Work Text:
When Thorn wakes up, hurting all over and lacking the memory of where he is and where he’s been and what he’s done, he's less freaked about it than he maybe should be.
He's heard enough from Fox and Stone of their own missing time, after all, ranging from minutes to hours to days, only to wake in the office or their beds or down in the lower levels. He’d figured it'd happen to him soon enough, too.
It’s almost more surprising that it’s taken this long; Fox has been having it happen for months. Dissociative amnesia, the medics are calling it. Blackouts, is what Fox has dubbed them.
A fitting name. Thorn closes his eyes against the flickering of his HUD, and forces himself to think. He remembers entering a meeting with the CSF in Thire’s place, as Thire recovered from the knife he caught in his shoulder three days prior. He remembers messaging Fox to tell him he was on his way back to HQ, which is standard procedure, and then again to ask him to save him a pudding cup, which is not.
He remembers the Chancellor calling him. Fox is the Chancellor’s official liaison, and Fox does his damn best to keep the rest of them out of his grip, and as such the call had been unusual, and he remembers being surprised by it. Remembers stepping into the blood red room of the Chancellor’s office, seeing the slow spread of a smile across the old man’s face, and remembers no more.
He’s lost fourteen hours, according to his bucket’s chrono. He should probably be grateful it isn't more.
And now here he is, flat on his back, body aching, head pounding. He forces his eyes back open, blinking away the spots from his vision, and attempts to assess his situation.
His HUD is in night vision mode, casting everything in a sickly green shadow, but it’s lacking his usual stream of messages and briefings and data. He's grateful for that, if only because it’s a headache at best of times, let alone when he feels like he’s taken a blow to the frontal lobe from a Wookiee.
Which isn't an impossibility, really. He isn't sure exactly where he is, but he assumes somewhere in the lower levels; it's dark and it's dank and it smells strongly enough to get through his filters, sewage and rot and the metallic tang of blood. He isn't sure if it's his own, the night vision making it hard to tell what's what, and he can't quite tell if the aching is from general exertion or anything more sinister.
He’s not dead though, so it can’t be too bad, he thinks. Hopes.
He wiggles his toes and his fingers, relieved when they respond first try. He tightens the muscles through his feet, then his calves and his thighs and his ass, one by one, measuring their response and their pain, slowly working up to his head. Everything seems to be working, and the pain doesn't increase too much, so he sucks in a breath and clenches his jaw and hauls himself upright. The motion makes his head swirl, black dots dancing across his vision, and he staggers, catches himself against a wall. His knees tremble slightly, but they hold his weight as he pants, rides out the pain in his head, waits for his pulse to stop roaring through his ears.
He must have been laying there for a while, that's for damn sure.
Which is concerning for more reasons than the amnesia itself, because he knows Fox and Stone and Thire and maybe even Oryx all have him lowjacked, even if he isn't sure of their tracker’s exact locations. If the trackers are still active, someone should have come to get him, by now. He should be in the medbay, or on the back of a speeder, or tucked into a bunk, ideally with a warm body behind him.
Not fuck-deep in the lower levels, feeling faint and nauseous and teetering around like a baby nexu.
He hopes they're all alright. That they've not been too worried for him, that there haven’t been any emergencies, anything to make life even harder when they're down a Commander. Fourteen hours isn't a lot in the long run, but it’s plenty long enough for things to go wrong.
He chances a step forward and is rewarded with a hot flash of pain in his right ankle. He looks down at it, trying to determine the cause, and oh.
Well.
He's not wearing his own armour.
What he'd thought was his usual red paint is instead blood, spattered up his feet and calves and thighs, close enough in pattern to deceive his foggy mind at a brief glance, but not holding up under closer scrutiny now. He’s missing his kama, for one; his jetpack as well. The lines are different to the ones he painstakingly paints, splattered with shining gloss instead of his own neat matte patterns, and the scuff marks he knows as well as his own palms are absent.
In fact, apart from the blood and a nasty crack along his left greave, there’s nothing marring the surface of the armour at all.
Which means that he's wearing a shiny’s armour.
That explains why he hasn't been collected, at least. The knowledge does not bring him any comfort whatsoever, and his skin prickles uncomfortably.
A look at his arms reveals the same, and this at least is more obvious, the pattern closer to Fox’s paint than his own - blood soaked up his gauntlets to his elbows, across his vambraces and rerebraces and likely streaking across his cuirass, as well. It’ll be a bitch to clean, he thinks, semi-hysterically, and starts checking his holsters and packs. He’s missing his primary blaster, his secondary holsters are empty, and a precursory glance around the – platform? Alley? He isn't exactly sure – reveals no immediate weaponry. He hasn’t got any rations, either, and his water canister is missing.
Fuck.
He can taste the tang of bile on the back of his throat and he swallows it down; he doesn’t want to have to remove his bucket – a shiny’s bucket, he's in someone else’s skin - not when he isn’t sure just how far down he is. Coruscant may be the Capital Of The Galaxy, but it’s also the capital of mysterious diseases and bacteria, and he’s heard rumours of an infection that can rot beings from the inside out before they’re even aware they’re sick.
He doesn’t fancy bringing that back up to Guard HQ. Oryx would be furious.
If he manages to make it back up there alive.
He forces himself to breathe through the panic that rises at the thought, tries to steady the racing of his heart. He’s still alive, despite whatever has happened to get him here, and if he can get down to the undercity, he can get back up out of it.
Not his best logic, but it’s a start. Optimism is key, he’s long since learnt, even when your brothers are being murdered by natborns and your bacta supply is constantly depleted and your siblings on the front line think you’re a coward. If you think you’re dead, then you act like you’re dead, and then you are dead.
There can be no surrender.
Things can always get worse.
If he dies down here, though, he’s fairly sure Fox will find a way to resurrect him, if only so he can kill him himself. Which is a horrible, terrible, weirdly comforting thought that he immediately puts out of mind in favour of figuring out exactly what the hell is going on.
He tries to flick through his HUD to the comm channel with no success; either he’s too low down for it to connect, or it had never been set up for anything past the basics in the first place. He’s willing to place his bets on it being the latter, but the former is a constant nuisance in the lower levels at the best of times.
Annoying, but not the end of the world.
He tries the wrist comm next and is relieved when it pitches out a blast of static, because at least it’s showing some sign of life. It refuses to connect to any channel when he tries, though, and inputting the emergency numbers only return him with more static. His head throbs, and his HUD pings that his pulse has breached a hundred beats per minute.
No connection. Not even for the dadita channel.
He must be lower than he thinks. He curses the powers that be for denying the request for all patrolling Guardsmen to have signal boosting antennas as standard equipment, instead of them being for Command only. It would have given him more of a chance, at least.
The knife that they are permitted to wear as standard is still in its sheath on the small of his back, which is something of a relief. He’d have preferred any sort of ranged weapon, of course, but at least he’s not wandering around completely empty handed.
He forces in another breath, holds it for eight, releases it for four, and then slowly makes his way out from between the buildings – he is on a platform, turns out, jutting out over dark, dead space in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of Kamino – and begins the long, lonely ascent to the surface.
He winds his way through the darkness for what feels like days and is in reality only two hours, according to his chrono, crossing bridges and ducking through alleys and climbing three sets of stairs to bring him three measly foot levels closer to surface. The underlevels are a maze in 3 dimensions, and the numbering depends entirely on the builders’ and the residents’ whims at the time, and while he’s relatively familiar with the Senate District, he tends not to venture much outside of it. None of them do unless the local police demand it of them, and Stone tends to be the unlucky bastard lumped with that job.
The planet is split into sectors which are split into districts, is the gist of it, some sectors spanning hundreds of levels, some spanning handfuls. The levels consist of foot levels, meters tall and for beings only, and then flight levels, hundreds of meters tall and spanning hundreds of foot levels and plenty of dead space. Sometimes a whole sector will be abandoned for no foreseeable reason, and sometimes the level below will be thriving with life to the point of overcrowding. None of it makes any sense at all.
The builders and residents of this level are all long gone, to his folly – it would have been far too easy to have ended up somewhere with any form of civilisation or communication methods, of course. He tries not to think of what, exactly, would have brought him so deep, but the blood makes it hard to ignore and easy to speculate. Oryx will have a field day trying to analyse it all and figure out who he’s butchered.
His HUD pings his pulse again. Thorn breathes, in and out, and watches it tick back down.
