Archive of Our Own

This had been a bad mission from the start. 

Well, Fox had known that since even before they left Coruscant. 

But the searing prick of heat punching through his shoulder blade is really making his point ring true. Or maybe that’s just the concussion as he hits another rock on his descent down the cliffside. 

The meeting place would be too difficult to protect. He had said as much to the Senator during the security detail meeting. 

The politician’s summer villa on his homeworld was located deep in the forests. There were too many trees, too many vantage points for assassins and bounty hunters to use. The dense foliage meant they had to land far and make the rest of the trek via land transports. That also meant drafting up plans for both the route and then for the mansion, as well as the entire forest for pickup points. 

The man had brought up the escort request the day before he had to leave. 

They just didn’t have the damn time. 

Fox had listed all these points out, gently suggesting a different location or maybe even a re-scheduling. But of course, the Senator had waved the concerns away, saying his meeting had to be conducted in utmost secrecy away from the Separatists. He had also argued that his office building in the city would be too obvious and easy to attack. 

He gave Fox a pointed look, leering down into his visor. 

Surely you clones are at least capable of putting together a protection detail without complaining. Isn’t this what you’re made for? 

That had shut Fox up immediately. He schooled his expression behind the helmet, every doubt and hesitation forced into some small box in the back of his mind. Back with all the other protests and treacherous whispers. Because it never mattered what they thought. They just had to perform. And if they didn’t, they’d be discarded. 

Yes, sir . He had gritted out, bowed, and left. 

He was starting to have difficulty keeping the lid closed. 

The entire night had been spent in the office with Stone, pouring over maps and datapads to write up strategies and contingencies. In the end, Fox had decided to co-lead the mission with the other commander. It was on too short notice to properly brief and prepare another subordinate. They had ended up reviewing the plans with the rest of their platoon on the shuttle ride to the Senator’s planet. It’s not like flash training is anything new to any of them, but Fox still doesn’t like rushing his Guard like this. It usually only results in casualties that could’ve been prevented. Hah, as if anyone even gave a sliver of a shit about their casualties. 

And in the end, he had been right. Barely an hour into the meeting, the blaster fire had started.

The trees made it difficult to gauge the true number of droids they were dealing with; he had already lost contact with the outer perimeter patrol ( nine) . Half the vode on the mansion perimeter patrol were already dead ( five) .

They dodged and weaved their way to the parked land cruisers. 

He had pushed and pulled at the trembling Senator and his associates more times than he could remember, saving them from stray shots and showers of shattered glass. If he used a bit more force than necessary...well, it’s not like there had been any time for them to complain over their terrified blubbering and tears. 

Stone had taken the helm of one cruiser and Fox pushed the small group of politicians after him, taking the rear with four more troopers. The rest of the team split between two more cruisers and flanked them. They sped off into the sea of trees with clankers on speeders hot on their trail. 

Fox took his shots at the ones that got too close, hand and aim steady even as the vehicle swerved around obstacles. He trusted Stone’s driving, though the Senator had started to look vaguely green. 

A shot had flown to the left, and he heard the dreadful boom of a destroyed engine. The cruiser on their left slowed until it shot past them in reverse, spinning out of control. He caught a glimpse of red and white inside, and he didn't, he didn't hear the split second of screams as it whizzed by and crashed into a tree ( six) . The explosion shook the leaves, and he grabbed onto the Senator to stop the man from falling over. 

“How much longer, Stone?” He had yelled, sparing a glance towards the back of his second’s sweat-glistened head. Stone had thrown off the helmet the moment he started driving.

“Another klick!” Stone screamed back, tilting the lever up so they made the pass over a large log, “Raken’s team should be approaching the rendezvous already!” 

Fox caught the roar of their space shuttle overhead, barely visible through the thick canopy. He shot another commando droid’s head off, watching it crash the speeder.

Three droids converged on them, firing off a volley of shots. Fox ducked low, tackling the Senator while the other four covered the other three politicians. Stone dodged a shot, and the front windshield shattered, shards flinging towards the back. 

Someone cried out, and Fox scrambled up just in time to see a vod stumble back, blaster wound still smoking on his leg.

“Caro—!” Fox launched himself forward, fingertips brushing against Caro’s. 

And then Caro was gone. 

His body flew from the back of the cruiser, and Fox clenched his eyes shut as Caro collided with the droids, spinning them all out of control until a fiery collision blinds him even through his shuttered lids.

(One).

Fox opened his eyes and kept firing.

He had counted time through his shots and the number of exploded clanker brains, refusing to let his focus wander for even a brief second between blaster bolts. 

“We’re here, I see them!” Stone shouted as the trees started to thin out into nothing but open space. 

“Turn this thing around! We’ll use it as cover!” 

Stone nodded, making the sharp turn to spin the land cruiser around to a stop. Fox stepped out, lifting a hand to block the glare of the sun. A moment later, the familiar outline of their space shuttle covered the rest of the light. He can hear the rush of the waterfall bleeding over the edge of the cliff.

“Everyone OUT!” Fox herded the politicians and the three troopers out the back, waving at the other remaining cruiser to follow. The six vode stumble out of the vehicle into a full run, forming a half-circle around the Senator and his friends. Stone and Fox take up the rear, jogging backward with their weapons raised

“That everyone?” Stone’s panting voice echoed in his ear through their comms. 

“Should be!” Fox reached behind his belt, yanking the explosive free from the hook. It hit the first droid that peeked from the bushes and detonated. Several trees shake and collapse onto the next squadron of droids in line. 

“Commander, the ground’s too weak for a full landing!” Raken’s yell crackled with static, barely audible over the rumbles of rushing water. 

“Get as close as you can, we’ll make the jump!”

They made it to the cliffside edge without further casualties. Most of the shots pinged off the sides of the two cruisers harmlessly, and they kept firing back at the few droids that had managed to inch forward. 

The ship lowered the landing ramp while hovering half a meter away from the edge; the crumbling gravel beneath their boots trembled. 

“Commander!” Venta and Tracks inched down the ramp once it lowered, arms held out. 

“Get them on!” Fox ordered, throwing another grenade at the horde of clankers. 

One by one, the troopers on the ground tossed the politicians over the gap while the vode on the ramp caught and steadied them. 

Fox ordered the rest to jump the gap, holding his pistol ready. Once the next group of droids appeared around the cruisers, he fired for the fuel tank. The rippling wave of heat and sound hit his armor with a shock that rattled his teeth. 

“Just you and me, Fox.” He felt Stone bump against his pauldron.

“I’m always first and last, vod.” Fox shook his head, nudging Stone ahead, “go—” 

A grenade landed between them, blinking rapidly.

Fox moved.

He turned, shoving Stone off the edge and toward the ramp. The other commander flailed for a moment in the air before getting dragged up by the other vode waiting for him.

Fox kicked the bomb off the cliffside, away from the direction of the ship. The shockwave made him stumble back, and he heard Stone yelling for him, waving his arm from where he’s kneeling at the end of the ramp. 

He jumped, holding his hand out.

A blaster bolt burned through his shoulder, sending needles through flesh. It tore through his back and front, wrenching a cry from his throat. Fox recoiled, pulling his arms in automatically with a jerky twitch. He couldn’t help it. 

He missed Stone’s hand.

“FOX!” 

The scream faded as he fell further and further from the ship. From everything. 

Fox tried to maneuver his body towards the cliffside. To find some sort of purchase he could grab on to. Or maybe get closer to the waterfall so the stream could take him down rather than straight-up gravity. Fuck, anything . 

He couldn’t do it. 

I should’ve brought my fucking grappling hook.  

He lets out a pitched giggle at the thought. Too little too la—

The helmet glanced off the edge of a jutted rock, and his head knocked around inside like a ball. His vision went dark and he couldn’t think of anything anymore.

So yeah, this had definitely been a bad mission from the start. Fox fucking knew it since the beginning. 

At some point, an inkling of clarity crawls out of the fuzziness clouding his mind and he’s back in the present. The heart-wrenching feel of the drop is no longer a new surprise anymore. It’s background and a familiar jolt in his stomach. 

Fox has never had any real thoughts on death. It has been expected of them since the start. They are made to fight and die for the Republic. And that’s exactly what he’s doing right at this very second. 

The Senator and his associates are all safe and accounted for on the ship. He had lost over half the platoon but the rest will make it if they leave now. 

He’s done his job. 

This is a really long fucking drop. 

Fox has heard stories of how people’s lives tend to flash before their eyes in the face of their imminent doom. 

He can’t see anything beyond the rush of rocks and the sight of the ship getting further and further away. His HUD is crackled, error messages popping up on every available space to block the rest of the outside scenery. The altitude counter on the side is decreasing rapidly towards zero.  

He can’t think of anything beyond how he’s glad he hadn’t taken Stone down with him. 

Fox hears the dull snarl of waves and pulls his body as close as he could manage. 

The counter hits below zero, and his impact against the water is not much different from getting hit by a shuttle. 

Fox blacks out. 

Stone stalks into the cockpit, his own head still ringing from the explosion. His helmet is probably half-melted in the remains of the transport. He grabs onto the back of Raken’s chair, squeezing hard so his shaking hands can’t be noticed. The radar on the dashboard pulses and he slams a few buttons until only Fox’s locator shows on the screen as a singular dot.

It disappears a second later.

.

“It...his vambrace probably just got damaged in the fall.” Raken lets out a shaky breath, voice unsteady as he looks over to Stone. His eyes are wide and wet at the edges as if expecting Stone to have the control and stability to reassure him right now. He knows he needs to. Stone’s the ori’vod. Stone’s the one in charge now. But all he can think of is—

I’m always first and last, vod.

“Take us down, right now .” 

“Yes, si—”

“You will do no such thing!” The Senator hurries into the room, face pale and eyes wide.

Stone whips around to stare at him, the shock of the declaration too much for him to remember how to pull the emotions back, “what are you saying, sir—”

“Are you defective?!” The man points back towards the ramp where the other vode are still peering over and screaming Fox’s name, “we are being shot at and you want to stay?! Their reinforcements are probably already here!”  

“But sir,” he’s a half step off from sinking to his knees, “the Commander is—”

“He’s just another clone! There’s no way he would’ve survived that fall anyway.”

The words strike deep within him, digging through both armor and skivvies until it drives straight through Stone’s chest. 

“You have four very high-value targets on board and I refuse to let you risk our lives for that of a clone. You will take us back to Coruscant right now. That is an order.” 

“I…” Stone loses the words, and he could only gape unblinkingly. His throat is dry from all the screaming earlier and the taste of blood is on the back of his throat. How could...how could this happen?

A hand grabs him by the jaw, squeezing tightly, “are you stupid? We’re leaving. Now.” 

He lets go of Raken’s chair instead of tightening it to the point of ripping the leather like he wants to.

Fox taught him better than that. 

“Understood, sir.” 

Cold. He’s so cold. 

Heavy.

Pulling. Pulling on his limbs. Getting lighter.

Colder. 

He’s weightless. Moving. Chest lighter. He falls back down. His back hurts; something pressing against him. Small, many, round, pointy, hard. 

It’s dark.

Then, it’s not dark. 

More space, more air. He breathes a bit better, coughing. 

It’s bright.

But he can’t— can’t open his—

He can’t see.

Something hovers over his nose. Poking at his face. He groans, but it barely comes out as anything more than a choke.

The poking stops.

He’s cold. His body is cold. And wet. Wet with cold.

Except where it’s not.

His head— hurtshurtshurtshurts —

His head is warmly wet and sticky. He can’t open his eyes past it. 

His left side, maybe a shoulder. Maybe an arm. Maybe not at all, he doesn’t—

Nothingnothingnothi —

He can’t feel it.

But it’s warm. It’s wet with warmth. 

Sound. Next to him. Moving away.

No —

He reaches out blindly, finds something, and holds on tightly.

“Don’t—” He gurgles, “leave. Please .” Is what he tries to say. He’s not sure if he accomplishes that at all.

The darkness clouds over the orange glow behind his eyelids, and his hand goes limp before he can hear an answer. 

There’s a swaying motion in the way he’s moving. Or rather, being moved. He’s lying on his stomach, slung over something. 

