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A marshal commander walks into a bar, nothing but sheer stubbornness keeping him on his feet. That, and the knowledge of how much work he still has to do before he can rest. He cannot really afford this detour, but after getting his patrol partner to HQ, he went back out, too agitated to deal with his overflowing desk. He just needs to sit down for a few minutes. Since there are not too many clone-friendly places on Coruscant, '79s is not a place where Fox can sink into blissful oblivion for a few hours but has to keep his guard up, just like everywhere else.
Still, it is barely past noon, and he should get some blissful quiet before trouble finds him.
Exactly one breath later, the barkeep warns him with a pointed look at his camera feed, "Incoming."
Just barely, Fox swallows his groan. Even considering his particular strand of bad luck, this was too short a time.
"Trouble?" Fox asks, dismissing the urge to straighten in his seat.
He is sitting at the bar. Perfect posture would only attract attention. More than his armour painted in Corrie red already does.
The barkeep raises an eyebrow at him. "I'll let you decide, Commander. Looks like the 212th."
Fox very carefully keeps his expression even. He did not know the 212th had leave. Usually, he is better at keeping up with when his batchmates are around.
Morosely, Fox says, "Guess I'll be leaving, then."
One would think that Cody would have his men under better control, but the 212th always gets into trouble.
"Finish your glass," the barkeep orders, not bothering to hide his small smile. "Thire will have my head if you don't."
Fox' commanders like to conspire against him. It is a bother he does not quite know how to stop. He grabs his glass, but says, "And Thorn will have my head if I get into a fight."
"It's still early ." The barkeep cocks his head to the side. "They wouldn't fight you sober."
Fox grins and thinks about making a disparaging comment about the general intelligence of brothers on leave but is interrupted by loud voices filing in.
He is in a terrible mood. Restlessness itches right underneath his skin, the kind of urge he has no hope of scratching himself. If someone comes in here looking to fight him, he already knows he will give in. It is stupid and dangerous and absolutely avoidable, but Fox is in pain every day of this wonderful life of his. He just wants to be responsible for some of that, for once. Wants to have a say in what happens to him.
He could get up right now, put on his bucket and leave. They might say something, but he could shrug it off, having heard indefinitely worse. He should get up, really. Instead, he remains right where he is.
It does not even take long for a group of troopers to come up to the bar, pushing into his personal space with an eagerness that is a message in itself. They are doing it on purpose.
After ordering their drinks, they do not leave. The itch gets worse, but release gets ever closer, so Fox stays right where he is, unmoved and unmoving, waiting. Brothers always deliver.
"And who do we have here?" the trooper in front says. His voice does not even have a particular inflection, but it still puts Fox even more on edge. "A lone Corrie. Drinking on the job."
Deliberately slow, Fox picks up his glass and takes two big gulps.
"You should try it," he drawls, not bothering to look at the trooper. "Water is rumoured to have a lot of wonderful effects on people's brains."
As far as taunts go, this might not have been Fox' best, but he is tired. And it works anyway.
"Are you insulting me?"
Twirling his glass, Fox shoots back dryly, "Of course not."
The barkeep throws him a look, clearly aware of how this will end. Fox inclines his head just slightly in reassurance. He is not here to do property damage. In fact, it is his job to prevent that. Finishing his glass, he gets up, only to be blocked by the group of soldiers, six in total.
"Let us buy you a proper drink," the one in front says, pushing just the tiniest bit closer.
They have mostly the same body, so Fox feels anything but intimidated. Especially considering that he is put through his paces often enough.
"No, thank you," he says, reaching for his bucket. "I am on duty."
That does not go over well with the group. "Are you Corries so desperate to punish us for doing the real work that you're clogging this place now?" one of the troopers in the back asks, disgust coating his tongue. He is bald but sports a goatee. "You going to monitor what we say, too?"
They are making this too easy. Fox raises his eyebrows and stares the man down. "Do I have to?"
The trooper takes a step forward. "Listen here, you –"
"Let me stop you right there," Fox cuts him off, building himself up. He is still in armour while they are only wearing their blacks, so he is just a bit taller than them. "I simply happen to be in the same building as you, and you're trying to start a fight. I could wait for you to throw the first punch, but we could also end this before it gets ugly."
He ignores the voice in the back of his mind that desperately wants this to get ugly.
The bold trooper scoffs at him. "I'm not afraid of you."