Coruscant is hell, Thorn had told Stone after Stone’s first outing, and he feels very justified in that opinion right now. It doesn’t soothe the fear that’s doing its best to creep in, but it’s something.
He’s running low on optimism when he finds a courtyard that likely used to be grand but is now desolate and crumbling. What’s more promising is the extravagant entrance to a building that seems to rise forever into the gloom.
A cautious look inside reveals it to be as dead and empty as everything else, but the structure of the building is stable, and more importantly, there’s a gravlift shaft in its core.
In his first stroke of luck since waking, the lift comes plummeting from above when he presses the button to summon it. Thorn resists the urge to pump his fist in victory, and carefully steps aboard.
There’s a bench inside the lift, and it’s not entirely caked in filth. He sinks down upon it, body aching in relief. He lets himself rest for a minute, lets the relief and panic and fear wash over him like a wavefront, carefully counting the seconds in his head, and then tucks the emotion neatly back into its box and presses the button to take the lift to its highest point.
He learns from the data sheet plastered to the wall that he had been on level 2043, which is mostly a foot level consisting of bridges and platforms and floors of interlinked buildings, and that the building he has found himself in spans the entire width of levels 2000 to 2400, which is still measly in the long run but better than nothing. The next levels might be inhabited, which would be a mercy.
The lift takes him shooting through the gloom, and the view outside the transparisteel window starts off clustered with the shadows of buildings that thin out to a false sky as he rises. There’s enough room to fly a starship in the space left between the tallest of the buildings and the fast-approaching ceiling, which is horrifying.
The lift bursts through the darkness of the ceiling of level 2399 and the ceiling becomes the floor of 2400. The lift stops and the doors slide open with a hiss, revealing more dark space and as much life as the section before.
Thorn sighs, and drops his head back to thunk against the lift wall. He hadn’t expected to suddenly be surrounded by beings, but all he has are a knife and hope, and the knife has yet to come in handy. He gets up, pushing through the dots in his vision and the pain in his ankle and the scream of his ribs, and finds himself outside what may once have been a factory. It’s far less fancy than the lobby on 2043, for sure.
The paint on the wall of this maybe-factory reads that he is indeed now on level 2400, and that he’s on the cusp of sector H-76, which is not ideal but not catastrophic. If he can make his way to H-46, he might be able to find his way home via the tunnels that are said to lead to the bowels of the Senate district.
If they exist, that is. He might well end up even more lost. Anything is possible, but he pushes the thought of failure away and rallies himself, setting as brisk a pace as he can manage down the side of the building, following the arrow that must have once been for workers. He’ll figure something out. He’s not XO of the Guard for nothing.
He hasn’t seen any speeders yet, which isn't a surprise but is a goddamn shame. Not that one would do him much good down here, but it would make searching for the next lift or train or shaft far easier. He can scarcely see 10 meters in front of him, emergency lights occasionally cutting through the darkness, and he has no way of knowing which direction will lead him up, if any.
He presses on, feet light and steps carefully measured so as not to aggravate his injuries further. The factory looms above him, swallowed by the dark, and he turns a corner to find himself in another alley, this time alongside what looks like may have once been an old water treatment plant.
A quick check inside it reveals far too many weapons caches stashed against the far wall for his liking, so he ducks back out and continues on, even though the thought getting his hands on a blaster is so very tempting. Better to be walking out here than to be shot for poking his nose in where it’s not wanted, even though the caches don’t look as though they’ve moved in a century.
He just needs to get closer to the surface, he tells himself, just enough that his comm decides to play ball, and then he’ll be home free. He tries said comm again, if only to distract himself from the darkness, and despite being a klick closer to the surface, is still hit with static. He curses, thumps a hand against it, and freezes when something in the not-so-distance makes a noise.
A quiet, scuffling noise that could easily be a rat or an ogre or a criminal. Things echo weirdly through the underlevels, he knows, and even the loudest of sounds can be dampened to something negligible, or vice versa.
Adrenaline spikes in his chest, quickens his pulse and the pain in his head alike. He slowly lowers his hand and draws the knife. It won’t be much good against an ogre, or anyone armed with more than a knife of their own, but it brings some semblance of comfort.
At least if he goes down, he’ll go down with a weapon in his hands.
The scuffle comes again, further up ahead of him from the side of the treatment plant. Repetitive enough to sound like footsteps, close enough in distance to be someone of Thorn’s own height and build. Not an ogre or a wookiee or a besalisk, then. Maybe a human, or a twi’lek, or some other kind of humanoid.
Which are far better odds than it could have been, but still isn't great. He’s still only got a knife, and his usual hand to hand certainly isn't going to be on par at the moment. He’d be lucky to land a blow, let alone a grapple.
Thorn folds himself into the shadows with less ease than usual; the aches have amplified tenfold, ribs throbbing under his cuirass and ankles threatening to buckle with any sudden movement. The adrenaline is doing something to numb it, now, but not quite enough. He’s in much worse shape than he thought initially, and he’s only made it worse over the last few hours.
Oryx is definitely going to kill him, if the newcomer doesn’t first.
Knowing Oryx, he thinks, the newcomer may be a mercy.
The footsteps continue in their approach, and a flickering shadow forms against the wall. Definitely humanoid; no lekku, no extra limbs.
Better odds, again.
“Is someone there?” The humanoid calls, voice gravelly with an accent that Thorn can’t distinguish, and Thorn’s breathing halts in his chest. His hiding place isn't the best, but if he can keep quiet, they might move on. He might not have to add a blaster shot or slug shot or knife wound to his current list of injuries, which would be nice. He’s got enough scars as it is.
They don’t move on.
Instead they move closer, feet taking careful steps, arms held slightly out to their sides. Thorn can’t tell from the shadow if they're armed. If they are, better to let them get close, try to fight his way out. At worst, he’ll be dead. At best, he might win himself a better weapon than a blade, and Fox would probably be begrudgingly impressed.
So he waits, breathing shallow and posture carefully relaxed, until he can see the humanoid in the flesh.
Unfortunately, it seems the humanoid can see him too.
Fuck.
“Hey, you,” they call, clearly looking in Thorn’s direction, arms still held oddly. “Want to step out and tell me what you’re doing out here? This ain’t no place to be hanging around.”
Thorn does so, keeping his movements slow, still as relaxed as he can force himself to be. He keeps the blade of the knife tucked tight against his vambrace, hidden from sight.
The humanoid takes a step closer, and then stops. “You’re a trooper,” they say, and sound remarkably surprised by it.
“State your business,” Thorn says flatly, a demand rather than a question, turning the blade between his fingers to get a better grip on it. There have been shinies going missing on lower level patrols for months now, even in the Senate district, the Guard given no permission to seek those responsible. It’s not entirely implausible he’s faced with one of the perpetrators now. He’ll be ready if he comes any closer.
If he has to rip the guy’s throat out, then hey. Maybe they can all get a bit more sleep at night.
If he makes it home.
“Easy there,” the guy says, catching the movement, and raises his hands to shoulder level. His voice is suddenly a lot smoother, if still slightly accented. “If you’re a clone, I’m a friendly. Want to prove it to each other?”
Not really, Thorn thinks, but - his heart leaps at a chance of escape. If the guy’s lying, he presumably has a way out of here that Thorn can maybe find. If he's not lying…
Well. Thorn’s luck will have taken a rare turn for the better.
“I’m not removing my helmet,” Thorn tells him, because he’s not an idiot.
The guy shrugs. “That’s fair enough,” he agrees amicably, and steps forwards again. The shadows shimmer across his face oddly, then clear to reveal him to be at least near-human, with a tattoo bisecting his face. A Kiffar, perhaps, or a Pantoran. The night vision makes it impossible to tell. “Want to tell me your name and what battalion you’re from? Maybe we’ll have some mutual friends.”
“CC-8561,” Thorn says, which is close enough to the truth. Fen won’t mind sharing the number for now; he’s been dead two years. “I’m with the Guard. Second in command to CC-1010.”
The Kiffar looks surprised. “You’re far from home, Commander,” he says, and Thorn bristles.
“Prove yourself friendly, and I’ll continue on my way,” he says, still more a demand than anything else, and instantly regrets it.
The Kiffar reaches behind him in a way that would likely have earned him a nice stun round to the chest should Thorn have been armed with anything but the knife, and Thorn’s heart leaps to his mouth. The man just pulls his arm back out, though, and presses a button, and suddenly the pair of them are bathed in light.
