Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time it happens, Fox is admittedly running on his default, which is to say in plain terms that he is annoyed.

“Why is this my problem?”

Fox winces upon hearing the barely concealed snarl in his own voice through his helmet speakers. He could have phrased that better. He should have at least taken the courtesy to add “with all due respect” when leading into that sentence, even if both he and the trooper who has the misfortune of being at the other end of the line are both fully aware that he doesn’t intend to sound respectful in the slightest.

There’s a pause, a hesitation on the other end of the coms, which causes Fox to silently berate himself for his initial sharp tone. He reminds himself, as he does about 500 times daily, that he needs to be more careful with it.

This warning, for some reason, always falls on deaf ears. But still, Fox wagers that he at least keeps trying, and who knows, maybe one of these days, it’ll actually stick. It probably won’t.

“It’s just that the issue is occurring at the entrance closest to your office, sir,” the trooper begins before rushing to add, “but if you’re busy, we can send—”

“Don’t bother,” Fox sighs. “I’m already on my way there.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be on such a high horse, but really, being sent to investigate a loitering complaint is far above what he, as a marshall commander, should be doing. Despite this though, he privately admits that he’s been looking for an excuse to stand up from his desk chair and stretch his legs. Maybe if he’s lucky, he'll manage to shake off the aching twinge in his left shoulder, hunched from filling out a last-minute stack of crime reports that he had been on the scene of, all from the previous night between the hours of 1 to 3 in the morning. So really, he rationalizes, can anyone blame him for being more than a little bit pissed off at the interruption?

Maybe it’s a sign that he needs a refill on his caf.

He rounds the corner and, with what is in hindsight probably more force than is necessary, smacks a hand against an access panel. The door slides open, and a cool breeze hits him as he steps outside into the open air.

His eyes scan through the visor of his helmet, and to his annoyance he doesn’t see the suspected loiterer that he had been warned of, at least not at first.

Sighing, he steps further out and past the awning above the entrance. Though the air is cool, the sun still shines, and the slight glow causes his eyes to catch on the gloss of your hair as you walk past, eyes nervous as they flick around. Sensing his presence, you pause, shoulders stiffening slightly as you turn to face him with trepidation. Fox also takes notice, his eyes widening in momentary surprise when he observes the guide dog harnessed at your left side, looking up at you with big brown eyes, as if silently trying to understand your sudden hesitance.

You, of course, have every reason to be suspicious of any unannounced or unidentified presence in your vicinity, especially now that you’re living on Coruscant. But, if you’re honest, you’re already on edge, and even though it’s still morning, the day has promised to be shit if the beginning of it is any indication.

Senator Organa isn’t in the habit of firing his junior staff for small mistakes like this, you remind yourself. Still, the thought, no matter how many times you’ve repeated it like a mantra at this point, doesn’t manage to calm your growing nerves, because regardless you’re still lost, and you’re still running late. You silently curse the pitfalls of being blind and using a ride-sharing service, and then you have to restrain yourself from cursing aloud when your eyes land on the silhouette parked a few meters in front of you.

You don’t have much vision. But with what you do have, it’s enough to deduce bright, contrasting colors. And the red splotches against white armor has you stopping dead in your tracks, because within the span of two seconds, a cold clarity settles within your stomach, because the red and white armor is distinctly and unmistakably that of a Coruscant Guard member, the visor of his helmet tilted, looking no doubt with suspicion directly at you.

Resisting the urge to bemoan the shortage of orientation and mobility droids designed to assist with transitions like this—which would have ensured that you would have been able to smoothly get yourself out of this situation in the first place—you bring your guide dog to heel before gesturing for her to sit, then slowly and hesitantly raise your eyes to the trooper, already feeling a mix of anxiety and guilt stirring in the pit of your stomach.

There’s a small sound from his helmet, a hesitation as he seems to clear his throat before speaking.

“Personal Senatorial aides aren’t permitted to use this entrance,” he says, gesturing to the badge on the lanyard that hangs around your neck.

He speaks as if this is a reminder that he’s given more than once, which you’re sure he has. Still, there’s an underlying sharpness to it that makes you jump despite your efforts not to react.

“I, I know,” you say, swallowing before rushing to continue. “I didn’t mean to be dropped off here, sir. I took a Speedershare to get here this morning, and I didn’t realize the driver dropped me off at this entrance until I got out, and by that point it was too late, and I should have asked to verify which one he was going to but—”

“Hey, easy. Slow down.”

The trooper steps closer to you, and it’s only then that you register that you’ve been rambling, your anxiety ratcheting up with each word. Now that you’re silent, you can feel the way your heart is pounding. You’ve seen the Guard around, of course, but you’ve never really interacted with any of them. He’s tall, you realize as he stands in front of you and you look up into the visor of his helmet. Tall and broad, and you were already nervous before he showed up.

But his hands are raised, in supplication or as an offering of peace, you’re not sure. But regardless, he doesn’t seem on the verge of scolding you further for your silly mistake, which is good, because your nerves are still so frayed from getting out of your ride only to realize that you had no idea where you were, and that apart from knowing that you were somewhere at the Senate building, you were effectively lost and alone. A scolding, delivered with just the right amount of displeasure, would probably be enough to make you start crying, which would make this day go from being the worst to certifiably irredeemable.

