The title comes from the poem "In Lieu of Flowers" by Shawna Lemay
Was going to include this as an offhand thought in my current Vox slow burn, but then it grew to something that needed its own place to do it justice.
My personal HC for the Command Batch age order is Wolffe (oldest) Ponds Bly Cody Fox (Youngest), even if the numbers don't make sense :)
Content Warning: References to the deaths during the Malevolence campaign where we lost the entirety of Plo's Armada, including the 104th Battalion, PTSD, mentions of the horrible treatment of clone mental health, vague references to suicide, and general sad boy hours.
Enjoy!
The Jedi Temple casts an imposing shadow over the courtyard.
Fox squints up, lifting a hand to block the sun glare as he steps off the Guard Shuttle. Thankfully, it had been empty of any other vode.
He had picked a lull in the schedule to make his trip, just missing the rush hour of shift changes. It gave him the privacy to travel with minimal curiosity from the others. This isn't official Guard business anyway, it's—
His hand tightens around the bag hanging from his wrist, the weight heavy on his arm and mind.
It's personal.
The Shuttle behind him departs with a rush of air, leaving the area quiet save for the scattered laughs of children.
There are at least ten of them, running around the courtyard in light-colored robes that are characteristic of Jedi cadets. Or padawans, if he remembers correctly. They look at him with wide eyes as he passes by, doing his best to keep his gaze forward. A few braver ones weave in and out of his path, giggling and waving hello. He waves back, his lips curling up just the slightest.
There's an adult Jedi sitting in the shade of a large tree, surrounded by more padawans. They're all arranged in a circle around the Master, eyes closed and bodies in a meditative pose.
The Jedi looks up, a friendly smile on his lips as he gives Fox a nod. He returns it politely.
Fox stops a few steps away from the East entrance.
His stomach rolls uncomfortably, feeling out of place as he rakes his eyes over the large door. If he listens closely, he can hear a soft hum of something he can't place as normal tech.
He's been to the Temple before, back when the war had first started. He and a squad had escorted a handful of Senators who insisted on seeing how the Temple operated, given that they were trusting an entire war into the hands of the Jedi. They had been met by General Windu himself, who opened the door with a wave of an arm, the unnatural hum answering in a different tone before sliding back.
He's in front of the door now, swallowing nervously while turning his head to glance back. He catches the gaze of one of the younglings, who snickers while exchanging a look with a friend.
Fox whips his head back around, glaring at the closed door. No, he's not flustered. He isn't. He assesses the edges of the door and the walls. There must be some button or intercom right?
Maybe he had been hasty, coming here without sending any advance notice. He should've told General Koon he'd be visiting today in his message. But then, the Jedi would've told Wolffe. And Wolffe would've…
Would have what? Fled? Ran away from you?
The door slams open with more force than he could've ever been prepared for. He had to clamp down on his flinch, but that didn't stop his heart from jumping. The sudden yelps from behind at least told him that he hadn't been the only one surprised.
The door had opened up to the Public Center reception hall. The Bothan Jedi who usually sits at the Reception desk is standing, one arm outstretched. She appears shocked, long ears drooping flat as an apologetic expression spread across her face. She's looking beyond Fox, and he turns around to follow her gaze.
The Jedi in the courtyard also has a hand up, a similar expression on his face. The younglings sitting around him are alert now, giggling at the blunder.
Fox steps through the door, slightly bewildered.
"Sorry about that, Commander." The Bothan dips her head with another apology.
The referral to his title nearly trips him up. He glances down at the blacks he's wearing. He had left his helmet and armor behind, taking only his holstered weapons. His upper body is wrapped in a thin jacket he had filched from the Office of Confiscated Possessions.
The GAR gets a monthly allowance, but it's not enough for many vode to spend on anything other than drinks and a night of fun. He's certain most don't think they'd survive long enough to save for anything worthwhile. Those that are able to save up enough might try to buy something more expensive, but it's easier to grab a thing or two from the Office when no one's looking.
He is surprised for a moment that the receptionist had recognized him out of uniform. But then she waves her arm again and the door closes much gentler this time.
Right, the Force.
"It's not every day that I have people fighting to hold the door for me." He says dryly instead, listening to her bark out a laugh.
"What a shame," She teases, rubbing at her beard before settling in her seat again, "now Commander what can I do for you? I didn't receive any comms about your visit."
The unease settles in his gut again, and he looks away.
"I...General Koon said that the 104th is staying here." He murmurs out, the sentence sitting like ash on his tongue. Because no matter how big the Temple is, it couldn't, wouldn't, take in a full battalion of troopers. No, it's not the 104th.
It's the survivors.
The Bothan sobers just as quickly, sadness on her face.
