#Quinlan looked away for one second!!!!

[tennessoui]

😧

^^ quinlans face after he leaves his buddy to terrorize a few senators, comes back to find him talking to the one guy he really should not be talking with while pulling all his usual flirting moves, looks away only for the pair of them to disappear, blinks and sees his buddy running after his other buddy, doesn’t see him for a while before seeing him again looking very recently mauled and clearly disassociating only to lose track of him again, see that one guy he shouldn’t be talking with following him up to a restricted area only to be told not even an hour later that his buddy was stabbed by a sith who kidnapped the chancellor elect and now he’s in the halls of healing, unconscious and injured

[adhd-coyote]

QuinFox and #34 for the kiss meme??

34 - A kiss after a bite

This ended up a lot softer than I meant it to, but I love it <3

-

“Mine.”

The word is nothing but a soft puff of air against Quinlan’s neck, and yet it sends shivers down his spine. Fox presses a kiss to his pulse point and moves lower, to his collarbone.

“Mine.”

Another soft kiss, followed by a teasing nip. Quinlan’s breath stutters, hand tightening in Fox’s hair, but he holds still, as Fox had told him to. Fox’s displays of affection aren’t usually this soft, but Quinlan certainly doesn’t mind. Especially not when Fox’s crystalline presence is sparkling so beautifully. There’s fractals of color being thrown across the walls, lighting up Fox’s dim bunkroom. Quinlan wishes Fox could see it.

“Mine.”

The next kiss is on Quinlan’s jaw. Fox’s chapped lips brush against his stubble, tracing Quinlan’s jawline until he reaches the shell of Quinlan’s ear. Fox nuzzles and whispers again,

“Mine.”

Another kiss. They both run hot, but Fox runs hotter. His touch feels like brands against Quinlan’s skin, burning him, sending fire through his veins. Quinlan craves more of it. He can never get enough of Fox, even now, both of them stripped down and pressed together, nothing but skin-on-skin.

“Mine.”

The next one has more possessiveness in it. Quinlan can feel Fox’s lips moving against his temple as he repeats the claim, voice breathy and rough. As a Jedi, Quinlan should shy away from possessiveness like this, but he’s a Shadow. He knows how to walk the line between Light and Dark. And Obi-Wan has always said he has a thirst for danger. Fox is very dangerous.

“Mine.”

The corner of Quinlan’s mouth. Quinlan wants to tilt his head and catch Fox’s lips in a proper kiss, wants to devour him and be devoured in return. But that will come later. He may not look it, but Quinlan knows how to be patient.

“Mine.”

Back down to his neck, on the curve of his Adam’s apple. There’s another nip with this one, and the tiny flash of teeth against skin shoots a thrill through Quinlan’s limbs. Still, he waits.

Fox returns to the side of Quinlan’s neck. His lips brush over Quinlan’s pulse point again, and then his tongue, a wet heat that never fails to drive Quinlan out of his mind. Quinlan can hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel his blood rushing with anticipation, but keeps his breathing even and his eyes fixed on the dancing colors of Fox’s presence in the Force.

Fox licks again, and then his teeth are positioned over a familiar spot. His favorite spot to bite, right over Quinlan’s pulse point, high enough that the mark will be seen over the collars of any of Quinlan’s tops.

“Mine.”

Fox bites, and Quinlan moans as sharp canines dig in just hard enough to bruise without breaking skin. Fox has never gone that far, says he never will, but honestly, Quinlan certainly wouldn’t mind if he did. He’s a little fucked up that way.

The bite lasts for exactly five seconds, and then the pressure vanishes, leaving a throbbing ache that is quickly soothed by Fox’s tongue lapping over the slowly-forming bruise. Then, chapped lips again, pressing a gentle kiss where sharp teeth had been just moments before.

“Mine.”

-

Kiss ask game - still accepting asks!

[danikamariewrites]

A New King

Ruhn x reader

Notes: Happy last day of @ruhnweek ! For Ruhn’s fall from grace I thought what would cause him to be disowned. Could he finally have partied too hard? Spent too much of daddy’s money? But none of that would piss the Autumn King off or make him pay attention to Ruhn. What would really piss the Autumn King off is if Ruhn started getting into politics, shadowing his father, attending important meetings.

Getting into a large disagreement about how to rule the Valbaran and Avallen Fae, the Autumn King casts his son out. Angry and on his own, Ruhn leaves Lunathion with his most loyal subjects following him. Establishing his new rule in the north, just outside of Nena, the rogue prince starts his campaign for his father’s throne. Ruhn is looking for alliances, even if it means getting married. The prince will go to any lengths to take down his father.

Warnings: none

Watching the snow covered country side blur past the car window you fidget with the fur gloves in your hands. Your winter ensemble was fit for a princess, which made sense, as you were going to be one in a week.

The maid had dressed you in a snow blue dress, heeled boots of the same color. Diamonds dangled from your ears with the matching pendant around your neck. The set was a gift from Ruhn, along with the promise of a ring to match.

You had been counting down the minutes until you would arrive at King Ruhn’s stronghold. Once a headquarters for the Asteri they abandoned, Ruhn thought it the perfect place to take up residence. It was out of reach from his father and any unwanted visitors would surely die of frostbite or hypothermia if they didn’t travel in from the main road, which was heavily guarded.

You were getting closer now. The increase of military vehicles on the side of the road gave away your proximity. When Ruhn left Lunathion he took a good chunk of the Aux and the 33rd with him. Once the news broke of the war between the king and his son more defected to his side, including some of the Asteri’s army.

Whether the Asteri sent the soldiers or not remained a mystery to the public. Questions ran through your mind when your parents told you they were allying with Ruhn. Would the Asteri let this happen? Would the fae and the city change for the better? You had even more questions when they told you you’d be his bride.

You had no issue about marrying Ruhn, besides the fact that your parents just gave you up without warning. Ruhn wasn’t cruel or crazy. You had never really thought he was serious about ruling in all honesty.

Your family was the wealthiest and oldest fae families after Ruhn’s. They had power and influence, everything the new king was looking for. Clearly your parents liked his idea of ruling better than the Autumn King’s. Otherwise you’d still be at home in the city, not hiding away in the country side.

The car pulled to a stop a little ways away from the entrance, parking near a row of military vehicles. Your nerves had your stomach in knots. Taking a deep breath you slip your gloves back on in anticipation of the few minutes you’d be outdoors.

“Ready?” Your mother asks enthusiastically. Shooting her a nasty scowl you open the door, sliding out of the black SUV.

Looking around you spot angels and fae dressed in thick winter wear, checking crates and cars, standing guard armed with guns and knives strapped to their thighs.

The old metal doors creaked open, catching your attention. A familiar looking red headed female makes her way over to you, her smile dazzling and welcoming. “Hello, I’m Bryce Quinlan, the king’s second hand.” She said in greeting, clearly very pleased with what her brother is doing. “You must be y/n. I’m here to take you to Ruhn.” You slightly bow to her, “It’s wonderful to meet you Bryce. Thank you for greeting us.”

“Come, I don’t want to keep him. The King has a packed schedule unfortunately today so you might not see him again until dinner.” Bryce turns to lead you and your parents into the stronghold.

Walking through the halls you expected the place to be more run down. It was quite the opposite, everything was polished and pristine. Everything was updated to be more modern looking from the flooring to the first lights.

Before you knew it you were all entering the “throne room”. Bryce had used air quotes when describing it because it wasn’t exactly that. More of a meeting room with a slightly larger chair for Ruhn. He was intent on an ostentatious display of power. You figured it was to not be anything like his father, which you respected him for.

Bryce cleared her throat, breaking up the conversation between Ruhn and three males you didn’t know. The one with angel wings gave the princess a loving look, only snapping on a cold look when he realized the company she was with.

The three males stood to the side, leaving the dark mysterious prince and you to just stare at each other. You couldn’t help but be captivated by his beauty. You’d only ever seen pictures of him on your phone and thought he was hot. Up close was something else. Ruhn’s blue eyes sparkled as they roved your body as your own took in each of his exposed tattoos and muscles outlined by his tight shirt.

Remembering your position you cleared your throat dipping into a small curtesy. “It’s an honor to meet you, your grace.” You didn’t know if he preferred prince or king. Ruhn, a slight smirk pulling at his full lips, bowed his head. “It’s an honor to meet you, y/n. I also want to thank you for agreeing to this, and for your support.”

“Of course,” you respond quietly. You could feel your parents staring intensely at the back of your head making your nerves return. It seemed Ruhn could sense your discomfort. Standing taller, commanding the attention of the Ruhn, all eyes went to him. “Could I have a moment alone with my bride-to-be,” he phrased it as more of a command than a question.

The three nameless males nodded along with Bryce, leaving with your parents in tow. Your mother seemed reluctant to leave you alone with Ruhn. Not for safety concerns, more because she was nosy and wanted to control the situation.

Once the doors shut and you were alone together you felt more relaxed. A shyness you had never felt before in your life took over, making your cheeks heat. Ruhn approached you, pulling out a chair for you from the long meeting table. “Thank you,” you whispered, taking a seat.

Sitting next to you he gives you a reassuring smile. “I know our marriage is not something you anticipated or even wanted. It’s a sacrifice whether you think so or not, and I will do everything in my power to make this as easy for you as possible. If there is anything you want or need please don’t be afraid to ask.” The sincerity in his voice made your heart soar.

When contemplating an arranged marriage by your parents you had always pictured them choosing a male who was stuck up and in his own world. While Ruhn is in his own world there is a kindness to him you’ve never seen in other males.

Ruhn continued asking you questions about yourself. What you went to school for, your interests, favorite foods, stuff like that. Before you knew it over an hour had passed. Staring at the clock you slightly jolted, remembering Bryce saying Ruhn had a busy schedule. “What is it?” Ruhn asks, worry lacing his tone.

“Oh, umm Bryce said you have a busy day and I didn’t mean to keep you this long,” that shyness came creeping back in, a blush dusting your cheeks again. Ruhn smiles sweetly at you. “Don’t worry about it. I am prince of this place, remember.” He teases with a raised brow, his piercing glinting in the sunlight coming through the tall windows.

“I don’t want to stress you out by thinking you’re keeping me.” He says, standing from the table and holding out his hand for you. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” You laced your fingers with his, letting Ruhn pull you along.

As he gave you a history of the stronghold you let your mind wander. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as you thought. Ruhn seemed to want to get to know you and he was quite charming. With time maybe your relationship can grow into something…more.

[shootingstarpilot]

You know, occasionally you might be struggling with a particular scene, trying to figure out how to get over that bump, and then A Certain Someone drops seven DELIGHTFULLY LENGTHY COMMENTS on back then, i was dauntless and you manage to hammer out 300 words over your lunch break and then that same person hits you with AN EIGHTH LOVELY AND THOUGHTFUL COMMENT on the same fic and suddenly the way through the thicket of a scene becomes visible-

Anyway, have a section of that scene, spoiler alert for a plot point in the next chapter- I'd appreciate any feedback!

Eventually, Quinlan’s shoulders steady and still. He pulls back just enough to make eye contact.

He does not let go.

“Obi-Wan,” he says. “Focus on me, please. Okay?”

Fear is not helpful here, present though it may be. Obi-Wan breathes in, breathes out, and listens. He drops his hand, squeezes Quinlan’s, feels the tendons stretch and flex as Quinlan mirrors his grip. He notes the tickle of hair on the back of his neck, the ever-present ache in his chest, the way his boots scuff against the pockmarked concrete. The acrid smell of fuel is a constant companion in this district, and not even the pollutant disposal system is enough to completely disperse the settled smog that casts a yellow pall over the surrounding structures.

“Okay,” he says, and then again, firmer this time– “Okay. Tell me?”

Quinlan closes his eyes. Leans forward. Presses their foreheads together. 

And does.

Footage.

The footage.

Discovered in Palpatine’s– the Sith’s– files.

They’d called Mace to deal with it. As soon as he’d realized what it was.

Copies of the footage may have been saved– elsewhere.

They’re searching, now. Poring over lines and lines of code.

For a dead man’s switch. Release onto the holonet.

Irretrievable. Inescapable.

Obi-Wan sets the words aside. A safe distance away. Picks them up, one by one. Studying them.

They.

“Who else saw?”

“Just me.”

“Tell me.”

“I was the only one looking at the screen. I was the only one who saw it. No one went further, after I realized–”

“Tell me who else was there.”

Yaddle, as it turns out. Tholme. Names Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize.

Too many.

“As soon as. You said. How long did– how much did you–”

“Four seconds.”

Too much. Too long.

“I didn’t– recognize you. At first.”

“No.”

