kkrazy256 - Tumblr blog

kkrazy256 · 22 days

Note

Vox and 27 perhaps?

27. “You don’t need to stay.” “I don’t need to stay. But I want to.”

cw injury and stitches

Awareness doesn’t fully return until Fox feels the mattress against his back. Even then, there’s a fuzzy quality to his vision that puts the entire world on tilt. He doesn’t remember a single thing.

Fox closes his eyes with a groan, willing the bed to stay still. The act of throwing his head back makes his entire torso seize, and he chokes on spit with each stuttered gasp. It tastes awful. His eyes snap back open, wet hands clenching down on the sheets. Why the hell are they wet?

“Woah woah woah hey!” A hand presses on his chest and he flinches. His muscles seize again at the motion, his breathing quickens, muscles clench, fire burning down his body. An endless cycle of pain he will never escape—

“Fox, you’re okay. I’m here, I’m right here.” The hand isn’t actually pressing. It’s light, it's rubbing gently. The voice, he knows it, it’s—

“Vos?” He croaks out, and the blur of colors over him sort themselves out into the shapes he knows as Quinlan Vos.

“Hey.” Vos gives him a smile, but it looks off in the dim lights, “quit moving so much yeah? You’re making this very hard to pull out.”

“What are you,” Fox peers down his body as far as his neck will allow him to strain.

Oh kark, that is one big fucking dagger.

“Oh.”

The wetness on his hand (and now the sheets) is blood. The awful taste in his mouth is blood.

Right, they had been doing some reconnaissance on a meet site with a target. A simple mission, really. All they had to do was sit at different tables, order drinks, and listen. Except the target had thought to do the same and realized something was wrong.

One thing led to another. The target was leaving, and Fox was already on his feet, ready to chase. They couldn’t afford to lose this information.

He had turned a corner, and someone bumped into him roughly. A hard pressure rammed against his side, and he winced. He had thought it was an elbow (that happens often enough during city patrol) and kept moving, eyes still on the retreating back of the target. Except he hadn’t gotten more than a few steps before he tripped over his own feet like a fool. He faintly remembers arms stopping his fall as things started to fade.

“My clothes are ruined.” He murmurs, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes. The throbbing inside his brain makes the hand feel like it’s bouncing. He only has so many pairs of civvies for these kinds of missions. He had liked this set too. It was stylish and at least half a step above plastoid in terms of comfort. His body is warm, borderline uncomfortably hot. And at least it’s a lot cooler in these than his armor.

…Well, if he had had his armor, he wouldn’t even be in this situation.

“We’ll get you new ones.” Vos hums, and Fox hisses a breath through gritted teeth when he feels a hand gripping the dagger handle. His entire body is tense, feeling the blade as if it were an extension of himself.

“..don’t have money.” His mind is floating, it’s so easy to drift. If he drifts, he won’t have to think about the way Vos is testing the pull of the dagger. He’s been through worse, this is nothing. Just stop thinking about it.

“You can wear mine then.”

“Hahhh, as if they’d fITFUCK!” His snort of laughter gets cut abruptly by Vos pulling the weapon out in one fucking go without warning, “OW.” He reiterates his complete and utter displeasure.

Vos doesn’t apologize or even respond. He goes straight into applying pressure with one hand. The other is reaching into the medkit at the foot of the bed. There’s a silent intensity in his brown eyes that has Fox looking away.

“Where did you get the medkit?”

“Manager’s bathroom.”

Fox has a hard time believing the manager of this hole-in-the-wall hostel would be so generous. His eye twitches when Vos starts stitching. Deep breaths, Fox. Deep breaths, “and she let you? What did you tell her?”

“Nah, stole it.”

He needs to stop trying to laugh. It hurts.

“What did she say when you walked into the building with me bleeding on the ugly carpet?”

“I didn’t, I took the window.” Vos nods his head towards it, the ratty curtains billowing in the dusty wind.

“Is that why my head hurts? Did you give me a concussion on the windowsill?” He asks, feeling near-delirious. Everything just seems so fucking funny right now.

“That would be the poison.”

“The what.”

“It’s okay, nothing serious. Just something fast-acting to incapacitate someone. A numbing agent mixed with some other things. Symptoms include fever and temporary loss of motor function. We just have to let it run its course.”

“And how do you know that?” Things are starting to feel less funny.

“Hm.” Vos sounds distracted, and Fox takes another look past the gore on his abdomen. Vos had paused in his stitching, one hand over the blade of the dagger. His glove is off and the intense focus in his eyes is looking elsewhere. Vos lets go of the weapon, blinking twice. Then, he’s back to stitching up Fox’s wound.