"Yes, since last Zhellday."
That was three days ago. Three days and Wolffe hadn't come down to the Guard barracks once. It prickles at his skin.
"Master Koon was very generous to open his home. The troopers are welcome at the Temple for as long as they wish." She continues.
Until their fate gets decided for them, Fox thinks tiredly.
"Are you here to take them back for business?" She asks, tone careful but Fox still straightens.
"No, I'm...I wanted to see how they were doing. I don't…" He trails off, swallowing hard, "I don't think they should be handling this on their own."
Even if they hadn't gone to him or the Guard in the end, coming here still felt like something he needed to do.
"Of course, Commander. You can find them on the seventh level in the West Wing. Will you need a guide?"
"I'll be fine." He shakes his head, already heading for the lift. He stops, looking back at her, "thank you…"
"You can call me Vud'horu." She beams, logging his visit down on the screen in front of her.
"Thank you, Vud'horu."
There's a pause in her tapping, "...I wish your brothers well, Commander. They've...been through quite a lot."
He turns away, fists clenched. The lift down the hall rings, and he starts a brisk walk for it without answering.
The West Wing is small and quiet. Plo Koon's section of the Jedi Temple seems modest. The medium-sized door at the end of the hall probably leads to the Jedi's own quarters. The main room serves as a kitchen and mess.
Fox studies the empty space, leaning against the open doorway. It likely serves as a meditation area as well from the looks of the floor cushions scattered around, big and small. Jars of sweetmeats lined the upper cabinets on the shelves. Not that the height would stop a particularly determined padawan.
He pushes away from the door, walking further down. The only other room in this hall is closed, and Fox stops in front of it.
His finger hovers over the buzzer, hesitating.
He hasn't talked to Wolffe since they'd been shipped out a little over a year ago. Did he even have the right to be here? What if Wolffe turns him away?
He presses the button before he can lose any more nerves. There are a few seconds of muted thumps that draw closer and closer.
The door swings open, and Wolffe steps forward while running a hand through his hair, mouth already moving to form words.
"General, I told you I'm alright you don't need t—" Wolffe stops, jaw going slack as his eyes dart over Fox's features. His hand falls limp to his side.
"...Fox?" He asks gingerly, as if worried he's fake and not really here.
Fox lets out a weak smile, lifting up the bag. The fabric shifts enough for the neck of the bottle to stick out.
"Hey, ori'vod. You got a moment?"
"How...what are you doing here? Don't you have a jo- did…" Wolffe rubs his face, "did the General put you up to this? Because I told him everything's fine. You don't—"
" Maybe, I'm here because I want to be?" Fox crosses his arms, a scowl on his face. It stings a little, that Wolffe would think he's here under someone else's request instead of his own volition.
"Right, sorry." Wolffe at least apologizes, voice a faint whisper, "It's just...the General's been nagging me to go to the barracks since we landed."
"And why haven't you?" Fox did his best to keep the accusatory attitude out of his question, keeping his tone casual. Wolffe looks away with a grimace, rubbing at one arm.
"I...didn't want to be around other...so many…" He tries to voice it several times, ultimately going quiet without finishing the thought out loud.
Something clenches within Fox's chest as he fills in the blanks himself. So many other vod. Moving around. Together. Alive. While mine are dead. He understands a little better now.
"Am I alright?" Fox whispers back, holding the bottle of moonshine close.
Wolffe slants him a tired smile, reaching up to ruffle his hair.
"Of course, little brother." He falls back, nudging the door further open, "c'mon, I want to try some of this infamous Coruscant Guard moonshine. Bet it's shit."
"Asshole, I bet it'll knock you to the ground."
Wolffe makes a noise of clear disbelief as he turns to head back into the room. Fox follows after closing the door behind him. His chest begins to settle at the familiar banter. Wolffe still cares, it's okay.
Wolffe's back is straight, the lines of his shoulders pronounced through his blacks. Fox can see the tension there, tight and ready to snap at any moment. The bags under his eyes are prominent, making them look sunken-in.
The guest room is pretty bare. A desk in the corner with a few datapads stacked on top of each other. There is an isolated one lying on the ground beside the far wall; Fox can see the cracks on the dead screen from here. His stomach twists again.
Three piles of armor painted grey sat to the side neatly. There is only one bed in the room. The sheets and blankets are folded to precision, not a wrinkle or fold in sight. The three pillows suggest that Wolffe and his two remaining troopers had fallen back into standard Kamino protocol.
It hadn't been standard by the Kaminoans' definition of it.
Weak attachments.
But crawling into another vod 's pod after an awful training day had just been the everyday normal. It would've been hard to sleep at all otherwise.