It’s not comfortable, but it’s not like anything in his body feels okay at the moment. His limbs are too heavy for him to even attempt shifting to a better position. 

He tries opening his eyes, but the weight of his nausea and the sheer effort it takes to think about opening them drags him under again.

The thoughts fade. 

“A clone?”

Fox is aware enough to at least remember his name this time. His head still feels too heavy— too hot — to lift; he settles with tilting it towards the sound of the voice. His cheek is pressed against something solid and cylindrical. He moves again. Another barrier of the same shape.

Bars.

“He’ll most definitely be worth the price, sir!” The new voice is syrupy and coy. It grates, adding to his throbbing headache. He’s also shouting to be heard over a lot of background noise. It’s lively. Lots of voices talking over one another, the loud whirrs of vehicles, and clamoring footsteps of dozens. A busy street...maybe?

A hand grabs him by the chin, tilting his head back and forth. It’s rough but oh so damn cool . He lets out a breath of relief before he could stifle it, relishing in the temporary balm over his burning skin. Fox forces his eyes open, blinking slowly. He hears a soft tch . 

“He’s injured, it’s a waste of time.”

Before he can comprehend a single thing, the hand pushes him back and his arms are too sluggish to stop the fall. He collapses on his side with a grunt, sparks lighting up the darkness behind his eyelids when his burning shoulder slams against the dirt. The new wave of dizziness is too much for him to look around again. There’s some shuffling of fabric moving away from him. Wherever he is, he’s not the only one there. 

“I’ve heard they’re not even human.” The irritating voice croons, and Fox wants to throw up, “they’re probably made to heal faster anyway. He’ll be up in no time!”

“Where did you even find him?”

“My supplier found him washed up along the shore. Probably fell during that big battle down the river. Think the helmet saved him from drowning.”

He tries to soak in as much information as he can, but his awareness is starting to slip again. Not yet. Just hold on Fox, damn it. 

“And the armor?”

“Wasn’t with him when I got him.” The voice pauses before starting again, clear impatience hidden under the layers of politeness. “My lord, I’ve seen them fight. They can take a lot and do a lot. You’ll definitely get your money’s worth if you spare the bacta.” 

“You better be…” The voice falls away like his ears are being stuffed with wax. He can’t hear, he can’t understand, he can’t focus.  

Not fucking yet. Just another second, Fox. Just hang on for another karking second, CC-1010. 

A skittish hand grabs his uninjured shoulder, giving a trembling shake “are you okay?” They sound young and just as scared as Fox is currently feeling. Of course he isn’t okay, he wants to say. But his tongue is beskar and unyielding.

“I’ll take him and the rest.” 

“Thank you for your patronage, sir!” 

Fox stops hanging on.

The streets are bustling with activity, yet no one seems to have any purpose other than to look busy and as unimposing as possible.

Quinlan dodges another pedestrian, who falters when she meets his eyes. A rush of shock and fear swirls around her for a brief moment. Then, it quells when she realizes he’s not who she thought he was. 

He keeps moving, pulling the hood of his cloak closer. He weaves in and out of the stalls, catching the chatter. 

Everyone’s on edge; there had apparently been a battle near the cliffsides across the lake. Quinlan does feel the itch to check it out, but he doesn’t have any comms with him at the moment. It’s too risky. He’d just have to hope whichever battalion here had it handled, and that they won’t screw things up for him. 

The battle had subsided; he heard talk about a space shuttle leaving the atmosphere about two hours ago. The smoke in the sky is finally starting to clear up. The people around him are worried about the Separatists showing up. The only comfort they had is Baron Sathran’s promise of keeping them safe.

If only they all knew. 

He turns the corner of a street, heading for the main crowd around a platform. 

His target is here. 

As Quinlan gets closer, he can already feel his skin prickle. The concentration of despair stinks thick and cloying in the Force when he pushes his way to the front.

It’s cage after cage, arranged in a circle around the proprietor crooning words at the center. Hands reach out from between the bars, crying out. Bodies huddled as far away from the bars as possible, faces hidden against knobby knees. Quinlan bites his tongue. 

“Look at that one.” His target says. The Neimoidian is wearing finely threaded clothes with long flowing sleeves. He rubs at his chin, jerking his head towards one of the Twi’leks behind the bars. She cowers back, curling in to make herself look smaller. 

“Good eye, my lord.” The lackey behind him nods with a grin.

Quinlan takes a deep breath.

He opens his eyes, a slimy leer on his lips.

“You sure know how to pick them, Lord Chethey.” He purrs, leaning into the other’s space subtly. 

The Neimoidian turns toward him with a frown. For a moment, he has the same brief second of panic as the other pedestrian from before, “Baron-”

Then he stops, squinting his eyes at the golden tattoo across Quinlan’s nose. Not blue like Sathran’s. 

“We don’t get many Kiffar out here.” Chethey amends his previous outburst calmly, regarding him with a healthy amount of caution, “especially not one that knows my name.” 

Quinlan lets out an overdrawn sigh, pressing a gloved hand against his chest, “dear old Luchar has never mentioned me? And here I thought my uncle would’ve given my future colleagues a heads up at least.” 

“You’re Baron Sathran’s nephew?” Chethey sputters, red eyes wide, “he...he hasn’t spoken of you.” 

“No time like the present! The name’s Ziflos Val.” He extends a hand out for the Neimoidian to shake, “my mother’s from a distant line of the Konshi. Uncle’s always been talking about teaching me the ropes of his business here.” He swings his arm out to gesture towards the street. 

Towards the little village of skittish citizens forced to serve every whim of the overlord stepping on their backs under the guise of benevolent protection. 

Protection from the Separatists and nobility that he shakes hands with under the dinner table every night. 

He tightens his grip for a moment before relaxing and pulling back, “Speaking of business, there’s a meeting tonight, right? With the others?” 

“At the Aura Blossom Estate, yes. The Baron has set up a night banquet to discuss,” Chethey coughs into his sleeve discreetly, “business.” 

“The Aura? Never heard of it!” He bounces back on his heels, widening his eyes for a more innocent effect.

The Neimoidian scoffs, “it’s because you’re still young.” He looks back towards the stage, “we came here to find a good...present for the Baron to enjoy tonight.” 

Quinlan grinds his teeth behind the smirk.

“Why settle for one?” He leans into Chethey’s space again, “surely a man of your stature can afford all of them .” 

“W-well, I—” 

“In fact,” Quinlan waves a hand, “I think it would be a great idea if you purchased them for me to present to my uncle. A little greeting gift from the both of us. I’ll be sure to tell him all about your generosity when we speak in private.” 

Chethey’s eyebrows furrow, confused frown falling away into something more neutral. The lackey beside them tilts his head and Quinlan quickly extends the influence further until he also appears subdued.

“Y...yes, that does sound...good. You will put in a good word?” 

“Of course. I always help those that help me.” His grin shows teeth.

Chethey quickly nods, reaching into his robes to pull out a small bag that jingles heavily. 

“I’ll take care of everything before the banquet. Why don’t you go get yourself ready, Lord Chethey?” Quinlan takes the credits, shoving the sack into his left hip pouch.

“Yes, I will go do that. I will see you then, Lord Val.” Chethey waves a hand for his subordinate to follow.

“Oh, and Lord Chethey?” 

The other man pauses, looking back.

Quinlan waves his fingers with a smile, “let’s just forget you ever saw me here? Keep it a surprise for my uncle.”

Chethey nods, gaze distant, “of course. We never saw you. Good day.” 

They disappear into the crowd.

The mirth falls away from his face, and Quinlan moves towards the platform.

“Woah! Hello there, my good sir!” The proprietor backs away with a nervous chuckle when Quinlan vaults onto the stage in a single jump, “are you here to see the merchandise? You’re in good luck today!” The man waves him closer to the cages.

The people inside inch away, refusing to lift their heads. Quinlan keeps his face neutral. 

“Good luck, you say?” He runs his fingers across the wooden bars, feeling chips flake off and stick to the cloth of his gloves. 

“Business is booming today!” The bastard laughs loudly, “We just sold our last batch an hour ago! These are all fresh new faces. Are you looking for someone to work at your estate? We’ve got strong ones here.” He points towards a back cage. 

“Or….are you looking for someone for a bit of...fun?” He wiggles his eyebrows and Quinlan clamps down on the wave of shadowed thoughts that crash into his mind. In due time, the Force whispers. The storm recedes, and he takes a breath. 

“A bit of both actually. How about I take them all off your hands?” 

The scum of a man sputters, eyebrows shooting up past his fringe, “a-all?” He coughs before settling down with a loud bellowing laugh, “that’s the second clearout sale today! What luck!” 

He waves for his employees to open the cages while herding Quinlan towards the back near the register.

“Let’s see, that’s about 15 of them. So the total cost will come up to—” 

“—I think,” Quinlan cuts him off with a wave of his hand towards the bastard’s face, “that what I have in this bag will be more than you deserve.” He reaches into his right hip pouch, pulling out a small sack. 

“Yes...yes of course, sir! You’re very generous.” The proprietor says in a daze, taking the bag and dumping the contents over his register. Nothing falls out.

“Then our business here is concluded. Nothing feels amiss?” Quinlan steps back.

“Nothing feels amiss.” The other man parrots.

“Good. Pleasure doing business with ya.” 

“The pleasure was mine, sir!” 

Quinlan takes the ropes from the waiting lackey’s hand, gently leading the line of people off the platform and away from that damned place. He has a fucking headache. 

They move through the streets in silence until Quinlan no longer feels suffocated by the air of greed from the platform. 

He motions for them to follow him down an alley. Once they’ve all filed in, he watches them quietly, meeting their wary gazes. The people are of all species and genders, some look malnourished, others simply exhausted. But the resignation is very much present in all of their signatures. 

Quinlan reaches for his pocket knife, cutting into the ropes that bind their wrists one by one. 

He cuts off the restraints on the last one, turning around. He’s surprised to find them all still here, looking at him like they expect it to be a trap.

Quinlan pulls out the bag of credits from his left pouch. 

“It’s not much, but it should get you started. Here, somewhere else on the planet, or even off-world. Wherever you need to go.” He speaks softly but urgently as he splits the credits and passes them out into their hands. 

They look at him like he’s crazy, but he just keeps moving. One by one, they start inching out of the alley, looking back with every few steps. Then, they run and never look back. 

“Thank you.” The Twi’lek from before squeezes his hands with a shuddering breath, ducking her head.

“Go,” Quinlan says.

And she does. 

He stands alone in the alley, a handful of credits left in the bag. He lets out a breath, running his hand through his locs. 

At least he can get some free lunch now. 

He doesn’t see any of the freed slaves on the streets, and can only hope they’ll make it okay. It’s up to the Force now, he’s done all he can at the moment. He has to focus on his mission.

The information-gathering process comes easy to him. He spends the afternoon talking to locals, munching on delicacies from the food stalls. 

The Aura Blossom Estate is located towards the other end of town. Its gaudy architecture looms, and he can see some of the pillars peeking over the other buildings even from where he’s sitting at a small cafe. 

It is, in the bluntest way to put it, a brothel dressed up in pretty words. Their prices are steep, and only Sathran and his posse can afford to go there regularly. The privacy is what likely attracts them there for their Separatist meetings. 

The remainder of the credits bump against his pockets, and he grimaces. And the brothel aspect too, he supposes. 

Quinlan stretches up from his chair, dropping a tip on the table before shuffling back into the bustling street. He has about two hours before the sun starts to set. It’s time to get ready to meet this so-called fake uncle of his. 

He passes by a stall, and a familiar shade of red stops him in his tracks.

Coruscant Guard red.

He turns fast enough for his hair to whip against his cheek.

The pieces of red and white plastoid hang on the wall of the marketplace booth, unassuming and nearly invisible surrounded by the fabrics strung up around them. 

But Quinlan would recognize it anywhere.

Commander Fox’s armor. 

He slams a palm against the booth, pointing at gear, “where did you get that?” 

The shopkeeper jumps up from his chair, scrambling.

“G-good evening, sir! So you’re interested in our armor selection?” 