Fox smiles, showing too many teeth. "Perhaps you should be."
"You stupid flimsi-pushers –"
Fox steps forward abruptly, bringing him right up into the brother's face, too close to be comfortable, but he knows how to stand his ground. He is just not allowed to most of the time.
"Is there anything else you want to get out right now?" he asks, more a growl than anything else. "Before I make you shut up?"
Movement runs through the group almost like a wave.
"You want to fight?" the bald trooper asks, hands twitching like he is ready to curl them into fists but perhaps catching on to that he is being goaded.
"I want to be left in peace," Fox lies, and rolls his shoulders back. "If I have to beat you to get that, so be it."
This is already a done deal. There is no way they will back down now. Still, the trooper says, "I'm not going to let you lock me up for this."
This is not what Fox is after, but they do not need to know that. "And who'd stop me?" he asks but then dismisses his question with a shake of his head. "You and me, winner walks out of here unbothered."
Which, of course, leaves it open what will happen to the loser. Nothing, if Fox has anything to say about it – he has no interest in actually harming a brother, either through the fight or pettily locking them up after – but he does not mind the added provocation.
The trooper changes looks with his squad, communicating silently. Before too long, he looks back at Fox. "Deal."
Something inside Fox' chest loosens, knocked free by anticipation. For just a moment, the itch lessens. He turns to the barkeep, who has a single, pointed eyebrow raised at Fox.
"Let us borrow your backyard?" Fox asks, not bothering to sweeten his tone.
They both know that what he is doing is stupid and wrong and will only lead to lectures or worse.
Backyard is, of course, not an entirely correct description. It is a small, cluttered space behind the bar, where they gather their waste and a few pieces of broken furniture. It is enough, however, to create an impromptu fight ring.
Very deliberately, the barkeep looks between Fox and his empty water glass, reminds him quietly of promises made to Thire and Thorn. "I shouldn't."
Fox' flashes him a sharp but genuine smile. "I know."
With a sigh, the barkeep nods. "I'll have my comm ready."
"To have his medic pick him up?" the trooper asks, mocking but eager. "This must be a regular occurrence then."
More often than he thinks, although seldom for as recreational a use as this. Clones bleed for a lot of reasons on Coruscant, and their medics have even less time to sleep than the commanders.
Without wasting energy on a reply, Fox turns and walks to the back of the bar and out into the backyard, trusting the idiots to follow.
Outside, Fox takes off his armour. Of all the stupid things to do, that is probably the worst. The trooper is just wearing his blacks, however, and Fox will not go at him in full gear. He has been on the receiving end of that often enough, and it is no fun.
Still, this will not be a fair fight. They all have extensive training, but Fox gets pummelled into the ground with frightening regularity and, at least in some situations, that gives him an edge. Getting more or less intact out of fights when he is hopelessly outnumbered clearly helps to win quickly against a single brother, and one who will not fight too dirty, will not attempt to do permanent damage.
Before too long, they are circling each other in the small place out back, assessing each other, making a few feints just to see how the other will react. The entire time, Fox expects someone to come at his back, expects a kick to the back of his knee or electricity crackling behind him. It never happens, but it puts him on edge. He is not used to so many people just watching.
Fox lets the trooper come to him, dodges the punch aimed at his temple and twists around the arm, landing his own hit right underneath the ribcage and then tries to topple him, stepping back quickly when the trooper holds his balance and twists with another punch. The rest of the 212th are cheering their mate on, but even their ribbing of Fox is mostly good-natured. That is unexpected. It is exhilarating in the way of doing something that could potentially be very dangerous but is not.
They are not evenly matched but Fox draws it out, takes some punches he probably should not. When the trooper brings him down hard, he feels a half-healed wound on his shoulder reopen but does not pay it any mind. He just rolls to the side and sweeps the brother's feet out from under him. They are now both on the ground and just trying to keep the other down. A punch graces Fox' jaw that throws his head back, but he pulls himself back in immediately, ducking under another punch and then landing his own.
Despite everything, Fox likes fighting. So much of his job consists of doing damage control. Of trying to keep his men safe against overwhelming odds. Planning and negotiating and turning the other cheek. This is simple in comparison. This is what he has been trained for since the moment he was decanted.