It’s quiet inside the room. The bustle on the street outside seems muted, and Fox keeps his breathing steady with each pinprick of needle against flesh.

Eventually, he hears the snip of a scissor cutting off the suture wire. A towel wipes the blood away gently. He hears the pop of a bacta jar lid.

“You’re good at this.” He says softly.

“I’ve got practice patching myself up.”

Somehow that doesn’t sit right with Fox.

“I mean you’re good at patching other people up.”

“Ah.” Vos rubs some gel over the stitches, and the cool burn is welcomed, “well, you wouldn’t believe the number of scraps Aayla would get herself into back then.” He sounds the same way Fox does when he talks with Remedy about the dumbest reported injuries each quarter.

They’re both quiet again as Vos moves on to bandaging. At one point, he helps Fox sit up so he could wrap his torso.

“Fox?” He jumps away from the whisper of hot breath against his ear. He had started to doze, leaning back into Vos’s warmth.

“You’re good to go. Lie back down?” The Jedi is wiping his hands on a wet towel and Fox nods. His eyes are itchy and falling shut every few seconds.

The mattress is lumpy, but he’s already drifting before his head hits the pillow.

He hears shifting beside him.

Vos has settled in the chair at his bedside, arms folded across his chest.

The consequences are starting to catch up with Fox’s brain and sleep slips away. There’s a hollow feeling in his gut.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, willing the tremors out of his fingers.

Vos tilts his head, an eyebrow raised, “for what?”

“I’m sorry, General.” He repeats, tacking on the rank. A reminder. This isn’t some getaway from work (even if any time away from Coruscant feels like one. Even if any time with Vos feels like one). This is work. And he had just screwed it up.

“Not your Genera—”

“—you don’t need to stay. You should be tracking down the target. I’m sorry for slowing you down, sir.”

Now they’ve lost their informant, and it’s because Fox had been too impatient. He just hadn’t been good enough.

“Hey.” A hand pulls at his clenched fist, finger by finger and he lets it. Vos holds onto his hand, intertwining their fingers. He tries not to think about the sensation of dried blood flakes that linger on both of them.

“You don’t need to stay, Quin.” He tries again, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t need to stay.” Quinlan’s other hand reaches up to brush back his sweat-clumped curls, “But I want to.”

“....yeah?” Dark eyes stare back into his, and he wished he had the strength to lean closer. He’s so tired.

“Yeah.” The hand trails down to cup his cheek, a thumb rubbing against it. There’s warmth there. And wetness. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but the tears keep falling even though he’s not sad at all. To the pit with poisons.

“But the target…”

“It’s okay, I’ve got him.” Quinlan nods towards the dagger he’s placed on the corner table, “saw some leads on their base location.”

“Really?” His chest feels lighter.

“Yeah Fox, you did good.” He leans into the hand on his face, “just try not to get stabbed for it next time, alright? We’ll get them next time.”

“Next time?”

“After we head back to Coruscant. We should get you to your medic. I’m okay with stitches, but y’know, not the best.”

He squeezes Quinlan’s hand tightly, swallowing the bitterness down at the thought of his glittering, dying city.

“...or, we could find a nice doctor here. Get you fixed up and take another week or two to heal? There’s a festival here starting next week…how’s that sound?”

“Mm.”

“Good, now get some rest, alright? I’m staying right here.”

He nods and lets his eyes fall shut. A moment later, there are warm lips pressing against his own. He doesn’t have to move much to deepen it. To savor Quinlan’s taste, his smell, and his little sighs. To feel the pulse on Quinlan’s wrist press against the pulse on his neck when he cups the back of Fox’s head with utmost care.

Things will at least be okay for now in their little room away from home.

on [ao3] if you would like to leave a kudo/comment <3

#srb

95 notes · View notes

kkrazy256 · 23 days

Note

“ i thought i lost you. ” with my fav bros Fox and Thorn? <3 (all the sentences are soooo good)

Hey Amiko <3 Hope you don't mind that I used this prompt for CommanderFoxWeek @loving-fox-hours

Title: Redemption Inside the Grave

Prompt(s): Day 2: Hope | Forgiveness, "I thought I lost you"

Warnings: None

Characters: Commander Fox and Commander Thorn

Additional Tags: Post- Scipio, Commander Fox Needs a Hug

Word Count: 1821

[On Ao3]

The amount of datawork that sits on Fox’s desk after a mission is usually a good indicator of how it went.