“I’m interested in that set of armor. How did you come across a pair of clone armor?” 

The owner blinks at it owlishly, “it was brought in this afternoon by one of the passing traders.”

“Did they say from where?” Quinlan presses, fingers tapping against the table. The Commander usually stays on Coruscant. Quinlan has teased Fox enough times about being a desk jockey to know it’s rare for him to take a mission off-world. The only possibility is…

“Probably from that battle across the lake that we saw earlier. Traders like to scavenge what they can and sell them to us for a quick credit.” The shopkeeper confirms Quinlan’s suspicions and he clenches a fist. 

“I’ll take it.” He grits out, reaching into his pockets for the last of Chethey’s money. 

“O-of course, sir. Thank you for your business.” The shopkeeper palms the credits, shoving them into his pockets before unhooking the Commander’s armor and tying the pieces together with rope.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit useless if you’re after it for the information. The vambrace and helmet have been damaged, I don’t think it’ll give you much.” 

“I don’t want the information.” Quinlan reaches out, touching the edge of the visor, “did the trader say anything about the clone?”

“No, sir. Just dropped it off for a couple of credits.” The shopkeeper hands the bundled-up armor to him and he tests its weight. It’s light without its owner. 

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it, probably dead anyway. It’s not like he’ll come chasing after you for the armor back.” 

The plastoid creaks under his fingers, “no, I suppose not. Thanks.” 

“Pleasure doing business with you, sir!” 

The walk back to his dingy shuttle at the landing bay is hurried. His shoulders are starting to ache from how tightly winded he feels. He takes a seat in the pilot’s chair, setting the armor down on the floor.

The Force rolls off him in pulses of...of...Quinlan doesn’t even know how to describe it. 

Because it makes no sense. He shouldn’t be caring this much. Every time he tries to shove the thought back, it just rolls its way back to the forefront of his mind.

He pulls the helmet free from the pile, turning it over and over in his hands. The corners of the visor cover are shattered, half of it missing. The visor itself is decorated with mini hairline fractures. The radio antenna is gone. 

Sure, the Commander had been fun to mess around with. He liked the way Fox pretended not to be pissed every time Quinlan let himself get caught and put into interrogation. He especially liked the way Fox called him Vos when Quinlan had insisted on anything but General and Jedi Master . Because more often than not, he felt like neither.  

They had been at worst, a pain in each other’s ass, what with Quinlan being a maverick and Fox a stickler for regulation. At best, they had been reluctant colleagues when certain cases required each other’s cooperation and expertise. 

But the thought of Fox being...being…

Quinlan sets the helmet on his lap, reaching to pull off one of his gloves.

His bare fingertips twitch in the cool air, hovering over the red plastoid for a moment.

He touches down, closing his eyes.

Clones wear their armor nearly every moment of the day. They live through their armor. 

And the memories are overwhelming.

Quinlan lets out a cut-off groan, biting into his lip until he tastes blood.

There are too many images— datapads words Coruscant tactics training vode — too many emotions — anger orders pain frustration pain helpless orders orders love vode fear orders failure pain lightni-follow orders pain tired good soldiers someone please help us tired tiredtiredtiredtiredIMSOTIRED —

He pulls back with a gasp, grabbing onto his wrist with his other hand. His fingers shake with fine tremors and he forces himself to cough and kickstart his breathing again. 

Quinlan licks his lips and swallows the blood. He lets the Force drive calm through his body, clearing his mind of the swirling nausea.

Start small. Focus on what matters.

He touches the helmet again, parsing through the noise for the last few hours of memories left behind. 

He sees the escort mission, doomed to disaster from the start. Not due to anything within Fox’s control. 

He feels Fox’s beating heart as if it’s his own, limbs rattling from the unsteady twists and turns of their land cruiser escaping the droids gaining on them.

He feels the knife that digs through his chest each time a vod dies, the grief all-consuming for the briefest second before Fox shoves it back to deal with later. Because there’s always later. 

He feels the bitter taste of fear on the back of his throat when the grenade hits the ground. The only thing on Fox’s mind is, don’t let Stone die . 

His head pounds in sympathy with Fox’s when his helmet collides against the side of the cliff as he falls and falls and falls. 

Then he’s no longer feeling Fox at all.

There’s a jump in time. He’s looking down at Fox’s unmoving body, crumpled against the gravel of the shore. His limbs move, but only due to the force of the tide pushing against his body. The scavenger’s hands are all over him, pulling at the pieces of plastoid. The only thing Quinlan can feel is a pragmatic train of thought, calculating the cost of each piece at the market.

The scavenger reaches for Fox’s helmet. The migraine claws at the soft matter of his brain, and Quinlan feels the vision slip.

Then, he sees nothing. 

Quinlan drops the helmet, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

He takes a stuttered breath, and it gets stuck inside.

Fuck . 

He drops his arms, staring out the ship’s canopy blearily. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon, streaks of red and purple marring the blue canvas of the sky. 

He doesn’t have time for this. 

Quinlan stands up, pulling his glove back on. He scoops the helmet off the ground, staring into the visor.

For a moment, he considers calling someone. Maybe Obi-wan. Just to...to…

He doesn’t know why.

But then he remembers this is one of Anakin’s pieces of junk. The long-range communicator doesn’t even work. 

He sighs, setting the helmet back with the rest of the armor. He commits the location where Fox’s body had been found to memory. The least he can do is bring back his armor and remains to Coruscant. He’s sure the Guard would appreciate it. But...he steps off the shuttle, eyes finding the tall spires of the Aura Blossom Estate peeking back at him.

He’ll have to deal with this later, once he gets the information he needs from Sathran. 

Quinlan’s a Jedi Shadow. 

And he has a job to do.

When Fox wakes this time, he doesn’t feel the danger of slipping back under again. 

The mattress he’s lying on is thin and a bit dusty. Some of the sheets have little holes chewed through them. 

He sits up, slamming a hand down on the bed when he wobbles. The other arm goes up automatically to feather over his temple. There’s a bacta patch over it, and he presses down out of habit (it drives Remedy crazy) . It doesn’t hurt at much as he’d expected, but he can feel the bumpy outline of a healing cut beneath the bandage. 

His shoulder twinges and he drops the arm. His undersuit is gone, replaced by some old civvies that look just as ratty as the sheets. Bandages peek out from underneath the fraying collar. 

Fox rolls the shoulder, grimacing at the tightness. It could be worse, all things considered. He’s just surprised he’d been treated at all, much less so extravagantly. 

Now that his self-check-up is done, he takes a moment to just...sit.

His bed isn’t the only one in the room. There are at least eleven more laid out one right next to the other, all adorned with identical sheets and a singular pillow. Some have a small box at the foot of the mattress; probably for personal belongings. His bed is the furthest away from the door. 

The door that is being opened right now.

He tenses, looking around for something to use. The only thing he sees is someone’s personal box next to him. And his pillow. Great. 

A humanoid man peeks through the doorway, cloudy white eyes zeroing in on Fox.

“You’re awake!” He shuts the door behind him, walking over with a bundle of cloth in his four-fingered hands, “how do you feel?” 

“Not dead,” Fox says truthfully. Which is really the part he’s stuck on. He hadn’t expected to wake up again after the cliff. 

“That is a good thing, most people would say.” The Arkanian’s eyes shine briefly, “seems like your fever has subsided. You don’t feel too warm. Does anything still hurt?” 

“Are you saying being alive isn’t the preferable option here?” Fox runs a hand over the sheets instead of answering. 

The Arkanian gives him a thin smile that doesn’t go past his lips. He hands Fox the bundle of clothes, dark colors identical to the ones he’s wearing. 

“That depends on how well you can keep your head down.” 

Fox takes the fabric, expression just as strained, “I’ve had a lot of practice doing that.” 

He gets dressed, and the Arkanian leads him outside.

They talk, and the gaps in his memory are slowly filled in.

He had been fished out of the river, half-dead, and sold to the primary trader in the village. The Arkanian, Urmas, tells him about the battle they had all seen in the distance. He tells Fox about the space shuttle that left, and that settles the growing storm in his mind just a little. Stone and the rest had all made it out without trouble. The Senator and his friends are safe, the mission can be considered a success. That’s more than he could ask for. 

The problem is now solely his own. His armor is gone, and he has no idea where to. He vaguely recalls someone stripping him of it, but not enough to know who. Without it, he can’t contact anyone to let them know he’s alive. But then again, is he even worth the effort to send someone to retrieve? 

That doesn’t even begin to address his current predicament. The room Urmas had led him out of was the servants' sleeping quarters. 

The Castellan of the Aura Blossom Estate had bought the entire selection at the market earlier in the day, Fox included.

He tries to find it in himself to be surprised, but nothing comes over him. The planet is represented by the Senator he had been protecting today. And the Republic has supposedly outlawed slavery. 

Ha kriffing ha, Fox supposes he and his vode are just walking, breathing decorations then. 

Then again, in the eyes of the law, they might as well be. 

Having one senator represent an entire planet is never going to be effective. They will always miss things that don’t personally benefit them or even purposely turn a blind eye to things that ultimately benefit them. He knows that from watching the conferences and listening in on chatter while performing his duty as a breathing decoration in the background. Fox just isn’t sure which one it is.

Urmas gives him a tour of the Estate, listing out the duties that might be required of him in the future.

“It will mostly be upkeep and moving around the heavier items. The Master said clones have heightened physical abilities. That will be useful. Hopefully, we’ll get fewer injuries.” 

“...Do people get injured a lot here?” 

“...” Urmas fixes one of the flower arrangements hanging from a banister, claws twirling a stem, “bacta is expensive. I’m not allowed to give it out freely. The Master must really think you’ll be worth the money.”

The Arkanian pauses, slanting Fox a blank look that is only marred by the slight wrinkle in his brow. 

“We tend to lose the most in...in the chambers.” 

Fox feels sick. 

“Your Master allows for that?” 

“The only patrons we get are not lacking in credits. They have their...fun, and paying for the property damage afterward is simply short change to them. As long as they pay, the Master doesn’t have an issue with finding replacements.” 

Everything feels far away and numb as the words echo through his ears. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but having it said so bluntly in reference to people other than him is making his head spin. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, in both apology and sympathy. What else is there to say? 

Urmas shakes his head, lips pressed in a thin line, “this is just how things are for us here.” He breathes, “you can’t think too much about it. Otherwise…” 

Otherwise, you’ll just break apart . 

“You don’t have to worry about being sent to the chambers.” Urmas breaks Fox’s train of thought, “the Master likes to present the unmarked ones to the patrons.” 

Fox reaches up, hand running over the raised skin over his nose. He thinks of the welts on Rex’s back and the distant gaze in his dark eyes. His younger brother had gone to see Remedy after returning from Zygerria on forced leave while his General and Commander recovered. It isn’t something Rex likes talking about. 

“Not exactly what you thought would happen when you deserted?” Urmas says after a moment.

“I didn’t desert.” Fox retorts immediately, fists clenched. He’s a good soldier. And good soldiers don’t abandon their post. Good soldiers don’t disobey, good soldiers follow orde—

“I did not mean to offend.” Urmas raises his hands, eyes going wide, “I am sorry for jumping to conclusions…” He goes quiet, watching Fox work through the episode and find himself again.

“...You didn’t have a choice,” Urmas murmurs eventually, still studying him.

Fox ducks his head, the chuckle is bitter on his tongue, “do we ever?” 

“No...I suppose not.” 

They continue their walk through the gardens. There are servants moving around the property with furniture and vases in hand. They all pause briefly to give Urmas a quick nod. 

The expressions on their faces are familiar. Smiles that don’t reach the eyes but still convey the same emotion that they all understand intimately. Fox thinks of the salutes that his Guard gives each other. The nods and tired smiles his command team gives him. More relaxed, more open, more genuine.

He wants to go home. 

“It would probably be better if I say I deserted.” Fox realizes after a moment. Urmas gives him a puzzled look.

“The Republic puts out good rewards for the return of clone traitors. It should be more than what the Master paid for. We could get in contact with them.” It’s a good plan. If he does get charged for desertion, they’d still have to return him to Coruscant for a hearing. Then, he’ll at least get to see his vode one last time. 