Wolffe drops to the floor gingerly, turning to rest his back against the bed. Fox presses a knee against the mattress, holding his balance as it sinks right in. This is softer than anything they've ever gotten in Kamino or in the barracks.
"How do you sleep on this osik ?" He wrinkles his nose.
"We don't," Wolffe snorts, slapping the mattress with one hand. It sinks like he'd placed it in sand, "usually just make a pile on the floor."
"Where are they anyway...Sinker and Boost?" Fox says, taking a second to remember the names from the files.
Wolffe pauses, fixing him a look he can't decipher.
"Boost is probably in the gardens upstairs. The padawans have really taken to him. Sinker's in the library most likely. The bastard really likes to read." Wolffe smiles fondly.
"That sounds nice." Fox comments, fiddling with the drawstring of the bag.
"It's a good distraction for them." The smile fades, "which is good, they need it."
What about you? Why are you here, cooped up by yourself in a room alone? Fox bites his lips to avoid saying it out loud.
"You really do know everything, huh?" Wolffe says, patting the spot next to him. Fox takes it, pulling the bottle out along with two tin cups, leaving the other two in the bag. Maybe Sinker and Boost would like some when they return.
"The files passed by my desk," Fox shrugs, keeping his hand steady as he popped the screw and poured the alcohol.
It had been...an experience reading the report. One moment he had been scowling at Thorn mid-retort before looking down at the file. The next thing he knew, he had been dragged out of his chair and onto an off-limits balcony by the other commander. Thorn had ripped Fox's helmet off so he could catch a breath long enough to glance through the datapad still clutched in his rattling death grip. On the too-small list of survivors, was CC-3636.
"Did you let the others know?" Wolffe takes the filled cup when Fox offers, sniffing it with a suspicious gaze.
Fox shakes his head, "I thought you would've told them."
Wolffe didn't answer immediately, taking a pause to sip at his drink.
"We were rescued by the 501st. The General's ad is one of their new Jedi commanders and she insisted on a rescue mission. There…" His hand around the tin shakes, the liquid inside trembling, "there wouldn't have been one if she hadn't gone rogue."
Fox closes his eyes, the bright blue words from the datapad report flashing before his shuttered lids.
Initially determined to be a lost cause.
No rescue mission had been authorized.
"Rex would know then." Fox takes a sip. And Rex would've told Cody, who would have said something to the rest of the batch. They would've reached out without a doubt, just like Fox had.
The fact that Wolffe is here asking means he hadn't looked at his commlink in a while. Or he's deliberately ignoring messages from them.
"So would everyone, I assume." Wolffe mutters bitterly into his cup, "it wasn't…" He swallows thickly, "it wasn't exactly a small loss."
"...Wolffe…"
"Anyway!" His brother tilts his head back, swallowing the rest of his drink before holding the cup out again, "what have you been up to? Been hearing all kinds of stories about how much of a hardass you've become. What happened to my adorable vod'ika? "
Fox fills his cup without a word.
He lets Wolffe chatter and ask him all sorts of questions about his post at the Guard. He answers with as much superficial information he can safely give. His own problems aren't the focus right now, no matter how much his dry answers make Wolffe snicker with mirth that doesn't go past the surface level.
Fox knows he can't push things with Wolffe. His ori'vod would talk when he wants to talk. Otherwise, all he can do is just...sit here, be present, and...wait.
That is just how Wolffe is. Always has been. Putting up a face, grinning dangerously while pushing the rest of them back whenever Priest came prowling through their quarters for the next one to send out for his sick little games.
He'd smile through bloody teeth when he stumbled back, saying he was fine until Ponds grabbed him by the ear and brought him to Gilamar to get fixed up.
Afterward, he'd climb up into Ponds' pod, curled up well before curfew. It would be silent until the dead of night. That's when the sniffs and whimpers trickled from their bunk, accompanied by Ponds' murmurs, all soft enough in hopes that no one else heard.
But Fox had. He always did.
Fox swallows down his drink, staring down at his empty tin.
Wolffe only drops the ori'vod front for Ponds, who he'd been closest with since back on Kamino. Fox always had Cody, who might as well be his ara'vod. Bly had liked to jump between all of them; whoever had been available to hold him close at the moment, was good enough for him.
But Ponds isn't here right now. Neither is Bly nor Cody. They are all out there, systems away, fighting the war they had been bred for.
The only one here for Wolffe right now is Fox. And he's not even sure if Wolffe wants him to be.
But he's here. And that's the best he can do for now.
"Shit, this is awful." Wolffe makes a face after finishing his third shot. Fox rolls his eyes.
"It's illegal, what did you expect?"