Distantly, he notices a hush going through the onlooking frontliners. When he chances a glance up, he finds Cody staring back at him, arms crossed and disapproval radiating off him. Time to bring this to an end. Fox twists his weight, makes it seem like he is falling back. Of course, the trooper comes after him. Fox rolls with the fist thrown at his head and pulls the trooper further, gets behind him and locks an arm around his throat. Once locked in place, his muscles do not budge. Soon, the trooper is tapping out.
Fox lets go of him, allowing himself to breathe deeply. The fight itself was not strenuous, but he is not in the best of conditions.
He offers his hand, and the trooper takes it after only a moment's hesitation, letting himself be pulled to his feet. This, Fox thinks bitterly, might be the most positive interaction he has had with a frontliner in months.
He gets a grateful grin and nods in return, but before either of them can say anything, Cody is there, butting in between them, turning his back comfortably on his trooper while facing Fox.
"You're bleeding," Cody tells him curtly, eyeing Fox with a familiar disappointed air.
Fox looks down at himself. He feels the wetness on his back, coming from that shoulder wound he has almost given up hope will ever heal. A few droplets of blood have run down his arm and hand, making everything seem worse. He raises the hand, circles his wrist to catch a drop before it falls to the ground.
The trooper comes up at his side, almost reaching out. Of all the ways he could react, he looks worried. So much for teaching the Corrie a lesson. Despite himself, Fox is a little touched.
Still, he says, "Don't let it inflate your ego, or you won't fit your bucket anymore. That wasn't you."
The trooper builds himself up, clearly about to argue, but Cody puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back. They talk quietly for a moment, then the trooper turns around and, gathering the rest of his group, makes his way back inside. At the door, he stops again and looks at Fox. "Good fight."
Not long enough, Fox thinks but nonetheless nods in agreement. All in all, these men were not unpleasant to deal with. Talking shit but sticking to their deal.
"Don't get into trouble," he says but keeps his tone amicable. "I don't want to see you again this leave."
Once they are alone, Cody taps an impatient hand against his arm, staring at Fox. "Why are you wounded?"
What a stupid question. They are fighting a war. Even here, that means something.
"Things happen," Fox replies dryly. "You should know that."
They stare at each other, neither willing to back down. His batchmates tell him often enough that he should stop whining about Coruscant, not believing that he finds himself on as many battlefields as them, even if they look vastly different.
"Why are you on duty when you're bleeding?" Cody asks, surprising Fox.
What else is he supposed to do? He is a marshal commander. Things do not stop happening just because he is broken.
"It wasn't bleeding when I went out," Fox replies, unwilling to go deeper into an argument he can only lose.
Cody looks unimpressed, crossing his arms in front of him. "No, only when you goaded my men into a fight."
Fox stares at Cody for a long moment, long enough that the air grows thick with Cody's accusation. He wants to fight back, to curse and insult, maybe throw another punch. But that has little to do with Cody himself and more with the utter exhaustion pulling him apart at the seams. The adrenaline from the fight is already fading quickly, what little there was. Going at it with a vod in a mostly safe space with neither of them out to do any real harm is apparently not enough anymore to get Fox' heart rate up.
He turns to leave, only to be stopped by Cody's hand clasping his arm, twitching back when he notices the wetness of Fox' sleeve.
"What are you doing?" Cody asks, something strange in his tone that has Fox looking up, even if he cannot read his face.
After ten years of spending all their time together in too close a space, protecting each other as much as fighting with each other, he cannot read his brother's face anymore.
"Leaving, Cody," he replies dryly. "I have to work."
That, at least, is never a lie. Even if he is currently off duty. Even if he needed to go out to clear his head, too restless to spend another minute at his desk. Enough of the more boring work can be done with just his bucket and an endless well of patience.
"I hate to repeat myself," Cody drawls, irritation creeping into his tone. "But you're still bleeding."
Fox' lips twitch into a grin he cannot stop quickly enough. If the Coruscant Guard stopped working every time they bleed, they would do nothing but laze around. Or get mass-decommissioned. Then, at least, this hell would be over.
"I'll take care of it at HQ," Fox says, and it is only half a lie.
He will put a new bandage on it, but he will not bother a medic, and he will not rest the shoulder. That is the best he can do in their circumstances. If Cody's face is anything to go by, that is not how things are done on the frontlines, but Coruscant is different in all things.