Metal in his mouth. Prying open. Jaw popping, dislocating– no breath left–

(The pain had ceased to matter, after a bit. Meaningless next to the supreme and unmatched agony of being bent out of shape.)

“I don’t think I would have, either.”

Yellow sky. Sour bile. Warm hands.

Shaking. Disbelieving. Fingers at his pulse point.

Bare hands.

Psychometry is a powerful tool. Furniture. Flimsiwork.

Data chips.

“What did it feel like?”

A breath. Two breaths. The two of them, matching.

“Bloated,” Quinlan whispers. “Like an infection. Septic joy.”

Obi-Wan nods.

Yes.

That tracks.

[allwormdiet]

Shell 4.1

As much as I wish Taylor could ride this high forever, unfortunately looks like it's back to school

Taylor. Honey. Dearheart. You keep being really complimentary about your bullies' physical looks, and this does not in any way undermine the hurt they've done to you or your resentment thereof, but it does muddy the waters a little bit as to whether resentment is the only thing you're feeling

The back-and-forth actually feels so refreshing compared to every previous interaction with the bullies, like. My god. Did Taylor just have to rob a bank to get the confidence she needs to not worry about these fuckers? I never thought that John Dillinger therapy would take off but maybe there's a future in that

Better the devil in plain sight than the devil you can't see at all.

John Dillinger therapy! This is what I'm talking about! Let's go Taylor, show that inner strength! Shed the burden!

I mean hell, maybe, or maybe this is an upturn where she finally gets sure enough in herself to get these jerks off her back forever. We'll see how it plays out, right?

The idle speculation on Mr. Quinlan is a little wild but well in keeping with my own experiences. Sometimes teachers just passively generate rumors around them.

This one stupid bit about John Dillinger therapy keeps paying off, this is great, real joke investment opportunity

Honestly Taylor I think you can feel bad about it while also living with it, I'm not gonna pretend to be some expert on morality or philosophy or whatever but I feel like you're allowed a certain number of felonies after enough suffering in your life

Technically not a career boost for the Undersiders, at least not as far as public renown, but making your enemies look like clowns is just as good if not better. Like yeah, those tools on the other side are getting their pay docked because of that bigass hole in the roof of the bank, and you're way richer from the same event

Expanding our understanding of the city a bit more, and honestly this sounds dope as fuck. I'd love to visit every once in a while and just soak in the culture, although not if it meant living in Brockton Bay. That seems. Bad.

Ugh, these kids

Honestly I'm not quite this hardcore but damn if it isn't a mood. I've yet to see proof of Rachel being wrong

Yeah I know she had her dogs attack Taylor, Taylor's an aspiring snitch, it's okay to maul a snitch

I think I knew this part already but honestly I'm more excited to have Rachel lore than anything

I wonder how much leniency can be provided for crimes that happen in the immediate aftermath or because of a trigger event. Maybe not a ton, or maybe enough to get away with murder. I'd be curious to learn more about that, if it ever comes up.

And uhh, yeah, that'd fucking get you dead bodies alright. Wonder if that's why she's so hardcore about the training, making sure that never happens again. Entirely for the dogs' benefit, or only mostly and then there's some part of her that thrives with that kind of control?

Alec you cheeky little shit, you're endearing yourself to me

Honestly Taylor, just try and breathe easy for a little bit, I don't think you've been able to do that in over a year. Take your time, enjoy your walk on the wild side.

Maybe I'm biased but I love these two interacting on their own, so I'm fully in favor of this plan Lisa

Well I'm sure if Lisa ever killed anybody they deserved it, or if nothing else she arranged circumstances so that they ended up deserving it after some mild provocation

it's fiiiiiiiiine

Current Thoughts

This story has such good slice of life, I want more of it every time and every time I get cut off before I'm satisfied. Is that on purpose? If that's on purpose Wildbow might be a more sinister intelligence than I'd thought.

School segment was so blissfully short and Taylor managed to fight Emma to a standstill so this is a huge improvement over every other second she's spent at school

If Rachel ever kills anyone on purpose they deserved it, and if Rachel ever kills anyone on accident it's okay bc everyone makes mistakes

Honestly I'd be willing to accept any of these kids as having a good reason to render someone cadaverrific. Brian and Lisa have good heads on their shoulders and at this point I'm starting to suspect that the lazy gamer thing Alec has going on is like, at least partially a front for a deeper personality, and he's trying to be shallow on purpose, so idk what that means for him being a killer but I somehow doubt he's a fucking Hannibal Lecter type when we're not looking

...Actually come to think on it the only two members the Protectorate has info on is Grue and Bitch, right? Tattletale is an unknown and Regent has almost nothing about him. I'd suspect Grue to be the second killer but I'm not sure if that's a red herring.

Find out eventually, I guess.

...I might have another chapter in me before sacking out for the night. We'll see.

[whyamismall]

I'd like to request another kiss prompt, if I may. 21 (WILDCARD! Dealer's choice) with Blyla.

Ooh this was a hard one! I've never written for Blyla before so hopefully this is ok! I think I did the wildcard right!

“You’re not nervous are you?” Bly immediately abandoned his sixth subtle wipe of his palms against the grey fabric of his civilian uniform. His head snapped towards Aayla, giving himself away without even having to utter a word. “I’m not nervous,” he denied, knowing he was digging himself into a deeper hole while trying to resist the aching need to rub at the back of his neck, a trait he had unfortunately passed onto his vod’ika Rex. Her warm smile made his cheeks heat up with a blush. “There’s no need to be nervous my love. It is only Quinlan we are seeing.”  “That’s exactly why I'm nervous,” he said to the toes of his boots, suddenly worried about what he would find on Aayla’s face. Cool hands cupped the sides of his face, imploring him to look up.  Aayla’s eyes were swimming with love and joy. “I promise Bly, Quinlan will be happy to see us.” Bly couldn’t help but melt into the kiss that Aayla bestowed upon him. He tried to keep it chaste, knowing that General Vos was due to arrive any time now, but their kiss became anything but innocent within seconds. “Well,” boomed a voice from the shadows that immediately had Bly whirling around. “If you kiss me like that Commander, I'll definitely be happy to see you!”

[lothcatthree]

37 for QuinFox for the kiss roulette? ❤️

37. kiss on the back of the neck

send me an ask for a lil kiss with your pairing of choice <3

thank you for the ask, anon!! you know I am weak for these two..

also due to circumstances outside of my control, this has turned into 687 words written in 30 minutes with two different kinds of kisses in addition to the request. hope u understand

(placing under the cut)

In hindsight, maybe Quinlan should’ve warned him.

He tends to forget that not everyone can sense the presence of other beings as easily as they can smell a pastry or taste blood on their tongue. The concept of being painfully aware of every damned sentient being in the vicinity has become second nature to Quinlan, something that’s familiar to him as the curves of the sconces in the Temple halls or the way that Mace’s scowl twitches just to the left when Quinlan smiles at him for too long. 

But, still.

He should’ve warned him.

It’s not like Quinlan could help himself. Fox was standing with his back turned away from the doorway to his office, something that Quinlan would’ve teased him over (Didn’t the Kaminoans teach you how to watch the damn entrances?), but he could see the way Fox’s shoulders were pinched around his neck and the way that his hand was gripping the belt of his lower armor so tightly that Quinlan’s not sure how the plastoid didn’t snap in two.

Every single cord of muscle in Fox’s body seemed to be in a competition for who could kill Fox the fastest… And it appeared like the one on the back of his neck was currently winning, judging by the way that Fox’s head was hunched over into his datapad like he was trying to either eat it or whisper sweet, sweet nothings into its deepest pixels.

Before Quinlan knew it, he was slinking across the room and slightly bumping Fox’s unarmored back with his chest, placing gentle hands on his waist and brushing his mouth over the mess of gray-streaked curls that sit gracefully on the nape of Fox’s neck.

“Hey, sw–”

Ah, and now there’s a blaster in his stomach paired with wild brown eyes and bared teeth. Somehow, Fox didn’t even drop the datapad.

Quinlan only smiles softly in the face of his own beautiful mortality. 

“Fuck,” Fox turns from a rabid animal to a slightly less rabid animal with a sigh and a scrub of his hand (still holding the datapad) over his face. “You scared me.”

Fox puts his blaster that was one press from rearranging Quinlan’s kidney back into the holster with a click. And right before Quinlan was about to make a joke regarding if Fox was happy to see him. Next time. 

“Sorry,” Quinlan lies.

Fox attempts to narrow his eyes, but it falls terribly short when the prestigious Commander exhales and leans forward, reacquainting his forehead to Quinlan’s shoulder with a dull thunk. Quinlan breathes his own little chuckle and buries his hand into Fox’s hair, scratching his scalp. Fox melts and Quinlan takes more of his weight with a quirk of his lips.

“Was gonna ask if you wanted to go to Dex’s with me,” Quinlan murmurs to the ratty couch shoved against the wall, wondering how easily he could get Fox onto it later. 

Fox hums and picks his weight up so he can look at Quinlan properly. Any hint of his scowl has cleared away with the clouds and there’s only a hard-fought trusting gaze that cuts through a fallen dark curl. Quinlan clears it away with gentle fingers that still hum against the storyboard of Fox’s skin.

“You buying?” Fox raises an eyebrow. The silvery scar that runs through it like a stream catches the sunlight outside. 

Quinlan kisses his forehead and lingers for a moment, just long enough to whisper there, “Stole some credits from Obi’s robes. He owes me anyway.”

Fox snorts and pulls away, finally placing the datapad on the desk. He sets it right next to the tiny holopicture of the two of them from a few rotations ago. Fox runs a loving finger over the frame, shrugs and responds, “Good enough for me.”

He puts his upper armor back on, steals a proper kiss, and then they’re walking through the halls again and making fun of the worst Senator of the week.

Quinlan’s heart sings the entire time because while the Force may not be second nature to Commander Fox, Quinlan Vos sure as hell is.

[ninjigma]

For 'Of Honor and Force', a Royalty AU Track: 'Second Child, Restless Child' - The Oh Hellos (Spotify / YouTube)

"And here I was, thinking that fighting tooth and nail to survive would finally give me an edge against you."

"Dull your edges, more like."

Quinlan made an exaggerated offended noise, hand grasping at his chest. Fox showed as much sympathy as usual though, and Quinlan didn't have more then a second to be dramatic before he was rapidly blocking quick movements.

Sharp and swift the two danced, feet sliding silently over grass and the sharp noises of metal echoing on the long forgotten ruins. The day was joyous, and Quinlan was thankful for it. He had missed his friend, and between being thrown off a mountain as a form of training and traveling an extra two weeks to get foreign noodles, he had been gone so much longer then he ever cared to be. And he hoped the rare foods would make up for the fact that he knew this time would be even longer still. The inevitable that he would leave, that Quinlan always left.

And he wished the burning in his chest was simply his lungs trying to keep up with the fight.

"And it seems my absence has made your aim a bit…" Quinlan lunged, using his height to Force Fox back rapidly so as not to fall. "Wild."

Fox sneered, and twisted rapidly, the sun bouncing off the sheen of his bare shoulders. "You think way too much of yourself."

"I think of you a lot too." Quinlan had dodged to the side and bowed slightly, hands splayed outward and relaxed even as Fox raised his rapier between them. "My dear prince-"

Fox's angry scoff was lost to the new flurry of movements. Quinlan had pushed enough buttons that their little fight had devolved into something that took a lot more attention, something that left them both beginning to breath heavier, tips of their weapons to scrape and scratch across their exposed torso's. Hair loose and forms tight, wrists twisting and bodies swaying. The grass bent beneath them as neither gave up ground, as they moved together like the currents that carried the storms.

Until Quinlan saw red.

The drip of it as it bubbled up, bright and angry. They had been twisting past each other, and Fox had ducked when Quinlan feigned an upward cut only to then fall low as well. His rapier had pierced the skin, a slash marring across the left side of Fox's chest. A long cut. Red.

In his shock he had hesitated, had hyper focused on that slowed moment his rapier flicked away, scarlet on the tip. He had his eyes on nothing but the wound he had given Fox, the hurt he had inflicted.

And Fox stood back to stance with ne'er a blink, lunged without any time lost, fast to slice Quinlan's sword out of his hand and plant one strong foot to the sternum of his off balanced opponent, flattening him into the ground beneath him.

"What the kriff was that?"

Finally, the knock of the ground chasing his breath away, Quinlan's eyes focused back on Fox's face. On how he was breathing hard, but wore only a look of confusion and annoyance rather then victory. "What?"