“Speedershare isn’t always the most reliable service. Your employer is Senator Organa,” he says, eyes once again scanning over your badge. “I’m sure he could arrange an alternate transportation service that is much more consistent and professional for you to use.”

“I don’t want his charity,” you say, and you can’t help the hard edge that creeps into your voice when you speak.

But really, you don’t. You know that he could, and knowing Senator Organa, he would be happy to do so. But it’s unnecessary. You grew up needing extra accommodations and things that, despite your teachers’ constant stream of reassurances, always made you feel singled out.
You’re an adult now, and you don’t want that. You don’t need his charity, his pity, or to be added to his ever-growing list of things to worry about at the beginning and end of each day—an item to be checked off.

As far as you’re concerned, the best thing you can do for the both of you is to keep this to yourself, and you’ll figure out how to manage sooner or later.

Fox takes a step back, able to recognize your quick deflection of his suggestion as a sign that he’s slightly overstepped, and he nods, glancing towards the door.

“Well,” he says, forcing his voice to sound lighter. “I suppose I could let you off the hook this once and let you use this entrance.”

“Thank you,” you say, before hesitantly adding, “I, I’m not familiar with the route to get to Senator Organa’s office from where we are. Would you, I mean, you don’t have to if you’re busy, but—”

“I’ll take you there,” he cuts you off, finality in his voice. “Do you, uh, need a guide or anything?”
Fox internally kicks himself for not knowing how to handle a situation like this, but you give your head a small shake, which allows him a moment of relief.

“The color on your armor is bright,” you respond, and for the first time in this interaction, you smile. He can’t help but admire the way it seems to transform you, your previous nerves and worry disappearing like the sun breaking through the clouds. It’s quite lovely, he observes, and then internally kicks himself just a bit harder as punishment for that traitorous thought.

Useless, he scolds. Unnecessary. But it’s already been thought, and he can’t take it back. He’s grateful for the helmet concealing his face, hiding the way his lips repeatedly twitch in an effort to turn upward as he hears you, your voice giving a soft, encouraging command, and the slight pitter patter of paws against pavement as your guide dog leads you to follow after him.

He firmly resolves not to speak unless necessary until he’s taken you to the senator's office.

This resolve lasts for less than two minutes before he feels the slight brush of a wet nose against his hand and hears a small sniffing sound at his hip. Turning his head, he finds your guide dog, who has stopped walking and is sniffing at a pouch around his waist, and you looking sheepish as you stand behind him.

“Mandalore, leave it,” you scold, your voice lower than he’s heard it and with a suddenly authoritative edge that has his eyes widening slightly. You’re so little, he thinks, and all you’ve ever been whilst interacting with him is timid and quiet like a mouse. Seeing that side of you, as if flipped on by a switch, well...he can’t help but be taken by slight surprise. You pull back the harness, giving it a slight shake and the dog, with obvious reluctance, backs off, abandoning its curiosity.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, your cheeks heating with a blush. His hand twitches of its own accord, struck with an unexplained urge to reach out and touch, wondering if he would feel the warmth of your cheek beneath his gloved fingers.

Kriff, his internal monologue groans, disgusted. What the fuck is wrong with you today? He refocuses, looking down at you and shaking his head.

“Your dog’s name is Mandalore?” he asks, genuinely curious and unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

You laugh, nodding your head. “The one and only,” you grin. “Certain training schools do things differently. But the one we went to likes to name each litter by theme, and hers happened to be planets.”

You lower your voice, leaning in conspiratorially with a slight twinkle in your eye.

“You know, for a Mandalore, she doesn’t look very intimidating, does she?” you ask, and he’s surprised, startled even, to hear the snort of laughter that is pulled from him as he nods his head, looking down at the guide dog who’s unaffected, her professional mask barely concealed behind a tail that wags at him and big, pleading eyes that seem to pierce through his soul.

“No, she really doesn’t,” he agrees, and your grin widens.

“I’ve always joked that if a burglar broke into my house, she wouldn’t bark or growl or try to bite at them,” you say, still smiling as you continue to walk. “She would simply flop down on the ground at their feet and roll over to demand a belly rub.”

“Well…” he says, and faintly, in the back of his head, he registers that he’s
actually smiling. Huh, he thinks, taken slightly off-guard by the strange feeling. He can’t remember the last time that’s happened. It’s almost slightly disturbing. “If she’s not a fighter, she at least has some good distraction tactics.”

You laugh, your previous nerves surrounding getting lost and being late all but forgotten. It’s a nice sound, bright and lively, and Fox, the Maker help him, finds that he wants to hear it again.

“She probably smells the treats I keep in my pouch for Grizzer,” Fox explains, slightly rueful. He rolls his eyes and pretends to dislike it every time Hound brings the massiff to his office, citing that his panting is distracting, and that his drool gets everywhere, which is disgusting. Those things are both true. But Fox also can’t help but appreciate the warm weight of Grizzer’s head against his leg or the large, imploring eyes the massiff gives him when he knows that Fox has food.