"I don't know, something that won't burn a hole through my throat?" Wolffe tilts the cup before gesturing at Fox with it, "and why does the Guard have moonshine? Can't you guys just, buy the real deal?"
Fox nearly snorts his drink out of his nose, fuck that burns, "with what money?"
Wolffe winces, "point taken. But I figured you would shut it down pretty quickly."
"I'm a hardass, not fucking heartless. No one would last without chugging a shot or two every now and then." Or in his case, a bottle every few days. One of the perks of being the Commander of the Guard is turning an official blind eye to the three vode that run the operation, and getting the best bottles each brew in return.
He perks up when Wolffe lets out a soft laugh.
"We also have our own brewing rig set up, and it used to taste like this too. Absolute banthashit." Wolffe continues, a smile on his face even as Fox's falls away.
"Until Toss, he's a recent shiny. We gave him a cup and he immediately hurled everywhere, it was fucking disgusting. That's how he got his name. Then, then he somehow found his way onto the brewing team and worked his magic. And lemme tell you, life changed. Best karking thing we ever had. Wouldn't tell anyone what he did. Said he was going to take it with him to the grav—" Wolffe's ramble comes to a hitched stop, eyes wide.
"He was just a shiny." He whispers, his fingertips shake against the tin, "we had just gotten two companies of them. I didn't even learn all their names yet fuck —" His voice cracks, "there were so many of them, and now they're all—"
Fox yanks the tin away from Wolffe's loose grip, tossing both cups and the sealed bottle aside.
He pulls Wolffe into his arms.
Trembling limbs reach up to wrap around his torso tight enough to make breathing harder but he grabs back with just as much strength.
He feels Wolffe fall apart. The sturdy, solid brother who had stood between Fox and danger so many times back on Kamino. The rock that Fox had been so used to, he now sees it for what it is.
Dirty brittle glass, dressed up in a facade.
And it's falling apart. Shattering right before his eyes. The vulnerable soft insides pouring out like a dam had finally been broken after a decade of incessant chipping.
"It happened so quickly." He's never heard Wolffe's voice pitch this way, shaky and unstable. Fox reaches to cradle the back of his brother's head, pushing him to rest his chin against his shoulder.
" Three Star Destroyers." He sounds horrified, "gone in an instant. And then the ones that escaped, it wasn't even enough. They were hunted. The clankers ripped the pods apart and threw them out to suffocate.
General Koon was in our pod, but what about the rest of them? What-what were their final moments, fuck I can't I can't -the shinies, some haven't even seen battle yet. Whywhy why did it have to be them—"
Fox makes a soft shh sound, the hand in Wolffe's hair trails down to rub at his nape.
"We—" Wolffe's words catch in his throat when his breathing stutters. He pauses, gasping back the choked-off sob by burying his face in the junction between Fox's neck and shoulder. His stubble rubs against his skin, coarse and prickly.
Fox waits, letting his hands run across the bumps of Wolffe's spine in an aimless pattern. He could feel them through the blacks without trouble. His ori'vod had gotten thinner.
"We…" Wolffe starts again, voice muffled against Fox's collar, "we asked for funds. It wasn't a lot. Just, just enough for a salvage mission. To get the bodies of some vode back. Or a memorial announcement, at the very least something. "
Wolffe stops again, a noise escaping his lips that sounds so fucking hurt. The arms around him tighten and Fox can feel trembling fingertips dig into the back of his jacket.
"The General got a response yesterday, from the Senate. They…" He trails off into a growled giggle that edges into hysterical.
"They...they said it wasn't in the budget." Wolffe lets out another humorless laugh. "Fox, I—I've always known but to...to read that...they couldn't even just tell us straight up. We're fucking expendable. We always have been and always will be."
The fabric of his shirt is now warm, soaking up the tears that Wolffe can no longer hold back.
Fox stays silent, not trusting himself to keep the bile down if he so much as shifts his lips.
He knows. He knows because he had been the one to draft the response and send it to Plo Koon yesterday morning.
He remembers, a few days ago, standing at parade rest during a Senate session. His back hovered against the wall just a few centimetres away, even if he'd love nothing more than to lean into it, slam his bucket back, and close his eyes.
The voices of the Senators droned on, bouncing around the Conference Hall. That day had been considered to be a slow day. No large bill proposals that Fox was aware of, just small budget things that they couldn't have bothered to review earlier. He's pretty sure some of those data files being pulled up on the central holoprojector were months old.
Most of them had been voted out and tossed before Fox could subtly skim the clauses. He wondered if there's even a point in putting up this whole show when he heard grunts and sarcastic scoffs at a proposal asking for an increase in funding towards a few of the relief shelters in the lower levels. It was promptly denied, a vote of 747-151.