Lightsaber.
Jedi.
Hope flares hot in Thorn’s chest before he stomps it down. It’s almost enough to earn his trust, but Thorn's seen the casualty lists, and the Jedi are losing numbers too; it’s not as difficult to get hold of a lightsaber as it was before the war. He’s heard enough from Stone about the stings the Jedi Shadows have been running to know there’s an active underground trade on Coruscant.
The Guard doesn’t have a Jedi, anyway. He’s met Gallia a few times, and Windu the once, and they’d seemed decent enough as far as beings go, but he’s allowed to be wary of them. Space wizardry may impress his frontline brothers, but having the Temple less than ten klicks away has done nothing for the Guard throughout their stint on planet.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” he says, tightening his grip around the knife. The light is unnerving, humming unnaturally, and he really doesn’t like his odds against a lightsaber in a fight, even if the wielder doesn’t know how to use it. Maybe especially then. “You could have stolen it from a battlefield.”
“You’re a suspicious one, aren’t you?” The maybe-Jedi doesn’t sound annoyed by it, weirdly. He almost seems impressed. “Fine. Ever met Commander Faie? About your height, about your build, excellent with a DC-15 but abysmal with a sniper? Grumpy son of a bitch. We’ve worked missions together. I’m technically his CO.”
And at that, Thorn feels himself sag with relief, because he does know Faie. Or of him, at least. Stone complains about his batchers enough for Thorn to be familiar with their names, their weird habits.
Their lack of skill with Stone’s preferred weapon, in Faie’s case.
“What’s Faie’s CC number?” he asks, just to be sure. The maybe-Jedi General rolls his eyes dramatically, in a way that’s weirdly reminiscent of Fox.
“So prickly!” he says, and Thorn rolls his eyes habitually. “1192, if I remember correctly. And if you’re a Guard, I met your Commander Stone a while back, too. At the prison. He has a tattoo on his right temple.” Vos turns off the lightsaber, plunging them back into near darkness. “That good enough for you, Commander?”
It is. More than enough, actually, though Thorn doesn’t remember Stone telling him about a run in with a Jedi. The only one Stone has mentioned is the Shadowmaster, Tholme, and this certainly isn't him. Too young, for one.
A Jedi is a Jedi, though, mistrust be damned, and this one seems friendly enough. It’s better than dying lost in Coruscant’s grimy underbelly, and he can live to be friendly in return for a ride home, even if Fox gives him grief for it.
Thorn lowers his knife and slips it back into its sheath, ignoring the way his hands are trembling.
“Thorn, at your service, sir,” he says, saluting smartly. The motion aches, and he’s glad his bucket hides his grimace.
The Jedi immediately waves his hands down, stepping forwards and taking in Thorn’s appearance, head tilted analytically.
“Looks like you’ve been in some trouble,” he says lightly, which is possibly the greatest understatement of the month. “Quinlan Vos. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Vos reaches out a hand that Thorn warily accepts to shake, and then Vos is folding in at his side with a practiced ease, taking some of the weight from Thorn’s ankle without bothering to ask.
Thorn would complain at the indignity, at the lack of protocol, but he’s tired. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, he’s feeling the pain through his chest even more, feels himself lagging.
If Jedi are as strong as his brother’s brag, then Vos won’t have any issues. And besides, if Vos had an issue with helping, he wouldn’t have put himself in the position in the first place.
Fox might be upset about it, but at least Thorn will be there to see him be upset. And Thire keeps telling them the Jedi are more trustworthy than the Guard believes, anyway. Thorn is willing to believe him, considering his current predicament.
He’s hit with the sudden bone-deep surety that if Vos hadn’t appeared from the ether, he very likely would have fallen, somewhere within the next hour, and he isn't entirely sure if he’d been able to get up again. He knows his limits, and this is slowly approaching them. He’s dehydrated and exhausted and injured, and he’s got the growing suspicion that he’s been down here longer than the chrono in his helmet is insisting. Sixteen hours should be nothing compared to the fifty-long shifts he's run in the Senate, nothing compared to the week-long stints of fatigue training on Kamino.
He puts the thought out of mind, because he is getting out of here, and it’ll be fine.
He’s fine.
And he’s in the presence of a General, no matter how much said General currently looks like some kind of criminal, so he can’t let his guard down.
“What’s brought you so far out this way?” Vos asks as he nudges at Thorn’s back, ushering him forwards. “And did you know that you’re covered in blood?”
Thorn goes without resistance, legs trembling as they move. “I had noticed,” he says, which makes the Jedi snort a laugh. “But other than that, I can’t remember. I woke up a few levels down, a few hours ago. We’re too deep for comms to work, so I’ve been climbing upwards ever since.”
Vos whistles lowly. “Hell of a place to get stuck. You’re lucky I found you; the next few lifts are all shot to shit. It’s a long climb to anywhere inhabited from here.”
Thorn doesn’t say anything to that. He swallows back the lump that forms in his throat and forces himself to think of home. The barracks, the canteen, the couch in the bullpen. Fox and Thire and Stone, his Captains and Lieutenants and Sergeants.
He’s fine.
He stomps the emotion down and drags back out the optimism, the friendliness he’s not really feeling but can fake until it becomes real. He’s had enough time working with Senators that it’s easy enough to slip on the pretence of fine, at least. “What are you doing here, then, sir? If I can ask.”
The Jedi snorts. “You can ask, but I can’t answer. Shadow stuff for my Master, all top secret. Turn left here.”
Ah. If he’s a Shadow himself, that explains some things, including how he’d know Stone, and why he’s so damn informal. Something in Thorn eases – a Shadow is far less likely to find him wanting than a frontline General, he knows - and he allows Vos to take a little bit more of his weight.
Don’t refuse help when you need it is one of the unofficial rules of the Guard, after all. Thorn had penned it himself, mostly aimed at Fox and the medics, but it applies to everyone.
They turn into a short, narrow alley that ends swiftly in a sheer brick wall. Vos reaches forwards with a hand, waves vaguely, and the bricks slide aside as one.
Thorn decides not to ask what the absolute fuck that was, because the answer is almost certainly space wizardry. They continue forwards into a slightly wider alley, at the other end of which is an even wider area, lit up by an emergency light. Thorn can’t tell for sure, but it looks like there might be a speeder parked, the bumper just visible through the gap.
Small mercies. His legs feel like they may give way at any second, and it would be devastatingly embarrassing to need to be carried there.
“Anything to do with that weapons cache back there?” he asks Vos, mostly to distract himself from his HUD pinging his vitals again, and because he’s always been too curious for his own good.
“Surprisingly not,” Vos answers amicably, and shifts Thorn slightly, adjusting his hold to dig less into Thorn’s ribs. It’s very considerate of him. “But I’ll let CorSec know it’s there, just in case they fancy doing anything about it. I’ve been loosely undercover for a few weeks, and the trail led me here. Dead end. I was just about to head back to the Temple when I sensed you.”
The most fortunate dead end in the world, Thorn thinks, and thanks whatever powers that be that the trail went cold where it did. And whatever magic wizard powers that allowed Vos to sense him, too, whatever the hell that means.
“Well, I’m glad it did, if only for my own sake. I was getting worried.”
Vos barks out a laugh. “You’re welcome, if you’re trying to thank me,” he replies. “Now, seriously. You can’t remember how you got here? Covered in blood, broken ankle and ribs, just with a knife?”
Thorn hesitates, and considers telling him the story – what Fox and Stone have told him of their own experiences, waking up with hours lost, of his meeting with the Chancellor being the last thing he recalls, but as soon as he opens his mouth the words begins to blur together and slip away like one of those fancy bars of soap that Organa occasionally gifts them, leaving him grasping at them with no success and feeling like a fool for trying.
“I seriously can’t remember,” he hears himself say instead, and the words sound muted, as though he's hearing them through water. “And I don’t know who’s the blood is, either. Might be mine? I think I might have fallen.”
“Weird,” Vos muses, far more nonchalant than Thorn would have expected, considering just how much blood he’s covered in. “I suppose you might have got separated from a patrol group and had an adventure. There’s been plenty of them around over the last few days, even out here, so it’s not too unlikely.”
They’re at the end of the alley now, and it is a speeder parked up. Thorn has never been so relieved to see one in his life. The news of patrols in the area is odd, though. There’s nothing of importance out here to warrant them.