Fox huffed, rapier coming to hover just over the right side of Quinlan. "You hesitated. Why did you hesitate? You haven't been going easy on me have you? I swear Vos if you-"

"No no I-," Quinlan's eyes trailed down again. "You're bleeding."

Finally Fox seemed to take notice of the cut. With the iconic raise of one eyebrow his family was know for he flickered his attention to the wound, seemingly expecting it to be a trap perhaps, a distraction. But instead of the pain or anger Quinlan thought would come, the upset at being injured or the panic at the sight, Fox actually laughed. Outright chuffed and even smiled, looking back down to a startled Quinlan.

"Do you stop every time you give an enemy an ouchie?"

"Fox-"

"It is barely even bleeding, for kark's sake. Might scar a bit but-"

"Fox stop. I-"

"No, Quinlan." The rapier's tip lowered against Quinlan's skin, Fox managing to raise his chin even as he stared down hard. "You shut your mouth for once and know that, actually, I am not your dear prince. I am not some fragile thing. I brought the rapiers for a reason, and I am more then aware of the risks, we have been through this plenty of times. I wanted the fight, and it has been so much more fun then putting up with Cody's pointers and Bly's warnings."

Eyes now boring into Quinlan, Fox tilted his head down ever so slightly. "I trust you, even if you are such a fool that I am surprised you haven't gotten yourself killed yet. Got it?"

Quinlan blinked a moment, the silence derived from Fox's tone had been clear and left him in a moment of hesitation before speaking. "Yes sir."

Then that slick smile was back, and Fox was tilting his head like the most clever being in the world. "Besides, that was a pretty good attempt."

Quinlan raised his own brow, but otherwise didn't attempt to move, watching the light through the canopy dance on Fox's face. "Oh? A compliment?"

Fox shook his head, tight lips still smiling. "Pity actually. That is the closest you are ever going to get, shadow boy, and you blew it. Now get back up so I can kick your ass properly this time"

Finally, Quinlan's own smile broke across his face, a new confidence in his friend. The friend who complained about him, sneered at his courting, huffed at his stories. The same friend who came to the ruins every week to look for him despite the months he would never be there, the same friend who would sit with him late enough in the night that his family would be angry with him when he arrived back home, the same friend that he had just cut across the heart of only to receive a smile and an insult.

The same friend that now stepped back and swung the rapier away with such a poise that Quinlan had to simply gaze up a moment in awe from where Fox had laid him so thoroughly flat. That as the prince offered his hand and that sideways smirk, Quinlan once again couldn't believe how lucky he was for any of this. That taking Fox's hand and accepting the help up made his stomach flip in a very different way before once again taking up his rapier and facing Fox squarely.

Beneath the sun and bird song, a canopy of life and story, the prince of the shadows faced the fourth son of Fett and reaffirmed that, no matter what he came against, he would fight to his last breath for just this.

Because Quinlan always came back.

It was just supposed to be a lighting test but uhhhhhh... well, you can see for yourself XD

Enjoy!

View early previews and WIPS of this piece and more on my Patreon!

[lamaenthel]

Bite Down On This

[read on ao3] [Febuwhump prompt: "Bite Down On This"]

Bly has to do the unthinkable to his General to save her life after a mortar strike wipes out their company.

Characters: CC-5052|Bly, Aayla Secura, Quinlan Vos Wordcount: 868

" …hear me? Bly? Bly, are you alive?"

Bly blinks, takes a deep breath, and almost passes out again. He's face-down in a pile of… something. Something that smells like copper, fire, and human shit. He pushes himself up, his head spinning, and vomits on top of the bisected abdomen of the clone trooper he landed on.

"Get up!" He's yanked sideways, dragged on his back away from the body. Bodies. They're everywhere, he can see that now. "Get it together trooper, I need you."

"Yes, General," Bly tries to say; it comes out more of a blurry, slurred yrrrs gurnnnll.

"Hold on, Blue. We're coming. I got him. See? You were worried for nothing." General Vos tugs him up and forces him to walk on nerveless legs.

"Bly?" His stomach flips at how weak she sounds. "Oh, Bly, I—ah!" She breaks off with a shriek of agony. His stomach flips again.

"We're here. We're here, Blue." General Vos lets go of Bly's cuirass and drops down beside her. "I'm so sorry, honey. This is going to hurt. Bite down on this and take a deep breath, okay?"

Bly focuses on not falling down. His brain is unscrambling, reassembling his memories like scattered puzzle pieces. Aayla was leading their small scouting company from the front, trying to keep up with her old Master's massive stride. Bly was bringing up the rear, avoiding Vos and the looks he kept throwing over his shoulder. There was a whistle over their heads, then…

Mortar! Spread out!

He was at the rear. She was at the front. He was thrown back. She…

"It's okay, Blue. I know, I'm sorry it hurts. I've got you." Vos tightens the tourniquet around her ruined leg, right above what used to be her knee. 

They had some sausages once on Dantooine, made from roba hogs by the locals. They were so grateful for the Republic's arrival. They donated crates upon crates of fresh meat, vegetables, and fragrant blue rice. They'd never eaten so well. Aayla helped them all find sticks to cook the sausages on over the bonfire—her skin glows like midnight in the firelight—and laughed like a bell when he burned his mouth. 

Bard had overcooked his sausage. The end had burst open and split apart in strips, just like Aayla's leg.

"Get down here, Commander." General Vos adjusts them so that Aayla is cradled in his lap, his tree-trunk legs sticking straight out. He puts a hand on her forehead and whispers something Bly can't hear. Her head falls to the side, lekku drooping limp and lifeless. "Take my lightsaber and cut above the tourniquet," Vos orders, tossing it to the dirt in front of him. 

Bly's legs give out. He falls hard onto his shebs, head spinning. "What?"

"You heard me, Commander." Aayla stirs to life in his arms. Vos scowls and closes his eyes. "Sleep," he orders her, loud enough for Bly to hear this time.

There's two sabers laying in the dirt in front of him. Bly unsteadily reaches for the one on the right, grabs a handful of dirt instead. 

"Now!" Vos growls at him. "Sleep." His voice turns gentle when it's directed at her. He's like a father to me. "Good girl. It'll be over soon."

Aayla is dripping sweat and drooling around the leather strap her Master shoved in her mouth. Her head tosses from side to side, struggling to stay awake. Her lekku come to life only to curl up in tight, distressed spirals.

"I…" Bly swallows down a second surge of vomit. They need a medic. Where's their medic? He suddenly remembers the paintjob of the trooper he woke up on.

"Do it!" The Kiffar General—both of them—shoots him a glare that could melt beskar. "I can't keep her unaware much longer, Commander, she's fighting too hard. Do it before she wakes up!"

"Wake up, Commander," she whispers, her lek curling lovingly around his wrist. She trails a graceful finger down his nose, tickles his lips, chases the touch with a delicate kiss. 

"Do it, now!"

Bly pushes the button, goes blind from the green light. He blinks away the spots, stares down at his Aayla's beautiful leg—she hooks it over his hip, uses it to pull him closer as she cries out his name—and stops. "I can't," he says hoarsely. "I can't hurt a Jedi." My Jedi.

"You want her to be awake and screaming while you cut her leg off?" Vos' fury is incandescent, burning like a corona. "Do it, you useless son of a bitch!"

Bly's double vision isn't helped by his tears. "I can't."

"If you don't I will fucking gut you." Vos means it, but he still can't bring himself to bring down the beam. "Do it now, or so help me—"

"Bly," Aayla whimpers around the strap. Her big, beautiful brown eyes flicker open.

"SLEEP." Vos mouths the command directly against her ear cone. Her eyes close, her head falls limply to the side. Vos' eyes meet Bly's, and his vision is finally steady enough to see that the Kiffar is crying. "Do it. Do it while she's asleep, I'm begging you." 

Bly swallows hard, nods, and brings down the blade.

Taglist: @starwarsficnetwork, @febuwhump, @soliloquy-of-nemo Divider: @saradika-graphics

[decomposing-writer]

Blaze Prologue

A/N: So in case anyone's wondering this fic is a re-write of my fic Autumn Princess. I didn't like how I wrote it, so I restructured it. Same characters with a slightly different plot. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy it.

Description: Blakely Quinlan is the younger twin of Bryce Quinlan. Though preferring to keep out of any and all great conflicts, she is left with no choice when she discovers that Bryce has fled Midgard. What will become of her though, when she gets wrapped up in the mess her sister left behind in Prythian. Especially, with how little she knows about what her sister has been up to in these last few months.

Blakely Quinlan had always tried to live her life away from any conflict. Now, that was not to say that she was a coward. But that she was cautious and preferred to weigh her odds. This meaning that when things seemed like they could go wrong, she made a point of being the first out of the door. 

This is why, when she had come up with this reckless plan, her best friend Beau had looked at her like she had lost her mind. In fact, he still was as he adjusted her armor. Which he had given Blake after realizing how serious she was. Are you sure about this? He asked for the thousandth time, and while that cautious part of her wanted to say no, she nodded.

Blake was only ever capable of this type of recklessness where her family was concerned, and with it being her older sister, she felt that she had little other choice but to be sure. Though it did not stop her friends continued fretting as he went over the plan again, almost as if trying to convince himself to the extent that she was. 

“So this synthetic magic will hit your half of the horn. Which will hopefully transport you to the plane your sister is on. However, that will not guarantee landing exactly where Bryce is, even with your bond.” Beau said, but it only seemed to make his fretting worse as he grew more frustrated. 

Which is why Blake ignored him, knowing that any more fuss would only make her think about the risks too. The female nstead holding out her hand for her weapons, which Beau passed to her, one at a time. 

The pistol her dad had given her. 

The semi-automatic her brothers friends had given her. 

The few knives she had collected throughout her travels.

And her phone. 

Blake frowned at the addition of that last one. But Beau merely shoved it at her anyway. The male commenting that if things go wrong, she would at least have some way to remember him. 

Blake resisted the urge to scowl at the Fae male, though she did pocket it. Before moving to the center of the atrium, one of the largest in the male's home, and turning to face him. She could feel her hands begin to shake and the look on Beau's face a mix of worry and something else as he watched her from his place at the top of the steps didn’t help. Blake tried her best to smile however she knew it was a pathetic waste when he did not return it. Instead, shakily raising the bottle full of vibrating synthetic magic. 

He never mentioned why his family kept something so dangerous in the royal household. However, she supposed it was likely the safest place when compared to other places in this territory. “Are you sure about this?” He asked again, and while usually Blake would have snapped at him, by this point. She knew that if she opened her mouth, it likely would not be words that came out. So she instead nodded. Beau taking that as his queue. 

However, he seemed to hesitate several times before delaying for a second longer. As if wanting to say more or perhaps trying to remember her as she was. Blake couldn’t help but do the same as she looked at him, from his dark brown skin to his onyx hair and amber eyes. She certainly had much she would have liked to do with him, hell even say. But this was too important. Which is why she was grateful when he made up his mind. 

Beau closed his eyes and with as much precision as a fae prince could have chucked the delicate bottle at her. The glass shattering upon impact with her armor and a hollowness filling her ears before she was transported away. 

[tennessoui]

wherein anakin leaves the order

for @kana7o who requested anakin leaving the order when he’s 14 or so and obi-wan leaving with him which catches anakin completely by surprise. 

(2.7k)

It’s the balino pasta that does it. 

Sort of.

Well, okay, it’s a lot of things if Anakin is being honest.

But it’s the balino pasta that really, actually, finally does it.

Anakin stares down at the bowl in front of him, feeling the excitement curdling in his chest as Briyel digs her fork into a red noodle and raises it to her mouth with alacrity. 

“Oh stars,” Vun says from beside him, breaking a chunk of bread and dipping it into the still-bubbling yellow sauce. “Oh stars, thank the Force Master Renwal let us go early for lunch.”

“They put souan bird in it!” Lana reports, sounding so kriffing excited.

“Oh that’s bantha shit then,” Rangok says, pushing the bowl away. “Souan’s the worst.”

Anakin can’t tear his eyes away from the pasta in his bowl the same way he can’t escape the sinking feeling in his gut, the one that tells him what he already knows:

He doesn’t belong here.

Just from the smell, he can tell it’s bland, that even though the colors in his bowl are reminiscent of fire, it will taste like nothing when it slides down his throat.

“Chin up, Skywalker,” Briyel nudges at him underneath the table with her fin. “I thought you liked Souan bird.”

“I do,” Anakin says and forces a smile onto his face. “Yeah definitely.”

He reaches for the excitement that he’d felt two hours ago when the first whispers of the lunch menu circulated through his age mates. Balino pasta.