Over half the Senate hadn't even been present in Coruscant for the meeting. Fox remembered approving several hundred security details for politicians rushing home in time for one holiday or another.
The next proposal that popped on screen had him stiffening, breath stuck in his throat.
"Jedi High Council General Plo Koon," The speaker for today announces in his grating voice, eyes squinted as if he couldn't believe the words, "requests for a grant to conduct a salvage mission in the Abregado system."
"Did something happen there recently?" Another senator piped in without looking up from his long-clawed nails, sounding utterly bored.
The leather of his glove had creaked under the stress of his clenched fist. He could see Thire's head tilt towards him out of the peripheral camera in his helmet.
They should know. Fox had seen it broadcasted on the PSA screens found in every hallway of the Senate building.
"The destruction of General Koon's entire fleet by a new Separatist weapon." Another answered after taking a moment to skim the document. There's a burst of murmurs.
"What does he want to salvage? Weapons?"
"No, those have been completely destroyed. He wants to salvage scrap metal and parts that can be repurposed."
"Hardly seems worth it—"
"And the recovery of his troops."
There's a prolonged pause where Fox held his breath long enough to watch his vision blur just as the numbers started to come in on the large monitor.
341 Nay 4 Yea, and the Nay votes continued to skyrocket.
Fox found himself fading, focusing on the upper-head vents across the room to keep the debate in the background of his mind. In...out...in...out His security plans indicated those vents as one of the most likely points of entry for an attack. In...out...in...
"Senators, I insist we must discuss this furth—"
"Senator Amidala, salvage missions are for the collection of material the Republic deems valuable enough to be repurposed for further use."
In...in...
"I don't believe any wreckage from the battle is worth the cost it would take to repurpose." Another chimed in.
He almost wished the vent would burst open right this second.
"The soldiers," Amidala's voice had been rough, a hard edge peeking out from underneath all the frills she was often dressed in, "do we not honor the men who fight for us with proper burials?"
"These are dead clones, Senator. There is no reason to waste our budget to recover things with no value or capability to be recycled."
— o..out...
"We already have a meeting with Kamino next week about spending more on them. It wouldn't do to take away from our already dwindling funds for something as trivial as this."
Funds dwindling right down into the never-ending pockets of this greedy, selfish, never satisfied shabu —
The final vote of 866-32 flashed on the screen twice before the proposal sizzled away with another one in its place.
He watched the Floor Speaker toss the datapad at an aide, lips moving to say something that Fox couldn't hear, but could read as ' write something pretty back, will you ?'
I-i...n…
Everything continued to fade further and further and further ...
That same proposal ended up in the heap of datapads burying his office desk the next day.
It hadn't even been marked as a priority file that needed a prompt response. He would've missed it completely in his cursory look-through of the pile had he not zeroed in immediately on the CC-3636 included in the list of four authors. Four. Because that was all that's left.
It was a practiced habit. To be able to find the numbers instantly through wall after wall of paperwork. And he had never been more glad for it at that moment. He'd be able to do that with any one of his batchmate's designations.
It was sometimes the first and only way he'd ever find out if something happened to them.
He had let out a gargled noise, somewhere between a sob and a giggle, pressing his gloved palms against his eyes until he couldn't see straight when he opened them again.
It had to have been some tasteless fucking joke, the cosmos staring down with glee in their endless leering grins. He wondered which senator aide had passed it off to the Guard.
He wondered if the Chancellor knew.
It took him all morning to write the response, the rest of his duties forgotten for once because this—
He couldn't screw this up.
He had done everything he could to hide the cruel, cruel statements uttered in the Senate. The remaining members of the 104th ( four ) didn't need to know. Wolffe didn't need to know. And even then, the final draft he came up with still sounded too wrong. Too stilted. Too pragmatic.
Too fucking cruel.
And like a hut'uun , Fox couldn't even sign off on it with his own name. His stylus hovered for seconds, minute tremors traveling from his brain to his arm and right down to his very fingertips.
He ended up stamping it with the official Senate signature mark he had spliced off some database. Afterward, he handed it off to an aide, making something up about some Senator asking him to have the response sent through official Senate channels.
Fox hadn't wanted his name attached to this when it went back to Plo Koon. To Wolffe.
Then he had made a beeline for the refreshers assigned to the Guard, ripping off his bucket to vomit last shift's midmeal. His hands shook hard enough for the clattering of his vambraces against his helmet to echo through the empty room.
It had at least hid the hitched breaths he couldn't keep contained behind his lips, bloody and ripped from biting them shut.
Wolffe sniffs, and the current world rematerializes in front of Fox as the memories fall away.