“I figured it would be unprofessional of me to offer one to her,” he continues, and you nod your head, glancing down.

“It would, but...” you begin slowly, calculating as you clock the staircase you’re approaching and turning your head to look up at him as a slow smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “If you give it to me, I could give it to her by proxy if you want.”

He nods, unzipping the small pouch, guiding you to hold out your hand as he places several small treats on the palm of it, which already has the dog vibrating with eagerness. But you don’t give in right away.

“Forward,” you say, gesturing your head to the small set of stairs. The added incentive makes the dog quick on her feet, and you have to tell her to slow down as she rushes to comply, guiding you towards the stairs, barely able to contain the excited trot in her step. “Okay, Mandalore, show me where the railing is.”
The guide dog turns slightly, changing course to lead you towards the railing on the far right, placing her front paws up on the stairs and pausing, turning her head to look up at you for approval.

“Yes,” you beam, stroking a hand along her head. “You learn so fast. Good girl.”

Fox watches, a smile on his face as you hold out your hand with the treats, giving it a few taps against the railing before opening your palm, offering it to her. She eagerly gobbles them up without hesitation, her tail never ceasing its happy little wiggles, which makes Fox want to laugh.

“You know,” he says, stepping up beside you and beginning to mount the stairs. “On second thought, maybe she is a fighter. I mean, she looked like she was ready to take off your fingers along with the treats.”

“When it comes to food, she definitely is,” you say with a grin, following after him. “If only all burglars came covered in peanut butter or dog treats, I’d feel much safer about our odds.”

You both snicker, and the rest of the journey up to the senators’ offices passes in a relatively comfortable silence apart from Fox giving you a few quiet directions as you make your way through the halls. You never fail to turn your head and smile at him each time he warns you of a crowd of people incoming so you can maybe take a step to the side, or if you need to turn left or right at this next intersection.

He isn’t sure how to describe it, but his heart does something strange each time you do.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience...” you trail off, uncertain of the trooper’s name as you stand outside the doorway to Senator Organa’s office.

“Fox,” he responds, and he’s quickly struck by the strangeness of how he felt compelled to give you his chosen name first instead of his rank. That, he thinks, is definitely odd and out of the ordinary, but he recovers himself quickly. “Commander Fox,” he adds, and your cheeks rapidly heat with a blush.

“Oh, Force,” you groan, covering your cheeks with your hands and closing your eyes, mortified. “I’m sorry, Commander. I didn’t mean to inconvenience so much of your time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, and the brush of gloved fingers against your arm is barely there, brief and gone in an instant, but it’s enough to startle you out of your embarrassment, your eyes widening as you look up at him. “It wasn’t an inconvenience,” he says, sounding so sincere that you lose any ability to respond to that, falling into a silence in which the both of you simply stand, contemplating each other.
Fox, for his part, is struck by the realization that, for once, he means every word he’s just said.

“Well,” you say, blinking as you try to shake yourself out of your stupor. “Regardless of the circumstances, it was lovely to meet you, Commander, and if we ever encounter each other again, you may want to introduce yourself by name if we speak. Every trooper shares the same voice, which makes it much harder for me to differentiate between you all, and I’d hate to mistake you for someone else and embarrass the both of us any further. At least, more than I probably already have.”

“Right,” he says, equally as slowly and strangely hesitant for this conversation to end but not knowing what else to add. “Understood.”

“I should go,” you say, feeling suddenly shy as you give him a small smile and turn to the door. “See you around, Commander,” you murmur, giving him a playful wink.

You step into the office, not waiting for his response. It takes him a full 30 seconds of just standing there out in the hall listening to the sound of dog paws tapping against the floor, growing distant as you move out of his listening range, to realize that you left him—completely and deliberately if the smirk that was pulling at the corners of your lips was any indication—with a blind joke.

He chokes, uncertain of if he’s allowed to laugh—of if it would be completely inappropriate for him to laugh. His cheeks heat with belated awkward embarrassment. He shakes his head, making a note as he forces his feet to move and forces himself to walk away, heading back in the direction of his office.

The next time he sees you—and he can’t help the strange and foreign hope that twinges in his chest at even the thought of seeing you again—he’ll have to ask you.

Until then, he thinks, giving himself a firm shake as he maneuvers himself through the halls of the Senate building. He resolves to keep you—the girl with the pretty smile, the hair that looks like it was made to run fingers through, and the infectious laugh that he still hears clear as a bell even now that you’re gone—far from his thoughts, ordering himself to stop acting like some sort of lovesick puppy and for kriff sake to just get back to work.

*

Fox, to his consternation, is unsuccessful.
The whole day, as he goes about his tasks—filling out reports, sending requisitions to the Senate, doing patrol—he can’t stop thinking about you.

Your smile as you tilted your head to look up at him, your warm, encouraging demeanor as you worked with your guide dog, the excitable pup looking up at you like you’re her whole galaxy, the way that he had been able to make you genuinely laugh...

