’t get your pretty little head in a twist. Honestly, you didn’t need to apologize for that . I kinda needed to hear what you said.” 

“Sure, and Loth Cats fly. Very funny.” He stares flatly at the other.

“Really! I wasn’t being the best to you.”

“You don’t need to be. You’re good as it is, more than enough really.”

He half-expects Quinlan to retort something witty back, but the other blinks at him, and then he replays his own words in his head and mentally slaps himself. That was a little too close to exposing his true feelings.

“Well, I’m just glad I’ve got leverage over you now if you try to say you’re ‘always right’,” Quinlan recovers quickly, before the silence can drag into awkwardness, but he’s wearing the same strange expression from earlier, like he can’t decide between hope or disappointment.

Fox really, really wishes he could remember what or why. He opts for a straight-forward approach, no use beating around the bush.

“What was that other thing I said?”

Perhaps the wrong choice of approach, because Quinlan’s eyes shutter immediately, shuts down and moves to brush him off.

“If you can’t remember it doesn’t matter-”

Ridiculous notion.

“Yes it does,” he interrupts, insistent, “it seems like it matters to you, therefore it matters to me. Tell me.”

Quinlan averts his gaze, struggling with himself. Fox softens his voice and takes aim.

“Please.”

Quinlan sighs. Success.

“I haven’t told you how I found you, have I?”

A flash of memories. Palpatine’s voice rings in his ears, and he shudders at the phantom pain. He shakes his head, both in response, and to chase away the ghosts. History. It’s all in the past now. He’s safe.

“I was wondering but I…didn’t know how to ask. Figured you wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

He knows Palpatine tortured him until he was knocking on death’s door and a foot in the grave. He also knows Quinlan found him and saved him in the nick of time. The details in-between are foggy, nothing more than blurry shapes just out of reach. He is admittedly curious, but he wonders if ignorance is bliss. Is it a blessing or a curse to have forgotten?

Quinlan shifts nervously in his chair, trying to settle into a more comfortable position.

“I do, it’s just…a bit hard.”

He takes a deep breath. Fox tries not to pressure him, sits quietly and lets him find his words.

“I showed up at your office with the food, but you weren’t there. I figured something came up, so I commed you and waited, but then you didn’t respond to my comms. When you still didn’t show up after a half hour I knew something was wrong.”

He fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, an anxious tic. Fox nods encouragingly at him to continue.

“I know you told me not to before, but it was getting late and I didn’t know where you were and nobody else did either and I was…” he frowns, cutting himself off.

“It’s okay,” Fox reassures, even though he still doesn’t really know what Quinlan means.

Quinlan’s shoulders untense the slightest bit. He pushes on. 

“So I looked around your desk a bit to see where you went. There was a box there from Senator Amidala which was weird because I know for a fact Amidala doesn’t ask clones to do her work for her.” 

He pauses, a hint of a smile on his face, knowing. 

“If I didn’t know any better you left it there intentionally.”

Right. The box with hidden high-quality Corellian whisky that Fox had intentionally left there in hopes of leaving some sort of message behind for Quinlan. Quinlan had realised. Of course he had, he’s a Jedi, a Shadow, sharp in mind and body. 

Pride wells in his chest. He’ll have to find time to treat Quinlan to that whisky. At least now they can drink it in celebration of a shipload more things, plenty more to toast to now.

For a man so flippant about laws and regulations, it’s ironic how nervous he is about disregarding such an off-handed request. True, he’d warned him against using his Force thing to snoop around his office, but that was a year ago and he’s surprised the Jedi even remembers. Fuck if it isn’t incredibly attractive. (“The Chancellor treats us with respect, which is more than I’ve ever gotten from you.” If there were ever a greater lie than that…)

“I did. I was hoping you’d check it, actually. I wanted to leave you a message so you didn’t think I…stood you up or something,” Fox is almost embarrassed saying it aloud. It sounds stupid. Quinlan stares at him, surprised, like the thought had never occurred to him at all.

“You wouldn’t! Besides, it’s your office, you can’t stand me up in your own office.”

He...has a point.

Now Fox feels even more stupid. It’s just his luck it all worked in his favour.

“Anyway, I touched the box, saw you go off with Palpatine, and had a really…well, a bad feeling.”

Fox can’t help a little laugh. He’s definitely heard that one before. Cody has bitched about it to him probably too many times. 

Quinlan looks at him quizzically.

“What?”

“Do all Jedi get ‘bad feelings’? I thought it was just General Kenobi.”

“Oh, no one can top Kenobi’s bad feelings,” Quinlan manages a laugh, “I’d bet my lightsaber he had a fit some time that evening with how things happened. But…”

He sobers, remembering. Anger, barely restrained.

“That slimy bastard...touched you,” he spits venomously, “made you follow him, and I couldn’t see your face but I knew you weren’t okay with it at all. Something about it was.. wrong.”

“In the Force?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. All I know is that you were being forced to go somewhere you didn’t want to with a guy I don’t trust, and it was making me very uneasy.”

Distrust is one thing. A Sith Lord?

No one could have imagined it.

“I’m not a Jedi Shadow for nothing, so I tracked you both down, and then when I found you…” he breaks off, opens his mouth to finish the sentence, but no words come out. Fox only wishes Quinlan had not been the one to find him, then this would not hurt him so.

“I was afraid of this. I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to be the one to find-”

Quinlan’s eyes flash sharply, and Fox stops short. 

“Please. Don’t apologise for that again. It wasn’t your fault. The Sith…” again, the Jedi cannot bring himself to finish the sentence.

Fox processes his words, feeling the pieces slowly fall into place. Slow, sinking horror.

“…again?”

Flashes, sensations, the memories are so close he can almost touch them. If he could only reach…

Quinlan stares down at his gloved hands, clenching them, shaken.

“I…you wouldn’t know, but when I touch someone, I see…memories, not mine but theirs. It’s like I become them for a bit, I see what they see, hear what they hear. I know how they felt at that moment, what they were thinking…”

Like a key clicking in a lock, the memories spring free.

Oh.

(Can he see the memories of the dead too? He’d never thought to ask, but then again, why would he? Sorry, he thinks anyway, helplessly, desperately, as the darkness claims him and draws him into its grasp. I’m sorry, Quinlan, sorry for everything.)

Oh.