He hadn’t known what it was, but he’s gotten very good at pretending he does with this sort of thing. He’s found it’s much easier to fake excitement than it is to face his peers’ incredulity when they remember again and again that he is different from the rest of them, raised speaking a different language, on a different planet, with a different understanding of—of everything.

Even something as simple as food. 

“Yeah, it’s good,” Anakin nods and tries to make it look happy, spearing a noodle on his fork and lifting it to his mouth. “Oh, wow,” he says. “That’s wizard.”

“Oh, what?” Vun looks up from his fourth forkful. “Wait, do you actually like balino pasta?” 

Anakin freezes mid-chew. The question feels like a trap, but he can’t understand how. They’re all eating it, they were all so excited about it. Surely that means they like it. And surely that means that Anakin should as well. 

“Yeah,” he swallows. Frankly, he thinks, the ration bars he ate with his master while they took cover under a shipwreck tasted better than this. Kark, if Anakin’s being honest, the bugs he’d eaten roasted over the smallest fire imaginable on Tatooine tasted better than this.

But just a few months ago, he’d overheard his master talking with Master Vos in their quarters. Anakin was meant to be asleep, but he’d been so thirsty, still recovering from a sickness that had left him bedridden for two weeks. He’d just needed water, but then his master had been talking to Vos and it had taken Anakin all of two seconds to realize he was talking about him.

So of course he’d stayed. Of course he’d crouched in the shadows of the hallway leading to the living area and listened to his master’s words.

“It is like he does not want to be accepted by his age mates,” Obi-Wan had muttered, and Anakin could see the way he scrubbed his hand over his face. “Like he does not care nor desire the community they can bring him. That the Jedi can bring him.”

“From where I’m sitting, he wants to be accepted by you,” Quinlan Vos had replied, and Anakin had felt mortification deep down to his bones. “Maybe he doesn’t need agemates if he has you.”

“He won’t always have me,” Obi-Wan had said. “Not to mention that that way of thinking leads to dangerous attachment. He needs—kriff, Quinlan, I want him to feel as if he belongs here at the Temple, but he—he never wants to attend activities with his agemates, he never wakes in time for morning meditation, he hid the fact that he was sick until he almost collapsed in Mid Rim Contextual Histories class! I don’t know if—if he truly does not need the connection with his peers or if he doesn’t want to try or if he still does not trust the Jedi enough to seek his agemates out, but—” his master had cut himself off with a frustrated groan and gone quiet.

His friend hadn’t. “Obi-Wan, you’ve been given a difficult task, one that’s not been done in living memory for very good reason. Your padawan’s rough adjustment to Temple life is not a reflection of you as a master, nor of how much you care for the boy.”

“How could it not be?” Anakin’s master had said, and Anakin had gone back to his bed with a dry throat and a pit in his stomach which solidified into a resolution overnight: he would try. For that wavering note of dismay in his master’s voice, he would try harder than ever before to belong here in the Temple.

But then—but now—-

“I’ve never met someone who likes the balino pasta,” Vun says.

Anakin looks to Briyel, because nothing makes sense, but she’s smiling slightly too.

“But then—” he stutters out, setting down his fork in his still full bowl of food. “I don’t—”

Lana takes pity on him. “Everyone in the entire Temple thinks balino pasta is disgusting,” she tells him after she swallows her mouthful. “And so the cooks always give us the best dessert after to make up for it. Balino pasta means Bavaugan cream puffs, and if you eat really fast, Chef Faj gives you extra cream puffs.”

“Since you like the pasta so much, can I have your cream puffs?” Rangok asks, and Anakin’s chest feels tight, like all the pasta he’s just forced himself to swallow has gummed up his lungs.

He stands and walks out of the refectory without another word.

—----------

So it’s a lot of things, but it’s the balino pasta that really does it, really makes him understand that he can learn the rules and he can play nice as anything, he can join the outings his agemates schedule and he can stay silent during morning meditation, but he doesn’t belong. He doesn’t know how to, will never be able to learn every hidden rule and tacit understanding that binds the Jedi together.

He can recite the Code in four different languages, but he’ll never know about the balino pastas of the Jedi Temple, the silent rituals that bind all Jedi together.

And he can’t think of one reason why he should keep trying. 

—------------

Anakin wouldn’t say he’s an expert at leaving homes behind, but he’s done it once already, so he understands the basics.

He understands that it’s important to go fast and to not look back. He has a bit of credits, a lot more than any fourteen year old should have. He has a bit of credits and a loose plan. He’s going to leave the Jedi Order one night, and he’s not going to come back. He won all the credits he has by podracing in the lower levels, so he’ll go there first, bet on himself under a fake name, and collect his winnings. Then he’ll get off of Coruscant for good.

Out of necessity, he waits one week between the day balino pasta was served in the refectory and the night he leaves. He tells himself it’s because of the podracing schedule, but he knows it’s not.

His master is gone. He’d been sent on a solo mission a few weeks ago, and Anakin wants to say goodbye to him. He doesn’t want to just leave.

But Obi-Wan is nowhere to be found, even when Anakin thinks he should be back, and Anakin can feel the resolve in his stomach wavering.

More importantly, he can feel his disquiet slowly harden into resentment—of his agemates, of the Order, of his master.

He doesn’t want to hate anything, especially not the Jedi. Especially not his master.

So when the night of his self-imposed departure rolls around, Anakin walks to his master’s room. It’s empty still, the bed carefully made and every surface clean and devoid of personality.

He leaves his padawan braid on the blanket. His master should have that at least. It’s always been his more than it’s been Anakin’s.

It’s incredibly difficult not to linger as he walks through their quarters. He spent five years of his life here. There, the third caf table that Master had had to request because Anakin had destroyed the first two. The kitchen where Master had taught him how to make an omelet.

It doesn’t get any easier as he moves through the Jedi Temple, quiet as a mouse-droid and leaving half-hearted goodbyes in his wake even as he tries not to linger.

He knows what he should do because this is not his first time leaving a home.

But he doesn’t think he can do it, leave and not look back. He isn’t sure he has it in him.

It tears at his heart, standing in the hangar bay, hugging the shadows of the room as he waits for the last worker to leave.

He wonders when his bond with his master will fade, when his master will get another padawan. He thinks about some strange boy sleeping in his bed, and his heart falters. Maybe he can try harder. Maybe there’s still time to turn back, run back to their quarters, and unpack his bag.

He can explain away the shorn padawan braid as a training accident, he can—he can stuff this hurt deep down into his chest and try to be the padawan his master deserves. The Jedi Order can be his family, they can, he can just—he just has to pretend a little more and then he—

A hand, rough and familiar, falls onto his shoulder and it’s only when Anakin raises his head to blink tear-filled eyes at his master that he realizes he’s sunk down against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest as his mind tears into his heart.

“Hello there,” his master murmurs, kneeling in front of him. “What are you doing on the floor, padawan?”

Anakin promptly bursts into tears.

When his master sucks in a startled breath and guides him into his chest, Anakin feels rotten. He’s leaving but his master is still being so nice to him. And in a few years—a few months—his master will find a new padawan, and he won’t be his master anymore and this is what Anakin wants because he doesn’t belong at the Temple, this is what he needs. 

But it hurts. It hurts so much.

“Hush, padawan,” his master murmurs, and Anakin buries his face in the tunic of Obi-Wan’s robe.

“Not your padawan,” he mumbles, gripping tighter to the fabric. “‘M leaving.”

Obi-Wan huffs something that could be a laugh or could be scoff. “Oh, Anakin,” he says, free hand rubbing his back. “I know. But you must give me a few weeks to get used to the idea. You have been my padawan for five years. I’ll probably slip up and call you so for five more.”

Anakin sniffles and pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “You mean you’re not mad?” he asks, far more timidly than he means to. “You’re still going to want to talk to me even though I’m not gonna be a Jedi? And probably do a lot of illegal things to make a living?”

His master’s eyes are twinkling. “I hope we can meet in the middle when it comes to those criminal tendencies,” he says. “But as for talking to you…as your legal guardian in the eyes of the Coruscanti and Stewjoni governments, I would like to see you try to ignore me until you come of age.”

“What?”

“Ah, but please do not take that as a challenge, dear one. I imagine your teenage years will be hard enough as it is.”

“What?”

“Not to say that I’m dreading them,” his master says distractedly. “Though I suppose the accommodations I secured for us on Stewjon are modest compared to having a whole Temple that you can put between us when you’re feeling stroppy. But dreading feels much too harsh, even though I can already hear the doors slamming hard enough to shake the walls—”

“Master, what!” Anakin pushes himself fully away from Obi-Wan’s arms, frowning at his master’s face. “What are you talking about?”

Obi-Wan looks at him for a moment, as if debating something very serious before he sighs and stands, offering a hand to Anakin who takes it automatically.

“Anakin, when you stopped attending your classes a week ago, your masters let me know. It didn’t come as a shock, not to any of us, and I had several long talks with Master Yoda and the Jedi Council. We…decided that if you were to indicate that you believed you wanted to leave the Order, my resignation would be effective immediately as well.

“What they didn’t quite understand and I knew intrinsically is that you would never indicate your intentions. You would simply act upon them. Master Yoda agreed to allow me a sort of…soft exit from the Jedi Order. Enough time to find lodgings for us, to complete the paperwork necessary to make me your legal guardian so that I may take you off-world, to say my own goodbyes.”

Anakin doesn’t know when he starts shaking his head, but he can’t seem to stop. “Master, no, you’re a Jedi, you can’t just leave for me—”

“Nonsense,” his master says. “The Jedi Order is not a prison, nor is it a cult. I can leave whenever I want for whatever reason I choose. And besides, I’ve already found myself a rather good entry-level job near our lodgings in Stewjon. I’m quite excited, if I’m being honest. I’ve never paid taxes before.”

Anakin blinks and tries once more with a furious shake of his head. “I don’t—master, I never asked for this—I can do it myself, I don’t need you to—”

“Yes, I wager you probably could find your own way,” Obi-Wan nods thoughtfully. “And I know you’ve never asked this of me and that you probably never even thought to. But the truth of the matter is this, dear one: you never had to.”

Tears bead at Anakin’s eyes again as fear and guilt and relief war within him. “Master,” he mutters.

Obi-Wan’s hand lands on his head in a friendly pat before his fingers slide down to rub at the shorn end of his hair where his braid used to be. “I believe you can call me Obi-Wan, Anakin. I’m hardly your master anymore.”

Anakin sucks in a breath and lets the relief win out and flood his chest. “Obi-Wan,” he murmurs, testing the syllables on his tongue. Just Obi-Wan. His face breaks out into a smile at the way they sound, the gentle hold Obi-Wan has on his shoulder. “Obi-Wan,” he says again, and Obi-Wan laughs.

“I have a ship fueled,” Obi-Wan tells him, and Anakin looks at him in wonder.

He could have done this all alone. He knows that. But it’s an amazing feeling, knowing that he doesn’t have to, that he has someone with him to think about the little things like fueling the ship and paying taxes.

He probably has a dozen ration bars tucked away in his bag as well.

“Unless you would rather walk to Stewjon,” Obi-Wan’s eyebrow raises in an expression that’s painfully and giddly familiar. “Which would be rather hard to do as it’s several planets away.”

Anakin doesn’t say that right now he feels as if he could do it, could walk all the way to Stewjon and back. He doesn’t think he has to. It feels written all over his face.

“No, Obi-Wan,” he says instead, the same way he used to say master. But it feels better somehow.

Even more perfect now that they’re not master and padawan anymore, that they’re just Obi-Wan and Anakin and the galaxy is spread out before them.

[setokaibapetty]

Fic Friday 5 + 1 Roundup: Misunderstanding

Some fics with a miscommunication or misunderstanding; both unintentional and those that were encouraged once the gap in understanding is recognized.

Valentine's Day: An Observance in Memoriam (AO3) - “Are you telling us,” Izzy started, then stopped. Jace picked up her thread a few seconds later when it was clear that Izzy was out of words for the moment. “The Downworld celebrates a day in memory of Valentine?” Alec didn’t respond for a long moment. “I think ‘observes’ may be more accurate than celebrates,” he eventually clarified carefully."

In Which Tony Stark is a Philanthropist and All-Around Great Guy (AO3) - "Tony is determined to get Coulson laid. It's the least he can do."

only we know (AO3) - "Quinlan Vos starts spending more and more time hovering around the Republic military base. Fox starts sustaining... mysterious injuries. Thire can only assume the Jedi isn't treating his Commander right. (And so, the Coruscant Guard puts two and two together and gets five.)"

love and bruises (AO3) - "Jason kind of hates the people who say they have a gaydar, but the thing is, he doesn’t need a gaydar to tell with Bruce. He can just tell. Anyone with eyes can tell. The suits, the shoes, that one time Bruce couldn’t stop staring at some random nerdy reporter’s ass, the list goes on. Also, Bruce’s frequent liaisons with Batman are kind of a dead give away."