Urmas looks spooked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

And that’s how Fox finds out about Baron Sathran. 

He learns about the unyielding hold the Kiffar has over this little village forgotten by the Senator that represents them. An overlord who promises protection against Separatists when in reality, he’s using Separatist occupation as a threat to force everyone into frightened submission. He takes advantage of the Republic’s neglect to foster a hotbed of Separatist activity for his other friends in the higher echelons.

Sathran encourages slave trading and prostitution to fill his pockets while the citizens fall further and further into debt, leaving many no choice but to become servants just for a place to sleep and a meal to have. 

It’s a vicious cycle that has Fox stunned with each bit of detail that Urmas reveals. 

“How does someone escape?” He whispers, heart jumping, “there’s nothing stopping us, is there?”

“...where would you go?” Urmas says flatly like this is an argument he’s had with himself more times than he can remember, “you can’t get anywhere here without credits. It’d be even harder to get off-world. It’s a pointless wish.” 

Fox hums, keeping the inkling of a plan to himself.

“What’s all this for?” He says instead, nodding his head when another person scurries by carrying a covered tray.

“The Estate is hosting a banquet tonight for the Baron and the other lords that reside here. It’s been a very busy day.” 

“He’ll be here...tonight?” The plan starts to take root. 

“He should already be here actually. He likes to keep a private suite to himself, but the banquet is due to start in half an hour’s time.” Urmas keeps giving him lingering gazes, but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. Fox weighs his options carefully, ultimately choosing to trust his judgment of the other man. 

“Does he indulge in everything the Estate has to offer?” 

“...Quite frequently. He’s one of the main reasons we need...replacements so often.” 

Fox wants this fucker dead. 

“Will he see someone tonight?” 

“Yes, he has already picked out Aloroy for the evening. Aloroy will meet the Baron in his suite after the banquet.” 

“They will be alone?” 

Urmas stops walking and turns to face him fully. Fox keeps his expression level but makes no attempt to hide the clear intent in his eyes. 

“The Baron keeps several bodyguards on-premise. But they usually do not interfere in matters of the bedchambers. I...” Urmas stops, looking away briefly to bite his lips.

“I can arrange for you to help set up the suite. The work shouldn’t be too strenuous, it will be a good starting task while you finish healing.” 

“That’s very kind of you, Urmas. Thank you.” Fox gives him a bright smile; the final piece falls in place. He can work with this. 

Urmas blinks, mouth agape for a second. Then, he laughs, soft and true. 

“I thought you said you were good at keeping your head down.” 

Fox shrugs; the wound on his shoulder no more than a mild irritation now. The plan is nearly fully-fledged in his mind. 

“I can only take so much.” 

“That will be all for now.” Quinlan waves his hand, and Sathran’s eyes roll back. The Baron collapses on his side, mind blank after the heavy interrogation Quinlan just put him through. He will stay unconscious for at least the rest of the evening. 

Which meant it’s time for Quinlan to take over the show.

He gets up, pulling his gloves back on. It’s been a long time since he’s tried to use the Force on another Kiffar. It had been a delicate game to search the Baron’s mind without revealing too much of his own. Clan Konshi has always been gifted in matters of the mind. Even if Sathran is many lines removed from the main branch, he can never be too careful. 

Quinlan heaves the other Kiffar over his shoulder, moving towards the large closet near the bed. He opens it, shoving the man inside before turning to regard the plethora of robes and cloaks.

He pulls out the gaudiest one he can find. More focus on the clothes means less focus on his face. 

He takes off his own cloak and folds his robes hastily before placing them inside the closet along with his lightsaber. Quinlan shuts the door and extends his hand out, hovering it over the knob. The Force wraps around it, laying down contently with a dormant trap. No one would feel the urge to look here without Quinlan’s permission. 

The clothes are on the tighter side, but it’s something he can work with. Quinlan grunts, hopping on one foot to pull the designer boots on. He settles in front of the vanity, pulling his dreads up in a hairstyle close to Sathran’s elaborate bun. The other Kiffar’s blue tattoos are easy to replicate on his cheeks, but it takes a fuck ton of concealer to cover his own gold bar. He feels like a painting with twenty layers caked onto the canvas. 

He sets the brush down, turning his head left and right to observe the makeup. He looks similar enough, but it could fall apart easily if someone looks a bit too hard. The Force will have to do for the rest in terms of misdirection. 

Just in time too. A knock sounds at the door and he clears his throat.

“What is it?” Something close to Sathran’s low rumble comes out.

“My Lord, the banquet is ready and your guests have arrived. I have been instructed to escort you to the dining hall.” A meek voice answers. 

Quinl— Sathran straightens, a smirk on his face. 

He opens the door, “lead the way.” 

Fox has followed every whim of every Senator for the past two years and he still doesn’t understand the wealthy. 

He scatters more flower petals into the steaming tub that extends for at least two meters. The water flows out from an ornate fountain into a smaller tub that overflows into the main one. The water trickles softly, and Fox guesses it can be seen as extravagant. It’s practically a pool at this point. And why is there a need for a pool inside a bedroom? Wouldn’t the moisture ruin the integrity of the wood? He doesn’t understand it at all. 

Fox sets the flower bucket on the ground, dipping his hand into the water. It’s near scalding but by the time the Baron returns, it should be usable. He pulls back the sheer maroon drapes that surround the tub. The fabric is adorned with gold-threaded designs that sparkle in the dim light. He ties them down and out of the way. Next, he lights the candles one by one, filling the air with a sweet scent. 

He steps back, admiring the work he’s done. It looks a lot like the hotel rooms that some Senators make him book for diplomatic missions, so he must be doing something right. 

Fox moves on to the bed, which is only a few meters away from the bath, separated by a curtain of beads. 

He fluffs the pillows and fixes the sheets with precision, not a single wrinkle in sight. He tosses a few petals on for extra effect. 

Not that any of this will matter in the end. Fox hopes he’ll have the bastard dead before they even reach this stage. 

But the motions are mindless, and it helps him clear his head enough to run the plan over and over until he’s ready. 

He pulls the canopy curtains around the bed, straightening them until everything looks right. 

There’s a knock on the door and he stiffens. Fox moves away from the bed, hiding behind one of the many pillars in the room. 

The door opens and he hears a cautious ‘hello ?’

He stays silent. 

A man walks by with an armful of white fabric, looking around. 

“Must’ve finished and left already.” He mumbles after a moment before sitting down at the vanity.

This must be Aloroy. 

Fox gives the man a minute to settle down. He hears the rattling of perfume bottles and makeup brushes being organized and used.

He steps away from the pillar, feet quiet as he inches closer.

Aloroy doesn’t turn until the last second, but by then Fox already has him in a hold. The other man goes limp in his grasp and he sets him down gently on the ground. 

Now, if things go wrong, Aloroy won’t get implicated at least. 

Fox grabs the white clothes, lifting them up with a grimace. They are probably his size; Aloroy has a wiry frame but good muscle definition so they should fit even if a bit snug. 

He removes the dark uniform he had been given earlier, putting on the new pair. It’s relatively simple— long, and flowy, clearly designed to be easy to slip off. The bright color brings out the warmth in Aloroy’s golden brown skin and Fox’s own russet shade. He lifts his arms, turning once to let the sleeves flutter. It’s also made to accentuate the hips and chest. Ugh . 

He lifts Aloroy into his arms, dragging him towards the closets near the bed. He pauses, something pressing in his brain as he stares at the handles. 

Fox goes for the closet on the left rather than the right. He pulls out one of the extra sheets, tearing it into thin strips to tie Aloroy’s wrists and ankles together.

“Sorry.” He whispers, gagging Aloroy’s mouth before closing the closet door. He grabs the rest of the outfit— a shawl of sheer white fabric, draping it over his head and shoulders. It hides the bandages peeking out of the nightshirt perfectly. He rips the bacta patch off his temple, leaning into the mirror. The cut is tender but closed and mostly healed. He runs a hand through his curls, mussing it up to hide the wound.

A quick rummaging through the vanity table yields a pair of small scissors.

Fox tests its weight in his hand, swiping it back and forth in the air. He slips it between the folds of his shawl. This would have to do. 

Distant chatters and laughing reach his ears from the outside, and he takes a deep breath.

He has to do this.

He has to go home.

Quinlan lets the Castellan chatter on, singing songs in Sathran’s praise. 

“Yes, she did dance well,” Quinlan laughs out loud when appropriate, slinging a friendly arm over the other man, “you’ll have to remind me of her name next time. For a...private recital.” He leers.

“Of course, my Lord! By your word it will be done!” 

Quinlan nods, pulling back and continuing his leisurely pace. The data chip is hidden snuggly underneath his gaudy coat, the evening’s entire conversation with the Separatists recorded onto it. The Council is going to have a field day with this. He’d consider this mission more than a success. 

Now all he has to do is go back to Sathran’s room, give the Baron a few more suggestions before sneaking out the back. Then, it’s home-free. 

He sees the suite down the pathway and straightens up, a good night already on his lips.

“This way, my Lord! The fresh human male I’ve prepared for you, not only dances well but is very good at massages. You’ll be sure to have a relaxing night.” 

The who and what that he prepared how now?

“Pardon?” He manages to sputter out without letting his voice crack. 

“The bedwarmer you asked for earlier? My Lord?” The Castellan gives him a strange look, and the Force’s hold starts to slip.

“I mean,” Quinlan turns his head away, “ah yes! I remember now. Forgive me, the drinks must be getting to me.” 

The doubt settles, and the Castellan gives him a beam.

“A warm bath should loosen you up then. I’ve had the water drawn, ready, and hot for your return. After that, I’ll have him serve you well.” 

Quinlan laughs, pulling his coat closer.

“Please, my Lord.” The other man bows, gesturing for the door of the suite, “follow me.” 

Quinlan senses Sathran’s guards fan out to surround the perimeter behind him as he walks up the steps towards the door.

Okay, no big deal. He’ll just have to improvise. 

The Castellan pushes the doors wide open, and he gets a strong whiff of perfume that hadn’t been in the room before.

“This way, my Lord.”

Quinlan nods, swallowing loudly. 

No big deal at all.

“This way, my Lord.”

Fox sinks to the ground on his knees in the reception area by the door, leaning forward to press his forehead against the top of his hands in a deep bow. With the shawl and other fabrics, the Castellan shouldn’t be able to see the subtle differences between his and Aloroy’s hair. 

“You can rest well tonight, my Lord. Your guards are stationed outside. If you need anything, just let them know.” 

The footsteps pause outside of the curtain barrier between them.

“You will serve the Baron well tonight.” The Castellan addresses Fox, the simpering tone all but gone. 

“Yes, Master.” He attempts Aloroy’s softer voice. 

He feels a stare boring into his lowered head and keeps still.

“My Lord, I will take my leave then. Please, enjoy yourself.” 

“I will.” 

The voice is a low rumble, very controlled. It rings in Fox’s ears like something familiar. 

He hears the door close.

Now it’s just Fox and Sathran.

He keeps his head down, waiting for the Baron’s orders. The scissors feel heavy, hanging in the folds of his nightshirt. 

The footsteps retreat, going deeper into the room without any regard for him. 

Fox lifts his head slowly, scanning the area. Sathran is nowhere in sight. He rises, keeping his bare footsteps light as he patters his way after the Baron.

He freezes when he hears the rustling of fabric being removed. The Baron has his back towards him, waist belt placed on the table. 

“Castellan Orin told me that you are good at massages.” 

Fox dips his head down, mouth open with no words to answer.

“Come, give me a massage.” 

He lets out a breath, still quiet. 

Sathran doesn’t turn. The Kiffar walks towards the tub, shrugging off the hideous blue coat as he goes.

Fox leans against the pillar, closing his eyes.

This would work. A massage means he’ll have his back turned towards Fox, making the kill all that much easier.  Any struggle can be drowned out by the bath. 

He hears a soft splash of water.

Fox opens his eyes.

There’s no turning back. This is the only way to get back to Coruscant. 

He moves away from the pillar, heading for the bath.

The bead curtains rattle as Fox pushes them aside to enter the bathing area. 

