Chapter Text
The second time it happens, you’re so tired that Fox nearly scares you out of your skin when he appears behind you, helmet tucked beneath his arm.
“You know, you really shouldn’t be out here on your own right now.”
His voice is dry, tone slightly bemused as he raises an eyebrow and looks down at you. Okay, so, he’s right. A memo had been sent out late last week to warn staff of certain abductions that had been taking place near and around the Senate buildings, often targeting younger, less experienced senatorial staff to be held as hostages or to be used as bargaining chips. You weren’t totally clear on the details.
But what you did know was that these abductions seemed to be occurring in close proximity to Senator Organa’s faction, and though you and the rest of his staff had never been targeted directly, you had heard of aides from both Mothma and Amidala’s staff having experienced certain disquieting encounters that seemed to be linked. It was disconcerting, you had thought. The risk of being taken as some Separatist sympathizer’s hostage was becoming an increasingly normal risk of your job, and admittedly you should have been more worried about it happening to you than you actually were.
But it was late. Well, late or early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it. Senator Organa had been dragged into an overtime meeting with a subsection of his committee, and, from your vantage point typing up notes from where you sat perched in a corner, you could tell that it was both urgent and tense. By the end of it, everyone was snappy, tired, and desperately wanted to go home.
You didn’t want to delay that for any of the colleagues who you would usually ask to wait with you outside, so, sleep deprived and good decision-making skills severely depleted, you had ventured out on your own.
And, of course—because the Coruscant Guard had increased patrols in hopes of neutralizing the threat—you had been caught.
“Trooper?” You spin to face him, your voice exiting your lips in a rather undignified squeak. Easily startled, you think—a very common side effect of ingesting too much caffeine. Not that it can be helped now. Mandalore, who seems to possess an endless amount of energy, probably because she was fortunate enough to be able to curl up and sleep at your feet through the entire committee meeting, gets to her feet as well, turning with you and wagging her tail in recognition.
“It’s Fox,” he says, voice softening slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You’re good. It’s fine. I mean, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be out here. It’s just been, well—” you wave your hand in front of your face, unsure of why you keep rambling.
To your surprise, he lets out a low chuckle as he steps forward, gently touching your arm and silencing you before you can dig yourself into a deeper hole of embarrassment.
“Rough night?” he asks, tilting his head, and you nod, letting out a soft breath.
“Yeah,” you mutter, ducking your head. If you close your eyes, you can still hear the sounds of Senators Pamlo and Mothma speaking in increasingly sharp and clipped tones as the long night wore on and the committee drifted further and further away from reaching any kind of solution or accord. “You could say that.”
“Well, if you’re waiting for a ride, given the present circumstances, I think it’s best if I wait with you, just in case,” Fox says, and you nod, wondering if he’s suddenly thinking of the same scenario that’s been quietly plaguing—and repeatedly pushing with increasing force—to the back of your head for the past two weeks.
If a bounty hunter, for whatever reason, wanted to get to you, disguising themselves as your driver—with you having no way to verify their license plates—would make it a pretty easy job for them to fulfill, and you shiver, subconsciously stepping closer to Fox, unable to deny the way you feel just a bit safer when he’s within reaching distance.
“Are you cold?” he asks, glancing down at you with concern. “We can wait inside.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, brushing away the small ripple of anxiety, knowing that your sleep-deprived brain would probably feast on the dark line of thoughts your mind wants to take, thriving on your worries and making your ability to actually rest before you have to return to the Senate next to impossible. “My ride should be here soon. It would have been here sooner, but the first driver canceled.”
“Oh, well, can I see the details so I know what to look out for?” he asks and you oblige, showing him, and Fox turns his eyes to the parking lot, watchful of any speeders that peel by that match the one that’s pictured on your comm.
When the first speeder drives by without stopping, he raises an eyebrow but shrugs it off, wondering if there was some last-minute emergency that caused them to cancel on you.
When it happens a second time, after the next speeder slows, approaches, and then abruptly accelerates and disappears back into the flow of air traffic despite the fact that he’s waving to get their attention, he becomes suspicious.
“I don’t understand,” Fox murmurs to you, after he observes this happen a third time. When he turns to you, his expression is perplexed, with a deep furrow between his eyebrows and a tone reading genuine confusion. “You seem to be having bad luck with last-minute cancellations tonight.”