Oh Quinlan, did he-

“I took off my gloves to check the box, and forgot them when I left, so when I found you…”

It is Quinlan’s power that saved him, the gift of psychometry that saved all of them, really, but for a selfish second Fox wishes he didn’t have it, if only to save him the burden, if only so he would never have known the agony.

The words come easy now, spilling out in a rush, like now that he’s started Quinlan can’t stop, and his voice rises, shaking with frustration, with pain.

“Force, you were hurting... so much, and then you thought of me and all you could think of was how upset I would be and how sorry you were, like you weren’t the one dying, like you didn’t even matter to yourself-…” he chokes, voice brittle and bitter and angry and distraught. 

Fox can’t bear it, he reaches out towards him, to touch him, hold him, something , but Quinlan is just out of reach, and Fox might cry in despair. His arm falls, but then Quinlan leans forward and catches his hand, clasping it like a lifeline, lifts it to his forehead and cradles it like it’s precious, trembling.

For a long moment, he breathes, closes his eyes and breathes in Fox’s presence, the press of skin on skin, the warmth of Fox’s hand and the pulse thrumming under his fingers in Fox’s wrist.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. Quinlan lets out a soft noise, more vulnerable than Fox has ever heard him.

“Idiot…” he whispers against Fox’s hand, lips brushing the inside of his palm (a kiss, admit it, and this one you cannot deny, this one you cannot lie to yourself with flimsy excuses of sleep or the like), and Fox wonders if Quinlan can feel his heart skip a beat, “you scared me. You believed you would die, and I was… so scared you would be right. You weren’t moving and there was so, so much blood , I wasn’t sure if you were alive or dead, if I would make it back to the Temple in time…”

“I’m okay,” he echoes, because he is, “I’m alive. I’m here. I…I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Quinlan laughs, slightly hysterical. When he calms, the dullness in his eyes has receded, though a nervous edge remains.

“You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I liked it better when ‘sorry’ wasn’t a part of your vocabulary,” he teases.

“Sorry,” Fox says immediately, just to spite him.

“Now you’re just doing it to spite me.” 

Ah, called out. Fox won’t stoop so low as to stick out his tongue, but he isn’t a good enough man not to throw up a rude hand gesture. Quinlan clicks his tongue.

“I’m letting that slide in light of what’s happened but no more apologies!”

Fox tilts his head innocently.

“Of course,” he says, even though he means fully well not to. Quinlan definitely reads that in, but decides against pointing it out, changing the subject.

“So…on the way to the Temple…you were awake for a bit, do you remember?” His voice takes on an extremely cautious tone, eyeing him warily.

Right. Fox must have said something. He almost forgot the point of this conversation. He braces himself against the memories, parses through them—Palpatine, blacking out, and after that, after that…

It hurts. Someone is speaking, but it’s muffled, too far away to hear, like his ears are underwater. He’s being moved, and it hurts. His eyes snap open, wanting it to stop, wanting to tell them to stop, but bright light assaults him instantly in a kaleidoscope of colours. The pain builds, and it really is like being underwater, but then he squints and the world comes into focus just enough for him to make out frantic brown eyes and yellow stripes.

Oh. Quinlan.

He’s saying something, his mouth moving, but it’s a jumble of syllables to Fox. He looks...scared. Fox wants to reassure him, tell him it’s okay. He tries to speak but everything hurts, and he’s so tired, his thoughts feel like soup. All he knows is Quinlan is here and Quinlan is safe. Quinlan, Quinlan…

He tries to call his name, but he can’t hear himself, can’t really feel his own mouth, it probably came out inaudible. Still, Quinlan looks down at him, and Fox wishes he could reach out to smooth away his stress, at what, he’s not really sure.

“...got you...not die...hear?”

It’s like listening through bad radio static, but Fox thinks he got the gist of it. His lungs rattle. It hurts to laugh. Must be far along for him to say that. He means to say it aloud, but again, he’s not sure how much of that comes out intelligible. Maybe he didn’t speak at all.

A distant part of himself recognises the severity of the situation, the lack of feeling in his body, the desperation in Quinlan’s eyes, but Quinlan is warm and solid and safe, and the pain is dissipating, and it doesn’t hurt as much anymore, so he finds he doesn’t really mind.

He can hear a little better around the muted pain, and Quinlan is saying something, “...you don’t think so lowly of me now, do you?” or something to that amount.

No. Of course not. He shakes his head, and the world spins, the pain resurging. He would laugh again if it didn’t hurt to breathe. 

Think lowly? Of Quinlan? Never. He probably feels too much of the opposite.

Quinlan gazes at him, a stricken look on his face, and ah, perhaps he has been speaking aloud after all. Fox wants to tell him to smile, but the exhaustion settles into his bones, and then he’s gone.

“…Oh.”

He remembers.

He regrets.

Quinlan, ever perceptive, picks up on his realisation. Again, his expression shifts to that strange confliction of longing and distress.

“I don’t know, but I think after...everything, I’ve probably been a little too obvious about my feelings.”

What? (You knew that, you already knew, why are you surprised? Did you think just anyone would wait by your bedside? Would fear for your life as if it were his own?)

“I just…I wanted to be sure I didn’t misread, in case, you know…it doesn’t mean what I think it means, I don’t want to pressure you-…”

And Quinlan’s still holding his hand, his voice soft, his gaze hopeful, a little too close to reverent. It’s too much, too much. He slides his hand from Quinlan’s grip, and Quinlan quiets, his fingers lingering like he doesn’t want to let go.

He lets go.

Even though Fox was the one who pulled away, a part of him internally shatters in dismay. He looks away, fumbles for the bricks of the professional wall once between them, scrambling to rebuild it.

“I wasn’t really thinking, sir. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look up, fidgeting with the seams of his blanket. Quinlan bristles beside him, and Fox doesn’t need to look up to feel the intense gaze fixed on him.

“So it’s ‘sir’ again now?” The underlying hurt in his voice might as well have been screamed at Fox, and fuck not again, he can’t do this, not to him.

He opens his mouth, tries to respond, but the words escape him, and his jaw clicks shut. Tense silence hangs between them. He closes his eyes, shame burning low in his stomach, fingers gripping the sheets, trying to still the tremble and-

“Hey…hey, no, it’s okay.”