A small staircase leads into the tub. Sathran is sitting at the lowered ledge so that only his feet would be dipped into the water. His back is turned, but he is still wearing a thin pair of underclothes. Fox nearly falters. That’s surprisingly...modest of the Kiffar, given everything he’s heard. His hand goes for the scissor still wrapped under the fabrics. This is almost too easy.

He approaches, the hardwood floor disappearing under plush carpet that covers the steps of the small stairs. It tickles his feet.

Fox is at the top step now, looming over Sathran from behind. The other man doesn’t move.

He kneels on the step, knees nearly touching against Sathran’s back. Fox pulls the thin robe covering broad shoulders down, revealing smooth golden-brown skin. He presses his fingers into the flesh, kneading at the knots between the man’s neck and shoulder in small circles.

Fox's hands work through the warm skin, the color deepening at the areas where he presses particularly hard. Sathran doesn’t make small talk; he doesn’t even make a grunt. The only sign that Fox is doing it correctly is the loosening of tension and the subtle way that the Baron leans back into his touch. Some dreads fall out of the loose bun and brush against his knuckles. Fox ignores the urge to move them away. 

He keeps his eyes on the trickling fountain across the tub, unblinking as he counts the seconds. The flower petals swirl, scenting the air with their sweetness.  

After five minutes have passed, he pulls his right hand away while his left hand continues to work. He shakes his right hand out conspicuously to feint taking a brief break.

The hand reaches down for the folds in his shawl, pulling the scissors free. He adjusts the grip, twirling the blade to face Sathran, who still hasn’t moved.

His left hand goes still, holding on to the warm shoulder.

Fox doesn’t blink when he drives the blade down towards Sathran’s throat.

An arm shoots out, slamming the edge of a palm against Fox’s wrist before wrapping around and squeezing tightly.

The scissors drop into the water with a splash. 

Fox barely gets a gasp out before he’s being yanked hard, thrown over Sathran’s shoulders and into the bath. 

He wrenches his body sideways, changing his direction midair so that his arm stays in his shoulder joint and he’s facing Sathran when he swings back down.

His legs skim the water and he kicks out, throwing a wave at the Baron’s face.

Through the water and flying petals, he sees Sathran raise his free hand to block the wave. The other hand still wrapped on Fox’s wrist loosens slightly.

Fox shoves it off, reaching into the water to find the scissors. The Baron’s hand returns immediately, lightning-quick to stop him. Fox takes it into stride, spinning the opposite direction to deliver a wet roundhouse kick towards his head. 

It just barely misses; he swears he felt the edge of Sathran’s nose. But then a hard kick at his knee forces his standing leg to buckle while his other leg is still in the air. 

A long second passes where he’s momentarily weightless, water rushing towards his face as he falls. 

Fox reaches out blindly, grabbing for one of the sheer curtains surrounding the tub. He stays afloat long enough for Sathran to flip him onto his back again. 

The world spins, but Fox keeps his death grip on the curtain, hoping to the Ka’ra that it has the strength to hold his weight as he lands.

His feet find the edges of the tub, halting his descent. He’s suspended over the water one hand holding onto the curtain, the other in Sathran’s grip. Fox keeps his head turned away. This is already taking too long. If he has to run, his anonymity should at least buy him a bit more time to hide as they do a headcount of the slaves.

He kicks off the tub, using the momentum to spin out of Sathran’s hold. With the curtain acting as a rope, he swings back toward the Baron.

Fox aims a kick at Sathran’s head, which he blocks easily by grabbing onto his ankle, just as he expected. 

Fox pulls the curtain up, the ends now dark and saturated with water, and whips it towards the Baron’s face.

Sathran catches it with his other hand before letting go of Fox’s foot to grab the other edge of the curtain. With nothing holding him up, gravity takes and Fox starts to fall. He watches the other man flick the curtain open like he’s airing out laundry, sharp droplets of water flinging through the air. 

With Fox holding the top of the curtain wide and Sathran holding the bottom corners, his body is caught like a fly in a web. He kicks out at the last second, pushing the curtain high with his foot so it forms a barrier between the Baron’s face and his body.  

Through the fabric, he catches dark eyes attempting to find his through the design-embroidered mesh. Fox tilts his body, and the curtain hammock drops him off. His feet find the bottom of the tub steadily, and he kicks back another wave of water at the Baron. He can't see the scissors through the petals.

It isn’t enough to deter Sathran. A rough hand reaches through the water and he feels it coming. Fox wades forward just in time to avoid getting grabbed by the shoulder, but the fingers wrap around the folds of his shawl and robes instead. 

Sathran pulls and Fox flies back, stumbling out of the tub. The fabric flutters into the pool and Fox’s shoulders are exposed to the cool air now that he’s left in only a thin white undershirt. 

The Baron pulls his trick, kicking a wall of water towards his face as he lunges from the tub. Fox grabs another drape, whipping it around to block the water from reaching his eyes. 

Before he can make it, a hand cuts through the twirling curtain and wraps around the back of his shirt. 

Sathran pulls and the fabric rips at the seams.

A chill runs down his back now that he’s left with only the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. 

Fox tears the curtain free from the ceiling, throwing it over his head and bare chest. He retreats, pushing back the bead curtains until he’s got at least half a meter distance between him and the Baron. His heart hammers through his ears. It's a dead end in the bedroom, Fox has to take care of things here and now. Smash the mirror for shards as a weapon? Break the vase? Look for a hairpin in the vanity? There are guards all around the perimeter, what route does he have? Why hasn’t Sathran called for help yet?

Wet footsteps gain behind him and he turns around to see a fist aimed at his face. 

He dodges, walking backward. 

The back of his knees hit a solid edge, and he falls onto the soft mattress, flower petals fluttering into the air at the sudden weight. 

He blocks a fist, yanking at the clenched hand while kicking out at the Baron's armpit. He hears a grunt and feels himself getting spun around and dragged off the bed by the arm. He kicks up, hitting the underside of a bicep, forcing Sathran to let go. Fox reaches for his forearm, pulling the other man onto the bed. Last resort: smother him with a pillow or strangle him with the bedsheets.

The fight gets messy.

The sheets are silk and neither of their punches are precise due to the constant slipping. With the canopy curtains fluttering in and out of their way, he can barely see his own limbs, much less Sathran's.

Fox blocks a forearm aimed to pound against his chest. He kicks out at a shin only to get his leg sandwiched between two calves. 

They tussle some more, rolling in an attempt to pin each other down for a brief advantage. 

Fox sees an opening to get off the bed and seizes it. He’s dragged back by the ankle, chin thankfully snapping down against the soft mattress rather than the wooden frame. 

Sathran flips him over, towering over him. 

Fox spreads his legs, kicking out both of the Baron’s ankles. Sathran loses balance and drops. 

The yellow canopy curtains flutter out of the way.

Fox sees the other’s face clearly for the first time tonight as he falls forward towards him.

The bun has long been loosened in the scuffle, chest-length dreadlocks flying free.

The chevron tattoos on each cheek are smudged and dripping blue down his face along with some brown.

A golden tattoo peeks out behind the paint, stretching from one cheek to the other over the bridge of his nose. 

Their eyes meet. He knows them.

The Baron catches himself on his elbows before he completely collapses on top of Fox.

But his face hits first.

Quinlan Vos smashes his nose against Fox’s. Their lips meet hard enough for their teeth to rattle. 

All Fox can see is large dark pupils staring back into his own for the next few seconds where neither of them could move.  Nose on nose, mouth on mouth, body against body. 

Fox thinks he might’ve stopped breathing. 

The canopy setup finally collapses, every curtain falling over their heads and bodies. He sees Vos’s eyes flutter shut right before yellow fabric obscures his vision. 

Fox pushes as hard as he can.

He can’t see nor hear anything over the rustling of fabric as they both try to escape the mess of drapes and sheets. Every time Fox thinks he’s found an opening, he’d get elbowed in the gut by Vos or he’d accidentally yank one of Vos’s locs instead. 

Both of them are more vocal now, shouting out wordless curses in an attempt to get out of each other’s way. 

Fox kicks out, hearing something give and break off the bed frame. It hits the floor with a loud crash. Vos parrots his movement with something else. Only this time, whatever it is, crashes against the bedside table, knocking the vase of flowers over with a loud shattering. 

Finally, Fox finds a real opening in the mess and burrows his way out. The gasp of fresh air is welcomed, and he shakes the rest of the sheets off. Vos does the same beside him.

The door opens with a loud bang and he hears thundering footsteps.

Vos shoves him by the shoulder roughly, and Fox yelps when he tips over, sinking face-first into the mattress. The covers are tossed over his head.

“Is everything alright, my Lor—”

“Leave us!” 

The voice is muffled through the blanket, but the sharpness in Vos's tone leaves no room for argument. The guard stammers out an apology, and then the footsteps retreat.

He hears the door close.

Silence. 

Fox sits up, pulling the covers off his face. 

Vos is using one of the sheets to wipe the rest of the makeup off, eyes closed. 

Hundreds of questions are running through his head, and Fox isn’t sure which one he wants to ask first in the grand scheme of things. He had come in here expecting to kill a Separatist overlord, not a Jedi Shadow who’s always been nothing but a pain in the sheb . 

He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until Vos leans in, searching his eyes with raised brows.

“What’s with that look?” Vos's voice is pitched low and challenging, “haven’t had enough? Want to go for a Round Two or something?” 

Fox backs away with a scowl, kicking his foot up at that annoying face. Vos catches it with ease, shoving his leg back down with a scoff. They scoot away from each other, gathering themselves. 

“Well?” Vos says after a beat, his voice soft. The word lingers in the scented air cautiously, unsure if it should’ve been uttered.

“Well, what?” Fox snaps as he tosses the blankets off completely. The scuffle had warmed him up too much for the heaviness of the covers. He pats his forehead dry and starts gathering the thinner drapes around his bare upper body. The Jedi’s fingernails drag across the sheer fabrics decorating the mattress in soft prolonged zips . 

Much like Vos, it’s downright annoying.

“The Castellan said the beauty in my bed tonight is not only a gifted masseuse but also a mesmerizing dancer,” the hesitation has all but disappeared, and Fox can tell the other man is smiling through the purred words.

He glances back over his shoulder, watching Vos lean back against the pillows like a satisfied tooka.

“I’d say the massage was average at best,” Vos lifts a hand, tilting it into a meh gesture while wiggling his fingers. Fox feels the sudden urge to chew them off. He turns around to face the Jedi completely, crossing his arms.

Vos meets his glower with a grin, “how about you let me judge the dancing now?” 

“Are you insane?” Fox sputters, pulling the drapes closer around his body even as it protests the increased warmth that makes his skin burn, “we have to get out of here.” 

“They won’t exactly be expecting anyone to leave this room until morning anyway,” Vos lets out a gasp, “if you don’t want to dance, we can do what they think we were doing befor—HEYOOMPH!” His words are cut off by the pillow Fox swings straight into his teeth. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re on the job. Jedi Master Vos.” He scowls out, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. A hand reaches out to wrap around his wrist before he could stand. The pillow is hanging off Vos's head precariously, and he blinks at Fox with considering dark eyes.

“Don’t call me that. And I did what I came here to do already. Technically I’m off the clock.”  

Fox shakes his hand out of the grip sharply, rubbing at his hammering pulse.

“Maybe you are, but I’m not.” He never is. Ever since he could think, he’s been on the move. On the behalf of the Kaminoans, the trainers, and then the Republic. It’s what he’s made for. 

“Alright alright! I’m just kidding!” The Jedi holds his hands up in surrender, and Fox can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Why are you here, General Vos?” Is the question Fox settles with. For a brief moment of some emotion he can’t parse, he wonders if Vos really is the Baron Sathran behind everything. 

But then logic follows, and he dismisses it before he can put a voice to the theory. The makeup is telling. Sathran is also a Separatist. The rational conclusion is that this had been another one of Vos's undercover investigations. 

“Not your General either,” Vos reminds him, “and why do you think? Sathran was my target in this operation.” 

Vos stands from the bed with a stretch that releases several noticeable pops. He keeps his eyes on Fox as he heads for the closet, “I was gathering information to get probable cause for Republic intervention.” 