“That’s not it,” you say, letting out an exhausted sigh as you slump back against the wall. “Well, not totally, anyways.”
“What do you mean?” He frowns, both suspicious and concerned by your sudden change in demeanor. When he gets a good look at your face, you look both knowing and defeated, and he instantly doesn’t like it.
“Some people don’t like taking people who travel with service dogs,” you say, glancing down at Mandalore who’s laying on the ground and staring intently at a fly as it cautiously makes its way towards her. “So they cancel and drive away so they don’t have to deal with confronting me about it.”
You grimace adding, “It helps that I can’t get a good look at their speeder until they’re up close, so a lot of the time I won’t know they’ve cancelled until they’ve driven off and Speedershare notifies me about it.”
“But that’s illegal,” Fox says, his voice an indignant burst of frustration. “They can’t do that. There are certain laws that have been put into place to protect you. They can be sued.”
“You think I don’t know that?” you snap before you can stop yourself, your fatigue and frustration at this whole situation rising to the surface, not truly directed at him but needing somewhere to go. You’re too far beyond tired to put a tether on it, so it just comes flooding out. “Fox, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have anything that would actually prove it. And even if I did, the most I’ve seen any of these apps hand down as far as consequences go is little more than a slap on the wrist. I-I just want to go home.”
You’re both embarrassed and ashamed to find that your voice breaks and your lip begins to tremble. Fox, undeterred by your raised voice and outburst of frustration, takes in a long, controlled breath before seeming to soften all at once as he steps towards you.
“Hey,” he says, voice both quiet and carrying a note of urgency as he sees the glimmer of tears in your eyes. He dips his head, trying to catch your gaze, but stubbornly, your head remains lowered, too ashamed by your impulsive urge to take your frustration out on him to meet his eyes. You turn away, trying to extricate yourself from his space.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, eyes still trained on the ground. “I didn’t…I shouldn’t have. I know it’s not your fault I’m just—”
“You’re tired,” he states, easily turning you to face him once more as a gloved hand gently presses against your cheek.
“Yeah,” you get out in barely a whisper, your throat suddenly tight. You have no energy to fight the urge to lean into the touch, and you can feel the warmth of his hand through the material of his glove.
Being disabled just means that you are, in one way or another, tired all the time. Tired of having to be an advocate, of having to educate others on a daily basis. You’re tired of having to summon the extra energy it takes to exist in a world that is not made for you and tired of constantly having to push at each of those barriers with all of your weight to even see the smallest bit of change.
“Come on,” Fox murmurs, voice quiet and seeming to be non-judgmental of your tears as he gently wipes them away before offering out an arm. He smoothly guides your hand through to rest at the crook of his elbow. “It’s already cold, and it’s going to start snowing. Let’s get you inside, and then we’ll figure something out.”
His free hand remains lightly rested over yours as he walks, and despite this being a standard position for you to be in when being guided by a sighted person, with Fox this feels more intimate. The press of his hand is warm, keeping your own secure against the plastoid that covers his forearm, and he keeps you close, tucked just at his side as he steers the two of you, your other hand loosely holding your guide dog’s leash as she trots beside you at a heel.
You tell yourself that the reason you don’t object is because, quite frankly, you’re too tired to—the unexpected overtime and working a full night shift with barely any breaks having finally caught up and taken its toll on you. But secretly, as he guides you back into the Senate building and you feel the warm air hit your skin as you step through the door, you think you would let him take you anywhere.
So, despite the fact that you have no idea where you’re going, that’s exactly what you do.
*
“I know that caffeine is probably the last thing you actually need right now.”
Fox says this as he carefully sets a steaming mug of caf down on the table in front of you, sliding it closer to you as he sits down.
“But I’d also wager it’s probably the one thing that you want.”
You snort, lips tilting upward into a barely perceptible smile as you instinctively reach for the mug, because he’s right. He’s absolutely right. As soon as he had guided you into the quiet and out of the way caf shop somewhere on the lower levels of the Senate building, the smell of freshly brewed caf had your mouth watering against your will. And well, if he wants to indulge in this particular line of poor decision making when instead you should hypothetically be making wiser preparations before heading off to bed and getting some sleep before your next shift, this time you decide to let him without comment.
“Careful,” he says, laying a hand over top of yours before it can snatch the handle of the mug and lift it from the table to your lips. “It’s still pretty hot.”