Okay, maybe his bar for sharing friendly interactions with natborns was insanely low up to this point. But knowing that he had brought that out of you had felt strangely good, leaving a warm, unfamiliar feeling in his stomach that lingered every time he thought of it.

He’s so unsuccessful at keeping his mind off of you during the workday that it’s still early in the afternoon when he pulls up your file on the database, scrolls through your work schedule, and at the end of the day is standing outside of Senator Organa’s office waiting for your shift to end.

When he sees you come out, Mandalore, sensing his presence before you do, happily begins to waggle her tail, her footsteps quickening as she leads you out of the office. He calls out to you, and you turn, searching for the voice.

“It’s Fox,” he says, removing his helmet and tucking it beneath his arm. “From this morning.”
Is he imagining it, or do your eyes actually light up when you spot him?

“I just wanted to make sure that your ride picks you up without complication,” he continues. “Not that I don’t think you can do that on your own,” he rushes to add, his cheeks heating slightly. He’s already gotten the sense that you don’t like being underestimated, and he respects that. “I can make sure that you have detailed instructions in the app so that your driver knows exactly which entrance to collect you.”

“That would actually be super helpful!” you exclaim, and there’s no masking the relief in your voice as you pull out your comm, fiddling with it for a second before passing it to him. “I’ve been meaning to ask someone to update them, because I have a vague idea of what each entrance looks like and how to describe them, but honestly, I don’t think it’s enough to be helpful.”

He takes the device from you, and working quickly, types up detailed directions on how to get to the staff entrance along with a description of its surroundings. He pastes a copy into your notes for good measure so that you’re able to keep reusing it at your convenience. He explains all this to you as he passes it back, letting you know your ride is booked.

“You’re an angel, Fox,” you say in a relieved breath, beaming up at him. “Moving here has been so stressful as it is, and getting used to the transit options is just one more thing on top of that.”

You miss the way his cheeks go pink, but you do catch his quiet, breathy chuckle as he awkwardly avoids your gaze.

“Right, well,” he scratches at the back of his neck, looking down at the ground. “Your ride should be here soon. Want me to come with you and make sure it shows up?”

“I don’t want to hold you up if you have other things to do,” you say uncertainly, biting your lip.
The truth is, you so badly want to say yes. Waiting for a Speedershare on your own can be anxiety inducing. So many things can go wrong. Your driver might not be able to find you, and when they call and ask you for directions, you aren’t able to provide them with much help. They could drive past and cancel altogether once they realize you have a service dog. Or worse, they can turn it into a full out yelling confrontation. In all cases, you’ve learned, your anxiety is significantly lessened if someone else is with you, ready to back you up at a moment's notice.

It’s true, you’ve only met Fox today. But his presence is steady, safe, and you get the sense that he would stay without question and without hesitation. But you also don’t want to become his burden.

“You’re not,” he states, hooking his helmet to his belt. “And I’m not. Come on, let’s go find your ride.”

And that’s exactly what he does.

He leads you out towards the pick-up point, and when the speeder gets there, he verifies the plates, opens the door, and helps you inside, waiting patiently for your guide dog to tuck in her tail before beginning to let it close. Before it does though, before it drives away and you’re left wondering if and when you’ll ever see him again, he speaks, his voice low and carrying the softest, lightest undertone of teasing.

“See you around, mesh’la.”

It takes you a moment, but as you drive off, the echo of the words you had jokingly thrown over your shoulder at him just this morning flashes through your memory, and before you know it, you’re tipping your head back against the headrest of the seat, quietly laughing to yourself, uncaring of the driver giving you a funny look from the corner of his eye as he picks up speed, driving away from the Senate building.

You’re still smiling as the speeder rounds the corner, and the building, as well as Marshall Commander Fox, disappears from view.

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.

Chapter Text

The third time it happens, Fox is imbued with a vengeful, murderous rage.

Is that an exaggeration? Only slightly. But honestly, it doesn’t take much to set him off these days, and this, he thinks—striding through the twists and turns of the Senate Building’s hallways with tightly clenched fists and a contemptuous glare on his face that he hadn’t even bothered to conceal with his helmet before storming out of his office—has certainly done it, no question.

*

It had all started a couple of weeks ago, a few mornings after you and Fox had gone on your breakfast date. No—he adamantly refuses to call it a date. But regardless, after that, several events had occurred in quick and notable succession.

The first, the morning after you had returned to the Senate Building after you had been given a day off in compensation for your working overtime the night prior, you arrived to find a new and fully operational orientation and mobility droid, photoreceptors blinking and waiting for you outside.

Fox, after doing some research, found that they were a very useful and highly sought-after navigational tool for the blind in the workplace, assisting with guidance, orientation through different spaces, and generally aiding by describing visual markers, signage, inaccessibly formatted documents and other things you might encounter.

He had come to find, sifting through Senate-issued requisition forms, that you had been approved to obtain one, fully covered, weeks ago. He made some calls, pulled some strings, and with some degree of satisfaction boosted you to the top of the waitlist and made sure that the droid had been fully set up and functional by the time you returned to work.

Two days later, the first box of baked goods mysteriously appeared outside his office door.