A gloved hand settles atop his clenched fists, uncurling his fingers, taking his hand in his, thumb rubbing reassuring circles over the top. Guiltily, Fox wishes his gloves were off, wants to feel the warmth of his palm. (would the shape of it fit perfectly against yours?)

“Won’t you look at me?” Quinlan asks, voice soft.

The tips of Fox’s ears burn, his eyes darting around, from their clasped hands to the sheets to the bandages.

“I…”

A gloved finger slides under his chin, gingerly, deliberately, for him to swat away and recoil if he wants.

He doesn’t.

Slowly, ever so gently, it tilts his head up, towards Quinlan, until Fox can no longer avoid his gaze and their eyes meet. He inhales sharply.

Quinlan’s gaze travels over his face admiringly, marveling, and his eyes regard him with so much tenderness, it’s so obvious, Fox wonders how he never noticed before.

His own gaze wanders, taking in all of Quinlan’s features, from his shining eyes to his fond smile, even just the sight of him safe and alive, fills a part of him with selfish satisfaction.

“There you are,” Quinlan murmurs, beaming at him.

Here I am, he thinks, rather helplessly. His cheeks heat, and he hopes the flush isn’t as visible as it feels.

“What you told me then…you said you weren’t thinking, so did you not mean those words?” 

It’s an earnest question, and Fox huffs a bitter laugh, suddenly unable to look at him. His heart pounds in his chest, the weight of the words he’s yet to even say sitting heavy on his tongue.

A few more beats of silence pass. Quinlan waits patiently, with a kind look and equally kind silence. Finally, he steels himself, rallies up enough courage and-

“Quite the opposite,” he admits, quietly, even though there’s no one else in the room to hear him besides Quinlan, even though this secret is anything but.

He’d half-expected some sort of explosive reaction, but Quinlan merely watches him, leans in closer with cautious hope and well-hidden excitement. He speaks slowly, an uncharacteristic care with his words.

“And…what does that mean?”

Fox tries again—in vain, he might add—to avert his gaze.

“Don’t make me say it. I know you, you’re not a fool enough to be oblivious, or wilfully ignorant.”

“Don’t make me presume then,” Quinlan shoots back, “I’m not naive enough for that, but I am a fool enough to mistake one thing for another.”

He softens, then. It’s a sweet sentiment, once he thinks about it enough. The intentional effort Quinlan is making, taking great care to respect his boundaries ever since, well, since Fox blew up in his face, it’s heartening. 

Even before that, Quinlan had poked at it often, sure, pushed at it and tested his limits over and over, but he never really overstepped, probably never will again if he can help it. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one he appreciates, and unfortunately for him, it’s just another excuse for his weak heart to go and catch feelings.

He says none of this, though, defaults into more comfortable territory: veiled, teasing insults.

“That would make you a terrible Shadow.”

Quinlan laughs, a beautiful sound.

“Never claimed I was good at my job,” he breathes, into the space between them, and Fox is abruptly aware of how little there is.

Almost against his will, his gaze drifts down, to Quinlan’s lips, betraying his true desire. He catches himself, draws his eyes back up, and it couldn’t have been more than the briefest glance, but Quinlan is if anything observant and the damage is done.

He smirks, wets his lips with the tip of his tongue like the evil bastard he is. He knows exactly what that does to him. It’s almost frightening, how easily Quinlan shakes his resolve, how effortlessly he sees through all his walls of lies like transparisteel.

They are so close now, close enough to share air, the slightest breeze could nudge them together, and now he’s shaking from the effort it takes to hold himself together, hold himself back. He squeezes his eyes shut. It takes every fibre of his self-control to pull away.

“We can’t…” he says, helplessly.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s fraternisation of the highest degree. What with my rank in the GAR and your position in the Order I…” he falters, sighs. Saying it aloud feels wrong, like cementing the barriers preventing them from... them.

Quinlan’s hand shifts to cup his cheek. Again, internally, he yearns to rip those gloves off and feel the warmth of the other’s skin on his, let him touch and see, know all the incriminating secrets he keeps in the furthest corner of his mind, the sinful thoughts that occupy it, all centered around the Jedi, this particular Jedi. 

Terrible, he’s terrible, the absolute worst. He deserves to be decommissioned.

“Stop thinking,” his Jedi—no, not his Jedi, he’s not his to have or take—says determinedly, “so what if it is? Since when have I followed the rules? I must’ve broken a dozen different laws for you by now, and I’d do it again. This would be no different.”

He flushes, his traitorous little heart soaring, selfishly delighted at the notion. (But what’s so wrong with being selfish? What’s it to anyone if you find a little happiness for yourself to keep?)

“I just…don’t want something to happen to you. If we…if someone caught us.”

He meant it to sound firm and stubborn, but it comes out small, his fear seeping into his words. 

The last thing he wants is to give in, only to cause Quinlan to bear terrible consequences. He would never forgive himself. And he could not handle it, even if he tried. The weight of his own grief and regret over all the things that transpired through the war already threatens to crush him, how could he imagine withstanding the burden of condemning Quinlan to suffer the repercussions of his own faults?

The emotions toss and turn in his mind, until finally his agitation wrestles control and he breaks, reaches up, covers Quinlan’s hand with his own and holds it close, pressing his cheek into it, leaning into the touch.

Quinlan chuckles lightly, his gloved thumb brushing the area under his eye, and Fox still can’t bear to look at him, can’t bear to open his eyes.

“It’s adorable that you think I’d be the one in the relationship at risk, knowing all the things I’ve done and gotten off scot-free with.”

Neither of them mention the issue of prejudice, of privilege, of status and discrimination, that follows and will follow them for life like a shadow. They don’t need to say it, even skirting around it they both know—it’s there. There’s nothing more to say.

Still, none of it changes how he feels. Fox knows enough about defending himself, but more importantly, he knows Quinlan will never fail him. Where even Fox might fail himself, Quinlan will not. His latest experience has proven it. He’s not afraid for himself, because he knows Quinlan will catch him if he falls or die trying. Nothing in the galaxy can get in his way.

But Fox? He cannot do the same for Quinlan. Not with his status. Not as a clone. Quinlan always has his back, but can Fox say the same for him? Quinlan can stop him from being decommissioned. Fox cannot stop him from being exiled. 