“And besides,” Vos continues, as he fiddles with the keys. “If you rattled your brain enough, you’re bound to have a bit of memory loss. Happens to the best of us.”
He sounds as though he’s speaking from experience, which would be a comfort in any usual situation. It’s an explanation, at least, and the fog seems to clear from his mind as Vos drops the subject.
Very weird. Something to inform the others of, for certain. When he gets home, which he will be able to do alive, because he’s been found by a Jedi.
It might be the weirdest day of Thorn’s short life.
Vos steers him into the passenger seat and Thorn collapses down gratefully. His ribs scream at the pressure, but it’s fine. He can deal with having busted ribs for however many hours longer, now that he's not at risk of falling over his own feet and busting them even more. He’s had worse.
“There’s been more patrols?” he asks once he’s caught his breath, and Vos frowns at him as he clambers over the door into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah,” Vos nods, buckling himself in. “The last two days, the city’s been crawling with them. Your boys are all over town, searching for something. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but it’s disrupted a few of our missions. Scared people underground; you know how it is down here.”
Thorn closes his eyes halfway through the sentence, and barely notices as Vos expertly steers the speeder up and away.
Two days?
He can’t remember if there was a mission scheduled for this week, if there had been rumours of more protests. It’s not his jurisdiction, and Coruscant has been tense recently, a pot ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. Stone has been forced to increase the patrols around the senate and GAR offices twice already in recent months, first after the Hardeen ordeal, and then the Temple bombing, so it’s not impossible -
Or his chrono is wrong, and he has been down here longer than it says.
The fear crawls back up into his throat. He’d know if he’d lost more than a day, surely. The command classes are trained to count time to the second, to always having a chronometer ticking away in their heads. To lose two entire days is unimaginable, and yet. He certainly feels as though he’s been on his feet that long, feels the mental fatigue dragging him down, more so than it has any right to.
He pushes the thought back out of mind as something to deal with later, when he has concrete answers, and isn't with a Jedi. Preferably for when he's tucked into a bunk, with Fox or Thire asleep on top of him, and the others within reaching distance.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” he says to Vos, and peels his eyes open. The motion takes more effort than he’d anticipated. The darkness seems to swirl around him nauseatingly, and he’s glad he’s not the one flying. “Let us know if we need to steer clear of anywhere in the future. Or if you need a hand with anything – y’know, intel and arrests and the like. No point making each other’s lives harder.”
Vos throws a half smile at him, eyes briefly flicking over before returning to the dark expanse above them. “Appreciate that, Thorn,” he says. “Hold tight now, it’s a bit blustery through here.”
It is indeed a bit blustery, enough so that Vos pulls a rebreather out of seemingly nowhere to cover the lower half of his face, effectively cutting off any further conversation. He slings a pair of bulky goggles on just after, and if Thorn knew him better, he’d tease him about them. Vos looks truly ridiculous.
It’s too dark to see much below them, but Vos expertly weaves them through the megastructures and towers that come looming from the darkness. It’s unsettling, Thorn thinks, to know all of this is beneath them, that one structural failure could be entirely inconsequential or bring the entire city crumbling to its core. If Thorn were inclined toward claustrophobia, he’d be feeling it now.
He closes his eyes again. There’s nothing much to see down here anyway, and it helps ease the spinning in his head a little bit. The box of emotions threatens to open itself, heavy in his chest, and he quashes it, forces himself to be calm, that things are all right. It’s harder than it should be, which is a bad sign.
Only a few more hours until he’s back on base, and then he can have his breakdown in peace. Now is not the time or the place. He's got a reputation to maintain, damn it.
He gives himself a minute, breathing heavily in through his nose and blowing out through his mouth, the way Oryx has hammered into him a hundred times. It works a bit, enough that he probably isn't going to burst into tears and invite uncomfortable questions from the Jedi sat less than a meter away from him.
When he opens his eyes, ten minutes later to the second, it’s to see that they’re still enshrouded in darkness, and Vos is either entirely oblivious to his passenger’s distress or is just being very polite about it. His eyes are fixed on the – sky? Space? Thorn really doesn’t know what to call it – and his hands are steady on the controls even as the airstream buffets them around, as though this is entirely normal for him. If he’s telling the truth that he’s a Shadow, it very likely is.
Thorn startles slightly when a wall looms up towards them, cutting through the darkness like a scythe, but Vos doesn’t flinch. He slows them slightly, the wind increasing, and Thorn is just starting to get anxious about ending up a smear on the side of a building when they pass through what looks to be a black hole but must be instead one of the entrances to the gigantic ventilation portals running from level to level. Thorn has been in one, just the once, and only inside of one of the gravlifts lining the walls.
This is something else entirely.
They’re back in free space again, the air quiet, but this time it’s bright enough that his night vision disengages automatically, throwing the world back into colour. The shaft is over half a kilometre wide, the walls lit up with lights and lined with gravlifts and shuttles, but more importantly, it’s teeming with life.
Thorn hadn’t realised how spooked he’d been at the lack of it until it had returned.
There are other speeders whizzing through the air around them, spiralling up and down with seemingly no order. He can see beings laughing in a lift that’s rocketing down as they pass it, and he likes to think that if he looks up hard enough, he can see a pinprick of light signalling the surface. It’s likely only his imagination and the lights of a shuttle, but it’s a comfort all the same.
He won’t die lost and unfindable in the lower levels. He’s going home.
Vos neatly tucks them in behind a speeder and puts them into a climbing spiral, anticlockwise around the walls of the shaft, tucked closer to the lifts than the traffic passing on the left of them, descending on an opposing spiral. There must be some order to the lanes, then, which is good. Thorn likes order, and he likes not dying in a dramatic speeder crash, too.
Vos pulls off his mask and goggles once they’ve ascended a few loops, seemingly having stuck the speeder on autopilot, and grins across at Thorn. He is a Kiffar, turns out, and the stripe bisecting his face is yellow.
“We’ll be in here for a while,” he says, leaning back in his seat, casual as anything. “How’re you holding up?”
Thorn smiles shakily back at him, even though he knows the Jedi won’t be able to see it. “I’ve had better days,” he says, and thanks all those hours of being in the Senate when the words come out light and cheerful.
Vos snorts. “It’s uphill from here, at least,” he says. “When did you last eat? Drink?”
Thorn doesn’t know, but from the feel of his mouth and the sudden awareness of his empty stomach, it must have been a good while ago.
The lack of an answer must be an answer in itself, for Vos hums, presses a button, and swivels his entire seat around so he’s facing backwards. Thorn just about has a heart attack, but the speeder stays steady, and Vos quickly turns back, armed with a flask of something and a handful of ration bars.
The flask is pushed into Thorn’s hands, and he sits stuped for a second. Vos tears open a ration bar and shoves half of it into his mouth with little abandon.
“Drink,” he instructs thickly, when Thorn still hasn’t moved. “It’s only water, but it’s probably better that way.”
Thorn blinks at him, protocol blaring in his head, because accepting food from strangers is one thing that they can never afford to do, except this isn't really a stranger and Thorn really does need to drink something.
It would be weird for the Jedi to rescue him only to then poison him, he decides, so he wedges the flask between his thighs, and carefully reaches up to pop the seal on his bucket.
Vos has the manners to look away as he pulls it off, and ouch. His nose throbs dully as he catches the seal on it, and his hair feels oddly sticky as he runs a hand over it in an attempt to smooth it down to some kind of neatness. The wind is much calmer than it was before they entered the portal, but it’s still whipping around them, and it bites at Thorn’s face, makes his eyes sting and his breath catch in his lungs.
“Yikes,” says Vos, sounding mildly surprised. Thorn looks away from his assessing gaze, self-conscious. “Hell of a cut you’ve got there.”
Thorn carefully probes his face with his fingers, and immediately lands on what Vos is talking about. There’s a puffy, tender gash across his forehead, running diagonally from his hairline down almost to the bridge of his nose, and it stings like a bitch. Blood flakes away under his hand, but the gash is still oozing lazily in the way cuts tend to do when there’s something lodged in them.
“Fucking shit,” he sighs, and resists the urge to poke it more. It’ll only make the pain worse, and fuck knows what kind of bacteria is on his gloves. Last thing he needs is some kind of infection.
Vos is peering at him with poorly disguised worry. “We can stop by a medcentre, if you need to. Or I know a guy that sells pretty good bacta, if you like the smell of pineapple –”
“It’s fine, thank you,” Thorn interrupts, before Vos gets any further. “It’s not that bad.”