Fox will not admit that he has become used to the stinging pain, rolling his shoulder more often just to test it, to feel that it is still there. It grounds him in a way the frequent wounds from his run-ins with the Red Guard do not. It is a pain he does to himself, even if the wound underneath has been done to him. It is something sharper than the general exhaustion, something more real than his bleeding mind.
Cody's eyes narrow, which is such a familiar sight that something deep inside Fox' chest starts aching that he cannot blame on bruised ribs. He tries anyway. Nothing good ever comes from misplaced nostalgia. None of them are the same people as they were on Kamino.
"No," Cody says in a tone he must be used to being obeyed.
Not here, though. Not with Fox.
"Yes," Fox drawls out and walks towards his armour.
Cody hurries past him and picks up the neatly stacked pieces. He hesitates just briefly before taking Fox' helmet. Fox does not know what is worse, watching Cody hold his bucket like he still has a right to, or hesitating over it like he knows full well he does not.
"Cody," he warns quietly, deadly serious.
But Cody does not let go.
"There's a medkit inside," he says as if Fox is not intimately familiar with every place on Coruscant that has a medkit and is willing to waste supplies on a clone. "I'll help. Then you can go harass other people."
That ache in his chest turns bitter, utterly unwelcome and too familiar. "I don't need your coddling."
Every time he called for help, he was ignored or, worse, laughed at. He wants no part of whatever this is. Cody's sense of duty. Some long-ignored feeling of fraternity.
"Well, the cushy posting has apparently made you forget how to deal with wounds, so let me remind you," Cody sneers, every hint of concern gone, replaced with contempt that is just as unpalatable.
If Fox has to hear one more jab about the Coruscant Guard, he is going to start another fight, and this one, he will end fast and hard. He could take Cody, even with his shoulder on fire and tiredness making all his limbs slow. It is a losing battle, he knows, but Cody should be better than this, both as a marshal commander and a batchmate. These days, of course, he is the former more often than the latter.
"It's a scratch," Fox dismisses and wonders whether he should simply wrestle his kit out of Cody's hold.
He needs his bucket at the very least. And he does not have the time to paint a new set of armour. But Cody will lose interest in hassling him soon enough.
"A scratch that you reopened, and that is now actively bleeding." Cody clenches his jaw, exasperated. "Honestly, Fox, we could already be done by now."
Fox has been done since he got up. Since he landed on Coruscant, really, and lost his first match with a senator, lost his first brother to a natborn's whim.
"Give me my armour," Fox orders, the itch already returning.
Cody jerks his head towards the door and counters, "Inside."
Standing here in nothing but his undersuit, half-dried blood caked on his skin, a bar of more or less non-friendlies within shouting distance, Fox wants nothing more than to bolt. That instinct has been thoroughly beaten out of him, however, so he straightens his back, ignores the pain in his shoulder, and walks into the bar with his head held high.
Inside, the barkeep slides another glass of water to him the moment they enter. Fox stares at it, incredulous.
"Thire -"
"Will have your head, I know," Fox cuts off the well-deserved admonishment and pointedly does not pick up the glass. "Consider this; he'll be much too busy berating me to bother with you."
And Thire will very much berate Fox. Out of worry, sure, just like Fox tends to take over extra shifts before his commanders ever hear that they have opened up. They have few chances to really comfort each other.
"Did you lose?" the barkeep asks, his lips turning down in dismay as he cranes his neck to peer at the back of the bar where the group from the 112th has vanished to.
Fox cocks an eyebrow and swallows his immediate rebuttal, before admitting dryly, "Not the brawl."
He likes to think he has not lost anything to Cody either, but that is when Cody bullies his way closer to the bar, his shoulder pressing against Fox'.
"Could we borrow your medkit, sir?" Cody says, all polite, almost sweetly.
He eyes the water with a pinched expression that Fox does not care to think about further. It is not like it is alcohol. Sadly, it is not caff either.
The barkeep looks Fox over, lingering on the drying blood on his hand, which Fox refuses to hide now that it has been seen. "Don't tell me the kid got a serious hit in."
"No," Fox scoffs.
None that Fox did not let him have.
"But someone else did," Cody interjects, his politeness underlined by something sharper.
Someone or half of Coruscant.
"Go ahead, it's in the back," the barkeep says and nods at the blood. "Fewer prying eyes, too."
"Thank you," Cody replies, while Fox bites back a less flattering response.