Wolffe is still mumbling, hands now tangled in Fox's knotted curls. He angles his head so it presses against the full expanse of Wolffe's warm palms, listening once again.
"We lost more than twenty-two thousand vode, Fox." The weight of the number hangs heavy, spok-rasped with so much horror in Wolffe's voice. And even then, it's not enough to convey the sheer devastation and utter sorrow Fox can feel radiating off his older brother, wrapping around them like a wave dragging them to the bottom of a sea without light. He didn't need to be a Jedi to notice it.
"Twenty-two thousand. And the Senate says it's not fucking worth it ."
Even the unforgiving swirls of Kamino's dark oceans couldn't drown them the same way their palpable grief currently is.
They stay in silence, letting it wash over until the storm settles enough for Wolffe's breathing to return to something close to normal.
His attempt at pretty professional words had fallen flat. Wolffe knows exactly what message the Senate was trying to send.
Fox swallows, tilting his head down until his nose presses against Wolffe's hair. It's mussed up, starting to get longer than the usual regulation cut. The curls are greasy and smell like he hadn't washed them in days. He probably hadn't.
"Your hair's gotten long," Fox says before he could stop himself, reaching up to rub a few strands between his fingers.
"It hasn't really been my priority." He can feel Wolffe rolling his eyes against him as he sniffled. The fingers in his hair tighten briefly before he continues, "And shut up, it's still nowhere near as long as your stupid nest, vaar'ika."
It is Fox's turn to roll his eyes at the dumb nickname, but the annoyance quickly fades.
"You've got to take better care of yourself, Wolffe." He frowns, tightening his hold, "I can't watch your back when you're out there."
Out there while Fox is stuck here in the heart of the Republic, fighting on an entirely different war front than the rest of his brothers. Where he'd only hear about things hours or days after they've occurred. Without any way to help or understand what exactly happens out there.
Wolffe huffs a soft breath of amusement, the gentle fingers in his hair turn into a rough ruffling motion that makes him hiss a protest. The fucking asshole.
"Idiot little brother, that should be my line. Look at these," Wolffe reaches for his face, rubbing at what Fox knows are heavy dark bags underneath his eyes, "and these." He threads his fingers through the tufts of greying hair near his temple.
Wolffe sniffs again, turning away with a smile that doesn't reach his swollen eyes, "If you're saying I look like shit when you're looking like that...then I must be really messed up." He snorts before sobering, "I've been a bad ori'vod if you feel the need to be the one protecting me. You shouldn't have to do that."
Fox lifts his head, meeting Wolffe's confused gaze for half a second before slamming his forehead against the other's. They both flinch back, grabbing at the sore spot with a groan.
"Fox what the fuck—"
"You karking di'kut , when did age ever stop us from worrying about each other? From looking out for one another? Did leaving Kamino change that?" He snarls out, unable to keep the indignant anger from simmering over. Because he didn't fucking understand.
Things have changed. Painfully so. He of all people knows that. Fox knew it from the moment he'd been dropped off on Coruscant's shiny platforms. The sparkling Galactic City that hides the rot growing through the cracks of the walls and oozing from the corrupt politicians he serves hand and foot every day. All that poison overflowing the edges to ruin the hidden world beneath the glittery sham.
They weren't going to stay shinies forever. He's jaded enough now to know the change is inevitable. This is what they've been created for. But he had thought, probably foolishly so, he would always have his vode . And his vode would always have him.
Wolffe's eyes widen before they dart to stare at the ground.
"I'm sorry." Wolffe's apology is barely audible.
"Yeah, you should be." Fox swallows the lump in his throat, swiping at his nose with a sleeve. He knows he's being unfair. Especially given what Wolffe's just been through ( Ka'ra, he's such a bastard) , but it hurts more than he thought it would have. The idea of his older brother hiding that pain, choosing to stay at the Temple instead of seeking Fox out. Even if he had never been Wolffe's go-to for comfort, that didn't mean he isn't right here.
"...I'm sorry too," He manages without looking Wolffe in the eye, "that was out of line."
Wolffe rubs his forehead with a scoff, "I always felt that you were more tooka than fox." He continues before Fox could retort, "it's just, I'm sorry. It's...I don't know how to handle all this."
"...That's normal, I don't think there can be any proper way to handle this."
"I thought I'd have more time. Fuck, they aren't even giving us a second to...to…"
To process. To grieve. To heal. Any one and all of those words would fit the blank.
None of which the Kaminoans and the Republic think that the clones need. They had been engineered to be better than those weaknesses , as the long-necks had called it. They aren't supposed to fall prey to those. They are supposed to take every punch, every shot, and keep marching forward without stumbling.