Or rather he's had worse, but he's not about to say that.
The Jedi looks unconvinced but accepts it with a nod. “If you’re sure,” he says, and motions towards the flask again. “Drink. It’ll help.”
Drinking does help, if only with the dryness of his mouth and the dizziness in his head. Vos gently passes him a ration bar, which hurts to chew but settles his stomach further, and by the time they’ve spiralled up past what Vos says is level three thousand, he feels a bit more like a human being.
Vos doesn’t ask any questions, incredibly, and instead gives him a running commentary of the levels they pass – who lives there, what missions he’s run, how close to the surface they are. Thorn doesn’t have many questions, but Vos easily answers the few he does manage to ask, keeping the topics light and away from the actual dark Shadow work that’s likely the reason Vos knows so much about Coruscant at all. His voice is low and rumbly and oddly soothing, and his words run across Thorn’s mind like a balm. He’s almost calm, now, the fake friendliness turned real and the box of emotions sitting quietly. The constant circling of the speeder round and around the portal isn't even making him queasy anymore.
“You know Stone,” Thorn puts in eventually, once Vos has rambled his way through an explanation of the bizarre relationships in his favourite cantina on level 3550. He’d somehow almost forgotten about it, and with how Vos has been chattering on, he might give a straight answer, which is more than he’ll likely get out of Stone himself.
Vos barks out a delighted laugh. “He arrested me,” he says, which makes Thorn sit up straight with surprise. He immediately regrets it as fresh pain lances through him, sharper now than before.
“He arrested you?” Thorn repeats, grimacing, and accepts the flask of water once more.
“Well, not me specifically,” Vos says with a grin, which does nothing to explain anything.
Thorn shoots him an unimpressed look, which Vos laughs at. “I was undercover investigating a minor crime syndicate that was trying to get in with the Pyke’s,” he continues. “And if I called you prickly, then these guys were a whole damn rose bush. Suspicious as all hells, especially of newcomers, and especially those asking questions about how to sign up.”
“So you got arrested to make them trust you?” Thorn guesses, and is rewarded with a wink.
“So I got myself arrested to make them trust me,” Vos confirms brightly. “I got into a bar fight in CoCo Town with a guy known to be opposed to this gang, and your boys showed up to sort things out. I got into another fight with your man with the mastiff, and ran a few blocks, and one of your other commanders tackled me. Thire, is it, with the pauldron?” Vos looks weirdly appreciative of this, and it eases the panic in Thorn’s chest before it can form. Thorn commits the look to memory, if only to tease Thire, who will be mortified. “The guy hits like a goddamn train.”
“He’s pretty good,” Thorn agrees, pleased, because Thire is his not-quite-batchmate, and he’s been on the receiving end of Thire’s tackles more times than he can count. Still is, when they find the time to spar, which is a rarity these days. Thorn suddenly misses him like a limb. He swallows hard. “Did he realise you were a Jedi?”
“I don’t think he did, but the guys at holding found out later when they ran my prints,” Vos shrugs. “Stone stepped in to interrogate me, and agreed to let me stay the night at the main prison to get cosy with a cell mate of my choosing, which was pretty good. Sped things up with the investigation. We got all the fuckers, in the end.”
“That’s good. He’s Faie’s batchmate,” Thorn says absently, as the melancholy rises again. It’s ridiculous; he’ll see Stone soon.
Vos just smiles. “So he said. I’m sure I can pass on a hello, next time I’m sent out with him. And I think we absolutely could come to a deal about working together, by the way. More hands make for lighter work, and all. I’m amazed that we’re not doing so already.”
“I’ll speak to them about it,” Thorn nods, and then runs his mind over something less achey to talk about.
He lands on General Gallia, and one easy question into Vos’s familiarity with her results in Vos reigniting his storytelling, this time about the Senate and Gallia and Windu’s personal vendettas against the idiots that run it, which is remarkably gratifying to hear. They’re only ever perfectly professional and untouchable in meetings, and it’s nice to know about the people underneath the masks.
He nods off for an indeterminable amount of time at least twice after then, which is embarrassing, but Vos has Coruscant’s Funkiest playing on the radio when he wakes, and is happy to carry on with his tale from where Thorn dropped off, and later, as they begin to approach the surface, to fly in surprisingly comfortable silence.
By the time the sky is visible above them, Thorn would tentatively say he likes Vos. The Jedi is sharp as a whip and has a sense of humour that meshes well with Thorn’s own. He could likely talk the hind end off of a shaak, which is good, because they’ve been travelling for hours, and it’s doing wonders to stave off Thorn’s emotional breakdown.
On any other occasion they'd likely get on like a house on fire, but Thorn is still anxious and tired, worse so for having napped, and all his stories of the Guard catch between his teeth before he can ever say them. It makes for rather a one-sided on and off conversation, though Vos doesn’t seem to mind.
“Are you still hungry?” the Jedi asks, as the light surrounding them suddenly becomes natural, and they finally emerge from the vent. “There's an excellent takeout place near Little Keldabe that does the best kebabs, honestly –”
Thorn isn't particularly hungry and is really a bit overwhelmed at the sudden daylight surrounding them – it most certainly isn't 2230 like his chrono is telling him - but the thought of proper food is a tempting one, and for a moment he longs to say yes.
But he needs to get home, to see his brothers safe with enough need that it makes his chest ache. He's got time for frivolities later, maybe. And besides, he doesn't really want to get reported as being AWOL.
“I can't,” he says, just as Vos starts describing the softness of their flatbreads with a longing look in his eye. Vos pauses and cocks an eyebrow at him. “I need to get to base. I've been away long enough. If I'm seen out, I could get written up for it. As a deserter.”
“You wouldn't if you were with me,” Vos replies, with all the confidence of a man who doesn't work in the Senate. “It'd be my word against theirs; they'd have no leg to stand on.”
Thorn wrinkles his nose. “You don’t outrank the Chancellor,” he says, the words heavy on his tongue. “He’s in command of the Guard. We’re outside of normal GAR protocols; I don’t think the Jedi hold any jurisdiction over us.”
That's putting it lightly, really, but the words make him feel dizzy and he doesn't really want to think about it anymore.
“Well, that's not fair,” Vos says, sounding put out.
Thorn shrugs. “It is what it is. You can stop for kebab, though, if you like.”
“I'll survive without,” Vos waves him off. “We'll get you home safe, first. Kebabs can wait. I think that place has been open for centuries, seriously, it’s incredible.”
He goes off on another tangent about the best food places on Coruscant, which requires little of Thorn apart from the occasional hum or benign comment. Considering how woozy he's beginning to feel, it's probably a good thing.
As soon as they hit the skylanes, his comm link vibrates, startling him from his drowsy, lounged position back to upright. Vos juggles the ration bar he'd been gesturing with like a lightsaber and manages to catch it before it escapes the speeder.
“You good?” he asks, as Thorn winces against the stab in his ribs and taps only slightly hysterically at the ‘link to see what's working.
“The dadita channel is in range,” he murmurs. He feels rather spacey, as though his body isn't quite his own. Everything seems to be pulsing in time with his heartbeat, which is definitely ticking faster than usual, and he doesn’t like it at all. “We must be close?”
“Only about an hour, at this speed, providing the traffic is good,” Vos confirms, eyes fixed on the lanes ahead.
Thorn hums affirmative, tapping delicately onto the receiver. It takes more concentration than usual, and the commlink is tacky with blood.
9931 incoming, safe.
Then, a moment later, sorry for the worry.
The comm vibrates to say the messages have sent, and something loosens in his chest as he sags back down in his seat.
Vos has one eye on him and his mouth curled in a half smile. He looks tired too, now that Thorn is paying attention. He isn't covered in blood, though, so Thorn probably wins out the who looks worse competition.
“Won’t be long now,” Vos offers, in what’s likely an attempt to be comforting. “Want the radio?”
Thorn nods agreement, and so they listen to Coruscant’s Funkiest for the final hour. Despite his best efforts to stay awake, Thorn finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness for most of it. Considering he’s in an open top speeder without his bucket on and accompanied by a man he met less than twelve hours ago, he feels remarkably safe about doing so.
By some miracle, he doesn’t sleep long enough to dream.
He’s dragged back to alertness by the chime of the speeder’s comm system, telling of an incoming transmission and cutting the Rodian singer off mid-croon.
“That'll be your boys,” Vos grins, then presses the receiver with gusto.