They walk in silence. Fox' fingers still itch to pry his kit out of Cody's hands, and he spends the entire way trying to convince himself that it is irrational. No matter how much their relationship soured since their deployment, they are still brothers. He would not bet on Cody choosing him if there were vode of the 212th involved, or even one of their other batchmates, but like this, with only the two of them, he has no reason to believe that Cody wants him harm. He always had a sharp tongue, but Fox does, too. They just do not have much opportunity anymore to use those in defence of each other instead of lashing out.
There is a small rest area in the back, which Fox points Cody towards while he goes to get the first-aid kit out of the bathroom. It probably says something about the clones that he knows exactly where it is. While he is at it, he also gets a wet cloth.
He carefully does not look at himself in the bathroom mirror, does not want to be reminded of what Cody sees. For all that they are supposed to be identical, Fox has deteriorated more quickly. The grey in his hair is rapidly becoming less of a quirk than an inevitability. The lines around his eyes and on his forehead are there to stay, frowns being exercised far more often than smiles. And then there are the scars. Cody will have some, too, of course. Nobody can get through a war like this without collecting some wounds. But he has more than he should. While some of them resulted from fair fights, Fox is very aware that he cannot explain his back.
With a sigh, he pulls off the upper part of his undersuit and ties it around his torso underneath his armpits and throws a towel over his uninjured shoulder. He looks ridiculous, but he would rather Cody laugh at him instead of asking questions Fox does not want to answer. He does not need it known how little the senators and civilians in the heart of the Republic think about the clones dying for them. More so, he does not want anyone finding out about the Chancellor himself.
Cody waits for him, looking like he was one second away from going after him, like he expected Fox to blow a hole in the outer wall and flee rather than face him. His eyes fall immediately on Fox' attempt to keep himself covered.
"When did you turn into a prude?" he asks with half a sneer.
The look in his eyes, however, is calculating, like he knows Fox is hiding something. Covering himself too much was always going to invite questions, but he can deflect better than find answers for the real issues.
"We don't need someone coming back here and finding a half-naked clone," Fox says with a careful shrug, like it is no matter to him. "We're supposed to be in full kit at all times."
That rule is one of Fox' own. Regulation demands they are in proper armour while they are working, but nowhere on Coruscant is safe, and wearing armour is infinitely more comfortable than getting shanked while crossing the streets in their blacks.
Cody crosses his arms again before uncrossing them again and pulling the medkit closer. "This is a bar," he points out.
"And I'm on duty," Fox reminds him, tired of the argument already. "Can we get on with it? I have places to be."
If only Cody would have come ten minutes later. Fox could have dealt with the itch underneath his skin and been out of here before he landed himself in this situation. Dreams have no place on Triple Zero, however. Nobody knows that better than Fox.
"You're so adamant that you need to go. Why start a fight in the first place?" Cody asks as he pulls out gauze and alcohol, not looking up.
"I didn't start it," Fox replies curtly.
He simply found the most mutually beneficial way to deal with a bunch of frontliners who came into the bar slinging insults.
"No, of course." Sarcasm drips like acid from Cody's tongue, burning on impact. "Only unruly soldiers on leave start fights."
Fox catches himself before he can nod. The Guard knows better than to start anything. Every day, they are losing fights. No need to get into more of those.
"I was here before the bar opened. They were the first to arrive." Twisting the truth a little, he continues, "Your man asked, I accepted."
It might have been Fox who had laid down the terms, but the entire group had been eager to have a go at him. Better he single out one instead of having to deal with all of them.
Cody studies the pattern of the half-dried blood on Fox' skin as if he is going to find some answers in it.
Quietly, he asks, "But why?"
A small grin steals itself unbidden on Fox' face. He turns his head away to hide it. Why is the big question that has been keeping Fox up at night since understanding the reality of Coruscant.
"They were shit-talking," he replies as if it is that simple.
To Cody, perhaps, it is. Their war seems a little more straightforward.
Cody looks unhappy with that but then does not say anything further. Instead, he peels the sodden bandage from Fox' shoulder and looks at it with distaste, prodding at the wound underneath. Fox does not flinch.
"Who bandaged this up? You got a new medic?" Cody asks, a new tightness to his tone. "Because they did a terrible job."
The wound is on Fox' good shoulder. The other one has a reduced range of motion even on a good day. He has not had a good day in ages. So, pulling a proper bandage tight enough with an arm that does not fully cooperate is a pain.