Fox, ever the skeptic, had been wary and had even gone so far as to take the first box of deliciously powdered donuts to one of his medics for screening just to make sure it wasn’t some Separatist trick filled with poison.
That was proven to not be the case, and his brothers, laughing at him for being so paranoid, had swiped the remaining donuts, converging around the box like a swarming hive of bees eager to taste the first drops of a flower's nectar, eating whatever they could reach.

Fox had glared at them and pretended to be annoyed at his loss, but then the food kept coming.

Baked goods were sent down to HQ or his office anonymously every couple of days, and if he had been suspicious before—considering he had only just spoken to you about how little exposure clones actually had to food—exiting his office to find your visual interpreting assistant droid, Via, resolutely marching down the hallway with a tin of Coruscant Guard-red frosted cupcakes held in her metallic arms with the logo of the small coffee shop he had taken you to just over a week ago made the pieces come together with a satisfying click in his mind.

“Via,” he had called out, voice colored with fresh surprise and bafflement. “What are you doing?”

“I am delivering a parcel on behalf of my mistress,” she had stated with that tone Fox privately thought droids always used when they believed a human was asking a stupid and redundant question. “As you are the benefactor, I shall relieve myself of it and hand it directly to you.”

He had taken it, utterly lost for words and filled with a mix of confusion and strange, totally foreign delight knowing that you had been the one delivering these gifts.

It was thoughtful, he had mused. Kind. And he really should insist that you put an end to it, because it was unnecessary. But, stomach growling as he looked down at the clear-plastic topped box and turned back to his office to set it down, he found that he wasn’t in too much of a hurry to do so.

*

Come on, Via, hurry up.

The singular thought chases around in circles in your head, anxiety increasing with every tap of your foot against the pavement-covered ground.

As a rule, and on the recommendation of a certain clone commander, you weren’t in the habit of waiting outside the Senate Building on your own anymore, which is why the droid had shown up at precisely the right time. Rumors were abound that the Senate abductions were still occurring, and even though the Guard was closing in on a specific lead, the suspect was still at large. The situation was made worse with the sun beginning to set earlier, leaving you in almost complete darkness by the time you started making your way home most nights.
But then, things like this would happen, and it made you all the more grateful for the droid’s unexpected but welcome company at the end of the day.

You had explained on her first night waiting with you to catch your ride home from work that sometimes situations like this would arise.
“And how am I to assist if things were to, as you say, ‘get ugly’?” she had asked, photoreceptors blinking as she looked at you.

“Nothing you can do, I think,” you had shrugged, and when that response had only elicited the mechanical equivalent of a dissatisfied sound from the droid, you had conceded. “I suppose you could get the nearest member of the Coruscant Guard to intercede,” you said, thoughtfully biting your lip. “An uncooperative driver might be more inclined to listen if it’s coming from one of them, though I would prefer to try and handle it on my own first. After a moment’s pause and almost as an afterthought, you had added, “Preferably, get Commander Fox.”

You couldn’t explain why, other than you just trusted him above all others to make sure that if you were ever in a tight spot like this, you got out of it without trouble.

“Excellent,” Via had chirped, straightening with a now satisfied air. “Then that is what I shall do. Though let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Well, a few days later, it did. You found yourself frantically depending on the droid that had, out of nowhere, arrived outside Senator Organa’s office, clearly denoted as being meant specifically for you.

She had her uses, you had to admit. Outside of the usual—getting you to where you needed to go inside the often tricky-to-navigate Senate Building—she could also run errands for you, and that, you had found, was very useful—even if it was for a more personal nature than had originally been intended.

Via had, with the help of your descriptions and admittedly blurred memory from your sleepless night, helped you locate the coffee shop Fox had taken you to, and if outside of work hours, you had required her assistance to help read the menu and place large orders of baked goods to be shipped down to his office or Coruscant Guard HQ…well, no one had said anything against it, and it made you happy knowing that Fox and hopefully some of his brothers would be able to eat food that they would also be able to enjoy, an apparent luxury that they had never been afforded, to your disgust, by their seemingly cutthroat creators.

You had also taken advantage of her translating abilities, which became especially helpful during Senate meetings and also when you had asked her what the kriff “cyar’ika” meant. Your ears turned pink every time you thought about it, and your lips couldn’t resist curling upward into a small, endeared smile whenever the commander came to mind after that.

At this moment though, you certainly weren’t endeared.

“Who are you to tell me my rights as a driver?”

The furious shout rings through the quiet parking lot and you swallow, heart picking up in speed as you reach down to run your fingers through Mandalore’s soft fur at the top of her head. She nuzzles into your hand, well practiced in your number-one technique to self-soothe and ground yourself by now. You close your eyes, focusing on the rhythm of your pets, the way her fur feels beneath your fingertips, and find that for once, it’s not helping.

Especially not when the driver—apparently sparked into a rage at your audacity in telling him that it was against planetary law to deny service to beings purely because they were accompanied by a service animal—opens the drive’rs seat door, the click of his seat belt unbuckling unmistakable and ringing in your ears as he gets out of his speeder.