Powerless. He’s powerless. A Jedi and a clone. The disparity is excruciating.

“Quinlan, I’m serious.”

“And so am I. I promise, it won't happen. Nothing will happen to me. Or you.”

“Can you promise that? Can you really?”

“Palpatine is dead. The galaxy is in reform, and maybe it's not perfect yet, but it's getting there. Fox, the war is over. The GAR, rankings, all these military status quo won’t exist for much longer. You don't have to fight anymore."

And yet he can't stop. He just can't stop.

The war is over. He knows, he..he knows, but his body is still going through the motions and his mind is still stuck in the war. He still thinks-..no, he expects to pick up his blaster again upon walking out of medical, to review reports and file paperwork.

No matter how many times he evaluates the truth, the joyous news of the Sith Lord slain and the war won and the galaxy in gear for recovery, he can't seem to shake the feeling that if he were to drop his guard, Palpatine would be right there again. Standing over his shoulder, leering down at him with his yellow eyes and merciless hands, playing his mind games, massacring his brothers, plotting against the Jedi, tricking the entire galaxy.

And all his life he's been trained, programmed to fight a war, protocol after protocol, drill after drill. For years, the war has been all he's known. Serving the Republic, being the senate's lapdogs, following orders, all for the purpose of one day bringing an end to the war and returning peace to the galaxy. 

Logically, he knew a day would come when the war would end, whether he'd be around to see it or not. And yet, he could never really fathom it.

Now, standing in the wake of the war, he feels...stranded. Lost in a way he's never experienced. This is unfamiliar. There's no protocol for after the war. No training on what comes after. He was created for the Jedi, and his purpose had been to fight the war. Now he knows the horrific truth, that the Sith had made them to bring about the end of the Jedi.

And yet here he is, having fought the war, served the Jedi, and defied the Sith in ending the Jedi.

What now? What now that he's expended all his purposes? Who is he now but an aimless ship in space with no direction left?

He doesn't have to fight anymore. He and all his brothers have always dreamed of the day they wouldn't have to. But now that the day has arrived, Fox finds...he finds...

"I don't know how."

Finally, the heart of the problem: He doesn't know how to stop—how to stop fighting. The war is over, but the battle inside him? That has yet to cease-fire. And so he hasn't. He can't. He simply doesn't know what else to do. If he's not fighting, then what? Jedi or Sith, he was bred for war. All the clones were. Without war...who are they now?

“You know, I don't think I know either. I don't think anyone really knows, for all of us who fought in the war,” Quinlan says distantly, shrugging. Fox frowns. Hesitantly, he opens his eyes.

"I know it's different for us, because we remember a time before the war, a life outside of the fighting, but...it all seems so long ago. I think I've forgotten what it felt like. Maybe..." Quinlan sighs heavily, gaze flickering, then, quieter, "...maybe we all have." He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself.

"Either way, you're not alone in this. You don't have to be alone. And maybe..." he trails off.

"We...that is, you and I...could...figure it out... together ...if you'd like. What it's like to live without war."

His tone is stiff and his words, stunted, almost shy as he appeals to Fox, it surprises him. Once upon a time, he would never have imagined describing Quinlan as shy, or Force forbid, meek.

Yet, despite the awkwardness of the offer, it's also honest, even hopeful, and Fox catches his thoughts wandering to fantasies of exploring the galaxy together or waking in the same bed or-

Oh, he's fucked.

In his internal panic, he must have been silent too long because Quinlan leans closer, gripping his hand tightly.

“I’ll show you what I know about...well, about living in the galaxy, I guess, and whatever I don’t know, I’ll learn with you. I'm tired of having to listen to what everyone else says. Don't you think we've done enough of that already? Shouldn't we deserve to be a little selfish for once? I know you’re tired of being dictated by others too, I know, I know...but.”

He pauses, hesitant.

“But…?” Fox prompts, eyeing him suspiciously.

Quinlan doesn’t reply, instead shifting his hand to interlock their fingers, lowering his eyes to stare intently at it.

“Give me the word,” he says eventually, voice low, “give me the word and I’ll never mention this again. We can leave it all behind and go back to how we were before, if you want. No questions.”

Just like that, he delivers the perfect out to Fox, a silver platter laid at his feet. The offer is gracious, genuine, even unconditional, and it should be tantalizing, he should be eager to snatch it up before Quinlan can take back his word. 

The choice should be easy. It should be. He should take the opening.

He rolls the word around his mouth, the one word—crazy how a single word could have the power to change it all back. “Yes” he should say, “yes, let’s leave it all behind and never speak of this again”. He should want it, and yet…

And yet…

He thinks of going back to what they were before—to circling each other, to pretending the thing between them didn’t exist and resigning to stare at the walls they built themselves, to remain in longing but never have, to ignore the ache and fill it with silence, forever unacknowledged, forever unspoken of—and all he can feel is dismay, all he can taste in a “yes” is bitterness.

To put himself back in those limits, to be the one to make the decision in redrawing the fence around them, and now that he knows Quinlan feels the same—not a guess or a suspicion, but a fact—no, he can’t, the notion is unbearable, like shackling his own hands, like signing his own death warrant. And his, and his, because he put the choice in Fox’s hands, knowing full well what he would do and giving it up freely anyway.

Or…what he thought Fox would do. What Fox himself thought he would do. 

But no, he cannot do it. He is unable.

He…he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want it at all. He wants… (What does he want? What can he want?)

“And what if I…what if I didn’t want that?” He whispers at last, tentatively, blood roaring in his ears, swaying closer, “what if I wanted something else?”

Quinlan’s shoulders tense, hand squeezing his, and despite his hushed voice Fox picks up on its strain. Yet, when he speaks, it is with a resolute firmness.

“Then...then I would respect your wishes, and we part ways as acquaintances. Or coworkers, whatever you want. Just say the word.”

Now, their conversation is so quiet, if they weren’t so close it wouldn’t have been possible. Maybe their hushed tones come from their unwillingness to break whatever spell has befallen them. Maybe the softness drew them out from behind their walls, drew them in, closer, to each other, until their worlds no longer orbit each other but hover in the same atmosphere, sharing the same air. Maybe he was afraid the moment would end if he spoke any louder, and maybe Quinlan was too. Maybe the secrecy made way for intimacy, maybe truth comes easier in quietude.