I Can't Believe It's Not Aliens! (AO3) - "Maybe Jason would condescend to look at Tim twice if he managed to conform more to the alpha ideal? There's nothing he can do about his height, but he's muscled enough to pull off a swagger. He can definitely trade his loose skater clothes for tighter fashion. He could even start projecting his scent and showing his teeth. It's a dumb plan. He knows it's a dumb plan. But if there's one thing he's learned with his Titans, it's that some plans are just dumb enough to work."

Bonus: with every inch of my heart (AO3) - "The apology in Nile’s eyes tells Nicky he’s let his expression slip in a way he hasn’t in centuries, his whole broken heart on display."

[artzychic27]

Can we see the recess kids teacher rules?

Akuma Class

Science Kids

Alonzo Grotke’s Rules For Taking Care Of His Students

The first rule of Recess Club is don’t talk about Recess Club

Pronouns. Matter.

There are 16 stim toys in the desk drawer at all times

Beck King does NOT count as adult supervision

Karan and Saanvi Tomassian have full permission to pull Austins Armbruster, Boulet, and Quinlan out of class for any appointments

Lotta is not allowed to go down the stairs by herself

Check your chair for any whoopie cushions, if chalk is taped to your eraser, and if your coffee mug is glued to your desk. (I won’t tell you what’s the fourth prank you need to look out for)

Austin Quinlan is allowed to answer any phone calls from his brother

In the event you need to speak with one of them about a grade, do not do it in front of the others

Lotta is NOT allowed to have coffee

Only refer to Austin Spinelli by his last name

If Victoria does not have her crutches and needs to use the bathroom, send someone with her to help her down the stairs (She prefers Gerard)

Listen to Mason when she’s reading something from her binder. It just might save your life

In the event you’re sending any AFAB students out of class for supplies or they need to use the bathroom between 10:00 am and 10:15 am, make sure an AMAB student or any student who can fight goes with them

Austin Boulet is allowed to bring his cat with him to class for emotional support during tests

If a student named Jean Duparc walks in saying a teacher needs to see Austin Tomassian, do not send Austin with him

Gia and Mindy are not allowed to leave the classroom together

Gerard and Victoria are not allowed to leave the classroom together

The Game is not allowed to be played no matter what anyone says. No one counts as adult supervision

If Gia begins to rant in military jargon, do not interrupt her

Leave a homework pass on Gerard’s desk every three days

Gerard has full permission to take naps in class

The second you see them wearing black robes and surrounding DJ who likely has a hundred googly eyes glued to them, just walk away

If what Rochelle is telling you sounds urgent, you better go and look into it

[roppongi-division]

ARB Birthday Special 2024: Mireya Quinlan

~~ July 31st ~~

"The question isn't who's going to let me, it's who's going to stop me."

Login Lines:

"Oh, you're here early! I was just wrapping up today's session at the center. These girls, they're picking up the dance so quickly! It's still not perfect, but they're steadily getting better."

"A gift? Now, why would… Oh! It's that time of the year again, isn't it? How could I forget my own birthday? And here I was giving Kai crap for forgetting his birthday a few months ago. Must be all the late nights at the club. ...But anyway, thank you, dear, you're a sweetheart."

Voice Lines:

" 35 years old. ...Well, I can't say I'm 'young' anymore. You know I almost let it slip by this year, the day I turn another page in my life's story. The girls at the rec center, they threw me this surprise party. They even put on a dance, just for me. It was their way of saying thanks, but really, it's me who should be thanking them. They've given me so much more than they realize: purpose, laughter, and a reminder of the power of second chances."

"My mother… not even a whisper from her today. But then again, what did I expect? We're two worlds apart now, and I prefer it that way. Sometimes, I catch myself wondering, 'What's she doing now? Does she ever think of me?' But those thoughts, they're like shadows: fleeting and better left behind. I've got my own life, a life filled with music, love, and the laughter of my son. That's all the family I need."

"My childhood wasn't the stuff of fairy tales, far from it. A controlling mother, an absent father, spending most of time being dressed up like some doll for people to gawk and stare at… But look where that road led me. To Kai, to Zakari, to a nightclub that's my realm. Every step, every misstep, it's all been part of this dance. And for that, for all of it, I'm thankful. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be."

"...You know, it's funny. Society has this way of labeling us, telling us what we can or cannot do at certain ages. But me? I've never been one to dance to anyone else's rhythm but my own. I'm not 'young' by the books, but I've got more fire in me than those half my age. Let them dare to call me 'old,' and they'll learn just how fierce this 'Gypsy Queen' can be. Age is just a number, and I refuse to be defined by it. I'll keep living, dancing, and loving with all the passion I've always had. That's a promise."

"Ah, mi amor. ...Thank you. I'm glad to see you took time out of your busy schedule of making music to wish me a 'happy birthday'. ...Oh, don't be silly, love. That was just a small threat. But I am glad that you remembered. ...Ha, yes it has been a long time since we've met and we are still here. I've said it before, but I am eternally thankful for you, my husband."

"Oh? And what's this now? You always find new ones to surprise me, love. Oh, a custom necklace with my name? 'My Gypsy Queen'. ...Oh. It's beautiful. Thank you. Thank you so much, Kai. You've made this day even more special. I love you, mi amor."

"Zakari, good to see you up and about today. Usually, you insist on sleeping past noon when you don't have classes. ...Oh, so my birthday is the reason you're up. Well, thank you. Anything to keep you from wasting the day away. ...Because you are my son and you don't know better, I'll let that one slide. But for your sake, my son, do not refer to me by the 'three-letter word' again, okay dear? ...Good, glad you understand."

"So, I assume you're heading out now to freelance across the city again? ...Oh, and what are these now? …Belly dancing CDs? You chose these yourself? ...Oh, that’s so thoughtful of you. I can't wait to dance to these. Thank you, my dear son, you've made your mother very happy."

Kai Lines:

"Happy birthday, Mireya. ...Well, of course I remembered. I seem to remember a certain someone threatening me on my birthday that if I forgot theirs, I'd be confined to the living room sofa for the foreseeable future. ...Ha, if you say so, love. But, really and truly, I didn't need a reminder to help me remember one of the most important days of the year. It's the day you were born, so if I ever forget, then shame on me."

"And to show I haven't forgotten, I have this for you. It's a necklace. Read what's one the front. ...Thank you, I'm glad you like it. ...And I love you, my darling wife."

Zakari Lines:

"Hey mom! ...Hey, if I don't need a reason to get up early, why not sleep in? Besides, most of my classes are in the afternoon anyway. But truthfully, I woke up cause its your special day! Happy birthday, by the way! How does it feel to be '35'? Your so old now! ...Haha. Come on, mom, it was just a joke. You still look beautiful, really! I'm sorry! ...Sheesh, remind me never to mention anything about numbers around you..."

"Yeah, I'm about to head out. But first... happy birthday! Yup, they're belly-dancing CDs! I saw them while browsing the store one day and thought you'd like them. ...Glad you like them, mom! Enjoy them! I'm about to head out! Happy birthday again!"

[thejediandthemandalorian]

🚨 quinfox

Okay, this one is a lot longer than I meant for it to be 🙈 Hopefully the length of these makes up for how long it's taking me to get them done lol 💜

"Commander, you have a visitor." Hound sounded way too smug, even through the vocoder in his helmet, as he stood in front of the cell's forcefield. 

"Tell whoever it is to leave. I haven't had my caf yet, so I really don't want to see anybody." Fox lifted his head enough to scowl over his arms that were wrapped around his knees, hugging them to his chest. 

His head was pounding still and every once in a while he could still feel a small zap from the after effects of getting stunned. 

50,000 volts of electricity 3 times in the span of 1.67 milliseconds; that's how much it took to knock him unconscious. He should work on that, slowly build up a tolerance to make it harder to get knocked out next time. What good was he as the Commander of the Coruscant Guard if he passed out from a couple thousand volts of electricity. 

Spending the night in this holding cell hadn't been as bad as he thought it might be. Of course, he'd be reporting to the Supreme Chancellor at some point after his release for a reprimand and any punishment that may be served towards him for his 'crimes.'

It wouldn't be the first time he added marks to his record, but it didn't mean he was any happier about it than the other times. 

"You can go in now. Be cautious though, he's a cold-blooded killing machine when he hasn't had his morning cup of caf." Hound barked out a laugh and opened the force field for Fox's visitor. 

"It's alright, Sergeant. I think I can handle Commander grouchy pants before his caf." An all too familiar and cheerful voice made it's way towards his cell.

Fox immediately groaned and laid his head back down on his arms, the pounding in his head immediately increasing with this unexpected visitor. He totally should've seen it coming, though in his defense his head was still pounding making it harder to think. 

"You sure you don't want to talk to him on the outside of the cell, General Vos?" Fox was going to make Hound regret this as soon as he was out of here and back to work. 

"No, Sergeant, I think I'll be able to deal with the little delinquent just fine from the inside." Quinlan's tone was already too flirty for such an early hour. 

Fox desperately wished he had his armor to hide himself in, it was always easier to talk to the jetii through his helmet. The upper half of his armor had been stripped away and confiscated before he'd been tossed in this cramped cell, though it had to have been while he was still unconscious.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the high and mighty Commander Fox, occupying a cell."

"Vos--"

"Oh how the tables have turned." Quinlan laughed and Fox looked up, shooting him a glare that he knew was just as effective as any blaster bolt. 

"Get out." Fox hissed, trying to keep from wincing at the pain in his head, knowing it would only show a weakness. 

Quinlan was somehow even more irritating inside a cell, and this time it wasn't even his own. On the other hand, there was something calming about him being here, perhaps it meant that he wouldn't be sent to Kamino for rectification. 

"Now is that any way to talk to the man who could very well press charges against you?" Vos took a step forward and Fox simply scowled more, trying to keep him back. 

"You know it wasn't my fault!" He snapped and gnashed his teeth. "If you hadn't dragged me down to the lower levels for another one of your 'ideas' I wouldn't be in this mess anyways."

Last night wasn't some of his best work, and he wanted to forget it ever happened but he knew this jetii well enough to know that--

"I think a cell suits you. The force field really brings out that streak in your hair…" Quinlan stepped forward again, the cell small enough that it had only taken him two steps to reach Fox. 

"You deserve that black eye." Fox's teeth were so tight he was sure they would snap any second from the pressure. 

Alpha 17 had always told him to stop clenching his teeth or one day he'd no longer be able to bite whoever he was fighting. He was sure if he asked Alpha 17 would(n't) admit that he had several scars from where Fox had bit him. 

"Maybe I should press charges since you're in such a bantha shit mood." Quinlan reached a hand towards him and Fox found himself jumping back, body hitting the durasteel behind him.

For all he knew Quinlan was about to return the favor and give him a shiner just as bad as his own; it didn't help that his helmet had been confiscated. Besides, he didn't need his head pounding more than it did. 

"Relax. I'm here to take you back to your barracks. You've been released." Quinlan reached out again and adjusted a strand of Fox's hair. 

At that same moment he felt another jolt go through his body, sadly an after effect of his assailants solution to the fight they'd started and not a response to the affection from the jetii. 

"Are you sure you're not taking me on another 'lower level patrol' where I've been assigned by the council to accompany you?" Quinlan rolled his eyes and held out a hand. 

Fox stared at it suspiciously for a moment, wondering if it was going to morph itself into a saberjowl and snap at him. 

The events of the night prior would be best if forgotten by everyone He'd been requested to escort a Jedi in the lower levels; it had actually turned out to be Quinlan's plan to get him on a date and away from work. The evening was…tolerable, and they had simply walked around the streets and chatted for a bit. 

Of course, however, he had still been on the look out for anything out of place or that might have needed authority to step in. That had been a mistake. 

A couple people had been hidden away in an alleyway, hidden by the shadows to the untrained eye. Fox had locked in on them immediately, which also drew Quinlan's attention. 

They had gone over to take a look, to make sure nothing illegal was transpiring, when both had been attacked from behind. Fox only remembered fighting and fighting hard, so hard he'd lost control. 

Quinlan had grabbed him from behind to support himself after a nasty punch from his assailant and Fox had turned and landed a punch square in his face. From there everything else became a blur.

The assailants had blasted him with a stun gun several times before fleeing. 

Next thing he knew he was waking up in a cell and being read his charges, Quinlan nowhere to be found. 

"I promise. We're getting you your armor, then you're going to be confined to your barracks until the Chancellor has time to review your case." Quinlan started to pull his hand back, but Fox quickly snatched it.