There’s a moment—quiet and filled with the distant noises of dishes clanking together as they’re cleaned, server droids whizzing around behind counters, and the soft, ambient music of the shop—where you just sit there feeling the slightly rough warm material of his glove over your hand lightly pinned against the table.
Then the spell is broken, and he belatedly pulls his hand away.
“I’m sorry,” you both manage to say at the same time before identical eyebrows are raised and you both lean back, surveying each other with confusion.
“I’m sorry,” you say again, voice stronger this time as you shake your head frowning. “I was rude when I spoke to you outside, and I shouldn’t have reacted…” you wave a hand at the faint, mostly dry tear tracks on your cheeks. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know it’s just something that happens, and I’ve been blind my whole life. So, I should be used to it by now and should be able to deal with it with grace but sometimes, I—”
“Now, hold on,” Fox cuts in, his voice subdued. He glances down, finds that your fingers are tapping against the table in a nervous rhythm, probably to mask the shaking, and his heart twists. He hates this. He hates that you think you have to handle the discrimination and ignorance of others by playing nice, that the challenges you face do to them is just something you have to “get over and deal with,” all with a smile and an “it could be a lot worse” outlook on it all.
He reaches out, lightly taking your hand in his before gently resting it against the side of the mug, wrapping your fingers around it and gently, in a manner that he hopes to be comforting, he presses his fingers against yours, looking into your eyes before letting his hand fall away, observing as you pull the mug closer, cradling it in both hands, eyes closing as the heat seeps into your fingertips.
“I am the one who should be apologizing,” he says, voice quiet and vulnerable in a way that you haven’t heard before. “I’m ashamed of how little I actually know, and you had every right to call me out for my ignorance.”
“Still, I could have been nicer about it,” you mutter, eyes resolutely fixed on the table.
“Maybe I liked how you didn’t feel the need to be,” he counters, a soft chuckle in his voice as he leans back, giving his head a small shake.
“I’m still sorry,” you say stubbornly and he huffs, resting his folded arms against the table
“And I’m telling you, you don’t have to be,” he says, enunciating each word. “What will it take for you to let it go?”
You tilt your head, considering as your stomach begins to growl, the lack of a full meal since yesterday‘s lunch finally prompting it to protest.
“You could let me get you breakfast,” you decide, already rising to your feet, tapping your leg to summon Mandalore to stand.
“I shouldn’t,” Fox says hesitantly, glancing away. “I’m still technically on shift and—”
But his own traitorous stomach, much louder in its protestations and clearly not sated by the ration bar he had scarfed down last night, can be heard over the quiet din of noise and you turn, hands resolutely placed on your hips.
“And you’re hungry,” you state, exasperated as you point at him before pointing back to yourself. “I’m also hungry, and I would feel even more guilty if I just got food for myself and you had to sit there and watch me eat it. So, if you want to make me feel better, you’ll be good and let me buy you breakfast.”
Your cheeks begin to prickle with a blush as soon as the words leave your mouth. You hadn’t really meant to say them and certainly hadn’t intended for your tone to come out so bold, but here you were, scolding and pointing fingers at a highly competent clone commander who’s at least a full head taller than you, so hey, might as well fully commit to the bit or go home.
There’s a beat of silence. Fox, eyes widening as his jaw goes momentarily slack, is quiet before slowly getting to his feet and tucking his helmet beneath an arm, looking down. When he speaks, his voice is slightly gravelly, and he looks to be trying his best but failing to hide the amusement that’s laced within his tone.
“Yes ma’am,” he says, soft, warm, and with a teasing smirk pulling at the corners of his lips as he gazes down at you.
You have to preoccupy yourself with kneeling down and pretending to untangle Mandalore’s leash from around her foot so that he doesn’t see how easily he’s turned your cheeks into nothing but blushing, heated flame.
*
“Oh.”
Fox sighs in surprised delight as he gets his first mouthful of crêpe. The batter is warm and gooey, the maple spread that’s folded inside sweet and combined with the savory topped bits of meat so complementary that it’s almost overwhelming to his underexposed taste buds.
“Have you never had a crêpe before?” you ask with curiosity, your voice pitched upward with amusement as you watch him take his first bite.
He shakes his head, glancing down. It’s sweet to see you smiling again, especially when that look is directed his way when he feels it is undeserved. Even though you’ve told him he doesn’t need to apologize, he knows in his bones that this guilt is justified. His line of questioning had been well-meant, but it was ignorant at best and had done nothing to help you when you had already displayed signs of exhaustion and emotional fatigue.