Maybe it is for these reasons that when Quinlan murmurs into his ear, selfless and sincere, his facade crumbles. Quinlan’s face falls at his expression, dipping into worry, but Fox just shakes his head, emitting a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“...idiot.”

He surges forward, closing what little distance remained between them, and presses their lips together. 

Their first kiss is short and sweet, brief, because Quinlan jolts in surprise, freezing, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, Fox fears he got it all wrong. So he moves to pull away, their lips brushing as he withdraws. 

Then all the tension drains from Quinlan's frame, and he releases the faintest sound, one of such yearning, like it's been held back for centuries, that it steals all the air from Fox's lungs. He chases Fox's mouth, falls forward and slots their lips back together in a kiss that ignites a spark in Fox's chest, and he groans helplessly, an echo of Quinlan's as finally, finally he feels the dam break and a flood of emotions release.

The second kiss is long and slow, drawn out as they familiarise themselves with each other, bask in the euphoria and savour the feeling, memorizing the shape of each other's lips.

Fox leans forward to find a better angle, deepening the kiss, but then a twang of pain shoots up his back in protest, and he breaks off with a wince. Despite the hiss that escapes him, he means to ignore the pain, moves to keep kissing Quinlan, but the man pulls away quickly, frustratingly, and he swallows back the frankly needy whine by the skin of his teeth—if that had gotten out, he would never have been able to live down the embarrassment.

"Sorry, sorry," Quinlan gasps profusely, and Fox is positive he might just spontaneously combust from the sound alone because holy shit. Holy shit.

They couldn't have been kissing for more than a minute but he sounds…and Fox…

Fox is obsessed. He is hopelessly, irreversibly, deeply in love. There’s no going back from here, now that he’s had a taste. His brain has well and truly made its exit, dug deep in the gutter where it’s busy imagining a dozen different scenarios, and his face burns.

"No need," he rasps, and even to his own ears he sounds just as ruined as Quinlan did, maybe more.

Quinlan stares at him, cheeks flushed, breaths loud and harsh. It’s a mutual effect, a terrible compromising effect, absolutely debilitating, not tactically sound in any way. It’s against everything he was ever trained to do, and yet, Fox can’t find it in himself to hate it. He drinks in the sight like a dehydrated man, and it shouldn’t be so aggressively satisfying to see him like this but it is, it is.

“Well. ‘Idiot’ really wasn’t the word I was expecting, but if this is the result it sure is a welcome one,” Quinlan quips.

Fox isn’t really listening. He’s distracted instead by Quinlan's intense gaze and the breathy quality of his voice, molten heat pooling in the pits of his stomach. He can't chase it himself, his barely-healed injuries already complaining from just the small effort of sitting a little forward and he tamps down the urge to squirm like a restless cadet.

“Shut up.”

“If I said ‘make me’ would you punch me or kiss me?”

“You’re impossible.”

“To resist?”

“Impossible.”

And even Fox isn't sure if that was meant to be an agreement or a denial, but Quinlan laughs and it doesn't matter at all, and when Fox tugs frustratedly at their joined hands, he comes, all too willing to grant his silent request.

"Lie back," he says, ever-thoughtful of Fox, but he's paused just out of reach and Fox can't bear to wait anymore, he leans back against the pillows obediently, pulls a little more insistently, and then Quinlan shifts to sit on the edge of his bed, meets his lips in a third kiss and he forgets everything else.

The third kiss melds into the fourth, and then the fifth, and now Fox has lost count, lost all semblance of thought, all the reservations they had lost to the wind. He's falling, falling, falling, deep and hard and whole.

Somewhere between one moment and the next the kisses had gone from almost a lazy innocence into a desperate impassioned fervour, as some dormant part of them awakens and their repressed desire unleashes itself, running free and rampant. Each kiss further fuels the mutual burning want, and it builds and builds until it's a raging insatiable flame, and he can hardly tell where one kiss ends or the next begins.

He’s never felt more intoxicated in his life, certain that not even the strongest bootleg moonshine or 79's concoctions could ever compete. Nothing could compare to this. They're drunk on each other's taste, high on the catharsis of the moment and Quinlan kisses him with so much eagerness it's dizzying, it's addicting, it’s good. 

He's never seen Quinlan have such enthusiasm for anything else, not for the Order, not for anyone, and it warms his heart, fills a part of him with giddying ecstasy. To have won over his interest exclusively, to be the sole receiver of his affections, to have captured his attention so completely and have all of him devoted to Fox, the pride is indescribable. It makes him feel special, he makes him feel special, and he has no idea what he's done to deserve this but it leaves him feeling overwhelmingly grateful and dangerously powerful, and it's all he can do to match Quinlan with twice the feverish vigour, kissing him back with reckless abandon.

Quinlan untangles their fingers, his hand moving up to cover Fox's entirely, encircling his wrist and pinning it to the bed. His heart stutters, he can't form a single coherent thought, and in a moment of what must be frantic insanity, all he can think is that he wants more, needs more, for Quinlan to hold him down and make him forget his own name. 

Quinlan's free hand travels up Fox's arm, fingers dragging across his skin, dancing across his wrist to his forearm to his shoulder, and he gasps as a delectable shiver runs up his spine. Quinlan grins, tilts his head and kisses him harder, fingers gripping his shoulder tightly now, and Fox is hot all over, the contented haze in his mind thick and heady.

“Quin...” he breathes, and then it’s Quinlan’s turn to shudder, but Fox barely has time to relish in it when something snaps into place in his mind.

His vision whites out, a flash of something, a memory, he realises, and though he’s not sure how, it is very much not his and very distinctly Quinlan’s: Fox in his arms, eyes glazed, the corners of his lips twitched upwards in a ghost of a smile, a breath—“Quin”—soft and vulnerable and adoring-

He blinks, and the image fades away as quickly as it had appeared, but before he can question it Quinlan is bearing down on him, an almost carnal glint in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t say that, at least...not here.”

The memory comes to mind and distantly he registers what that must mean—projected memories, shared emotions, he never thought to ask if psychometry could go both ways—but oh. Oh. He gets it now. He cocks his head to the side, smiles up at him slyly.

“Why? Thought you didn’t like me calling you...‘sir’,” he drawls, deliberate. Quinlan’s breath hitches.