He used it for leverage to pull himself up off the bench, still a little out of sorts, but no worse for wear. Quinlan gave him the most irritating grin that had him ripping his hand away immediately. 

"Why aren't you pressing charges? I assaulted my superior officer." 

Quinlan walked towards the cell door and threw a rage inducing grin over his shoulder. Fox wanted to punch him again, harder…maybe with his lips.

"Quit asking so many questions." He paused for a moment, turning back towards Fox. "Maybe we should stop at the communal freshers before I start my watch."

"What!?" Fox's eyes widened in horror at the prospect of being Vos's charge. 

"You smell like delinquency and burning flesh. You need a sonic." 

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 18: unreliable narrator

Fandom: Star Wars: Clone Wars Relationship: Fox / Quinlan Vos Characters: Fox, Quinlan Vos, Thorn, Cody Tags: Institutional Abuse, Hurt Fox, Dubious Consent (nothing graphic), Miscommunication, Misunderstanding, Protective Cody

Summary:

The first time Vos asks him to bed, Fox feels the loss of something in his chest, so intense that he is frozen for a second too long, a second in which Vos' face scrunches up in displeasure that has Fox scrambling to make it up to him. It is stupid to feel betrayed. The clones were made to serve and even if the Coruscant Guard does not have a Jedi of their own does not mean that the Jedi cannot come to them and take what they are owed.

A feather light touch rips Fox out of his musings. Glove on gauntlet, no skin involved, yet it burns. "Is this okay?" Vos asks as if Fox can choose how to answer, as if there is anything acceptable to say other than yes, sir.

---

The first time Fox meets Quinlan Vos, they are hunting the same smuggler on the lower levels of Coruscant. Fox is rude at the interruption of his mission and then almost dies from shock when Vos reveals he is a Jedi. Vos laughs the entire thing off.

Later, Fox thinks that was a fitting start to their entire, unconventional relationship.

---

The second time they meet, Vos sticks around after they have arrested some weapons dealer. He leans against the wall, legs crossed, while Fox deals with the bureaucratic nonsense that is part of his job. When Fox is done and ready to return to his patrol, Vos falls into step with him.

"Why are you still favouring your shoulder, Fox?" he asks, completely out of the blue, his eyes trained on Fox with a weight Fox is not sure how to interpret.

It is surprising Vos even remembers that Fox hurt his shoulder. They were hardly working together during their smuggler hunt and almost came to blows over who would be the one to take the guy in - at least until Vos revealed his status as Fox' superior. He hid his pain then just as he is hiding it now. If he pays attention, however, little seems to escape General Vos' notice.

"I'm fully functional, General," Fox declares and straightens further, as if to prove his point. 

The last thing he needs is a Jedi doubting he can do his job. Things are hard enough as they are. The Guard does not need more scrutiny. They need several weeks of leave, a full medical check-up including a soak in a bacta tank, eight hours of sleep and three square meals a day. Thankfully, Fox is not prone to dream of impossible things. He has enough crushing him without it.

"That's not what I was asking." Vos’ eyebrows draw together in an unhappy frown. "Don't tell me you haven't been to see a medic."

For a moment there, he sounded like Thorn when Fox returns from the Chancellor's office only to go directly to his next posting. A strained shoulder is, of course, nothing compared to a correctional meeting with Palpatine.

"It's not bad enough to waste anyone's time over it," Fox says and hopes they can leave it at that.

Instead, Vos stops him with an outstretched arm. "Not so bad?" he echoes, tone disapproving. "It hurts you. I can see that. What if it slows you down and you hurt it again? What if you do something more permanent to it instead of just sucking it up and get someone to look at it?"

Fox has been trained to suck it up, and Priest carved that lesson even deeper long before he ever braved the hell of Coruscant.

"If I can't do my job anymore," he stills says, "I'll get decommissioned."

If that ever happens, Thorn will curse his very name for having to take over. But he will, because they have all the fail-safes in place that they can get away with. Protecting each other is all they have left. 

"Force," Vos breathes, glaring at Fox. "I know the Jedi stopped decommissioning, but that's still not something you should joke about."

Circumstances have led to Fox having a very dark sense of humour, but that is reserved for his vode - and not for very real issues he has to deal with every day. He is not sure he can believe General Vos if he says his brothers on the frontlines really do not have to deal with decommissioning anymore, but things are different on Coruscant. They always are.

Fox is glad he can hide behind his bucket; not sure he can keep the dismay completely off his face. He turns to fully face Vos, stands at attention "How can I help you, General?"

Vos frowns but does not press the matter. "I just wanted to compare notes on that bomber from a few weeks back. The Council is not happy that the guy is still out there."

"Of course." Work, Fox can do. He sends a message to his patrol partner that he will be late and leads Vos to his office. The sooner he can get rid of Vos, the better.

---

Each time Fox thinks Vos is done with them, he turns up again, always full of obnoxious energy, always turning his eyes where they have no business being. The smuggler ring has been taken down, the arms dealer told them about his contacts, the bomber has been arrested. They do not have any current business with each other, and yet Vos seems to be there every time Fox turns a corner.

The trooper at the front desk warns him that General Vos is here to see him and would not take no for an answer, so Fox checks that nothing incriminating is on his desk - casualty reports, reconditioning requests, summaries of how badly equipped the Guard really is - and waits.

"Good evening my dear," Vos greets as he comes in uninvited and sits down in front of the desk before Fox has even a chance to salute him. "I have a few questions."

That sounds ominous, and Fox really does not have time for any of this. But he inclines his head anyway. "Of course, General Vos."

"None of that, Fox." Vos clicks his tongue. "We're all friends here."

Friends, of course. Natborns are not friends with clones. Jedi are not friends with their subordinates. But Fox has enough experience with the whims of other people that it leaves him unfazed.

"The last time I was here," Vos continues, thankfully not interested in any kind of reply from Fox. "I saw a number of your men walking around with injuries."

Yes, because General Vos is the type of person who does not accept a no and, when told that Fox is unavailable, goes searching for him, not hesitating to invade the medbay and even the barracks. Fox knows that nowhere is actually safe for them, that nowhere is actually theirs, but it still leaves him with a bitter aftertaste to see how little their privacy is worth.

"Yes," Fox agrees evenly and does not add anything else. Vos has not yet asked a question and Fox will not voluntarily give up information that could be viewed as punishable weakness.

Of course, Vos does not let it go. "Why is that?"

Once trained for battle, Fox has learned the value of paper trails. Most of his men's injuries are never even documented, because only the kind of people care that would use those reports against them. 

"Mishaps during missions. Prison riots. Unhappy people in the street," Fox counts off, using what few official reasons they do have. All the rest - angry civilians, unhappy senators, cruel aides, neglect, corporal punishment - will remain secret.

"All right," Vos drawls, sounding like he does not believe Fox, which is never a good position to be in with a natborn. "None of that is good, of course, but why weren't they in medbay? Why weren't they adequately treated before being sent back to work?"

Because they have neither the manpower nor the supplies. Because at least half of these injuries were done under the specific instruction that the troopers were not to receive treatment for them. 

"They were in working condition."

Vos' presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line. "Fox," he says, like an admonishment. But no order follows. No demand.

So, Fox stands his ground and simply shoots back, "General Vos."

"I don't understand." Vos stares, eyes fixed on Fox' bucket as if he can look right through it. "You care for your men."

He does. He does and it will never be enough. Will never save them. Keeping all of that out of his voice he says instead, "We have a job to do." And too few men and too little protection to do it.

"Is there something I can do?"

Now it is Fox' turn to stare, thankfully hidden behind his armour. If the Jedi believe that the Guard cannot do their job, things will get so much worse.

Tucking all of his fears, all of his hopes and misgivings deep inside, Fox lies, "We have everything under control, sir."

---

"I've made some inquiries."

More questions? Vos has been haunting the Guard HQ often enough that most of the shinies have stopped jumping at his shadow. By now, he has become a frequent enough a visitor in Fox' office that it sometimes feels empty without him sprawling in the uncomfortable chair across the desk.

"General?"

It is always the same with them, Vos saunters into Fox' office - or the canteen, or the medbay, or Fox' room, and once, even, the hall outside the Senate floor, anywhere he can ambush Fox - and opens with a question or an observation, all of which are too close to issues Fox would like to keep close to his chest. He rolls his eyes when Fox salutes him and calls Fox terrible nicknames. But when he talks about the Guard's injuries or Fox' schedule or their threadbare equipment, there is always steel in his eyes, almost like he does not like what he sees and yet does not blame Fox for it.

"One of your supply shipments was apparently held up in transit," Vos says with a tone that clearly shows this is not the complete truth. "It should arrive within the week."

Fox knows for a fact that no shipment was delayed because all of his requests were denied.

"Thank you?" he says carefully, nonetheless. His mind, though, is whirling. What's your price? he wants to ask. When will you ask me to pay?

The waiting is often worse than the cost itself.

---

The first time Vos commands him to bed, Fox feels the loss of something in his chest, so intense that he is frozen for a second too long, a second in which Vos' face scrunches up in displeasure that has Fox scrambling to make it up to him. It is stupid to feel betrayed. The clones were made to serve and even if the Coruscant Guard does not have a Jedi of their own does not mean that the Jedi cannot come to them and take what they are owed.

"Would you take off your helmet for me, Fox?"

A question is on the tip of Fox' tongue but he was not made to ask for explanations. With wooden fingers, he pulls his bucket off and then stares somewhere over Vos' shoulder while Vos musters him in return. Nothing good ever comes from natborns demanding the removal of a clone's bucket. Or any part of armour, really. Worst, probably, is that he did not expect this. Dozens of people in the Senate are prone to taking liberties, they have become as used to that as they ever will. But General Vos appeared to be different. 

At first, they had a grudging working relationship, but then Vos had started to ask questions, about the barracks, the state of their medbay, the shift length, the clones' injury rate. He never seemed happy with Fox' answers. Now, as Vos is silently shifting ever closer, Fox realised all of that might have simply been a buyer's concern with the state of his product. The clones were made for war, but perhaps the Jedi are concerned with how much damage is done to their property, how quickly they are going through clones. Replacements do not come cheap, after all, although the Chancellor likes to tell him it is more economic to produce a new trooper than to try and fix a faulty one.

A feather light touch rips Fox out of his musings. Glove on gauntlet, no skin involved, yet it burns.

"Is that okay?" Vos asks as if Fox can choose how to answer, as if there is anything acceptable to say other than yes, sir.

Fox does not trust his voice to hold steady, however, so he simply nods.

Vos leans even closer, right into Fox's personal space, which has him go tense, fighting the urge to stand at attention. Then there are lips on his, soft and warm, just a light pressure, no demand waiting behind them other than the unspoken order hanging in the air.

For a long moment, Fox lets it happen, lets his mind drift and leaves his lips lax. Then he snaps into action. He knows this part, knows his duty. As his lips begin to move against Vos', he raises a hand to cup Vos' cheek, making note of every small noise, every miniscule change in expression. This is the most important thing, to know what the natborn likes and wants. Some of them are happy to bark orders, making it easy to disappear into his head and just go with the flow. Others like to be catered to. Fox does not know who Quinlan Vos will be, but nothing about him has been simple until now.

Then, of course, Vos withdraws, at once smiling and frowning.

The stabbing pain in Fox' chest can easily be attributed to anxiety, to worrying he has made a misstep. It has nothing to do with the loss of warmth, of potential. "General?"

Vos winces, frozen in place. "This is inappropriate," he mutters quietly, like a secret between them.

Yes, Fox thinks, please don't ruin what could have almost been a friendship. Or at least as much of a trusted partnership as there can be between Jedi and Clone. Instead, he says, voice carefully blank, "This is what you want it to be."

Vos' frown deepens, dark lines of unhappiness. "What do you want?" he asks as if that ever mattered.

To keep his men safe, to keep the stores stocked, to have enough medical supplies on hand. To sleep. To have one thing for himself.

Fox studies Vos, sees the want in his eyes, even though he holds himself back. The decision is easy then, to caress Vos' cheekbone with his thumb and to pull him back in.

"Oh, thank the Force," Vos mutters and Fox makes himself relax into the touch.

He can do this. He has done so a hundred times before. Admittedly not with someone he might have begun to care about, but the motions remain the same. He will lie back, do his part, and protect his brothers another day.

---

Vos always stays, after, sprawling out in Fox' tiny bunk bed, soaking up warmth, tracing Fox' scars with an expression Fox cannot quite read. Almost like he wants to erase them, or like he is angry that someone dared to touch what he considers his.