After too long a silence, Fox says, "I was in a hurry."
"That seems to be a thing with you," Cody mutters before snapping up his head. "Wait, you did this yourself?"
"Medic was busy," Fox replies tersely.
They always are. Which is why Fox did not even go by the medbay to check. It is not a big deal, anyway. Stitches would have loved to get his hands on Fox, but then the shoulder would have been the least of his problems.
Cody makes a low sound in his throat before stepping around so Fox can look at him better, something urgent on his face.
"I know you like to deal with everything yourself, but this is ridiculous," he says as if Fox chooses to make a ruin of himself. "This isn't Kamino. We don't have to walk things off anymore. This is what gets people killed."
No, Fox thinks grimly, they do not get the chance to walk anything off anymore. The slightest sign of weakness sends the vultures circling. On Kamino, they were culled mercilessly when they did not meet standards. On Coruscant, that standard is a warped thing, bent to every natborn's whim. The Guard is dying every day trying to fulfil tasks they were decidedly not made for.
"Just get it over with," Fox says roughly.
Because if Cody does not know the truth now, two years into the war, he never will. Things truly are different on the frontlines.
Cody keeps staring at him, his jaw clenched, looking like he is not going to let this go. The both of them have always been the most stubborn in their batch, but Coruscant has given Fox an edge in that.
Abruptly, Cody returns to his position behind Fox, allowing Fox to take an unobserved breath and to steel himself for what is to come.
Cody prods the wound, barely pressing into Fox' too warm skin. "This doesn't look good. The edges are inflamed," he says, sounding supremely unhappy. "Did you put bacta on this at all?"
Fox does not answer. Does not have to, really.
With surprisingly gentle hands, Cody uses the wet cloth to clean off the dried blood and dab the edges of the wound. He does not warn Fox before he uses the alcohol wipes, but even so, it barely hurts. When he opens a bacta patch, Fox wants to argue. It is not necessary to waste bacta on something minor like this, but he has reached his quota for arguing this day. Almost instantly, the pain dies down to nothing more than a dull throbbing. A relieved sigh escapes his lips before he can stop it.
"Was that so hard?" Cody asks and sounds miffed. "How is it that I'm surrounded by idiots who deny themselves proper care? General Kenobi is exactly the same."
Fox' head reels at being compared to a Jedi General. "You do this for your general, too?" he asks, which is much better than thinking about the state of their medbay, about the ghosts and the dying in there, all the brothers they cannot help.
"He jumped off a cliff once to avoid our medic," Cody explains dryly as he searches for a fresh bandage in the medkit.
Despite himself, Fox has to laugh. The image is ridiculous, and not at all what he expected from a Jedi. Surely, no medic would dare do anything a Jedi does not want. Then again, medics are crazy. Stitches would probably push him off a cliff if he knew Fox got himself injured again.
Then, in a deceptively light tone, Cody asks, "Kenobi is an idiot. What's your excuse?"
Fox sobers immediately. "My men come first."
Even without being able to see Cody, he can feel the displeasure cloying the air, but Cody does not argue. Command comes with sacrifices and heavy burdens. That, at least, is something they both know.
"What happened?" he asks, too lightly to be believed.
What did not happen? Fox swallows his instinctive scoff and gives a reply that is always, in some way, true. "Someone wanted to kill a senator."
Cody hums, not at all satisfied with that answer. "And all the rest?"
Fox' throat constricts painfully, but he has learned by now how to breathe past it. "There's always someone wanting to kill a senator."
He knows what his back looks like. Knows there is no explaining some of the scars, or the malnutrition. Usually, no one bothers to look too closely.
"Coruscant must have the best-trained assassins in the galaxy, if they manage to get their hits to land so parallel in a fight." Cody's voice is full of coiled, barely restrained anger.
Fox instinctively wants to recoil from it. Anger directed at a clone is never a good thing but will end in pain and blood or decommissioning. Cody, in a mood like this, can do more damage than an annoyed senator seeking justice for an imagined slight.
"Cor-Sec is not happy with clones invading their authority," Fox explains, the half-lie coming easily to him. "They're trained. And if they get you down -" he shrugs, barely noticing a sting in his shoulder. Bacta is a blessing.
With the slightest touch, Cody traces one of the scars high on Fox' back until it vanishes underneath the towel.