Oh, boy, you think, tentatively taking a step back as he steps into your field of vision on the sidewalk. This has never happened to you before.

“Look,” you manage to get out through a panicked swallow, the rhythm of your hand smoothing against Mandalore’s head too fast, too uneven. “I am simply stating that there are laws in place. If I were to take this to court—”

“You’d what, take away my license?” He’s menacing as he takes another step forward, and you physically recoil at the smell of stale caf that you catch on his breath as he invades your space. “I bet you think you’re untouchable because you kiss Organa’s ass, don’t you, sweetheart?”

He reaches out, you think maybe to grab the badge that denotes your name and position within the Senate, but you’re stepping, no, stumbling backward, Mandalore jumping to her feet and shoving her way in front of you as her ears perk upward in consternation, intuitively sensing your growing unease.

She’s trained to be well-behaved, to remain calm and unaffected in even the most chaotic situations, yet right now she senses a clear threat, and you don’t scold her for acting on it. Hell, your hands are shaking so hard that you can barely keep a grip on her leash, let alone reach for her harness.

And then the double doors of the Senate Building come swishing open behind you and a voice—steady, sure, and with the cutting edge of a deadly knife—fills you with such a sharp, distinct sense of relief that it nearly brings you to your knees.

*

“Do we have a problem here?”

It’s strange and distinctly unsettling for Fox to catch a glimpse of Mandalore giving voice to his internal rage with her expression alone. But he realizes as he steps out from the shadows that he’s only ever seen her happy and calm, a far cry from the tense, highly alert, and looking like she’s about to pounce canine that stands in front of you right now.

He understands though. He understands her all too well. If Via’s report on the rapidly escalating situation she had briefed him on as they speed walked hadn’t been enough, than this—hearing the tail end of the confrontation and seeing that the driver had looked to be about to lunge for you—well, sufficed to say his blood is boiling, and his heart is beating loudly in his ears.

Fox takes a breath, flexes his fingers, and wills himself to calm down before he speaks again. When he calls your name, it’s still gruff, but softer, wanting only gentle words to be directed your way. He’s relieved to see that despite your already tense shoulders and your shaking hand clutching at Mandalore’s leash, you don’t flinch when he addresses you—a small but resounding victory in his mind.

“Stay right there,” Fox murmurs, his voice steady, coaxing, and soft, making it all the more obvious when he directs it away from you. When he speaks to the man that still looms menacingly over you, his words are anything but soft.

“You,” Fox barks, pleased to watch the man cringe at the hint of a snarl in his voice. “You’re going to take five large steps away from her right now.”

Before the driver can get any foolhardy ideas of turning tail and diving back into his speeder, Fox allows his hand to drift to his hip, though he’s not reaching to draw. His fingers tap against the holster, not even having to lift it or look down as they adeptly prime the weapon to stun.

There is an audible swallow before the man slowly complies, taking the required amount of steps away from you. Fox nods, satisfied as he clears the distance, immediately putting himself between you and the driver, now allowing the man to know what it feels like to have someone much bigger looming menacingly above him as he glares.

“Now,” his next words are quiet, calm…deadly, “you’re going to get back into your speeder, and you’re going to do exactly as your job has directed you and bring this lady, accompanied by her service dog, to her place of residence.”

He senses the objection coming, and he growls lowly, reaching to grasp at the man’s collar, giving a small tug to enunciate his next words when he speaks them.

“And perhaps,” he says, his words biting in the chilled air, “if you do your task satisfactorily, I will consider having the suspension I’m going to place on your license as soon as you’ve dropped her off reinstated after a week instead of a month as I had originally intended.”

“A month?” the man practically squeaks. “That’s preposterous—”

“And did you really think she was joking about the 5,000-credit fine for service animal access denial?” Fox asks, cutting him off. “I’m sure I could pull some strings and still work that in on top of the suspension if you’d like.”

“Technically, the fine could be doubled to 10,000,” Via pipes up, her mechanical footsteps coming to a stop as she stands beside Fox. “I have recorded evidence that you attempted to physically engage with my mistress without her expressed consent.”

Fox has to restrain the impulse to give the droid a full-out grin as the driver, twitchy and squirming as he already is, falls silent, biting the inside of his cheek before letting out a breath and mutely nodding his head, and as Fox releases the grip he has on his collar, he scurries back into his speeder, opening the back passenger door with a remote as he does.

Is he supposed to use his rank as a Marshal Commander of the Coruscant guard to deliver personal vendettas like this? No, but he’s certainly already exploited his position to do much more ambiguous and morally questionable things, and one lone speeder driver attempting to rat him out for this one will, in all likelihood, fall on deaf ears. So, weighing the odds, he’s satisfied and feeling just pissed off and petty enough that he’s willing to take the risk.

“Fox,” your voice escapes you in a breath as you move forward, catching his arm and looking up at him with wide eyes.

“It’s all sorted,” Fox says, trying to sound reassuring as he places a hand lightly over yours. “He’ll get you home with no trouble.”

“But, I…” despite your inability to articulate, he sees it. A single glance you throw towards the speeder displays the anxiety and fear still very real and present within your eyes, and Fox understands, the pieces clicking together in his mind like a puzzle.