Good missions start with stacks of blueprints, detailed strategies, and the files of his best troops. These missions end with minimal thanks (it’s expected, it’s what they’re made for. What need is there to show gratitude?), and most troopers on the file with their status update still green and labeled functioning. There isn't much datawork for these types of missions.

Bad missions start hurried by time and Senators, with minimal preparation, and not enough vode (never enough vode). They end with everyone important mad. Mad at him (of course, who else? He deserves it. He deserves it all. He fucked up. He’s always fucking up). It ends with spitting insults about incompetence and hurling threats of decommissioning. But none of it hurts. At least it never hurts more than the blocks of red (deceased) on the files he has to read through and sign off on. These missions end with more vode coming back in bodybags than on their feet, and Fox can’t help but think, I did that to them.

The worst missions? It’s the ones where he wakes up underwater, a weight heavier than an anvil over his chest, stealing every breath and pushing him deeper and deeper into the dark. Missions where he does things he doesn’t fully comprehend beyond I followed my orders, I am a good soldier. Only to look back and think, is he?

It’s holding up his blaster with still hands and perfect calm. It’s taking deadly aim even when he sees the resignation in Rex’s eyes and feels nothing. Nothing until the body hits the floor and he can’t take his own helmet off to pay respects because what right does he have? Because his hands are finally starting to shake, the weight of his actions hitting all at once and dragging him to the bottom of the ocean floor.

But this,

Fox looks down at the stack of datapads on his desk. The room is dark, the desk lamp unplugged and on the ground. There are no windows. The air is stuffy and stagnant; he wonders if they are cleaning the vents again.

The top datapad lights up when he lifts it. The halo of blue illuminates his immediate area. The helmet sitting at the corner looks purple, the visor staring back at him like a void. Every time he blinks, it burns from somewhere behind his eyes. Fox doesn’t remember the last time he truly slept. (Before the ARC trooper, before Scipio —)

It’s a mission summary report, written hastily enough for there to be a few typos. It’s short, barely a few paragraphs long, and his eyes glide over the words without retaining anything. His focus is on the attached list of updated statuses.

It’s all red. Red Red Red Red.

He thinks these types of missions are even worse than the ones where he doesn’t have control.

Red Red Red.

These missions should not end like this. They go prepared, they go with their best.

Red Red Red.

So why do they end like this?

Red Red Red —

Green.

The stack of datapads shift slightly, and the desk trembles as a shadow settles on the edge.

“If it breaks, I’m stealing your desk.” He pinches the bridge of his nose hard, and the throbbing ebbs away into something dull.

“Does that mean you’ll do my datawork too?” Thorn’s voice is light and teasing, but something’s off. He leans forward to pick up the helmet and the blue lights up his face. His eyes are tired, but the crinkling around the edges always betray his mirth. There’s no crinkling there right now; Thorn just looks exhausted. His hands turn the helmet around, fingers tracing over the painted wings on the temples.

“I’ll do it for Scipio.” Fox blurts out, and the fingers pause.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do,” Fox doesn’t know why he does, but there’s something pressing in the back of his brain, telling him that he shouldn’t let Thorn do it, “you should get some rest. Remedy would kick your sheb if he finds out you came here instead of to medbay.”

“Well, you don’t have to snitch.” Thorn sniffs and Fox shakes his head with a scoff. He picks up the stylus to start going over the report in detail.

A gloved hand lands on the corner of the datapad, and Fox looks up. Thorn’s eyes reflect the blue glow, flickering to read the upside-down words.

“Hawk found me.” Thorn whispers.

Fox remembers the pilot during one of the 501st’s shore leaves. Thorn’s batchmate is slightly more serious than Thorn himself, but they share the same air of wild freedom, unable to be tied down. He remembers them taking off their helmets with matching grins, showing him their twin emblazoned wings.

“How’d he look?”

“Horrified. Scared.” Thorn’s laugh is humorless, “I thought he was going to kill me himself if I wasn’t a—.....it wasn’t pretty, Fox.” he swallows hard, “there wasn’t much we could do.”

“...You went with less than two platoons. None of us were expecting the level of activity you got.”

The hand pulls back, leather creaking under the pressure of a clenched fist, “I lost them all, ori’vod.”

“But you’re here.” Fox places his own hand over Thorn’s. Everything feels cold, “I...it’s not your fault.”

“I think if any fingers are to be pointed, it would be towards the commanding officer during the mission, Fox. Which would be me.”

“You weren’t supposed to be the one leading Scipio.” Fox snarls and the aftermath of his outburst echoes through the room. He takes a shuddering breath.

“I was.”