Tell that to the vode with nightmares, those who jump at shadows and sudden noises, those who seem fine until they aren't. Those who are found unresponsive, tucked away in some closet or cramped space until it's too late to do anything. Tell that to the statistic on the very last page of casualty reports. Numbers that would've been excluded if the ones writing them hadn't been vode . They end up excluded anyways once the natborns get the reports. Wiped from the official records like they didn't fucking matter.
"Do you know why they sent us back here." Wolffe's voice cuts through his thoughts again. It's not said as a question but Fox feels compelled to answer anyway.
"The Senate meeting with Kamino." He whispers back, tension pulling at his muscles.
"They want to discuss an arrangement for a new wave of vode from the facilities."
A sudden chill runs over Fox's spine, and he forces himself to keep his voice steady, "were you...asked to go to the meeting?"
"Haven't gotten any message about it if I were." Wolffe snorts, "you'd think they'd want to parade the poor little survivors around and pull at some heartstrings to make the sale. As if these shebse even have hearts."
Fox can't help relaxing at the negative confirmation. Wolffe is right; they didn't. And his ori'vod wouldn't have to see, wouldn't have to know, what happened at these meetings.
Fox hopes he'll never have to find out.
"I…" Wolffe sighs, "I don't know what outcome I would want from it."
The 104th will either be rebuilt or the remaining members will be absorbed into some other regiment. Fox had read through Plo Koon's files. The Jedi is accomplished, skilled, and highly decorated. They wouldn't let his talent go to waste by depriving him of an army. Pulling their current troops thin to form a new unit for Koon would also be foolish.
Regardless of how the meeting goes, Fox knows Kamino will get the sale.
"What are you most worried about?" Fox hums.
"I don't want to be separated from the General. He's been the only one that's treated us like we're not expendable. Like we're people . But…"
"...But?"
"A whole new fleet. Of shinies. Brand new, as if nothing ever happened." Wolffe pauses before backpedaling hastily, "it's not like I don't want them. I know what happens if...if…"
If Kamino doesn't make the sale.
Fully grown vode take up more resources than cadets. Unsold clones would continue to grow old, past their peak form as soldiers. Kamino would rather decommission them en masse than keep around something that doesn't profit them.
Some lucky batches might avoid decommissioning, but the other option would be getting sold to the underground for purposes that Fox can't even begin to ponder without feeling sick. He's not sure which path would be preferable.
"They'll all be new. And...I'll be expected to lead them. Like nothing happened, like thousands of our vode didn't just get wiped out...they'll be forgotten, Fox."
"I won't let that happen." Fox snarls, surging forward to wrap his brother in another protective embrace. He'd do everything in his power to...fix seems an impossible task. But alleviate? He can do that.
"I won't, ori'vod, I swear it."
He'll do anything and everything to bring Wolffe some semblance of peace.
Wolffe returns the hug, "I don't...I don't know if I'm strong enough, Fox. I can't...I can't lose another little brother, I'll…" The rest of the sentence dissolves as he presses his face against Fox's neck again.
"You're the strongest one I know, ori'vod . It'll be okay. You'll be okay."
"...can't lose another vod'ika , can't...can't…"
"I'm here. Ori'vod, I'm here. You haven't lost this one. I'm okay….I'm okay."
Fox isn't used to speaking for prolonged periods of time. But he murmurs those words over and over for Wolffe until his throat aches and his voice starts to fade.
He'd do it all again in a heartbeat.
There's an unfamiliar weight pressing against his shoulders, accompanied by the pricking of pointed edges.
Fox's eyes shoot open, hand going directly for a holstered blaster.
He looks up, eyes narrowed, finger already on the trigge—
The barrel points straight at the Kel Dor crouched in front of him.
"...G-general." His throat hurts with each rasp, but he lets out a shaky breath, placing the blaster on the ground before raising the hand in the air. He tries to raise the other one but Wolffe's limp weight against it makes him stay put. He looks down at the blanket in Plo Koon's clawed hands, which he had pulled back the moment Fox woke and attacked. He winces.
"General, I'm so sorry—"
"At ease, Commander." Koon's voice rumbles deep with amusement as if Fox hadn't just attempted to accidentally assassinate him.
"I didn't mean to wake you. I was merely worried that you four would get cold."
Fox begins to protest. This is beneath the Jedi, he didn't have to—
Wait...four?
He looks down and around him. Wolffe is pressed against him, head bobbing precariously at the sudden loss of Fox's shoulder for support. He shifts, letting his older brother lay against his chest instead.
More movement and he sees Boost murmur something from Wolffe's other side, one leg slung over his commander's. Sinker is on Fox's other side, practically curled up against him. Both the other troopers are already covered in similar blankets.