Fox can tell just by watching the man through his window—fumbling with his keys and sending nervous glances over his shoulder, as if he’s concerned that Fox might change his mind and instead demand him to surrender his license on the spot—that he’s eliminated the threat. What Fox hasn’t done though, and what he should be wholly focussed on right now, is eliminating your fear.

“You don’t feel safe with him,” he states, watching as you nod your head.

“No,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”

Of course, you don’t. Fox internally kicks himself. Why would you even under normal circumstances feel safe in a speeder with a man you’ve never met before, let alone one who’s angered and personally confronted and threatened you within the span of several minutes. And that’s only what Fox had witnessed.

Right, he thinks. Time to fix that.
Fox gives the hand that’s still curled around his bicep a small squeeze, feeling how unwilling your fingers seem to be to let go, and as he looks up, watching the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, an idea sparks.

“Bet you thought you were going to drive away from here and get rid of me,” Fox mutters darkly, startling the driver as he ducks inside the back of the speeder, shifting to the other side of the seat. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, Cyar’ika,” he calls to you, voice warm as he invitingly pats the available row of seats at his side. “Let’s get the two of you home.”

*

“Mandy.”

Your voice is a soft, quiet call within the silence, and even the sound of it makes you startle slightly and flinch, eyes uncertainly flicking towards the front of the speeder. You desire to make yourself small and inconsequential, as inconspicuous to the unwilling and already annoyed driver as you possibly can.

Angry people are unpredictable, and you have no desire to be in his targeting range. But you also, despite the fact that there is a fully trained and armed clone commander sitting at your side, need comfort. You need the reassurance that you’re not alone and that you’re safe, and sometimes only your guide dog can do that, making the nights feel less dark and the paths you wander never lonely because she’s there leading you through them and standing at your side, as constant as the air that you’re breathing.

When her head pops up from where she’s been lying down at your feet, eyes shining through the evening’s encroaching darkness, you smile, though it’s strained, and reach down to stroke one of her long, soft ears.

“Hey, girl,” you whisper, leaning forward to bump your forehead against hers. The proximity is familiar, the feeling of her fur imprinted on your memory like the back of your own hand. “You’re so good.”

“You call her Mandy?” Fox asks, his voice low and amused at your side as he watches you.
“Sometimes,” you say, straightening as you continue to pet her fondly. “It’s one of her many nicknames.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you speak, looking at each other as the traffic blurs by outside the windows.

“Do you have any?” you ask, suddenly seizing on the opportunity for conversation, craving any kind of distraction from this mess. “Nicknames, I mean.”

“Not really,” he responds, shaking his head before pausing and glancing down, his cheeks warming with a slightly embarrassed heat. “Well, sometimes my brothers call me ‘Fox’ika,’ just to piss me off.”

“What does it mean?” you ask, privately suspecting that it’s another term in Mando’a, but not wanting to reveal to him that you knew of his prior slip up.

Right now, what he had called you can exist in your mind, and you can smile and blush about it all you want. But if you said anything, if you let him know that he had given voice to the feelings you were becoming more and more aware were stirring within you for the commander, it would become real, and with reality comes the knowledge that it was probably nothing more than accidental.

You’re not ready to let that go, not just yet. The fantasy that he could think of you in that way, that he could want you in that way is just too good, too enchanting—enough to give you butterflies every time you think of that one, simple term of endearment that means everything to you but probably means absolutely nothing to him—to let go of just yet. So you don’t.

“Adding ‘-ika’ to a word makes it more diminutive,” Fox explains, oblivious to your inner mess of conflicting thoughts and feelings. “Little. It would be like calling me ‘Little Fox,’ you know?”

“That is kind of cute,” you can’t help but admit, your smile cheeky as you look up at him.
You’re imagining this tall, well-built, and highly competent clone commander as nothing more than an adorable, little fox looking up at you with wide eyes, and you can’t help but grin.

“Oh, please,” Fox groans, placing a hand on his heart. “Your betrayal has wounded me grievously.”

His voice is so stoic, so serious and deadpan that you can’t help but snort, a small giggle slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Fox pokes you in the side, which makes you instinctively slap his hand away as you begin to laugh more, until there’s a small, but audible huff of irritation from the driver's seat of the speeder. You stop, all of your previous safety and feelings of starting to be at ease retreating in an instant, your previous anxiety and discomfort snapping back like an elastic band being pulled to its limits and rebounding.

Fox notices your sudden stillness, your startling and abrupt retreat back within yourself. He frowns, and before you know it, your hands are intertwined with his. Your eyes widen. You’re taken off-guard for an instant because while the warmth of his hands and their steady, reassuring weight against yours has become familiar to you, the barrier of gloves in between is gone, and the palms that cradle yours are soft, warm, and grounding.

He lifts one of yours, guiding it until the palm is flipped face down, lightly resting against Mandalore’s warm, soft forehead.