“Fuck if you say it like that, then you shouldn’t be saying that either.”

“Like what, Quinlan?”

“Stop before I-...I thought you didn’t want me breaking any laws?!”

Fox revels in the way Quinlan flusters under his attention, grins with all his teeth, and he really hopes every drop of smug satisfaction he feels is dripping off his Force signature right now, for Quinlan to sense and soak in.

“And what laws are you planning on disobeying this time, hmm?”

“Would you like me to show you, my dear Commander?”

Quinlan plants another kiss, nips playfully at his lips, and Fox swallows, banishing the thought from his mind before he starts getting ideas. He does have a reputation to keep.

“Your Commander? I don’t seem to—ah—recall you being assigned to the Coruscant Guards, oh Master Jedi,” he murmurs against Quinlan’s lips distractedly.

“And yet you don’t deny it.”

For good reason. Quinlan might think he’s won, but Fox has one more trick up his sleeve, so he pulls Quinlan closer, sneaks a finger under one of the Jedi’s gloves and whispers into his ear with a smirk.

“No. Because that would make you my Jedi.”

Fox has no idea how the gift of psychometry works, just that it requires skin contact to his hands, and he can’t erase whatever Quinlan’s already seen, but maybe, he can give him something better to remember, so he presses his finger into Quinlan’s palm, thinks really hard about his desire.

“Cheater…” Quinlan gasps, face burning.

He curls into Fox’s shoulder and buries his burning face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.

“Stars, Fox, it’s like you’re trying to make me upset the medics, and trust me, they’ll be very upset with me when I take care of their patient.”

“When?”

“It’s cute you think I have the self-control to stop now...Vokara is so going to ban me from here. Again!”

Fox chooses not to mention the banning and the again.

“I seem to recall a certain Jedi telling me that—hmm what was it?—don’t get caught and no one’s the wiser to deal out any consequences?”

All he did was spout his stupid advice back at Quinlan, but the Jedi looks at him like he’s the creator of the universe himself. Not that he has any complaints.

“I knew there was a reason why I love you.”

And he knew that already, but something about hearing the words hits him squarely in the chest, and because he can’t put words to all the big overwhelming emotions swirling through his being, he pulls Quinlan in and kisses him.

The glove must have slipped off at some point, because the hand that cups his face is bare. Fox covers it with his own, kissing Quinlan harder, and knows nothing but bliss for a long, long moment.

Unfortunately, it is a moment that ends.

Abruptly.

“Ahem.”

The two of them startle apart, and to Fox’s horror, they are no longer the only ones in the room. So much for not getting caught…

The universe must hate him so because the one standing by the doorway is none other than his brother, and not just any brother but Cody, staring at them with the most scandalized expression on his face. His eyes are comically large, darting from their tousled hair and clothes, to the incriminating red of their lips, to their compromising position with their arms entangled around each other.

Fox figures even if they hadn’t been caught literally making out with each other—he’s never going to recover from this huh—there was no way they would’ve gotten away with it, with the damned state they were in.

The good news: it’s Cody, who is in a relationship with his own Jedi, so there’s no chance he’ll snitch on them. 

The bad news: it’s Cody, who is in a relationship with his own Jedi, and has been harping on him to do the same, which means he will be mocked relentlessly and it will be insufferable.

Still, he snaps himself out of his embarrassed stupor, scrambles to put distance between them and shoves at Quinlan, who falls off the bed with a token yelp—oops? Any dignity he could have hoped to maintain flew out the window from the moment Cody stepped foot in the room, but damn it he’s not above trying.

So he fixes clothes as best he can, smoothens his hair, puts on the poker face he basically mastered while being under Chancellor-..no, the Sith Lord Palpatine. Even the thought alone still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It probably does for everyone, but, you know, being the one to oust him after being puppeteered like a doll and then nearly murdered in broad daylight in the Senate Building…yeah, he thinks he deserves taking the cake for this one.

Next to him, however, Quinlan makes no effort whatsoever to right himself, frozen on the ground with one arm on the bed to support himself, staring at their audience in some sort of stunned shock. Not that this man ever cared much about appearances before anyway, but Fox wishes he could have at least tried to pretend like he had any shame.

Across from them, Cody’s gaze is fixed on Quinlan, fingers twitching at his sides, looking like he’s itching to fire a hole in Quinlan’s face and simultaneously sink into the floor from embarrassment—which, you know what, fair, because Fox can't guarantee that it wouldn't be on sight for Kenobi if he ever walked in on the two of them either. Fox might have been tempted to grab a holo of Cody’s face if he didn’t feel so damn mortified himself.

In direct contrast, Kenobi—because Kenobi had to be here too, and in retrospect, it’s probably the other way round, that Kenobi came to visit Quinlan and Cody followed for Fox, because there’s nowhere Kenobi could go that Cody wouldn’t, and also Cody might love his brothers but he’s still not the type to show up at medbay unannounced without a little convincing—he leans against the wall next to Cody with his arms crossed, flashing them a crooked smile, eyes twinkling with glee, and Fox dreads it. 

Suddenly, Fox can’t hate Cody so much anymore for all his complaining over his Jedi, not now that he’s about to experience the full brunt of the menace.

“Oh no, don’t stop on our account,” Kenobi says, and his face is composed despite the amusement oozing off his voice, “we were quite enjoying the show.”

Fox does not flush red, no he does not. Cody does so enough for the both of them. 

“General!” Cody squeaks, red-faced.

He whips around to glare at Kenobi, albeit half-heartedly, before burying his burning face in his hands, sighing dramatically—and oh this bastard, he’s totally doing it on purpose to antagonize Fox like the little shit he is and he’s just as bad as his General.

“Speak for yourself, sir. This is the worst.”

Kenobi laughs, patting his shoulder.

“There there, Commander, surely this can’t be the worst thing you’ve witnessed today.”

“That’s your idea of reassuring?! You’re osik at it, General,” Cody groans, looking up to level him with a flat look.

Kenobi however, the conniving ass, merely widens his grin, eyes sparkling with mirth, and before he even opens his mouth, Fox already feels himself losing another five years off his lifespan. 

“Oh, I’m sure I know another more…effective way to reassure you, my dear, but I didn’t think you’d enjoy entertaining such an idea in front of others.”

Fox tries—and fails—not to choke.

