Chapter Text
It starts like this—with a question.
“Why do you like the Chancellor?” Quinlan asks him one day, sprawled on a couch in his office. They’ve had this conversation before, and it never fails to irk him.
“Why don’t you?” He retorts, not even bothering to look up from the stacks of documents before him, waiting for Quinlan to jab back with some witty remark, a familiar routine now.
He doesn’t. Instead, the room falls silent, a strange tension in the air. Mildly concerned, Fox tries to glance at him discreetly. The Jedi is sitting up, staring at his lightsaber with a strange look in his eyes.
“I don’t trust him,” is what he eventually settles on, a quiet admission.
“Why not? You should, the Chancellor is leading the side of the war you fight for.”
Fox signs the flimsiplast, setting it aside. He sighs. One down, another four-hundred and twenty-seven to go. He reaches for the next document, but there’s a hand atop the stack, and when he looks up to glare at Quinlan, the man simply fixes him with an equally intense gaze.
“What-”
“He’s not a good man, Fox.”
Dislike is one thing, trust is another, but to openly disrespect the man in charge of the entire Senate? The man he’s been assigned to defend? He can tolerate many things from Quinlan, but this is a line no one is allowed to cross.
He swipes at Quinlan’s hand, a quick precise cut that makes the Jedi recoil with a hiss.
“Ow! Hey-”
Fox ignores him, snatching up the next flimsiplast.
“Respectfully, sir,” he says, a little too icily, “you should watch your words.”
For a moment, Quinlan is quiet, and even though Fox has the Force sensitivity of a rock, he can sense the shock exuding from the Jedi. Just when he thinks he might finally get some peace, Quinlan explodes.
“I don’t get it. Why are you so insistent on defending him?!” He paces frustratedly, throwing his arms in the air. Recognising he’s not about to get anymore work done, Fox stands and rounds his desk, crossing his arms to meet the Jedi’s gaze defiantly.
“Why are you so insistent on hating the Chancellor?”
“I don’t-..look, Commander. I get he’s the guy in charge of the entire Republic. He’s the head of the Senate, which in my books, just makes him one of those stuck-up ignorant Politicians-ah, no, let me finish-but! He’s a busy man running almost the entire galaxy, so fine, I get that, but then explain to me one thing: why isn’t he doing his own paperwork?”
By the end of his rant, he’s breathing heavily, no longer trying to conceal the disdain in his voice. Fox barely manages to restrain his own anger.
“The Chancellor has many responsibilities to attend to-”
“Yes, of course, I know,” Quinlan interrupts, rolling his eyes impatiently, “but it sure doesn’t feel like it. You’re his guard, Commander, not a personal secretary. You shouldn’t be doing all his paperwork for him.”
That’s the problem? That he thinks the Chancellor is overworking them? Oh, if there were a more ludicrous idea in the galaxy-
He inhales deeply. Exhales. He’s still a Commander. Quinlan is still a Jedi. It would do him no good to scream at a superior. When he finally speaks, it is with a practiced calmness.
“It’s the least I can do. It is my duty to serve the Republic, this is just one way of doing so. Besides, if I can repay even a fraction of the kindness the Chancellor shows to us clones by assisting with paperwork, then so be it.”
“Kindness?! Since when has he been kind to clones?” Quinlan exclaims, incredulous, as if the notion itself is ridiculous. Fox has never been one to back down, matching his tone in kind.
“He always has!”
“Oh really?”
Doubt. Skepticism. He doesn’t take his words seriously. Fox hates it.
“He addresses us by name-”
“What a saint that makes him.”
Sarcasm. Indifference. Fox hates it, he hates it.
“He speaks to us like we’re people, not tools-”
“And that’s the bare minimum! Does he show this ‘kindness’ to you by forcing you to do his paperwork? By exploiting his subordinates to do his dirty work for him?”
How dare he. How. Dare. He. To imply such a thing about the Chancellor he serves is-
Insolent. Treasonous. Fox forgets himself, loses his temper and snaps.
“The Chancellor never forced me! The Chancellor offered and I accepted. The Chancellor treats us with respect, which is more than I’ve ever gotten from you.”
The words slip out, bitter and venomous and it shouldn’t, but it feels so good. He opens his mouth to lash out more, to really speak his mind, but then he looks up, really looks, and Quinlan…
Fox falters.
Quinlan is distraught, his shoulders stiff, his face pale, expression one of utter hurt and disbelief. And then he shudders and curls into himself, pain melting into quiet resignation, and oh no he didn’t mean-..he never wanted-...
The words die on his tongue, all traces of anger withering away, and Fox remembers himself, regrets with a ferocity he never has before.