“She’s here,” he states, lightly stroking the back of your fingers before letting go, leaving your hand settled against the guide dog’s soft fur.
The warmth of his touch completely surrounds and envelops your hand as he cradles it, taking the one remaining between both of his and guiding it to rest against his thigh, making no move to push you off or retreat as he looks down at you.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble that’s just above a whisper in the darkness.

He presses your hand against his, and you feel the rough calluses built up from years of handling blasters and weapons as his fingertips trace against your knuckles.

“You’re almost home, Cyar. Just two more minutes,” he murmurs, glancing down at his comm as it tracks your progress on a map. “And me and Mandy aren’t going anywhere in the meantime.”

You swallow, shifting closer to him and nodding your head. You should be relieved, should be happy that you’re almost home and you can finally get away from this speeder that smells of stale cigars and dirty old caf cups and from the driver who has done nothing but make you feel uncomfortable and unsafe this whole time.

But all you can think as you look up at Fox and continue holding onto his hands, is consequences be damned. You really just want to lean forward, press your lips against his, and kiss him until the two of you are breathless right now.

*

“Are you good from here?”

You give Fox a small nod of your head, but make no move to extricate your arm from where it’s nestled in the crook of his elbow. Truthfully, you had been good some distance ago, as soon as the speeder had pulled up in front of your house. You knew where you were going, but he had still offered out his arm and guided you down the pathway, up the steps, and straight to your door with such uncharacteristically gentle attentiveness that you found yourself unable to refuse him, and since your hand is still shaking and you’re still throwing glances over your shoulder as the speeder drives off, so what if you’re enjoying someone fussing over you just a little? Right now, you’ll take it.

“You know, we will sort this out,” Fox says, voice quieter as he glances down at the hand still looped through his arm, sensing your hesitation. “This won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”

In all honesty, Fox is fully preparing himself to march straight up to Senator Organa’s office, because he knows that out of most of the fools who work in the Senate Building, he will at least respectfully listen and take the security concerns towards his lower staff members seriously when Fox informs him of them. If nothing else—if your right to having consistent, accommodating transportation to and from work isn’t enough—then surely the knowledge that the Guard still hasn’t managed to catch the culprit behind the abductions surrounding his committee and the fact that you have to travel in unregulated and unsecure transports will be.

“I know,” you say, looking up at him through your eyelashes. Reluctantly, you let your hand fall away from where it’s been holding onto his arm, turning to unlock your door. “Thanks for getting me home. I don’t think I would’ve felt safe without having you there.”

The door opens, and you raise one foot to step through the threshold. Then, possessed by some reckless, unthinking urge, you turn around, clear the distance between the two of you in several quick, small steps, rise up onto your tiptoes. and with one of your hands holding onto his shoulder for leverage, press your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss.

Fox’s brain short circuits. One minute, he’s thinking about speaking to Senator Organa and potential breaches in security, and the next all of his thoughts are swept away and instantly consumed by you, the hand that holds onto his armored shoulder feeling so light and inconsequential, and yet even through the plastoid, the touch is present and poignant, burning through his skin to the bones that lie beneath.

When your lips meet his, he feels the way in which they part, making way for a soft exhalation of breath that brushes against his own skin and his eyes widen, surprised and all at once wanting. He lifts a hand, undecided between whether he wants to tug you closer by one of your hips so he can indulge himself in knowing what it feels like to have you pressed up against him, or to lightly and with a gentleness he didn’t know he wanted to have, lift his hand to brush his fingers against the soft cheek unmarred by scars as his is and hold it within the gentle press of his palm as he cradles the side of your face, keeping your lips pressed against his exactly where he wants you, where he needs you, with a sudden fervor and to the very core of his being.

Fox isn’t given the chance to do either of those things.

Mandalore, evidently impatient to get inside so she can finally be relieved of her work duties, gives an exasperated shake, jingling the metal in both her leash and harness as she waits by the door for you to return. You jump back, looking for all the world like you have just been caught doing something completely inexcusable. Fox doesn’t understand the twisting, sinking feeling in his chest when he catches sight of your expression, and you don’t give him much time to investigate it further.

“I…forgive me, Commander.”

Your words come out in a barely there whisper, and before he can respond—before he can even think about the over half-a-dozen responses in his head, ranging from a casual “nothing to forgive,” to a “please, do it again,” to just taking you by your fidgeting hands, spinning you so that you’re pinned against the wall and pressing his lips against yours until you’ve forgotten all about your previous apologies—you’re turning and scurrying away, eyes widened as if you’re a frightened tooka, and retreat back into the safety of your house, the tap of Mandalore’s paws click-clacking against the hardwood floor following after you, seeming to echo the accompanying silence, the abrupt and startling standstill that takes place in Fox’s mind as soon as you’ve disappeared behind the door.

Fox stares, eyes equally wide, at the panelled wood that now stands between the two of you, his breath caught in his throat. His lips are still parted, still eager, and still waiting to be given another kiss that he now knows is not coming.

It takes him a long, long time to summon the energy, the willpower, to turn and step away from your door and slowly descend the three porch steps.

Fox doesn’t know how he manages it, but, coward that he is, he walks away, hating himself more and more with every step that he takes as he leaves you behind.