“This is the designated airspace for the approach to Coruscant Guard HQ,” comes a vod's voice, calm and professional, and the sound alone makes Thorn feel oddly faint, heat rushing through his cheeks. “Please state your business if you wish to continue this flight path. If not, you will be escorted back to civilian airspace in five standard minutes.”
“Good afternoon,” says Vos pleasantly. “This is General Quinlan Vos, landing clearance V05-7H7, and I've managed to pick up a stray of yours. We'll be landing in fifteen standard minutes, if that suits you.”
There’s silence for a long moment. Then, warily, “I'm going to need you to elaborate on that before I can confirm your approach, sir.”
Vos tilts his head in Thorns direction in a clear invitation.
Thorn bites back the urge to cry, and leans forwards, clears his throat. “It's Commander Thorn,” he says. His voice stays blessedly steady. “Landing code 9931-1C20. Vos picked me up.”
“Sir!” the voice squawks in clear surprise, and then there’s the sound of fumbling hands, and a new voice comes down the line.
“Thorn?” asks Stone, hesitant, and Thorn really could weep with relief, now.
“Hey, Stone,” he replies, voice cracking. “We good to come in?”
“Of course,” Stone says immediately. “Hells, Thorn. You want a medic?”
Thorn opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again without managing to make a sound.
“Yes, please,” Vos answers for him, after the silence has stretched for a second too long. “He's pretty beat up, but it’s nothing life threatening. We'll be with you in 10?”
“Understood, you’re clear to approach,” Stone confirms. “We'll see you soon. Ret', vod.”
Thorn lets out a shaky breath as the call cuts off, and accepts the flask of water thrust in his direction yet again. How it hasn’t run out yet is beyond him.
“Nearly there,” Vos says, far more gently than he's been in a while, and Thorn both appreciates it and wants to punch him for it. “And hey, if you're lucky, maybe you won’t get grounded to desk duty for a month. Maybe there's kebab in your future after all.”
Thorn huffs a laugh, because there isn’t much else to say to that, and they spend the next few minutes in a slightly tense silence as Thorn strains himself to try and spot the landing platform.
When it finally does come into view, there are three figures stood in a cluster near the double doorway. Thorn’s heart flip-flops in his chest, full of relief and guilt alike. Their paint is mostly a blur, but there's a mass of red and a kama that can only be Fox, and a pauldron that must be Thire, which leaves the last as either Stone or one of the medics.
The trio turn in unison as Vos steers them down gently, revealing that it is Stone, which is unusual. They don’t like to have all four of them away from their duties at any given time. It’s a logistical nightmare to arrange, even when things are calm and normal.
They must have been worried.
The guilt increases tenfold, as does the urge to get there. If he could, he’d vault out of the speeder the moment they touch down, but as it is he has to wait for Vos to come around and open the door, hands out in invitation to help him up.
Thorn is not too proud to take them, and the Jedi gently hauls him upright with a touch of what’s presumably the Force, which is weird. Like being scooped up by the wind, but safer and more secure and oddly warm. It takes the pressure off his throbbing ankle, which is a relief, and his hold is very gentle considering how much of Thorn's weight he's lugging about. Fucking wizards. His helmet even floats up next to him, ready to be clipped onto his belt.
“Safe and sound,” Vos says quietly, a grin on his face as he begins to steer Thorn towards his brothers.
Thorn elbows him in reply, and blinks back spots from his vision. “I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Vos replies, “but I’d love an introduction, if you don’t mind. And if you meant it about helping each other out –”
“Yeah, of course,” Thorn says easily, eyes fixed on Fox, who's stood in parade rest as always, shoulders pulled taut. At Thire who isn’t wearing his bucket and looks horribly exhausted, face pulled tight in the way that means he’s longing to run and leap at him.
Stone, gods thank him, has a hand wrapped around Thire's elbow to prevent him from doing just that.
They come to a halt in front of them, and Thorn salutes sharply on principle. They remain mostly unreadable, but Thire’s eyes track over the gash on his forehead, and he can see Fox’s shoulders rise even higher with tension. Stone, solid as ever, salutes back.
“Commanders,” Thorn says, voice rasping around the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat. He can’t just leap at them; he’s got an image to maintain, and he doesn’t think he’d make it all the way to them unassisted. Fox makes a tiny choking noise which is quickly cut off as he silences his voice piece. “Apologies for the delay. I got a bit lost.”
Stone tilts his bucketed head in the way that means he's the one in charge, for now. “Yeah, vod. We noticed.”
“Fuck, Thorn,” Thire chips in, wriggling his way from Stone's hold to come and duck under Thorn’s free arm, slinging it easily over his shoulders and taking Thorn’s weight entirely off the ground, hands strong and steady despite the shake in his voice. He unclips the unpainted bucket from Thorn’s belt and tosses it neatly to Stone. “We thought you were dead.”
Thorn's mouth fills with cotton, and he carefully knocks his head against Thire's temple, hates the way the simple motion makes his eyes prickle with tears. “I'm okay,” he manages to say. “I'm back now.”
“You found a Jedi?” Stone asks, hand subtly flashing relief and hello in Thorn’s direction.
“I found him,” Vos puts in proudly. “He was wandering through 2400, all covered in blood and confused. I thought you might like him back.”
“We appreciate it,” Stone says mildly, underexaggerating as ever. “Vos. We met a few months ago, correct?”
“You mean you don’t remember me? And here I thought we’d bonded,” Vos jokes, faking hurt in a way that immediately has the others tightening up.
Thorn jumps in before they can take any true offence at their superior officer’s words. It’s all well and good that Thorn has had hours of bonding time with the man and can tell that he's joking, but the others have not. Recon and decom are always close to mind, after all, even though he doesn’t think Vos would be one to jump to them.
“Vos, this is Stone, Thire and Fox. Commanders, this is General Quinlan Vos. He's a Shadow,” he pauses, watches as the others salute smartly and doesn’t bother hiding his wince at the way Thire's jostles his ribs. Thire can’t see him anyway. “And I’m told Thire arrested him a few months ago?”
“I arrested a Jedi?” Thire asks, voice thin with worry.
Fox manages to stand up straighter, somehow, shoulders tight as steel. He'll have one hell of a headache later, Thorn knows, if he doesn’t have one already. Thorn aches to reach for him, to smooth the tension away, but doesn’t move.
Vos must pick up on the collective group panic, for he reaches around Thorn to clap a hand to Thire's shoulder, startling him. “You did an excellent job with it. Great technique. My back was bruised for days.”
This doesn’t seem to bring Thire any comfort. Thorn leans his weight into Thire a bit more, wraps a bloody hand around his upper arm. His grip must be tight to the point of painful, but Thire either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Considering his own grip on Thorn's back, it's likely the latter.
“You did good, vod,” Stone says in support, and politely nods to Vos. “Did you manage to get in with the Syndicate in the end, sir?”
Vos throws his head back and laughs. His grip on Thorn remains unchanged. “I did indeed, and they’re off the streets now. You probably processed them yourselves,” he shrugs, “so thank you for that.”
Stone nods again. “Of course. We live to serve.”
Thorn’s head spins as Thire jostles him slightly, changes his grip on his waist. “I was wondering if we could sort a deal to help each other out,” he says, and can feel the looks of surprise and horror coming through Stone’s and Fox's buckets respectively. “With patrols, and arrests and the like. Since we overlap some.”
“Might as well try and make each other’s lives easier,” Vos puts in with an easy shrug that makes Thorn’s shoulder ache. “I’d be willing to set up a meeting with Master Tholme, if you think it would be worthwhile. We could sort something out.”
Stone shoots a look at Fox, who still hasn’t moved. He looks back to Thorn.
Trust, Thorn signs in his direction, which makes Stone tilt his head consideringly, and after a moment he agrees. “That would be excellent if you’re willing, sir. We could use the occasional backup.”
“Great stuff. Now, I know he won’t tell you, but I think Thorn might collapse if we keep him on his feet any longer. I’m no healer, but those ribs are definitely broken. Nothing deadly that I can sense, but you should probably run a blood screen for all the usual nasties all the same.”
“Traitor,” Thorn hisses, even though Vos is entirely correct. The pain in his ribs and chest is making him dizzy with every breath, and he’s feeling the ache and the itch of blood all the more now that he’s home, Thire by his side and the others close enough to touch.