The few times he runs out on Fox, he offers quiet apologies, as if Fox actually has time to waste lazing around in bed. Like he wants to remain here even a minute longer. Like there are not a dozen other people waiting for him to do his job.

The even fewer times Fox dares to leave first - when there is an emergency that Thorn has to call him in for or, once, when the Chancellor summons him - Vos catches Fox' hand as he stands, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I need this war to be over," he mutters.

Fox does not dare to ask What for? The clones were bred for war. He knows his batchmates sometimes talk about after like there ever will be one. Perhaps the frontliners need that to keep them going. Perhaps, for them, there will be an end, someday. Fox knows he will not see it. Most of the Guard will not.

He is tired enough that he does not even mind too much.

---

The thing is, Fox thinks he could enjoy this under different circumstances. If Vos were not a commanding officer. If Fox were not a clone. He never had the feeling that Vos likes to play power games. He just sees something he likes and takes it. Well, he apparently liked Fox and Fox is in no position to have a choice in anything. If Vos put his mind to it, he could woo anyone he liked. Fox, however, is convenient. Always on Coruscant - always busy, too, but not so much that he would deny a Jedi General his time. His commanders have quickly learned to shuffle around schedules whenever Fox is summoned to the Chancellor. There is no telling how long those meetings take. Or which state Fox is in when he comes out again. It is not too much of a hardship to do the same when General Vos saunters into the Guard HQ like the entire sad complex belongs to him, not just Fox.

Sometimes, Fox wishes that Vos were the jealous type. If he knew how much time Fox spends alone with Palpatine, he might want to do something about it. Of course, Palpatine only ever aims to hurt and he seldom touches Fox himself. This thing with Vos is something else entirely.

"You are distracted today," Vos says, stretched out, skin glistening after the exertion. 

Fox is always distracted, trying to keep a careful balance between being attentive enough for Vos and thinking about the real work he is missing.

"I'm sorry," he says nonetheless and forces some of the tension out of his body.

"Don't be," Vos dismisses, easy as always, like Fox is not here to please him. "Is there something I can help with?"

End the war? Or, even more impossible, get the Guard enough men and supplies so they can actually have normal shifts and sleep cycles.

"Just tired," Fox says instead. "I'll do better."

"You're already perfect." Vos sometimes says these impossible things that Fox cannot even begin to interpret. The Kaminoans wanted the clones to be perfect for the Jedi, but is this truly what they meant?

Fox lets his head sink on Vos' shoulder and pretends he wants to be here. Pretends he does not know that, sometimes, he actually does.

---

"Fox, my dear," Vos says by way of greeting before the office door is even closed behind him, not caring who might hear. "I brought medical supplies."

Fox straightens but fails to stand as the words register in his brain. "General?" he chokes out, too weary to be hopeful.

Throwing himself into the visitor chair, Vos grins widely at him, bright and careless, just a hint of bite underneath. "I don't know why you ran out, but it was easily rectified."

Easy. As if Fox has not spent hours and every argument under the moon to get the Guard resupplied. "I - Thank you."

"Nonsense. Anything for my favourite Marshal Commander." He looks very pleased with himself and Fox has no argument against it. This is a much-needed reprieve, and he almost asks what he has done to deserve this. Or what he will have to do.

"Give me two minutes, please, to wrap this up. Then I'm all yours." For once, he does not have to swallow so much bitterness. He realized early on that he will do anything to protect his men, his brothers, and being with Vos is not a hardship, since he is never cruel. Fox is not so proud anymore that he cannot admit that he will gladly go down on his knees for new medical supplies, for any scrap of goodwill for his people. He will gladly keep Vos happy if that means more will come, later.

Vos beams up at him. "Take your time."

Fox pauses briefly. With other people, that might be a veiled threat, but Vos leans back in Fox' single, uncomfortable visitor chair and seems rather content, eyes closed, fingers crossed behind his head. It is not a trick, hopefully. Vos has not tricked him yet. Not once. So, Fox deems it safe to finish up his report.

It takes four minutes and yet Vos does not call him out on it. He just jumps up eagerly when Fox announces he is done and leads the way to Fox' room. By now, he knows the way by heart.

---

"I'm close to the Senate, Foxy." Vos' message comes in when Fox is halfway through revising the patrol schedules. "Do you have some time for me?"

Fox wants to say no. He wants to say his shift is almost over and then he has four hours to sleep before he has to get back up again, and he needs that sleep because he has lost count of how long he has been up. He wants to say that he had a meeting with the Chancellor earlier and every movement hurts and his skin burns at the very thought of being touched by someone else. He wants to beg for later. For never, really.

He wants to say there are four decommissioning requests on his desk, and what good is it to fuck a Jedi when Vos does not even help save his men?

Fox breathes, conscious of the way the air flows into his body and back out, the way he learned to do in the moments before Priest gave the signal for the fighting to begin.

"My shift ends in half an hour," he tells Vos, respectful, professional. "I'll be in my office."

---

It is Cody who ruins everything. Cody, who has not informed Fox that he is on Coruscant and instead appeared at the Guard HQ without warning. Cody, who has not called Fox in months and has not done anything to curb his men's derision against the Guard. Cody, who looks at Fox' office with disdain first before his eyes fall on Fox, almost like an afterthought.

"Is that a hickey?" he asks by way of greeting, as if they still have the kind of relationship that allows for intimate observations. Then, of course, his eyes wander higher. "Did - is that a bruise?"

There is a reason why the Coruscant Guard keeps their helmets on at all times. Not just to keep them anonymous, but also so that nobody can see the damage underneath.

"It's nothing," Fox brushes off Cody's shock. And it really is nothing anymore, just a sickly green shadow plastered over the left side of his face.

"Fox," Cody says as if he expects Fox to be impressed by a mere admonishment. As if they did not both go through command class on Kamino. As if they have not both survived the war until now.

"It's just a bruise." And a broken zygomatic arch, but Thire forced him to actually use some of their already dwindling again bacta supplies to deal with that. Walking around with broken bones in his face is an invitation for disaster. Thire rightly argued that the Guard would descend into headless panic if he went down and did not get back up again. The smug smartass knows exactly how to get to Fox.

Something happens on Cody's face that Fox does not know how to interpret, his worry morphing into something darker, something almost accusatory. Out of the blue, he asks, "Obi-Wan told me that you and Quinlan Vos are an item?"

While Fox still reels over Cody's casual use of his General's given name, the rest of the words need a moment to register in his brain. When they do, Fox almost laughs. Of all the people Cody could blame, Vos is probably the only one who has never actively caused Fox physical harm.

"The two are not related." If he had not been left beaten and bloody by sexual partners before, he might have said it with more indignation. As it is, his voice falls flat and apparently does nothing to reassure Cody, so he tries again. "General Vos does not damage me." He barely suppresses a wince at himself. Apparently, he has forgotten how to speak to people other than his vode.

Cody looks like he is not sure which part of that statement to address first. "You call him General?"

"He is a General." At least Fox assumes so, and Vos has never corrected him. Apart from trying to get him to just drop the title completely. He is not a naive shiny, though. He knows the rules.

Cody cocks his head to the side. "Even in bed?"

Fox wants to be anywhere but here. What right does Cody have to inquire about what he does and with whom? Impatience pushing against his teeth, he says, "He prefers me not to."

"But you don't?" Cody asks slowly, eyes fixed on Fox', clearly searching for something.

Already, this conversation has worn Fox out more than a sixteen-hour shift in the senate. "My opinion hardly matters," he replies like he is reciting from the unofficial rule book of the Guard.

Any of his men would nod and accept that. Any of his men have been in similar situations, where they locked up their feelings and shielded their minds, just letting reality happen for a while. Cody seems to have skipped that lesson, or he really, truly believes all those jokes about the cushy desk job on Coruscant, meaning that Fox could not possibly know anything about hardship.

"What do you mean by that?" Cody asks. Cody, who never learned that it is always better not to fight back.

Fox swallows a sigh, keeps his face blank as if he is talking to a natborn, not a former batchmate. "What do you want, Cody?"

Clearly not seeing any irony in it, Cody replies. "I'm concerned for my brother." Fox cannot quite hide his wince at that. This is the first time he has talked to Cody in ages and every communication for a while has been stilted and professional, mostly about official business and not as batchmates. "And here you are with a bruise on your face and a hickey rather close to it. And you say -"

"I'm saying I'm a clone and he is a natborn Jedi General," Fox cuts him off. So much for staying calm. He does not have the energy to defend himself against someone who should understand him better than anyone else. Surely, Fox is not the only Marshal Commander who has to make sacrifices for his men. "General Kenobi can't be so lax you've forgotten how that works."

Cody flinches, an honest, full-body jerk as if hit by a blaster bolt. His expression morphs from suspicion to something more horrified. "Where did you get the bruise?"

On the ground in Palpatine's office with four Red Guard standing over him, alternating their boots and electrostaffs to keep him down. This time, it was not even disguised as training, so he had to take his armour off. To make the lesson stick better.

Pushing his shoulder back and raising his chin just so, Fox says, "While doing my job." It is not even a lie. Sharper, he adds, "We're not pushing flimsi around all day, Cody."

But Cody does not even hear the insult. Instead, he takes a step forward, almost pushing against the desk, making Fox wish he had cleared the it as soon as he heard Cody was coming towards the office. His paperwork is sorted by priority. If this conversation comes to blows, it will take ages to sort everything again.

"And what?" Cody snaps, tone burning cold all of a sudden. "You forgot to go to medical and Vos didn't bring you there either when he noticed the giant kriffing bruise on your face but decided to suck hickeys into your neck instead?"

"I went to medical." He did, if only because Thire forced him to. He got the fracture fixed.

He almost asked Vos, too, once, to not leave marks, but decided fleeting hickeys were not worth the risk when Vos could leave much more permanent things instead if he ever grows tired of being gentle.

"And they didn't treat you?" Cody's voice has lowered to almost a growl.

Fox' composure cracks, too exhausted to keep his tone even. "They fixed the broken bone underneath. Cody, what are you getting at?"

The anger bleeds out of Cody as if it never existed in the first place. He goes still, at once shrinking in on himself and growing tenser. He looks directly into Fox' eyes, brother and stranger in one. "Does Vos force you to sleep with him?"

Fox stares. His entire body is locked in place. Thankfully, he has much experience with remaining unmoved in the face of disaster. Why would Cody ask something like that? It does not matter whether there is actual force involved. Fox is a good soldier and he follows orders. Cody should know that. They have been trained for that. 

Cody's face falls, growing pale. Voice suddenly hoarse, he says, "You're taking too long to answer."

And Fox is just tired. He shrugs, going for flippant but ending up defeated. "I just don't know what you want me to say."

"A believable no would be appreciated."

"No," Fox says, slowly, meeting Cody's eyes unflinchingly. "General Vos does not force me into bed."

"Karking hell, Fox. I need to -" Running a hand through his hair, Cody drops his eyes, focusing on the desk as if that will give him answers. "I'll message Obi-Wan."

"No," Fox snaps. Panic runs through him like electricity, leaving him raw and aching like a dozen hits from an electrostaff. "Why would you - You can't do that."

It does not matter what Cody thinks about his General. It does not matter if Cody and Kenobi sleep together and think it means something. It does not even matter if Kenobi actually holds a protecting hand over the 212th, in payment for services rendered or otherwise. Fox and the Coruscant Guard are separate from the GAR. The are under direct command of the Chancellor. Their bed was made for them and they have learned to lie in it.

It was harrowing enough when Vos started snooping around, and by now Fox is glad that he is so easily satisfied, that what Fox can give him is enough. Involving Kenobi would only mean more natborn eyes on their business, more questions about their inadequacies, more brains picking their carefully built system apart. They were made for the Jedi but the Jedi have never cared for the Guard, and they really cannot take things getting even worse.

"If Vos is hurting you -" Cody starts, completely missing the point.

"He's not," Fox says desperately, fervently wishing Cody would just drop this. "He's one of the only ones who don't. And we need him. Because he's also one of the only ones who gives something back. Yes, he sometimes comes at inconvenient times. Yes, he lingers after, usually cutting my sleep cycle terribly short. And, yes, he's demanding. But he does not hurt me or my men. He even got our medbay resupplied when we've been denied for months." Becoming aware that he is rambling, Fox snaps his jaw shut, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes blood.

Cody looks at him, at the bruise, at the way Fox has raised his hands in a beseeching matter without even noticing it. "I'm not -" he says and stops, breathes. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"What isn't there to understand?" Fox all but cries, something sharp and bitter lodged inside his throat. He has long since learned to swallow around it, but right now he feels like choking. "Vos wants to sleep with me, but he also gives something back." Nobody else does. All everyone does all the time is take and Fox has nothing to give anymore. He is hollowed out, broken. Most days, he runs on instinct alone, leaving behind bigger and bigger parts of himself.