“Unless there’s something you’d like to tell me?” Kenobi tilts his head, feigning innocence, and Cody somehow manages to let out an even more long-suffering sigh, and worst of all, he doesn’t even sound that mad at Kenobi.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Fox feels like the entire galaxy was flipped on its head. Wow, was the script flipped on them quick.

He should have figured—they probably don’t call him the Negotiator for nothing. Fox sees why now.

The good news: Kenobi is Cody’s lover, which means it would be hypocritical for him to report them.

The bad news: Kenobi is also a High General Jedi Master Council Member, or something—this man has far too many titles—and his notorious silver tongue could still spell some form of trouble for them.

Ugh, Quinlan is right, apologies really have become a part of his vocabulary. He’s probably apologised more in this one day than he has in all the days before, combined.

He masks his disdain, trying for appeasing.

“General Kenobi. I’m sorry-”

The man immediately holds up a hand, and Fox bites his tongue. 

“No need for apologies, Commander. It was my mistake to barge in like that anyway. I’m terribly sorry to have intruded on such an..intimate moment.”

His eyes travel between Fox and Quinlan with way too much elation. Okay then. Entirely disinterested in apologies, and determined to tease them. Fox hopes that also means he’s entirely disinterested in telling on them to the rest of the Council. He’ll just have to take Cody’s word on Kenobi’s reliability as a secret-keeper. 

Whatever it is, his words seem to snap Quinlan out of it, who stands and glares irritatedly at the other Jedi.

“What do you want, Kenobi?”

To Kenobi’s credit, he takes Quinlan’s rudeness in stride, hands raised placatingly, though the gleam in his eyes remains.

“Come now, Vos, no need to be rude. I merely meant to check in.”

“On me?”

“No, the delightful fruits left to gather dust in the room,” he snarks, rolling his eyes. In the background, Cody laughs silently. The atmosphere feels considerably lighter, and the door slides shut behind them as the two move out the doorway into the room. Cody whistles at the pile of gifts on the bedside table, setting a box down under it instead while the Jedi fall into easy banter.

“Of course it’s you, who else?”

“Yes yes, you’re very good at talking, I know, tone down the sarcasm, would you?”

“Nope!”

“Thanks, so very kind. Why are you here again?”

“...Because I’m your friend?”

“Not anymore you’re not. Try again.”

“I brought you food?”

“...”

“From Dex’s.”

“Nevermind, you’re now my best friend.”

Kenobi laughs, and then Quinlan joins him. Fox listens, and falls a little more in love. When he looks over at his brother, it’s like looking into his reflection, and they share a look of understanding.

If peacetime is like that, he could get used to this.

“I know Garen and the rest have been keeping you company, but I apologise for taking a week to drop by. You’d think now that the war is over there’d be less things to do. Apparently post-wartime cleanup is a lot more tedious than we all expected.”

There’s an edge of weariness to his voice, but then Cody hooks their pinkies together and it melts away as Kenobi turns to him fondly. 

“Cody tagged along to check on our dear Commander here.”

“To lecture him actually, but carry on.”

The chastising “play nice” look Kenobi sends Cody is so domestic, Fox would never have believed it if he didn’t see it with his own eyes.

“I must admit this is a delightful development, you have my congratulations. And Cody’s, he’ll never say it but I’ll tell it to you on his behalf,” Kenobi chirps.

Quinlan crosses his arms, grumbling.

“Oh shove it, Kenobi, you aren’t any better.” 

“That, we are in agreement. Which means I’m sure Cody and I will have no problem finding a way to get back at you two. Isn’t that right darling?” He says, far too cheerfully.

Cody studies him, up and down, before getting that look in his eyes that means he’s come to a decision.

“No, actually, it’s not, sir.”

Then Cody stands on the tips of his toes, leans in close and whispers something¹ directly into Kenobi’s ear, entirely unintelligible to the rest of them, but whatever it is makes Kenobi blush hard enough to rival his own copper hair with a weak “Oh!”

Fox just might be sick.

“Not you too!” He groans, paling.

It feels like they slapped him in the face with déjà vu—he’s pretty sure he did something similar to Quinlan a hot minute ago. It’s like watching a mirror version of him and Quinlan, one already enjoying a healthy established relationship, and…well, not that he’ll admit it aloud, but a part of him can’t help but yearn a little, wondering if they can achieve the same.

The other part of him wonders if all Jedi are just…whipped for clones or something, maybe it’s in their Force genetics—stars, Jango’s ghost must be having a fit. 

Then again, the Kaminoans did engineer the clones to be the Jedis’ greatest weakness. This is perhaps not exactly what they had in mind.

Either way, Fox really, really can’t tell if Cody did it because the two of them are just like that all the time—like that being grossly cute and disgustingly sappy—or he did it because Cody wants to spite him. As it is, he doesn’t want to know.

“The worst. Both of you.”

Quinlan makes a face as he nods.

“I agree. Now you’re just eye-fucking each other, eugh. I don’t need to see this Kenobi go get a room or something.”

Kenobi gasps dramatically, feigning offense.

“Why, excuse you! Pot, kettle. And we do have a room, thank you very much.” 

Now that surprises him. He knew they were together, but not that they got a room to share. Probably one of many recent post-war developments.

Fox is begrudgingly happy for Cody, though he’ll never admit it.

“Do you?” Kenobi challenges.

Considering they only worked their issues out within the last hour, no-

“Yes we do.”

Wait, what?

“You do?”

“We do?”

Both him and Cody exclaim simultaneously, inflections the same. His brother gapes at him.

“We do now, yep.” Quinlan insists stubbornly, popping the ‘p’ sound.

Kenobi fixes him with a sceptical stare.

“…Uh-huh. And, hm, where exactly would that be, Vos?”

“My quarters at the temple, of course,” he states, like it is the most obvious thing in the world, and Fox is not having at least the fifth groundbreaking revelation today—he lost count somewhere after the third.

Quinlan, however, carries on rambling without so much as batting an eye.

“I mean, now that the war’s over and I’m no longer bouncing around the galaxy, I can settle for a bit, make some use of that room—at least, until they call me away for Shadow work. Since you’re still working on the bill, and the Council is still figuring out how to integrate the clones, and we haven’t sorted out the living situation for all of them yet, Fox can just move in with me. Once he gets his own quarters somewhere, we can reevaluate if we need to. Maybe his space will be nicer and we’ll move over, who knows.” He shrugs.