Fox steps forwards at the words, finally. “We owe you a debt,” he says flatly, arms tucked neatly behind his back.
“Debt, schmebt,” Vos says easily, waving him off. “I'm glad to help. Try not to get lost down there again, though, yeah? There are worse things down there than me.”
“I didn’t exactly do it on purpose,” Thorn gripes, and the Jedi laughs.
“Still,” he says, carefully easing himself out from under Thorn's arm to give Stone room to step in and take his place. “Be safe. All of you.”
“We'll try our best, sir. You too.” Thorn replies, trying to ignore the wobble in his voice, and grits his teeth at the change in pressure. Whatever force nonsense Vos had used had really been taking the weight off his leg, and it throbs again now. Stone’s grip is tight, grounding, and Thorn would headbutt him hello, too, if he thought his head could take it.
“And kebabs! We'll get kebabs. I’ll be in touch about the patrols!” Vos calls as he’s vaulting back into the speeder with nimble feet. He’s pulling away from the platform before Thorn can reply, flying far faster than he had on their approach in until he’s a dot in the distance, as unremarkable as all the other speeders in the sky.
“Fuck,” Stone breathes, as soon as he's gone, and Thorn can feel the tension slip from his and Thire's shoulders. Fox is still immobile, as though he's been stuck in carbonite. “Don’t you ever dare do that again, Thorn, I swear to fucking hell.”
“What part of not on purpose did you miss?” Thorn says, trying for lightness and just about landing it. “Fuck, it’s good to be back.”
“Can’t believe you befriended a Jedi,” Thire huffs. It’s a little bit wet sounding. “You have all the fun.”
Thorn laughs, and is only slightly surprised when his throat closes around it halfway through and turns it to a sob. He swallows the sound and forces himself to not crumble on the landing platform - he's so close, dammit - but the damage is done.
“Inside,” Fox says immediately, voice tight in the way it gets when he's upset, turning on his heel and stalking towards the double doors.
Thire doesn't look much more composed than Thorn feels. “C’mon,” he says quietly, and murmurs a count to three, on which he and Stone lift Thorn back up from the ground entirely, freeing his leg from his weight but making his ribs and shoulders scream with protest.
As they approach, Oryx and Fibs emerge, a gurney pushed between them, and Thorn droops in relief. Even being practically carried, he really isn't sure how much further he can go. Vos was right, with his talk about fainting. The spots are back, and he imagines he can hear the beep of his HUD telling him his pulse is too high yet again despite the bucket being nowhere near his head.
Neither of the medics say anything as they sit him down, faces carefully composed. Fox looms behind them, bucket still on. Thorn wishes he would take it off, but it’s a security blanket, of sorts. He knows Fox well enough to see his worry, anyway.
“I’m going to hug you,” Thire says hurriedly, and then he’s doing so, arms pulling tight around Thorn’s shoulders, plates clacking awkwardly between them. Thorn drops his face into the crook of Thire’s neck, breathing in the scent of plastoid and sweat and Thire, and blinks back the wetness from his eyes.
“Gently, Thire,” Fibs says, voice steady, when Thire’s grip begins to make Thorn’s vision blur again. He isn't quite managing to breathe, he thinks, and he’s so tired -
Thire pulls away slowly, keeps his hands sat on Thorn’s shoulders. He looks dreadful, up close, as though he hasn’t slept in a week. Stone doesn’t look much better, appearing at Thire’s shoulder to drop Thorn’s – the shiny’s - bucket onto the cot and clasp a hand to Thorn’s cheek.
“I need to call in the patrols and get to the prison,” he says lowly. His eyes are dark with what could be bruises, and his usually smooth head is stubbly. Thorn turns his cheek into his hand, wincing slightly at the gentle pat. “We’ll catch up later, yeah?”
“Of course,” Thorn manages, and Stone just looks achingly sad before he’s pulling away, tucking Thire into a quick one-armed hug, and stopping to murmur something unintelligible to Fox. Fox tilts his head almost imperceptibly, then takes a step forwards, closer to Thorn’s side.
“Keep me updated,” Stone says to the medics in farewell, pulling on his own bucket again, and then he’s gone, and Thire is being carefully nudged aside so that Fibs can rearrange him on the gurney.
Oryx watches with critical eyes, then taps once on his commlink. “Let’s roll.”
“We need to keep you awake,” Fibs says, as they begin the trek through the base. “Otherwise I'd offer to knock you out. As soon as we know what's going on, I'll get you some painkillers.”
“Ta, Fibs,” Thorn murmurs in reply, and lets his eyes drop close. It mutes the overhead lights to a red blur through his eyelids, which is something of an improvement, but triggers the world to start spinning around him, like he's in zero gravity, like he's falling through all those levels down to the planet core. He can hear the quiet hum of voices, and click of the cot’s wheels, and shudders at the sensation.
They enter the elevator - he hears the tap of fingers on the pad, the familiar beep – and the world has just about stopped spinning when a hand closes around his wrist, thumb slipping under his blacks to press at his pulse point.
He forces his eyes back open and is entirely unsurprised to see that it's Fox. He's looking straight ahead, possibly listening to the medics murmuring plans and possibilities to each other, and his shoulders are still drawn.
“Hey, boss,” Thorn says hoarsely, after a moment of watching him, and Fox jerks his head around to look at him, startled.
Thorn pulls his best attempt at a smile. Fox still has his helmet on, and Thorn isn't thinking clearly enough to be able to read the tilt of his head the way he can normally, but he lets himself think that Fox is relieved. Almost certainly exhausted, too, which is likely the reason for keeping his face covered. Can't get chewed out by the medics if they can't prove you're on your last legs, and all.
Fox doesn't say anything, but his grip on Thorns wrist tightens, and he nearly trips over the cot when they start moving again. Thorn would absolutely tease him about it if he had the energy, but as it is, he just closes his eyes again and lets himself drift.
Fox doesn't let go. The touch is grounding, safe. Something settles in his chest, and if any of the others notice the tears that slip down his cheeks, they don’t mention it.
His drifting is rudely interrupted by a harsh tapping on his collar, with no reservations whatsoever – it’s Oryx, of course, nobody else would be so rude - and Thorn cracks an eye open to glare at him.
“No sleeping, Commander,” Oryx says from overhead, and oh. They’ve made it to the medbay already. “We don’t need a full debriefing right now, but anything you know will help.”
Thorn shifts his attention to the other occupants of the room. Fibs, Fox and Thire still surround him, Fox gripping his wrist and Thire hovering opposite, but Grim is present now, too, accompanied by two med droids, an IV rack, and a sponge.
Which means he might be in for a sponge bath. Not a new experience, but never a pleasant one, especially if he’s conscious for it.
Better than the sticky itchiness of the present, though. He'll suffer the loss to his dignity for cleanliness alone.
He looks back to Oryx, who raises an eyebrow questioningly. Thorn realises that he hasn’t managed to say anything, yet.
He clears his throat. “The Chancellor called when I was leaving the Senate,” he starts, slowly, watching for their reactions. “I went up to his office, following protocol. I messaged Fox, to let him know. And then I woke up down there. No idea about the in between time. It’s gone.”
“Full blackout?” Fox asks sharply. His grip tightens to the point of pain, and then it’s gone entirely.
“Yeah,” Thorn nods, and immediately regrets it. “Exactly how you explained it.”
Fibs sighs gently, ignoring the way Fox pushes past him and begins to pace. “We thought so. We were worried for a while that you'd been attacked or stopped on your way back, until Thire found your armour in the senate office cupboard. The summons was on your ‘pad.”
“It’s all back in our bunk room now,” Thire chips in. “I cleaned it for you.”
For some reason, that makes Thorn well up again. He'd wondered where his armour had ended up, and it's a relief to know that it’s safe. He signs Thire his thanks, and Thire reaches out to tap his knuckles to Thorn's shoulder.
“And when you woke up?”
Thorn has to think about that. It all seems fuzzy, and the words are hard to force out of his mouth.
“I was in an alley,” he remembers. “I woke up, saw the blood, and I was hurt. Right ankle, all ribs, shoulders. I ran your protocols –” Oryx looks pleased at this “- and got up to find my way out.”
“Comms?” Fox asks bluntly, still pacing.
“None. I tried everything. Nothing worked until the dadita, about an hour ago. You got my message?”
“We did,” Thire confirms, an uncomfortable twist to his mouth. “We didn’t know for sure it was you, though. We thought it might have been a trick; you didn’t use the code. It wasn’t until you spoke to control that we knew for sure.”