“I…”
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I never wanted to hurt you, is what he means to say, but the words catch in his throat, and he drops his gaze, stares at the carpet, shame burning in the pits of his soul. There can’t be more than five steps of space between them, but the distance suddenly feels uncrossable, and briefly, he wonders if he’s ruined everything between them in a dozen hasty words.
He wants to laugh at himself, or maybe cry. Now he’s done it, and not for the first time. There goes another person, gone from his life, because of bad decisions made in split-seconds. He can’t even remember why he was so angry. What was the point? What a meaningless conversation to lose someone over.
Quinlan turns away, and for a moment Fox thinks this is it, that the Jedi is just gonna walk out and leave without another word, but then he speaks, and his voice is soft, Fox has to strain to hear it.
“You’re right,” Quinlan says, and it feels like a knife has been slid between his ribs.
“I’m sorry. I overstepped. I haven’t been the best to you. It’s hypocritical of me to criticise the Chancellor for something I’ve failed to do myself.”
The thing is, the thing is…
Quinlan is brash. He’s loud, and arrogant, and has no regard for rules whatsoever. But he’s a Jedi, and he’s good, he’s kind. He treats Fox like he’s a real person (and that’s the bare minimum!), but most importantly, he talks to him like he’s a-...
Like-...
A friend. He treats him like a friend.
Most senators look down on him. Few respect him for his service to the Republic, even fewer eye him with something that isn’t pity or sympathy. The Chancellor thanks him for protecting him and carrying out his duties. But Quinlan…
He jokes with them. He laughs. He breaks laws and smuggles drinks in, contraband alcohol that Fox can’t help but close one eye to.
And that’s the difference, isn’t it? The good senators pop by with a request and leave with a word of thanks. Quinlan stays with takeout food from his favourite underground Coruscant restaurant and shares it around with the latest gossip.
A friend. He was a friend. And now...
“Sir, I-”
Quinlan whirls around, smiles at him, but it’s vulnerable, and fragile, and Fox regrets .
“Thanks for telling me, Commander. I’ll leave you to it.”
He steps towards the door. Fox doesn’t stop him. It slides open, and the corridor lights cast an orange silhouette around him. He pauses in the doorway, tilting his head.
“Just…”
A beat. Two beats.
“You forgot to eat today.” Again, he doesn’t say. Fox startles, a hand flying subconsciously to his stomach.
Oh.
“You know where the Chancellor is now.”
Not a question, because he does know. He knows everything. The Chancellor is-
Oh.
The Chancellor is at a dinner party.
“Take care, okay?”
The door slides shut with a hiss. He should check the thermostat. It shouldn’t be this cold.
Slowly, Fox turns around. The stack of paperwork from the Chancellor seems to tower over him. The thought of spending the next few hours clearing it all for the chancellor is…
The Chancellor—the title weighs heavy in his mouth now, a lingering sour taste. He drags his feet over, seats himself behind the desk. There’s a box that he hadn’t placed there, the last piece of flimsiplast he’d been looking over crumpled underneath.
With trembling hands, he reaches out, lifting the lid. A puff of steam curls around his face like a warm hug, the spicy aroma of Tiingilar filling the air.
His throat feels tight as hunger pangs in his chest, clenching painfully—he’s been a liar all evening.
The stew is only lukewarm by the time he stops shaking enough to know he won’t spill anything. Still, as he drinks it all down, he thinks of Quinlan, his smile, his voice (take care, okay?)
The next morning, when he reports to the Chancellor’s, his hands are empty and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Apologies, Chancellor, something urgent was called to my attention last night. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle the matter of paperwork on your own.”
He asks questions. He seeks out answers. He sees Quinlan twice more—once when he brings food and stilted words, the other with nothing more than a fleeting glance. Both times, Fox fails to muster up the courage to apologise. Both times, he lets Quinlan leave without another word.
All the while, he searches, he digs, and then he digs deeper. The more he looks, the more it fails to add up.
The Chancellor summons him weekly. Fox learns to take a page from Quinlan’s book. He makes excuses, fabricates diversions, falsifies other duties and lies through his teeth to the most powerful man in the galaxy. He is running out of favours to call upon and reasons to use.
That’s the other thing. The Chancellor is a powerful man—too powerful. How did he come to accumulate that much control over the Republic? Fox looks, and he doesn’t like what he sees.
Gradually, that’s how. Slowly, over the course of the war, through Constitutional Amendments that appear necessary in a variety of crises. The Emergency Powers Act, the Reflex Amendment...Fox was never trained for politics, but the puzzle he’s piecing together is ugly.