He reaches for the left closet and Fox remembers.

“Wait, don’t open tha—” 

Aloroy falls forward into Vos's arms, and the Kiffar yelps before shoving the unconscious man back in, shutting the doors.

Vos looks over at him, and Fox suddenly finds the patterns on the covers much more interesting. 

“And I would’ve been home-free if somebody hadn’t come along to complicate things.” The Jedi opens the other closet, pushing the doors wide open. 

Fox looks up and sees the real Sathran passed out in the closet next to Aloroy’s. 

“Oh.” He says. 

It really is ironically hilarious if Fox thinks about it, but the sinking in his stomach stops him from feeling amused.

Vos's neutral expression doesn’t change, and Fox fights the urge to fidget. Soldiers don’t fidget, they stay disciplined and focused. But Fox had fucked up badly here, hadn’t he? Not only had he gotten in the way of a Jedi General’s investigation, but he had also attempted to assassinate him. Even if it hadn’t been intentional, he’d still done it. 

Quinlan Vos is known to be easy-going, always smiling and teasing. He’d come and go around the Guard and Prison Complex as he pleased, asking for information and resources. He’d joke around with the vode, causing them to snicker every time he did something to poke at Fox’s annoyance. 

But Fox also knows Quinlan Vos, the Jedi Shadow. He’s seen how the mask of humor falls away as easily as he puts it on, eyes growing sharp and focused when the situation at hand really matters. They’ve worked on enough cases together for Fox to begrudgingly admire Vos's work ethic on the field even if his paperwork is horrendous. 

If Fox has actually screwed something up, he swallows thickly. Nothing can protect him then. 

The bed bounces once, and he flinches. Vos had closed the closet door and settled himself back on the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling, face blank. 

Fox is afraid to move. 

“Relax.” Vos finally says after a minute. 

“What?”

Vos turns his head, blinking at him, “You didn’t do anything wrong. And even if you did, I’m not going to, I don’t know, get you punished for it. Shit happens, that’s how undercover usually goes.” 

Fox lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“I’m just glad you’re…” Vos continues, pulling at a loose thread on the pillow, “well, I thought you were dead.” 

Fox frowns, “how did you figure that?”

“You were involved in that battle across the lake, yeah?” 

“It wasn’t a battle.” Fox draws circles in the sheets with his finger, “we were escorting Senator Tuss to his villa when we were attacked by droids. We got the Senator and his friends to safety, but…” His finger stops.

“You didn’t make it.” Vos finishes for him

“I didn’t make it.” Fox agrees. 

“I found your armor for sale at the marketplace.” Vos offers, and Fox stiffens. 

He vaguely remembers it being removed from him the first time he had woken up. It makes sense; clone armor is still armor. Someone somewhere can repurpose it for their needs. Hopefully, it’s damaged enough that no one will be able to salvage any comm frequencies and messages from it. If not, that’s even more reason for him to return to Coruscant and get it remotely deactivated as soon as possible.

It can be easily replaced once he gets back, but the thought of losing it still stings. Because it’s his . 

“I bought it back though.” 

Fox looks down, eyes wide, “y-you did?” 

“Yup, it’s back in my shuttle.” 

Why? Fox wants to blurt out. If Vos had assumed he was dead, why would he spend money to get it back? It’s...it’s not worth anything to a natborn. Had he also been worried about the possible information leak? That must be it. There’s no other reason for the gesture. Certainly nothing of the sentimental kind. But still,

“Thank you.” Fox manages to say, throat dry. Vos might not know its value, but Fox can express his gratitude nevertheless. 

Vos just gives him a smile, “So how did you end up here, Commander?” 

Fox considers his words carefully. It’s not like there’s anything to hide. But— bars, hands on his face, huddled bodies, fear — he swallows, relaxing his clenched fists. The less he talks about it, the better. 

“I didn’t have any money to get back to Coruscant. So I came here to steal some.” 

Vos lets out a laugh, “and of all the people you could’ve come after, you go for the guy in charge?” 

“I heard rumors of him being a Separatist. As a soldier of the Republic, it felt like the right thing to do.” 

Vos hums, “well you’re right about that. I think the attack on your Senator was a lot more than what it seemed.” 

That piques his interest.

“You think Sathran was involved?” Fox asks, leaning in. 

“I know it. He and his buddies weren’t exactly happy that you all got away.”

“What were they planning?” 

Vos sits up straight, running a hand through his damp dreads and throwing them over his shoulder. His borrowed undershirt is still hanging loosely from the fight, a shoulder peeking through. 

“You know the strategic value of this planet?” Vos asks, pulling up the sleeve. Fox blinks away from the now-hidden skin. He nods; he’s heard enough around the Senate Building and read enough reports and maps.

“Right,” Vos continues, “the Council’s been keeping an eye on it for a while now because the only thing stopping the Separatists from a full takeover is…”

“Its representation in the Senate,” Fox rubs his chin with a murmur, “they want Senator Tuss out of the picture.” He stills, eyes flickering over to Vos when the dots connect, “Sathran wants to take the empty seat if Tuss gets assassinated. Then he’d pull them out of the Republic legally.” 

Vos’s lips curl up, “ding ding ding. You’d be surprised at how many Separatist sympathizers there are in the higher powers here. Sathran isn’t the only one, and he has the backup and endorsements to make it happen if Tuss had died today. But thanks to you, Commander, that didn’t happen.” 

“There was nothing good about what happened back there.” Fox barely contains the snarl through gritted teeth. They had left Coruscant with a total of 36 vode. Only 14 made it on the shuttle when he had fallen off the cliff. 

He looks at Vos, “if the Council knew Tuss would be a likely target, why weren’t we informed?” Fox tries not to sound accusatory, he really does. But disregarding himself, they had lost 21 vode. If only he’d known. He would’ve prepared more and brought more backup. Hell, he would’ve fought harder against the mission. Maybe things would’ve been different.

“It was mostly a hunch. That’s why I was sent to gather information. I haven’t been on Coruscant in half a month, Fox.” Vos sighs, “the Council wanted further confirmation before they made any risky decisions.” 

So you’re saying that it’s okay to risk my Guard instead? Fox doesn’t say it out loud. He already knows the answer. 

“Hey,” Vos starts again, voice soft and a touch apologetic. Right, Jedi and their damn powers. Fox straightens, shoving the emotions back into the box. Just like he does with the Senators, just like he does with the Chancellor. And now with the Jedi as well. 

“It’s fine, General. I understand.” 

“Doesn’t mean it’s alright….I’m sorry for your losses.” 

“...it can’t be helped.” His shoulder is starting to ache again from the strain of their fight, but at least the wound hadn’t reopened. He can practically feel the migraine lurking in the depths, ready to sweep him off his feet the moment he stands. 

“We should leave.” He stands anyway, grabbing onto the bedpost when a stabbing pain goes through his temple. A hand touches down on the small of his back to steady him, the warmth permeating through the thin fabric he’s thrown on. 

“I think we can stay a bit longer.”

Fox turns around, “Vos—”

“—I’m not teasing.” The Kiffar’s expression is deadly serious. He jerks his chin towards the bandages that are clearly visible through the sheer cloth, “your injuries aren’t healed completely and it’s still early in the night. Everyone’s still on guard out there. We’ll wait a bit.” 

“...” Fox is tired. He just wants to put all this behind him and go home. Back in his armor and role as a Marshal Commander. Back to being a good soldier that keeps his head down and follows his orders. Back to his normal. 

“They think you’re dead.” 

The sentence pulls Fox from his thoughts, and he stares at the Jedi looking up at him from the bed.  

“What?”

“I’m a Shadow. I have a lot of places to stay off-world. I also don’t have to report back to the Council often unless it’s urgent.”  

Fox doesn’t understand where he’s going with this. 

“What are you saying?” 

Vos drums his fingers against the mattress, “I’m saying, you could come with me.” 

.

“You don’t have to go back, Fox.”

Fox doesn’t hear much of anything beyond his own heartbeat. He can barely get his brain to tell his lungs how to work. The same two words are echoing through his mind.

An out. An out. Vos is giving him an out. An escape. 

It could be a trap. To test your resolve. His thoughts whisper. He hadn’t technically deserted, but this...this would seal the deal. He’d be considered a traitor . The word brings a pang of pressure to his temple as if warning him. But by the Ka’ra , Fox wants it. He’s never wanted anything more in his twelves years of living than this very moment to make a choice. An actual choice for himself. To leave it all behind. To leave his— 

.

Stone and the rest should be back on Coruscant by now and making their reports. They should probably be working on the transfer of command too if they wanted to stay on top of things. But it’s more likely for them to be holed up with the rest of the Guard, clanking cups and sharing moonshine in Fox’s name. 

He can already see the looks on their faces. The glare on Remedy’s glasses that he’s perfected the angle on so that no one can see what he’s feeling. The stoic grim line of Stone’s clenched jaw, hard enough to make him ache for days afterward. The unshed tears in Thorn’s eyes as he slams his cup down on a table with more force than necessary, hands shaking. The slight wobble on Thire’s bottom lip whenever he’s doing his best to not break whatever emotional barrier he’s set for himself. 

“I can’t .” Fox whispers.

He can’t do that to his kih’vode. 

“Fox, I know that place brings you pain. I’ve felt it.” Vos frowns, crossing his arms, “this is your chance to leave it all behind. I don’t understand why you—”

“—because I’m not like you, Vos!” Fox presses a trembling finger against the center of the Jedi’s chest, “I can’t just run off and do whatever I want whenever I feel like it. I have responsibilities to the Chancellor, the Republic, and my brothers. I…” He takes a shaky breath. 

“I can’t leave and abandon them like that.” His hand falls limply against his side, “so get out of my mind and stop pretending you know what I want, Quinlan Vos.” 

They stare at each other in silence, the only sound coming from the faint trickles of the bath fountain beyond the curtains. 

Vos lets out a huff, not quite a laugh. He dips his head, a loc falling to shadow his expression. 

“If you think I can just do whatever I want, then you don’t know me either.”

Fox reaches up, holding the stray dreadlock between two fingers. The Jedi follows his every movement, the golden specks in his brown eyes practically glowing. 

“Maybe we should keep it that way,” Fox says, tucking the loc behind Vos’s ear. 

He pulls back. Vos grabs onto his fingers, grip loose enough for Fox to shake it free if he wishes to.

He doesn’t. 

“When are we leaving?” Fox asks, keeping his limbs as still as possible. 

“A few more hours. I want to do some final checks on everything. Tie up loose ends. We’ll leave in the middle of the night.” 

“...Alright.” A few more hours can’t hurt in the grand scheme of things. They already think he’s dead anyway.

Vos squeezes his hand, “get some sleep. I’ll keep watch for any changes.” 

Fox opens his mouth to protest. He’s the clone soldier. He should be the one to take the first watch, not the Jedi. But Vos lets go of his hand and stands up. The objections evaporate off his tongue, and Fox sinks back down on the mattress without another word. His head hurts too much to argue anymore. If he gets some rest now, maybe he won’t be a burden later during their escape.

He hears Vos rummaging around for his clothes in the distance as he lays his head down on the plush pillow. Everything is soft and smells of flowers, a gentle balm over his sore wounds. It’s easy to fall into its lulling embrace.

As Fox falls asleep, he thinks he can feel the covers being shifted over his body without a single, physical touch.

Quinlan lets his hand fall back to rest against his knee, glancing between the unconscious Baron and prostitute lying in the open closets. The influence should hold. Both will wake up in the morning thinking they spent the night together. Sathran’s memories will be a bit muddier with some added fake images and suggestions. Quinlan is nowhere near done with the bastard. 

He knocks the doors close, shifting to sit cross-legged against the edge of the mattress. He closes his eyes, feeling the world around him flow through his mind gently. The guards outside are starting to get tired; he can feel their wandering thoughts flicker as the moons rise higher into the night sky. 

Life breathes through the flowers, bringing their scent through the walls. Insects and small animals move through the plants in soft rustling motions, their thoughts too vague for Quinlan to comprehend fully. 