Fox lets out an exasperated breath, leaning back until his head hits the edge of the soft mattress. He's essentially sandwiched in.
Koon chuckles again. If this predicament is particularly funny, Fox didn't see it.
"May I?" The Jedi leans forward again, blanket out. Fox tenses for a brief second before letting his shoulders fall. He nods.
Koon is impossibly gentle, wrapping the blanket around both Fox and Wolffe. He fixes it right under Wolffe's chin, pulling back after giving Fox a light pat on the chest. Fox couldn't breathe throughout the entire ten seconds the process took.
"I'm glad they were able to find rest." Koon finally says, leaning back on his haunches to study the impromptu pile of vode , "they haven't been sleeping much since the...incident." Fox didn't know how Koon managed to convey that much grief through a half-covered face and goggles but he did.
"Any sleep would get constantly interrupted by nightmares. They try to hide it, to avoid worrying me." The Jedi trails off with a huff that rattles his rebreather. He reaches forward, brushing a stray strand of hair out of Sinker's face.
"But I know. I can feel it."
Fox tightens his grip on Wolffe.
"What do they dream of?"
"Mostly darkness. The cold. Suffocating." Koon pauses, and Fox watches one hand tighten into a fist, "their brothers." The fist loosens.
"I don't know how I can help him," Fox says, a touch desperate and so, so exhausted .
He's stuck here on Coruscant while his brothers continue to fight and lose pieces of themselves out there. All he could give Wolffe is alcohol and a hug. That won't stop the dying. That won't stop the nightmares.
"You've already done a great job, Commander." Koon's voice continues to be a soothing balm over his anxious state of mind, "I felt his relief from the moment he opened the door to your presence. You care a lot for Wolffe and I appreciate you offering him the comfort I could not adequately provide."
"That's not true." Fox protests immediately. He had seen the way Wolffe's expression took a soft turn when mentioning his General, eyes sad but sparkling with admiration and hope. He had also just seen the way Koon looked at the three sleeping clones, the corners of his eyes crinkling with fondness.
It reminds him of the Prime, standing over the training grounds with an empty face that immediately lit up like stars the moment Boba had bounced over to him. One hand reached down to ruffle the kid's hair, a rare smile quirking on his lips.
"That's not true." Fox repeats, "He cares for you very much, General."
Koon didn't respond, but Fox has a feeling he's smiling underneath the mask.
"You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. I doubt you'll be able to leave in your current situation anyway."
Fox scoffs, looking around him helplessly.
The Jedi rises to his feet gracefully, "I will let you and your brothers continue resting. The more they get, the better." He regards Fox with a tilt of his head, "I have a feeling you're in dire need of rest as well, Commander Fox. Please, use this respite to take care of yourself."
Fox feels like he's just been caught crawling through the vents by Alpha-17 back on Kamino.
"Yes sir, thank you." He manages.
Koon gives him a nod, turning to leave.
Fox watches the strong set of shoulders, square and steady. Reliable.
He's been the only one that's treated us like we're not expendable. Like we're people .
"General?"
Plo Koon pauses, turning his head.
"You'll…" Fox looks down at Wolffe, who's breathing softly. The furrow in his brow is finally lax enough for the lines to smooth out. He looks back up to meet Koon's gaze.
"You'll look out for him? Out there?"
Where I can't?
Koon turns to fully give him his attention. His gaze falls to Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker. His remaining three men. When he speaks next, Fox can feel the protective surge of determination that colors the air between them, thick and noticeable.
"...With my life, Commander. I can promise you that."
And with that said, the Jedi is gone.
Sinker yawns, stretching over an arm that thumps down on Fox's stomach, forcing an oomph out of him.
Fox lets out a sigh, blinking up at the ceiling. He had so much paperwork waiting back in his office. His head is also racing with dozens of half-formed plans.
He intends to keep his promise to Wolffe. The men lost during the Malevolence attack. They won't be forgotten. Neither will any of the vode they've lost in the war so far, either to the clankers or the demons that manifested from them. No more would slip through the cracks unnoticed. Not on his watch.
He shuts his eyes, listening to the synchronized breaths of his three vode .
Fox had much to do, but for now…
This...this is okay.
Vod(e) - Brother(s)/sibling(s)
Ori'vod - Older brother/sibling
Osik - Shit
Ad - Child
Vod'ika - Little brother/sibling
Ara'vod - Twin
Shabuir - Motherfucker
Hut'uun - Coward
Vaar'ika - Little runt
Di'kut - Idiot
Ka'ra - Stars
Shebs(e) - Ass(es)
/
Next chapter: Fox has a plan.
This was going to be a oneshot but clearly, my brain had other plans. I had to cut it short here otherwise, it would be well over 10K :')
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