All he can do now is try and do his best to make up for it, and he vows to start educating himself on issues that disabled Coruscanti citizens face, because that at least might be something he can attempt to minimize, even just a little from his position in the Guard.
“I’ve never had any of this before,” he admits, and at your surprised silence, he elaborates. “Clones are raised on strictly regulated ration cubes. They taste about as good as dirt but give you just enough required nutrients to keep yourself going for long periods of time.”
“No way,” you say, genuinely sounding baffled as you set your napkin down. “You’re telling me that the finest troopers—who are out on the front lines or here defending us every day—only have access to food that hasn’t even been altered to taste appealing?”
“It isn’t so bad,” he says with a small shake of his head, even as he savors the next bite of his food.
“You’re only saying that because you don’t know what you’ve been missing,” you counter, pausing to take a bite as your mind already begins planning. “Feel free to take what I can’t finish,” you continue. Sensing his protest before it can even escape, you raise a hand, cutting him off. “I assure you, restaurants always give you more than you can actually eat, and it never tastes as good reheated. So please, if you still have room after you’re finished with your portion, eat what’s left of mine, because I can promise you right now that I won’t.”
You look down at your own crêpes and sausage links, your stomach feeling so certain right now that you’ll be able to devour every bite, but your brain logically knowing that you won’t. Time passes, and you both eat in companionable silence. When Fox next speaks, it’s both quiet and hesitant.
“When you said earlier that whenever you report drivers, they usually get away with a slap on the wrist, what did you mean?” Fox asks cautiously, glancing up at you as he lays down his fork. “Does anything happen to them?”
“Not really,” you admit, picking at your food. “The few times I’ve actually had the energy to report them, I’ve had to go through a customer service call where I had to explain the specifics of the access denial, and the only thing I’ve seen come about it is the service will send a warning to the driver not to do it again.”
Fox barely stifles a snort, rolling his eyes in disgust. Unbeknownst to you, he’s memorized the plates of the last three drivers who cancelled on you, recording them approaching then backing out and quickly speeding away through his HUD, and he’ll make sure that they receive more than just a simple warning.
“Like that will ever actually deter anyone,” Fox grumbles, leaning against the table.
“It really doesn’t,” you agree, nodding your head. “Even just a small fine, or a short operating suspension of their account would at least be some form of actual consequence, to show that this kind of behaviour won’t be tolerated.”
Fox nods in agreement, already thinking along similar veins. He watches you as you’re eating slows and your cheek eventually drifts to your hand, elbow propped against the table as you let it rest there.
All the steam you had summoned to keep going through the long night was gone, the caffeine only giving you a short burst of prolonged energy. That, combined with the food now settling in your stomach, has made your exhaustion hit you—only this time, it’s 10 times harder than before, and your eyes are closed when you feel a gentle hand lightly squeezing your shoulder. You look behind you to find Fox standing there, expression softened and voice quiet as he offers an arm out.
“Come on,” he says quietly, helping you to your feet and quickly swiping what’s left on your plate to enjoy for himself. “Let’s get you home before you faceplant into the table.”
“I’ll book the ride,” you say around a yawn, and when he moves from guiding you by the elbow to his arm loosely drifting around your shoulder as you lean against him, you don’t object.
“It’s already taken care of,” he says smoothly, bending down to pick up Mandalore’s leash, guiding it between your fingers before straightening. “I called in a favor with a senator who owes me. One of their drivers is waiting to take you home whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh,” you say quietly, finding that you lack the energy to protest this arrangement as you lean against him while he walks with you. “Alright then.”
Fox leads you outside, and sure enough, there’s a polished, clean black speeder waiting out front for you. Fox speaks with the driver, exchanging some sort of security code to verify who it is before he opens the door for you, helping you climb into the back. Before the door closes, he says something to you. His voice is soft, the words seeming to come almost without conscious thought. They also don’t fully register in your mind until you’ve regained your energy. Several hours later, you’re making a fresh cup of caf, when all of a sudden, his parting words hit you out of the blue, and you pause, thrown completely for a loop.
“Sleep well, Cyar’ika.”
“Huh...you’re only now realizing that you have absolutely no idea what that last word even means. But, curiosity now sparked, you fully intend to find out.