The Force weaves in and out of the Estate, and he senses everyone winding down. The slaves are finished with cleaning the banquet aftermath and have moved on to tidying up the other rooms. He tries not to linger on them; the pressure of their fear and sadness never subsides and he doesn’t have the means to do anything about it right now. 

He pulls back, narrowing his sphere of reach. The bathwater still flows at a tranquil pace, swirling the petals in nonsensical patterns. Sathran and the slave stay silent in a forced sleep behind him. And next to him—

His concentration breaks for a moment, and the Force ripples around him with a soft ?  

Next to him, Fox breathes deeply and softly. 

Quinlan shifts the center of his meditation, filling his chest with a deep breath and letting it out in timed increments. Fox doesn’t shift much in his sleep; he barely moves at all. His body is curled away from Quinlan, and he feels...small. He doesn’t dream so there aren’t any wayward emotions for Quinlan to find. His presence is withdrawn and the Force pokes curiously at his shields. 

So get out of my mind and stop pretending you know what I want, Quinlan Vos.

Quinlan schools his flinch, pulling back immediately. Fox doesn’t stir, but Quinlan still feels like he’s been caught with his hand in one of the sweets jars that Plo says are reserved for the padawans only. He spends so much of his time outside the Temple and away from the others. Out here, it’s his job to dig into other people’s heads and find every bit of information he can. It’s a tough habit to break.

Fox’s signature has always been a bit strange to Quinlan. The only way he can think to describe it…

The bath fountain rings in his ears, droplets of water trickling into the swirling pools.

Like mist. Cloudy and muddled, making everything difficult to pinpoint. And even more difficult to grasp onto without losing it completely. That had been why it had taken Quinlan a moment to even realize who the sudden attacker had been. The Commander is no slouch, even when injured. He’d spent most of his focus on deflecting attacks rather than identifying Force signatures. It hadn’t been until Quinlan was slipping on silk and falling over dark eyes before he realized. And by then, his lips were already pressed against—

There’s someone heading for the door.

Quinlan shoots to his feet, vision a little fuzzy from the prolonged meditation. He reaches the door before the Castellan does, holding down the handles.

“My Lord, are you still awake?” 

Quinlan takes a breath, deepening his voice, “Castellan, it’s late. Is there something wrong?” 

He feels the hesitation surrounding the other man, pulsing and obvious. It’s mixed with a whiff of tangy fear.

“General Grievous is on his way here, my Lord. He insists he must see you at once.” 

Siths’ fucking hell.

“My Lord?” 

“Has he landed already?” 

“Not that I know of. How should I prepare, my Lord?” 

Quinlan’s wracking his brain for solutions.

“How about you entertain him for a while?” The fear spikes and Quinlan pushes, “set him up with one of your best rooms, my treat. I’m…” 

He pauses for effect, making sure the Castellan can see his shadow through the door turn to face the bed where Fox is sleeping, “a little tired.” 

“Alright my Lord, rest assured. Aura Blossom will take good care of the General for you. Enjoy the rest of your night.” He watches the shadow of the Castellan bow before falling back.

“Shit…” Quinlan runs a hand through his hair, “shit.” 

He makes his way back to the bed, steps faltering when he looks down at Fox. 

Before today, he’s only seen Fox’s face through the files he kept on the Guard. The headshot image showed off the Commander’s stern and no-nonsense personality well. But even it hadn’t captured the full extent of exhaustion that is etched into the lines of his face and the greying of his dark hair. 

Quinlan lets his hand hover, fingertips dangerously close to that sleeping face. His brow is lax, eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. The circles are still darkly pronounced but for once, Fox doesn’t look like he’s fighting back against the entire galaxy and losing.  

His hand settles on a warm shoulder that peeks out from underneath the mess of sheets, “Fox.” 

Mismatched eyes blink open slowly, sleep clouded and confused for a second. It passes quickly, and Fox sits up.

“My turn for watch?” His voice is rough but he’s already alert with a soldier’s readiness. 

“We have to go. Grievous is on his way.” Quinlan opens the closets, “help me move them onto the bed.” 

“Grievous?” Fox takes Sathran by the shoulders when Quinlan hands him over, dragging him onto the other side of the mattress, “you think he’s here about what happened with Senator Tuss?” 

“Likely. Probably to coordinate for another attack in the future.” Quinlan lifts the servant onto the bed. 

Fox gets off the mattress, arranging the blankets around the two of them, “don’t you need information on that too?” 

“Grievous isn’t going to be fooled by me pretending to be Sathran. Mind tricks don’t work well enough on him for that. It’s too risky.” Quinlan places his hand over the Baron’s forehead, eyes falling shut to concentrate. The Force moves with his call, weaving the trick to include Grievous, “I’ll have Sathran relay the details to me later.” 

“...so we aren’t going to kill him.” 

Quinlan blinks, glancing over. Fox’s eyes are trained on the Baron, the hands at his sides clenched with faint tremors.

“I still need him, Commander.” 

“And the rest of the slaves here?” 

“I…” The wave of dark, suffocating despair resurfaces in his mind, and he swallows.

“We can’t, Fox. It’ll take too long and be too noticeable.” 

And it won’t stop the root of the problem. Orin will just continue to buy more. And an entire group of missing servants will not go unnoticed. People will dig, and Quinlan can’t risk that until the information gets back to the Council safely. He knows that. And judging by the way Fox’s entire posture deflates, he knows it too.

“Could you…” Fox pauses, eyes widening as if he can’t believe he’s making a request, “could you at least make sure he never hurts another person here at the Estate again?” 

“...Yeah, I can do that.” 

He seems stunned that Quinlan had agreed. 

“...Thank you.” 

Quinlan adds the extra caveat, letting the suggestions settle and sit dormant until the right time. He goes back to the closet, pulling out his cloak and one of Sathran’s more subtle jackets. 

“Here,” Quinlan tosses his cloak and a pair of boots over to Fox, “you’re not gonna be walking out like that, are you? Wouldn’t want to scandalize the whole town.” 

Fox flushes briefly but doesn’t comment. He covers his bare chest and the flowy white pants with the fabric before shoving the boots on. 

Quinlan heads for one of the back windows, giving the suite one more look over as he moves. The bath area is still a mess, but can probably be explained away as a rowdy night for the Baron. He rummages through the coat from earlier, pulling the data chip free and pocketing it in his new jacket. Quinlan turns for the bath and lifts a hand towards the tub. The pair of scissors floats out of the water and hovers its way back to the vanity table. 

He urges the guards closest to the window to find some corner of the garden interesting. Their footsteps shuffle away. He pulls the window open, looking back at Fox. 

“Ready?” He offers a hand.

Fox stares at it.

Then, he vaults through the opening, landing near silent on the stone outside. The Commander looks over his shoulder, his lips slightly upturned. 

“Don’t fall behind, Vos.” 

Quinlan grins and follows without hesitation. 

Fox has to stifle the yawn behind his tightly pressed lips, hoping the hood of the cloak shields his face from Vos. The streets glitter in the streaks of moonlight, and they keep a brisk pace. He doesn’t think he had gotten more than an hour of sleep back there, so the night is still relatively young. The markets are starting to close up shop, stall owners pulling their stock from the booths to cart home. The crowds are sparse, with most people walking away holding last-minute snacks and parcels. 

Fox hadn’t been awake during the trek from wherever he washed up and into the village, so he follows Vos’s lead. The Jedi is wearing one of Sathran’s more muted coats with a detailed cloak over it, conveniently hiding the bump of his lightsaber. 

Fox pulls his own cloak closer; it’s the tattered one that he always sees Vos wearing during investigations down in the lower levels. It’s not exactly clean, but he’d take it over walking around in that skimpy white ensemble or the obvious uniform of the Estate slaves. 

Vos’s cloak smells of many things; he probably wears it everywhere. Fox recognizes the scent of smoky pollution from Coruscant, the flowers from the giant tree at the Temple, and the disgusting heavy perfume from the suite. And then some scent he doesn’t know how to describe as anything other than...Vos. Just Vos. 

“Landing bay should be two more streets down.” Vos eventually says after they turn a corner.

“You think we’ll get off-planet before Grievous arrives?” Fox dodges a child that runs between them, their parent yelling for them to slow down. The kid’s holding something white and glowing, but they disappear before Fox can see what it is. 

“Not counting on it. I need to get solid evidence that he’s here.”

“Isn’t your word enough?” Fox frowns. 

“Usually. But Mace wants this done by the book. Which means physical evidence that can be presented to both the Council and Senate.”  Vos stops, staring into the distance.

“...Vos?”

“Hang on a second,” The Jedi runs up towards a booth, “sir, you still open?” 

The shopkeeper gives the expensive coat a once-over, face falling into a practiced smile as he puts down the goods he had been packing away, “of course! What can I do for you?”  

“Do you have any cameras? My friend here and I just realized we hadn’t been recording any memories and don’t want to miss out on anymore.” 

“Ah of course!” The shopkeeper rummages through a box, pulling out several cameras to place on the booth table, “take your pick.” 

Vos rubs his chin, looking like he’s truly considering the options. Eventually, he picks up the smallest, most inconspicuous one. 

Fox sees the brief disappointment that flickers across the owner’s face before he turns his attention to Fox. 

“How about you, sir? Does anything catch your eye?” 

Fox looks away, shaking his head. That doesn’t dissuade the other man.

“We have holocards that can be sent off-world without any extra transmission fees. And bobbles to attach to the controls of your ship.” The shopkeeper rattles off his stock, and Fox sneaks glances at them all.

His eyes are drawn to the glowing objects hanging from the wall.

“The lanterns then, sir? Excellent taste.” The shopkeeper beams and pulls one off the rack to show them. It’s made of some flimsi material, white and shaped like a rabbit with red detailing. It glows from something within. 

“These are no normal lanterns! They are lit by the bioluminescence of our native Uzush orchids, guaranteed to last several cycles. And once they run out, it will still make a great decoration!” 

“It’s alright…” Fox starts to shake his head. He had no need for trivial things like this. Things that will only serve to remind him of how little they get to see of the galaxy beyond battles and missions. He didn’t even have the money for it anyway. 

“I’ll take that one.” Vos interrupts, pointing at the wall. 

“Thank you, sir!” The shopkeeper hurries to detach it. He passes it to Fox before talking price with Vos.

Fox doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He holds the lantern out at arm's length, turning it over gently. He keeps his fingers loose; he doesn’t want to crush it. 

This one is a deep orange color with white details. The light glows yellow and bright. He flips it so the snout faces him and—

It’s a fox. 

“Thank you for your patronage, sirs! Enjoy your vacation!” 

Vos nudges him by the shoulder, and they walk away from the booth.

“What’s the point of this?” Fox asks after they’ve walked onto the next block. The landing bay is in sight. 

“For you. It reminded me of you.” 

Fox shoots Vos a look, eyebrow raised. He turns back to the lantern. Large brown painted eyes stare back. There’s a small, square window right under the snout. He pulls at the tail lever that sticks out from the rear. The little window shutter opens, and a tiny tongue sticks out at him.

He lets out a breath, and the smile forms too quickly for him to subdue it, “I don’t understand how.” 

Vos doesn’t answer, but the tattoo on his nose crinkles with the grin on his face. The glow of the lantern reflects off his eyes, looking like a sunset.

A rush of wind rustles their cloaks and nearly blows the lantern out of Fox’s hands. They both glance up to see the landing of a small shuttle. 

 They share a look before breaking out into a run for the landing bay. They make it into the yard, standing in the shadows of some shipping crates. 

“That one’s mine.” Vos nods towards an old-looking ship that has definitely seen better days. But it’s discreet without any markings that can ping it as a Republic shuttle. The new ship that just landed is also unassuming in design and make. But the squad of commando droids that file out of the open ramp says otherwise.  

Vos’s camera clicks softly as he angles his arm to take the photos, body turned to look natural and unsuspecting. Fox follows his lead, looking away from the droids lining up. The group is small, but still impressively armed. Vos has his lightsaber, but Fox doesn’t have any of his weapons with him. 

Then, he hears heavier footsteps that don’t belong to a typical clanker. 