And Cody still does not understand. "And do you want to sleep with him?" he asks, circling back to what they have already established. It does not matter what any clone wants.

Slowly, quietly, Fox says, "It's not like I could say no." He does not mention that, sometimes, he would not say no either, if asked.

Cody takes a step back, like he finally realizes that Fox needs space, that he cannot breathe, that everything is crumbling. But he does not.

"I really need to call Obi-Wan."

Blood rushes in Fox' ears as everything else slows down and greys out. "If you do that," he says, carefully pronouncing every single syllable, "don't ever bother to come back here. We need those supplies."

"So what? You're okay with whoring yourself out for bacta?" The moment these words hang between them, Cody's face turns horrified, wide-eyed, forehead scrunching into tight lines, and he curses under his breath. "I'm so-"

"Yes," Fox cuts in, clipped and cold and as straight-backed as he ever is in the Chancellor's office. "We were created to serve the Republic and I do that. But I'd also do anything to protect my men. I thought you would understand that, Marshal Commander." And because he is tired of biting back the petty part of him that feels betrayed by his batchmates, he adds, "You don't presume to tell me that General Kenobi loves you, do you?"

Cody flinches but Fox does not take any satisfaction from that. He just wants to be alone.

"I'm sorry, Fox. We'll fix this," Cody vows, much too late.

Fox smiles but it tastes hollow. "The Guard doesn't need your pity."

"No, but you clearly need our help."

---

Nobody could say that Quinlan Vos is a coward. He gets his jaw punched by Obi-Wan and his heart broken by Commander Cody, but after a week of hiding in his rooms and drinking to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, he gathers every last scrap of courage and goes back to the Guard HQ.

The trooper at the entrance desk salutes him. "General Vos. I'll let the Marshal Commander know you're here."

That is how it always went. Quinlan came and everybody went out of their way to be helpful. He never saw anyone's face other than Fox' and those of the constant circling troops in the medbay, but he never gauged any unhappiness at his presence, never any reluctance. He knew, of course, that Fox has a lot on his plate, that he is working too much. It never occurred to Quinlan that he was another burden, another unavoidable appointment in Fox' schedule instead of someone Fox wants to make time for.

"Tell him to take his time," he says, not really trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He needs to preserve his energy. "I'm happy to wait."

The trooper pauses just briefly, short enough that Quinlan would have missed it if he had not looked for minute reactions. Underneath the helmet, the trooper is likely staring.

Quinlan bites his tongue to stop himself from asking the man's name. He has no right to that anymore.

"He'll meet you in his office, sir."

Of course. Quinlan can only imagine how Cody's conversation with Fox went. He has never seen Cody this distressed before.

---

"Commander," Quinlan greets, aching when Fox blinks at the use of his title. He remains standing just inside the door. Suddenly, the visitor's chair is too close to the desk, too close to Fox.

Fox stands like he always does, greets Quinlan like he always does. "General Vos."

Nothing seems to be amiss. Nothing has changed. That just makes everything more real. Cody and Obi-Wan were right. Quinlan had not wanted to believe them. A small part of him thought he would come here and Fox would laugh at the ridiculous ideas their brothers came up with. They could clear it all up and kiss it better. Now, though, the very thought of kissing has bile rising in Quinlan's throat. Through his work, he has come in contact with a lot of disgusting people in the galaxy. He realizes now that he belongs on that list.

"I want to apologize to you. I have been made aware that I have operated under false assumptions and -" Curse him. He had an entire speech planned and now he sounds like he is reading directly out of the instruction manual of one of their diplomacy classes in the temple. Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, Quinlan tries again. "I never meant to hurt you."

What a terrible thing to say. What good does regret do them? As if he could just say sorry and be done with it.

And then Fox makes it all worse 

"I have to apologize, General," Fox says, his tone even. His face, though, holds the same pleasant neutrality Quinlan has come to loathe. This is how Fox looks when he is overwhelmed, when he is not sure what to do but will say yes nonetheless. This is how Fox looked when Quinlan first kissed him. "This is all a misunderstanding. Commander CC-2224 had incomplete information and overstepped without my knowledge -"

Quinlan shakes his head and then bites his lip, hard, when Fox stops talking immediately. Still, he presses on. "Cody was completely right to involve Obi-Wan. I have been hurting you and didn't even realize it." Saying it out loud just makes his actions more despicable.

For a long moment, Fox just watches him, his brow faintly creased. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

The words hit like blaster bolts, burning against Quinlan's skin. He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"You have not hurt me. Not once," Fox declares without even a hint of hesitation, as if he truly believes that. "In fact, you have saved several of my men and I'm beyond grateful."

The taste of blood fills Quinlan's mouth, and yet he does not let go of his lip immediately. This is worse, so much worse than Quinlan feared.

"I didn't get you medical supplies to make you grateful," he says, his voice giving out on him. "I didn't do it to buy you."

No matter what he meant, every time he brought a ship full of essentials or even just a crate of basic supplies, Fox dropped everything he was doing to take Quinlan to bed. He never minded what he thought was enthusiastic thanks, not when he believed it was freely given, that Fox was happy to see him as much as the goods.

"You don't need to buy me," Fox says easily and then crushes what little hope Quinlan had left. "Clones already belong to the Jedi."

Quinlan curses his courage now. He should have done this per message, sent an apology after taking hours to find the right words. Then he could have disappeared out of Fox' life and they all could have gone their separate ways. No need to drag his shame out like this. No need to remind him what an absolute karking piece of bantha shit he is, repeatedly raping someone who cannot say no.

"You are a person," Quinlan says firmly and raises a hand to cut off Fox' protest before Fox can even open his mouth. "I don't care what the legalese says. You and your brothers are all people. You are all individuals with dreams and fears and needs. It's bad enough that the Republic forces you to fight their war for them." He makes himself look at Fox' eyes, not sure whether he is relieved when Fox stares at something right above Quinlan's shoulder. "I never meant to make things worse for you."

Now, their eyes meet. Now, there is a spark behind that flat expression.

"You didn't," Fox insists and Quinlan wishes for nothing more than that he could believe him. But he cannot.

To prove that, even though it will only hurt the both of them more, he says, haltingly, "So, if I told you right now to take off your armour and get on your knees for me, you would do it?"

"Yes." No hesitation, not even a twitch on Fox' terribly even face, the spark extinguished as if it was never there at all.

Bile rises once again in Quinlan's throat. "Even after I just said I don't want to hurt you and that I consider you a person with free will?"

Fox inclines his head just so, in a way that Quinlan always thought looked teasing. Now, he recognizes it for defeat. "I follow orders."

"Not these," Quinlan snaps. It is not Fox he is angry at, and yet he cannot help but making things worse. Unbidden, he asks, "Am I the only one?"

Fox is silent for a few beats too long. "I follow orders," he then repeats, flat, hollow.

Quinlan presses a hand against his eyes, as if this entire terrible situation would resolve itself if he just stopped looking at it. As if he could imagine himself somewhere else and just make it so. 

"This stops now," he then says, promises, really. It is easier to hold Fox' gaze when he gathers his determination instead of just carrying his guilt. "The Council is already working on getting you your own Jedi General."

Well, Obi-Wan is working on it. But Obi-Wan has been filled the kind of trembling fury that means he will stop at nothing to make this right. There has never been an injustice he saw and did not try to fix. He is the only one Quinlan trusts with this. More, certainly, than himself. He has done enough damage.

"Sir?" Fox asks quietly, looking wrong-footed for the first time since Quinlan entered his office.

"Not me, don't worry," he says quickly and then moves past it, unwilling to dwell on all the damage he has wrought when Fox will not do the sensible thing and punch him. Or yell at him. Or throw him out. Any healthy reaction would be a step in the right direction. "It has been a grave oversight that you've been placed directly under the Senate's supervision. We all know this place if full of vipers."

"The Chancellor won't allow that," Fox blurts out, clearly unhappy with himself for it.

And Quinlan heard him, loud and clear, sees the unhappy crease to his brow that was entirely absent before. "What do you mean?"

Pulling his hands behind his back, out of sight, Fox explains, "He can veto the Council's interference. He will."

"Why?"

Fox's jaw moves as he clearly considers and dismisses several possible answers.

Something is wrong. Something that has nothing to do with Quinlan. Maybe he should not throw himself at this, but he is desperate for any excuse to move them past Fox' unmoved, unquestioning ignorance of Quinlan trying to apologize. 

"Is there something I need to know about the Chancellor?"

Fox clenches his jaw for barely a fraction of a second. "No, sir."

There has never been a more obvious lie.

"Commander, I need you -" Quinlan comes to his senses and cuts himself off. What is he doing? He really has done enough damage here. "I'm sorry. I've known for a while that something's wrong here on Coruscant. You have never been treated well, but -" He clenches his hands, hides them just like Fox does. "Please cooperate with whoever the Council chooses for you. We want to help. We should have helped much sooner, but - I told them about your lack of medical supplies. About the restricted equipment. I see now I should have never assumed that was all of it." He looks at Fox, almost begs him, "Please let them help."

His tone and expression are as far from making this an order as he possibly can. Yet, he has the distinct feeling that this might be the only thing Fox would put up a fight against even if Quinlan ordered him. Accepting help, and from the Jedi no less, seems to be the point where Fox draws his line. If it were not such a terrible, hopeless situation, Quinlan might laugh. Where did they go so wrong?

And then Fox makes it worse. "Can't you stay?" he asks, a barely-there tremor to the words. That just breaks Quinlan's heart all over again, even before he can make sense of the actual words.

"What?" Quinlan asks before Fox can retrace. "You want me to - No, Fox. No. I hurt you. I -" He swallows, tries to breathe. He came here to stop hiding from the truth, so he pushes on. "I raped you, and I didn't even notice what I was doing. You deserve so much better."

Fox blinks, leaning back. With him, that might be the equivalent of a full body flinch. "You didn't rape me," he says, aghast, his tongue barely fitting around the word.

With bitter regret, Quinlan points out, "You didn't think you could say no to me and, really, I should have realized that. You never said no to anything else either, even if I knew you weren't happy about it." Ranging from how to go about a mission to forcing Fox to take a break, he never complained, never argued, never insisted on his opinion once Quinlan made his known.

"That's not rape," Fox tries again. "You never hurt me." He does not look like someone who is in denial that something bad might have happened to him. No, he looks like someone who experienced everything bad in the world and thinks this does not make the cut.

Quinlan breathes. Inhale, hold, exhale. "Your bruises. Did someone else -" he trails off. He is not the right person to lead this conversation. He does not even have the right to get angry over this, since he did the exact same thing to Fox. Perhaps he did no leave physical marks. Perhaps he did not mean to hurt him. None of that matters. Only what happened, which is that he abused someone he loves. Even thinking the word leaves a vile taste in his mouth, but he cannot hide from that. He believed himself to be in love and still hurt Fox, over and over again.

Pulling his shoulders further back, Fox says slowly, deliberately, "I would prefer if you became our General. You already know the Guard, and I -" His eyes flicker up to meet Quinlan's. "I believe you."

Breathing is not going to keep Quinlan calm for much longer. A pit has opened up in his stomach, aching and pulling at his insides. He wants to scream, to drink himself into oblivion to forget any of this ever happened. He has a debt to pay, though. Not for a moment does he believe that Fox trusts him, and he should not, but he has gone so long against Fox' wishes that he also does not want to brush him off now. Does not want to disappoint him again. This is a slippery slope and he is not sure there is a right answer. But this might be the first time Fox has asked something of him, no matter how carefully he dressed it as a mere statement.

"I can vet whoever they appoint," he tries to argue, thinking that he has to. "I can accompany them whey you are introduced."

"Please," Fox says and it would have been less painful if he stabbed Quinlan with his own lightsaber.

Quinlan guesses this is a thing of Fox rather taking the devil he knows instead of someone unknown. It is not a good solution, not healthy, but he finds himself nodding anyway. 

Still, he says, "We need clear ground rules. We will not be alone, ever, and you will tell me if you are of another opinion than I am. These are your men. I just want to fight the Senate and every other bastard who wants to treat you badly." 

"General," Fox says and Quinlan has no idea whether he means it as a question or an affirmation. Fox is a terrific actor, and Quinlan already knows he cannot take anything he says at face value until they have built some trust. If they ever manage to.  Quinlan is willing to give everything for it, though.

"I really am sorry," he says again, wishing Fox could believe him. And Fox looks at him, face still blank, but something seems to soften in his eyes. "Thank you, General."