"And nobody does something about that?" he asks, his tone tight.
Fox bites down the urge to laugh. There is no doing something about it. There is just damage control and contingency plans and shouldering through.
"Of course we do," he replies without looking at Cody. "You should know better than me that no plan's perfect, though. You can't get lucky all the time."
Luck is a thing completely foreign to the Coruscant Guard. Bad things come, at least, in pairs.
"I mean other natborns," Cody says.
Twisting around, Fox stares at Cody. Their experience with natborns must be very, very different. Then again, the frontliners clearly outnumber the natborns out in the field, which must help.
"Do yours?" Fox counters, genuinely curious.
"Yes," Cody insists with more force than the situation warrants. Then, somewhat sheepishly, he amends, "Some."
That is more along the lines of Fox' experience. Not every natborn is bad. Some are even trying to help the clones. It is just that a lot of the people with actual power either do not care about them or tend to see them as cheap labour for their every desire.
"Well, we're dealing with a lot more natborns," Fox says lightly. "Figures there'd be more bad eggs."
Try most of them.
Cody frowns, causing deep lines to intersect his forehead, which makes him look more like Fox than he did all night.
"It's not right."
Despite the situation, Fox smiles, knowing it is too sharp when Cody winces.
"When did you become naïve?" he asks, unable to swallow the jab.
"The Jedi don't see us like that," Cody replies mulishly. "As expendable."
Fox swallows his instinctive response, which would have dripped with sarcasm. He can taste it at the back of his mouth, the burning bitterness. Instead of letting it out, he breathes carefully, and asks, "Are you done?"
"Let me bandage it."
With quick, practiced movements, Cody gets the bandage in place. It feels much more secure than what Fox had managed in his half-delirious state after another session with the Red Guard. He gets up, happy to face Cody again. Once, having a batchmate at his back would have felt safe. Now, that dubious honour belongs only to the Guard.
Cody looks him over, tracing every bit of visible skin, and asks, "Anything else?"
"No." Fox' entire body is a wreck, but nothing that can be solved here.
Not budging, Cody insists, "I mean it, Fox."
For some reason, despite years of evidence otherwise, Fox believes him.
"I'm fine," he says, not trusting the peace to hold much longer.
Dropping the towel, Fox quickly redresses and then reaches for his armour. With each piece, breathing becomes easier. Cody watches him the entire time, his mouth pinched unhappily, but he does not stop him.
"Will you rest if I let you leave right now?" he then asks.
As opposed to holding him captive in a bar full of drinking frontliners who would love to get their own punch in? Fox hopes his raised eyebrow conveys all of that without him actually having to say it.
There is also another question brimming underneath Cody's words that Fox elects to ignore.
"I've been due at my desk for half an hour now," Fox offers instead. "I promise I won't get up from there for the rest of the day."
And night, probably. But Cody is a marshal commander, too. He knows how quickly the flimsiwork piles up.
Despite that, Cody does not look reassured. "Do you need me to accompany you back?"
Fox laughs, a loud bellow of incredulity. He does not need to be escorted by a frontliner, batch or not. If anything, that will lead to more trouble. People know Fox' armour. There are few times he gets to walk through the city unmolested in some way.
"Enjoy your leave, Cody," Fox says, intent on getting this over with. "Do try to keep the drunken brawls to a minimum."
He had thought that would shatter Cody's concern and push him right into indignancy again. Instead, Cody moves between Fox and the door. Not fully blocking it, but making a statement, nonetheless.
"We're on Coruscant for a week," he says nonsensically. "Call if you've got time for a meeting."
"Sure," Fox lies, knowing he will not. Not even if his hectic schedule allowed it. This has been surprisingly uneventful, but he knows better than to push his luck. Better they separate on good terms before they can remember they have been at odds for a while now.
"If you don't, I will," Cody insists.
Fox feels his lips pull up into something too sharp to be a smile, but he does not stop it. His brothers might think he has turned into a bureaucrat, but they would do well to remember that he can be vicious, if need be.
"Thank you, Cody," he says, and means it. "Tell your kid he's leaving his left side open too much."
With that, he pulls his bucket on and gathers the first-aid kit up to put it back where it belongs. When he comes back out of the bathroom, Cody is gone. As he leaves the bar, Fox tells himself that the plummeting feeling in his stomach is relief.