Slowly, so no one thinks to question it. Gradually, so no one thinks twice about the amount of power the Chancellor has now.
It’s weird. It’s suspicious. And then there’s the question of the clones. Fox has investigated, made a list, catalogued his thoughts.
Here is what he knows: Palpatine is the Chancellor. The Chancellor is kind. The Chancellor treats the clones respectfully and speaks patiently to all of them. He is a good man. The general consensus is in agreement, both nat-borns and clones.
Here is what he also knows: He has no idea how or why he knows this. When he scours his memory, he cannot remember his interactions with the Chancellor in the last six months—anything earlier, and he remembers it in flashes of vaguely appeasing smiles and unspecific kind-hearted gestures. Not a single solid recollection, and when he subtly interrogates his brothers, he realises he is not an isolated case. The pattern is the same—gaps in memories surrounding the Chancellor, and despite that, iron-clad loyalty to him.
So here are the facts of the matter: he and his brothers have undeniable loyalty towards the Chancellor. He does not know why. He cannot remember why, neither can he fathom how.
The reason comes to him one night, in a stroke of horror—perhaps, their loyalty was not earned, but instilled.
Emotions are fickle. Security cameras can be tampered with. Maybe, he thinks grimly, so can emotions.
He has no evidence. No proof. Only speculations, things that can be explained away as coincidences, flukes.
Thorn comms him with a message from the Chancellor. No word from Quinlan. He is running out of time.
He takes more pages from Quinlan’s book, sneaks into restricted areas, slices into restricted folders, grasps at straws.
He is out of time.
It ends the same way it started—with a question.
In all honesty, the day had started out good. Quinlan had commed him after eleven days of total silence, and Fox would never admit the wave of relief that washed over him at the message.
From jetii: hey commander, been a while, just got done with a case, anything in particular you or the boys fancy eating?
From CC-1010: Anything will do.
From CC-1010: Stone wants something from Dex’s. Your pick.
From jetii: sir yes sir!!
From jetii: i’ll see you then <3
Fox had stared at the message, debated with himself for five minutes, then reminded himself he’s the Commander of the Coruscant Guards dammit have some courage.
From CC-1010: Hey
From CC-1010: Can we talk?
From jetii: about??
From CC-1010: I meant in person.
From CC-1010: Without my brothers.
From jetii: sure, of course
From jetii: i gtg, i’ll leave the food with Stone and swing by your office
From CC-1010: Okay.
From CC-1010: Thanks.
So that’s how he found himself cashing in the favour Senator Amidala owed him for two bottles of highly expensive Corellian whiskey, disguised as a package of casefiles to review from the Senator.
He’s walking back to his office, mulling over the current bare-bone plan of apologising to Quinlan over drinks, when he rounds the corner and sees a familiar figure waiting by his office.
Ah fuck. He spins around, praying he wasn’t noticed, quickening his footsteps as much as he dares without drawing suspicion.
“Commander Fox.”
Fuck.
He stops in his tracks. Caught. Be cool, be cool.
Slowly, he turns around, voice curt.
“Chancellor.”
“It’s good to see you. Would it be too much to request you accompany me to my office? I have some rather pressing matters to discuss with you in private, if you don’t mind.”
The Chancellor smiles at him. Fox struggles to keep his heart-rate under control.
He had phrased it like a suggestion instead of a command, a question instead of a demand, and Fox meant to exploit that, spin another tale about an incident to address and make his escape, but then the Chancellor’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder and he freezes.
“Lieutenant Thire has graciously offered to take over all of your duties while you’re busy. Shall we then, Commander?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. At least he has his helmet on, he’s not sure he wouldn’t have given it all away with his expression. He shrugs away the hand, eyes the Chancellor cautiously.
“Of course, sir. If you would excuse me for a moment, I’ll put this down in my office.”
A statement, not a question. Fox has spent enough time around silver-tongued Politicians and witty Jedi to pick up a few things.
He keys into his office and steps past him, feeling the Chancellor’s eyes on his back. Writing a note now would be too risky. In the event he does not, in fact, manage to get away from the Chancellor by sundown, he’ll just have to hope this box is conspicuous enough to Quinlan for him to use his special Force ability on. At least then he won’t think Fox stood him up.
If he plays his cards right, that won’t be necessary. If he doesn’t, well…
“If that is all, Commander, let’s be on our way.”
He’s already slipped up. He can’t afford to hesitate anymore. He steels himself, whirls around and hurries to the Chancellor’s side. He nods politely.
They set off towards the Chancellor’s office, Fox following a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. Fox can’t help but feel like he’s walking into something he won’t be able to walk away from.
Sorry, Quinlan. Guess you won’t be seeing me after all.