“Fox…”

The air gets stuck in his lungs, and he kneads his palms into his eyes hard enough to see sparks behind the lids.

Scipio was supposed to be his mission. But he was—still is, a complete and utter wreck. After the incident with the ARC trooper, he hadn’t had a chance to stop. It became a blur of meetings. With the Chancellor, with Skywalker, with Rex, with his Guard. All with little variation. Everyone just wanted to know, what happened?

And Fox didn’t have a good answer for any of them.

He’s so tired.

And Thorn had found him in his office then, just as he did now. He had found Fox sitting at his desk with the stylus in a death grip, staring at plans and contingencies. Found him running on fumes that not even caf could fix at that point. Found Fox in his arms immediately to steady him when he stood and started careening to the side.

I fucked up, Thorn. I fucked up so bad.

I’ll go to Scipio. We’ll talk more when I get back, alright? Please get some rest, ori’vod. Please.

And Fox had agreed. Because he was tired.

Tired of seeing the ARC trooper’s bone-white armor out of the corner of his eye every time he started to slip. Tired of the Chancellor’s oily praise for a job well done in killing a vod for the Republic. Tired of Skywalker’s needling curiosity. Tired of Rex not blaming him. Tired of everyone telling him, it’s—

“Fox, it’s not your fault.” Thorn’s words from before the mission mesh with the words that Thorn’s repeating right now.

“Well, who’s is it then?” Fox snaps, slamming his palms back down on the desk. His vision blurs with random patterns from the prolonged darkness, and Thorn’s image swims in front of him. He had gotten about an hour of unconsciousness before his comm beeped with urgent matters from the Chancellor. He’s been on his feet ever since.

He should’ve just stole some stims and gone to Scipio.

“Why aren’t you all angry?” He continues, the plastic of the datapad strains under his grip, “not you, not Stone, not Thire. Not—” He stutters, “not Rex. None of you are, and I don’t understand .”

“Why do you want us to be, Fox?”

He falters, heart stuck in his throat. It beats erratically and his stomach turns.

If they’re mad, there’s something to work with. He can apologize (even if it means absolutely nothing). Amends can be made (how. You fucking bastard, how?) He can fix it. He has to fix it.

How?

“You want us to be angry because you’re angry with yourself.” Thorn sets his helmet down, leaning forward to study Fox with dark eyes that see through his very core.

His lips curl upwards.

“Oh, ori’vod. You want us to forgive you.”

There are tears in Thorn’s eyes. (Or are they his own?)

Thorn’s forehead presses against his, and Fox presses back with a sobbing exhale.

“You already have it. We’re not the ones you’re looking for forgiveness from.”

A strand of long hair slips from Thorn’s ponytail and brushes against his cheek. It hits Fox with a sudden urge for how things used to be. Back when the war had only just started, and they were all shiny and thought things would get better. Back when he had enough time and energy to sit in the command lounge and braid Thorn’s hair clumsily.

Hound’s better at this than I am, you know.

Mmm, yeah but I want my ori’vod to braid my hair.

Spoiled little kih’vod.

“I thought I lost you.” He manages between hitched keening breaths ( when had he started to break down? Just now? Months ago? Two years ago?)

“I’m never gone, ori’vod.” Thorn hums, reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck. It’s so cold, “Just marching—”

Far away.

The door to his office opens, and Fox jumps back.

“...You alright, Fox?” Stone stands at the entrance, a datapad in his hand.

Fox blinks, glancing down at the one in his own hands.

The list of troopers stares back, every name in red.

The Separatist Blockade was successfully broken through. Senator Padmé Amidala was safely extracted from Scipio under the command of Jedi General Anakin Skywalker and the 501st Legion.

No other Republic survivors were extracted. Recovery efforts have been approved and engaged.

— CT-4991 (Hawk)

“Fox?”

“...What is it?”

“The recovery mission on Scipio just returned. We’re heading to the crematorium right now.” Stone shifts on his feet, “you coming?”

“...Yeah.” Fox reaches for the helmet on his desk, red and black without any wings. His eyes feel crusty and swollen. At this point, he has no idea if they’re even open and seeing the right things anymore.

He’s so tired.

Fox slips the helmet on and stands. The world spins, and he bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood. He walks towards Stone.

“You sure you’re alright? I could have Thire take the next shift. He’s—” Stone’s breath hitches, “he’s up for promotion now anyway.”

“I’ll be fine,” Fox says as he passes his Second, stepping out into the hallway.

He’ll be fine.

[ao3] if you wish to drop a kudo/comment :)

#srb

126 notes · View notes