He’s heard many stories about the cyborg general, from both reports and Cody’s own personal accounts. He’s seen the files and videos of the carnage the Separatist can wreak on the battlefield. 

Somehow, he expected Grievous to be a little...taller. 

The cyborg steps off the gangplank, watching his platoon fall into formation. Fox watches Vos lift the camera, finger hovering over the shutter button.

Grievous stops, turning his head towards them. 

Vos grabs Fox by the arm, pulling him close. Their cheeks press together, and Vos holds the camera with the lens turned around to face them. His hand blocks their visual on the cyborg.

“Trust me.” His face moves against Fox’s. He takes the photo with a click and Fox blinks. Vos moves him again, this time turning around so they have their backs towards Grievous. 

“Smile~” Vos sings out, and Fox lifts the lantern up to block his lips. They snap a couple more, laughing purposely loud. 

“Here, look at that!” Vos pulls the camera close to show the feed, Fox leans in until he can practically hear the breathlessness in Vos’s voice. He isn’t the only one feeling the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

The photo on the screen shows them, but barely. The Vos in the photo is grinning from ear to ear, his face pressed up against Fox’s. Fox himself looks put on the spot, a grimaced sort of smile on his lips, half hidden behind the glowing orange lantern. They’re both fuzzy; the focus isn’t on them. 

It’s on Grievous who looms in the background on his ship, staring straight at them. 

Fox hears the heavy footsteps start up again, forcing himself to keep natural. They continue taking photos without turning around until all the clanking steps disappear into the distance. 

Fox turns around. The landing bay is empty of droids. 

He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and Vos tugs him by the crook of his arm. 

“And that’s a mission success.” Vos stops before his ship, pressing the keypad to open the hatch. The ship creaks and Fox swears he sees some bolts shake loose. 

“It’s not over until we actually get back to Coruscant.” Fox retorts, brushing a finger against the hull. Flakes of dark paint coat his hand, “and I’m not sure that’s going to happen with this hunk of junk.” 

“Anakin will be devastated to hear you say that about his little side project.” 

“This is General Skywalker’s ship?” Fox groans, rubbing at the corner of his eyes. He’s heard enough from Rex, he doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

“Relax, I’m a great pilot.” Vos smiles, clapping him on his uninjured shoulder.

“Now, let's get you home, Commander.” 

The Temple shines brightly through the darkness of Coruscant’s night as Quinlan lowers the shuttle into the landing bay. 

The half-day journey back had been the most uneventful part of this entire fiasco. Fox had asked to use the long-distance comms the moment they got on board, but they were broken like just about anything on this rickety mess. The Commander wouldn’t stop fidgeting, clearly distressed about being unable to inform the Guard about his miracle resurrection. But at this point, the Guard’s been under the impression that Fox is dead for at least a day now. Another few hours couldn’t hurt anymore at this point, even if it might seem a bit cruel.

Quinlan had replaced all of Fox’s bandages before taking off. The Commander spent most of the hours hunkered down in the one bed on the ship, sleeping the rest of the healing process away. 

They made small talk over rations, but mostly discussed the next course of action that will be taken when Quinlan gets debriefed by the Council. It had been calming to just sit together in silence, watching hyperspace flicker across the windshield. 

Quinlan powers down the engine, wincing at the hollow groan the ship makes. He’s starting to think taking Anakin’s little projects on the job isn’t such a good idea. 

He stands from the chair, stretching with a prolonged groan of his own. With Fox on the only bed, Quinlan had taken his naps sitting in the chair. His back is killing him. His dusty room in the Temple actually sounds tempting right now. It’s been so long since he’s set foot in there. 

Fox is waiting for him by the hatch, his broken armor slung over his good shoulder and the lantern in his other hand. 

“Ready?” He prompts, pressing the button for the hatch. It creaks open, the walls shuddering.

“As ready as anyone coming back from the dead will be,” Fox says dryly, shrugging. 

They walk down the ramp, only to be greeted by a familiar signature.

“Obi-Wan!” Quinlan calls out, rushing ahead to meet the other, “I’m surprised you’re still awake. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes but reaches out to clasp the forearm that Quinlan offers, “I heard the radio chatter about your ship returning. I had a feeling you might be back today. It’s been quite some time.” Obi-Wan gives him a perfectly composed smile, “don’t tell me the great Quinlan Vos ran into some trouble.” 

Asshole. 

“You could say that.” Quinlan steps to the side just as Fox reaches the bottom of the ramp. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen at the face before flickering to look at the bundle of red armor. His expression grows even more shocked when he recognizes the helmet.

“Commander...Fox?” 

Fox straightens, giving his best facsimile of a salute with full hands, “General, sir.” 

“I see the reports about your death have been...greatly exaggerated.” Obi-Wan hums, “I’m glad to see you’re well. Cody will be pleased to hear it.” 

Quinlan hears the way Fox’s breathing hitches, the hand around the rope holding the armor tightens.

“Yes, I owe my survival to General Vos. He has been extremely helpful and accommodating.”

Obi-Wan looks at the lantern in Fox’s hand, and then at the cloak covering his body.

“Really? I see.” His voice is perfectly neutral, But the quirked red eyebrow towards Quinlan makes him want to punch the smug bastard in the face. The Force around him twinkles in unmitigated amusement, and Quinlan wants to rub it off like slime. He’s supposed to be the one that annoys Obi-Wan. He doesn’t like this turnaround of things at all. 

“You…” Fox’s tone draws the two of them out of their mental game of back and forth pinching, and they turn to him.

He looks away from the sudden attention, shifting his grip on his armor.

“You said Commander Cody was here, sir?” 

“Yes, he was with me when we received the...news.” Obi-Wan’s face grows apologetic, “I believe he’s gone to the Coruscant Guard for the night.” 

“...I see.” The storm of emotions fade again, hidden behind some invisible barrier that makes the Force feel cold.

He places a hand on Fox’s elbow, and a burst of warm shock colors his field. Quinlan looks at Obi-Wan. 

“I’ll walk the Commander back to the barracks. We’ll talk more later?”  

“General Vos, there’s no need for you to do that. I can return on my own.” Fox protests softly, but Quinlan keeps his eyes on the other Jedi.

Obi-Wan meets his gaze, rubbing at his beard. He nods.

“Very well, I’ll go inform the Council. There isn’t a rush at the moment, we can debrief you in the morning and work on our response then.” He turns to regard Fox with another smile, “I’m sure your siblings will be very eager to see you. Please, let Quinlan escort you back. It’ll put us all at ease.”

Fox’s shoulders slump minutely, “yes, sir.” 

“We’ll be going then.” Quinlan starts walking, Fox following close behind. He looks back, a smirk on his lips as he shouts, “thanks for waiting up, Obes. You could’ve just said you missed me!” 

“Please, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t do something stupid and ended up dead!” Obi-Wan yells back. Quinlan laughs with his entire chest, looking forward.

“And rid you of my wonderful presence, Obi-Wan? I could never!”

He doesn’t need to turn to know Obi-Wan’s rolling his eyes again. 

The walk to the barracks is short and quiet. Fox keeps his head down, and Quinlan knows when to not push too hard. Their footsteps echo through the empty streets where only a few transports hovered overhead. The light outside the Guard building is weak and flickering, casting shadows over the entrance. 

Fox stops a few steps away from the doorway, standing behind a structure out of the camera’s view. He looks at Quinlan. Even the prolonged sessions of sleep have barely made a dent in the bags under his eyes. 

“Your cloak,” Fox looks down at the fabric, “I uh, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I could go inside, change, and bring it back out to—”

“—it’s fine,” Quinlan waves a hand, “you can give it back to me tomorrow or something.” 

“...Tomorrow?” 

Quinlan shuffles his feet, toeing a loose piece of gravel with his boot.

“I think I brought back enough evidence to make a case for taking action to protect Republic interest over there. We’ll need to coordinate the campaign effort.” He looks up, “and I want to recommend you as one of the commanders in charge.” 

Fox’s hold on his armor loosens and the bundle slides off his shoulder with a muffled thud. 

“You do?” 

Quinlan nods, “you were fairly involved in the investigation. Your expertise will be useful, I know the Council will agree if I bring it up. And…” He thinks back to the way Fox had felt back in the suite when Quinlan had said they couldn’t leave with any of the slaves. Frustrated and so utterly helpless

“And I know you want to do this.” He finishes.

Fox swallows thickly, his throat bobbing. 

“Yeah, I do.” 

“Alright then. I’ll tell you the details after tomorrow’s meeting. You’ll get your comm all fixed by then, yeah?” 

“I’ll get it done tonight.” 

“Hey, no need to rush.” Quinlan softens, “take a moment alright? Breathe. Talk with your brothers.” 

Fox’s field is a bit all over the place. Reservation fights with some inklings of need and yearning for things that Quinlan pulls away from before he can dissect. It’s not in his place to. 

“Thank you,” Fox bows his head, amusement coloring his voice, “it would’ve been a real pain in the ass to return to Coruscant if you hadn’t been there to help.” 

“I’d say that sounds like fate to me, Commander.” Quinlan rubs a dreadlock between his fingers. 

Fox squints at him.

“Isn’t it something something, the will of the Force?” 

“Nah, that’s way too overdone and tacky.”  

Fox scoffs, shaking his head as he picks his armor back up. 

“Have a safe walk back.” He starts to turn around, and Quinlan’s throat feels tight. They’d been stuck in each other’s company for over a day by now. 

But Quinlan still doesn’t want this to end.

“I’m not that bad at it, you know.” He shouts after Fox had walked a couple steps away.

The Commander stops, looking back at him in confusion.

“What?” 

“At…” Quinlan flounders for a moment, “at kissing.” 

Fox stares. 

He turns back around to fully face Quinlan.

“So before, it was an accident then?” 

“Of course it was!” Quinlan lifts his hands up to the sky, “I slipped! I wouldn’t do that on purpose. Especially not so badly.” 

Fox studies him, the dark magma red and ashy grey of his eyes practically shining in the streetlamp. He looks down at the lantern in his hand, still glowing a soft orange. 

Fox takes one hesitant step before walking back to meet Quinlan where he’s still standing rooted into the ground.

“Here.” He holds the lantern out.

What?

“But I bought that for you—”

“—it’s dark and dangerous on the streets this late. He’ll protect you.” Fox says this with a completely straight face, shaking the lantern with emphasis.

His jaw drops. That is...simultaneously...the dumbest yet cutest fucking thing Quinlan’s ever heard. 

His hand hovers in the air between them, slowly sinking to grab onto the lantern handle. The glove brushes against Fox’s fingers and he lingers. The warmth spreads from Fox’s fingertips to his own, foreign yet familiar all the same. 

Quinlan can see the soft rise and fall of Fox’s chest. 

He leans forward, deliberately slow to give Fox all the time to back away.

He doesn’t.

“Let me know what you want. I’m not a mind reader, Fox. ” He whispers, close enough to see every scar and line on the other man’s face. He breathes in, catching his own scent on the cloak mixed in with Fox’s. 

Fox lets out a huff, eyes half-lidded, “banthashit.” 

He closes the gap between their lips, gentle and fleeting. The constant humming of the Force goes still, and Quinlan doesn’t have to think about anything but the real, tangible person in his hold.

They part almost immediately, a light puff of shared breath in the small distance between their faces. Quinlan backs up, but the heat on his lips stays imprinted on his skin and mind. He doesn’t think he’ll forget it for a long, long time. 

Fox lets go of the lantern, running his thumb across Quinlan’s knuckle before pulling back. 

“Good night, Vos.” 

“Good night, Fox.” 

Fox leaves, opening the door to the barracks.

And Quinlan watches until the doors close with a click. 

The streetlamp finally loses the battle against itself and flickers out, leaving Quinlan in the dark except for the halo of orange-gold in his hand.

He holds the lantern up, the painted fox staring at him unblinkingly. He yanks at the tail, and the tongue sticks out immediately. 

“Told you it reminded me of you.” He smiles.

Quinlan heads back for the main street, taking each step carefully.

Coruscant’s moon is hidden behind clouds, drowning the pathways in dark shadows.

But Quinlan’s path has never felt brighter.