Then he catches sight of Kenobi’s shiteating grin, and his brain must catch up with his mouth because he loses all confidence, turning to Fox suddenly, worried.

“If…if that’s okay with you? You don’t have to move in with me..I just thought…well if you don’t like that I could also get you an apartment somewhere nice if you wanted but I was hoping you would-”

This man…

Fox huffs amusedly, grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him in, silencing his worries with a quick peck on the mouth. Quinlan blinks owlishly at him, stupefied, and Fox smiles fondly.

“That sounds perfect.”

“It..it does?” He mumbles, dazed.

Fox shakes his head, letting the excitement vibrate through him.

“Yes, Quinlan, I’ll move in with you.”

The pure happiness on Quinlan’s face is well worth the humiliation of being soft in front of the other two. Which reminds him…

He shifts to look past Quinlan, fixing them with a sharp look.

“Respectfully, sir, that would be your cue to see yourselves out. Both of you.”

“Actually, that would be all of you except my patient. Yes, including you, Knight Vos.”

Quinlan whirls around with a noise of protest as the room descends into a cacophony of voices.

“Vokara! No-”

“Of course, ma’am-”

“Healer Che, please-”

Stepping through the doorway is a twi’lek with the most ‘no-nonsense’ air about her Fox has ever encountered. Hands on her hips, she fixes the three guests with a sharp look, immediately silencing them.

Healers are a different brand of intimidating.

“I won’t hear it. Out, all of you.”

Cody turns to him, nods once. Then he grabs Kenobi’s arm, steering him towards the doorway, ducking his head respectfully at Che.

Kenobi makes a displeased noise, but lets himself be herded to the door, waving a goodbye to Fox before smiling sheepishly at Che, who merely levels him with an unimpressed look. Then the two of them are gone, vanishing out the door.

Che turns to fix her gaze on Quinlan, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Well? You too.” 

“But-”

“I gave you strict, specific instructions, Knight Vos, do you recall what they are?”

“...don’t do anything to agitate him.”

“And?”

“...alert you when he wakes.”

Che sighs heavily.

“And what did you do?”

“...I didn’t alert you when he woke up, but-”

“And you agitated the patient. You didn’t do a single thing I told you to, and you expect me to let you stay in my Halls?” She berates sternly.

Fox rather enjoys the free entertainment he’s been given.

“Now hold on a minute, I did not-”

Che stretches a hand out into the air, and the box under the bedside table zips across the room into her hand. 

“You can hide it all you want, but I know takeout when I see it.” She tilts her head at him, addressing Fox for the first time.

“Master Kenobi and Knight Vos have known each other for a long time, and Force knows how many times I’ve seen the two of them in there. Yet neither of them ever seem to grasp the simple rules I have laid out, even younglings behave better than them.”

That pulls a laugh from him. He nods sympathetically.

“Trust me, I know exactly what you mean, ma’am. Not a brain-cell in there that knows a thing about following the rules, unfortunately.”

Quinlan sniffs, betrayed, looking at him like a kicked tooka.

“You’re supposed to side with me, not her!”

Che jabs at him with her pen.

“I allowed you in here under two conditions, just the two, and not only did you break both of them, but you also bring junk food in here!” She berates, swatting at his arm.

“Ow! Vokara-”

“Out!”

“The food isn’t even-”

“Kenobi, I know, but it was for you, and don’t lie to me, you would have shared it with your Commander.”

Quinlan scuffs his boot against the ground guiltily. Che takes the opportunity to shoo him towards the door.

“For goodness sake, you’ll have all the time in the galaxy to be with him after.”

She shoves the box into his arms, ignoring his spluttering.

“Go, go! Before I decide to confiscate the thing entirely.”

Then she shuts the door in his face, pressing the panel in the wall to lock it.

“Young love…” she mutters, shaking her head as she approaches him.

“He’ll be back,” he says, because he feels he owes it to this woman to warn her.

She snorts, waving her hand dismissively.

“Oh, I know. I’ve known these boys for years, you can turn them away and deter them momentarily, but there’s really no stopping them.” Her voice is rough around the edges, but now that they’re gone, there’s a hint of exasperated fondness just barely detectable.

What a respectable woman.

“Right then. Tell me how you’re feeling, Commander. Hopefully, we can have you up and about by the end of the week…”

His heart leaps at the prospect. Get out of here, move in with Quinlan, enjoy a relationship with him, celebrate the end of the war…

“Commander?”

He draws himself back. Later. There will be time for all of that later. 

Che eyes him knowingly, but says not a word. He smiles, and answers all her questions.

“I have to ask, sir,” Cody says slowly, as they head back to their quarters, “about the room, it was your intention all along, wasn’t it?”

For a moment, Obi Wan’s footsteps falter in surprise as he turns to stare at him, wide-eyed. And then he laughs, expression endeared.

“Cody, dear, I’m afraid you know me too well.” 

He flushes, pleased.

“To be honest, it far exceeded my expectations. I was merely hoping to plant the idea in his mind, get him thinking and set him on the path towards it. Of course, there was a chance Quinlan wouldn’t rise to the bait at all, and I was half-expecting him not to, so it certainly surprised me when he offered right away. In the end it worked a lot more perfectly than I’d even dared to hope.” 

Obi Wan stops before their room, turning to clap a hand on Cody’s shoulder, smiling proudly.

“Quinlan is a good man, and so is your brother. I’m happy they found each other.”

Cody beams back at him.

“So am I.”

He unlocks the door to their room, and they enter, moving to shut the door when-

“Obi Wan!”

Cody peeps his head around Obi Wan’s shoulder, and from the end of the corridor,  a very disgruntled Jedi Knight stomps towards them with the box of Dex’s in his hands. Obi Wan laughs, a delightful sound. Cody smiles exasperatedly, stepping towards the kitchen. 

“I’ll get the kettle.”

“You know me too well, my dear.”

“The nerve of the woman, I swear, you won’t believe-”

Vos’ voice is lost to the sound of Obi Wan’s laughter. Cody has the feeling it will be a good afternoon. 

“-she threatened to throw out perfectly good takeout-”

“Oh a crime, for sure.”

“Exactly! And-”

A good afternoon indeed.