Thorn’s eyes close of their own accord. “Fuck. Didn’t think of that.”
“It’s fine,” Fibs cuts in, reassuring, and opens Thorn’s clenched fist to press a cup of water into it. “You’re back now. Am I okay to start taking your armour off?”
Thorn nods his consent, and Oryx glares Fox into standing still. “And then?”
“Found a lift and went up, then found Vos and he brought me back.”
Oryx looks mildly exasperated, which is far nicer than the worry permeating the room. “Yes, I can see that. And your injuries?”
Thorn has to think again. He runs through the procedure, flexing his toes and his fingers and all the muscles in between. “Worse now,” he says. “I didn’t know about my head until Vos pointed it out.”
“You didn’t have your helmet on down there?” Oryx asks sharply.
Fibs pauses momentarily in removing Thorn's greaves to peer at him, something akin to anxiety on his face. Grim takes a step backwards.
“I woke with it on and kept it on until we hit the portal. Then took it off to drink.” Thorn confirms. “But I don’t know about anything earlier than that. Must’ve been off at some point before then.”
The room doesn’t relax, which is fair enough. Thorn may have just introduced them all to the inside-rotting bacteria and condemned them to grizzly deaths – with the exception of Fox, who’s still wearing his damned bucket.
Oryx just sighs. “Right. We’ll run your bloods first, then, if you don’t mind?”
“’Course,” Thorn says, and watches as Grim steps forwards to pass Oryx a syringe. Fox looks away and begins his pacing again as Oryx takes the sample and thrusts it back towards Grim. She slips her bucket on before she leaves the room.
Oryx sits down and leans back heavily. He doesn’t look as exhausted as Thire, but it’s a near miss. He picks up the shiny helmet from the cot and turns it over in his hands. “And now?”
Thorn raises a shaky hand and wobbles it in the air so-so. He’s had worse than this, and, he thinks, chest aching, he doesn’t want to cause more hassle. “Not great?”
Thire rolls his eyes. “Vos said to hurry up because he'd faint if he didn’t sit. That’s why we summoned the cot.”
Thorn glares at him. Thire just shrugs.
Fibs has somehow made his way all the way up to Thorn's chest plate without him noticing. His hands are very gentle, but it still makes him hiss when the pressure around his ribcage changes, when Fibs gently lifts him enough to extract his back plate. Fox turns back around immediately and comes back to hover at his side.
“Fine,” Oryx says again, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Right. We’ll get you cleaned up first, then run the scanners and see what the hell you’ve managed to do to yourself. Hopefully the bloods are clear and we don’t need to enforce a quarantine, and we won’t all shit ourselves to death. Did Vos feed and water you?”
Thorn hums in confirmation, head whooshing again as Fibs strips his shoulders, and Oryx looks pleased.
“Good. We’ll get you on a drip just in case, but hopefully you won’t need it in too long. Fibs?”
“On it,” Fibs says, and tosses the last of Thorn’s – borrowed? Stolen? – armour into the corner. “You keep drinking, alright? Let me know if anything changes, I’m going to look at your head.”
“Will do,” Thorn says, accepting the flask Fibs passes his way and closing his eyes again at Fibs probes at his forehead. It stings like a bitch, and Fibs hums sympathetically.
“Got some nice gravel in here,” Fibs says conversationally, before vanishing off to somewhere else in the room.
“Gross,” says Thire, and probably gets kicked in the ankle by the way he yelps and glares at Fox.
“It happens.” Fibs reappears, holding tweezers and a petri dish. Thorn squints his eyes against the truly awful sensation of cold metal plucking stone out of his face, and feels a little bit sick when Fibs shows him the bloody piece. His head hurts less, though, which is nice. “Want to keep it?”
“Absolutely not, thanks.”
“Good, it needs to go in the incinerator. Just in case you’ve got any kind of disease.”
Thorn grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“It is what it is. We’ll deal with it, if you have, and if it’s contagious, we’ll put the base in lockdown. It’s a bit of a dramatic way to get Fox to rest, but if it works, it works.”
“I’m the only one wearing my helmet,” Fox grumbles, the first words Thorn has heard from him in – however long it’s been.
“Only ‘cause you’re scared of Oryx,” Thire teases, rolling his eyes. He earns another kick.
A comm line chimes, and Fibs’ hand freezes where it’s pressing at Thorn’s brow. Thorn keeps his eyes closed, and hopes beyond hope that it’s just Stone checking in.
It’s not, of course.
“I need to go to the senate,” Fox says stiffly. There's a tightness to his voice that would be hysteria on anyone else.
“The Chancellor?” Asks Fibs. Thorn forces an eye open as something clatters.
Fox shakes his head. “The shift change is coming up. We need to do the sweeps, there’s an emergency session due in two rotations –”
“I’m on it,” Thire says, and a pressure lifts from around Thorn’s ankle as Thire gets up. “You stay.”
“Thire—”
“Respectfully, Marshall Commander Fox, sir,” Oryx starts, in that smarmy way that Thorn knows really gets under Fox's skin, “if you leave this room, I will not hesitate to sedate you. You're not going.”
Fox growls, and the pacing resumes. “Thire can stay, he needs the rest.”
“Thire got a few hours in the office last rotation; Thire is fine,” Thire says mildly, and Thorn opens his eyes to see Thire and Oryx both stood, arms crossed, blocking the door.
“No, I –”
“Sorry about this,” Fibs murmurs, half a second before prodding the gash on Thorn’s forehead, and he can’t bite back the yelp that escapes at the pain that flashes through him.
Fox is immediately at his side. Fibs winks at Thorn as he gets up, as though Thorn was a willing conspirator in this ploy.
“Thire will go,” Oryx says again. “Fox, sit the hell down and look after Thorn. He’s had a horrible few days. Thorn, I’m going to scan you. Stay still.”
He barely needs the instruction as the scanner appears over his chest, because all he can hear is a few days.
A few days.
Thorn sucks in a shaky breath, and his blood seems to freeze in his veins.
“Fine. Fine!” Fox bites, and all but throws himself into the chair that Thire was previously occupying. The room seems oblivious to Thorn’s panic, the way his chest is constricting –
A hand wraps around Thorn’s wrist again, fingers biting at his pulse point in a way that should be horrible but is instead an anchor, dragging him back to the present. Fox doesn’t look at him, visor fixed on Thire and the way he’s pulling off a vambrace.
The scanner beeps and Oryx nods grimly before sliding it away, back to whatever pocket dimension he seems to keep these things in.
Thorn breathes, and twists his arm to pull Fox’s hand into his own. Fox allows him to without protest, and his grip remains just as harsh as before. It’s a confirmation he hasn’t broken anything in that hand, he thinks, and bites back what would probably be a hysterical laugh.
“Want a stim?” Fibs is asking, hands already in the desk drawer to dig one out, and Thire offers his arm, pulling a face as Fibs sticks him with it.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Thire says, strapping the armour back on. He drops his hands onto Thorn’s ankle again – the left one, thank gods – and smiles wanly. “If you can persuade this idiot to sleep, we’d all appreciate it. He hasn’t since you, uh, left.”
“Fuck you,” Fox says, but Thire just smiles and waves, and then he’s pulling his bucket back on, and then he’s gone. The room feels smaller for it, somehow.
“Well,” Oryx says, picking up the shiny helmet and tossing it over in his hands. “I guess we’ll send this down to the labs and see if they can pull any data from it. The HUD’s muddled, so I don’t have much hope, but at least we’d be able to pin together a timeline.”
Thorn’s throat tightens again.
“It’s broken,” he forces himself to say, and Fibs pauses where he’s pulling on fresh gloves. “Time’s wrong, at least. Maybe the date. Something isn't right, it isn't—” he trails off as the words catch in his throat. He tightens his grip on Fox’s hand, forces a breath in. Fox grips back even harder.
He watches as Fibs and Oryx exchange unreadable looks. He can practically hear Fox’s teeth grinding through his bucket as they have a silent conversation with their eyebrows.
“What,” Fox asks, and is ignored in favour of Fibs returning to Thorn’s side, and Oryx heaving himself to his feet and vanish out the door.
“Do you know how long you were gone?” Fibs asks gently, before reaching for Thorn’s face. Thorn braces himself for the pain at his forehead, and freezes when Fibs instead pulls at his eyelid, peers into them with what could be concern.
Thorn’s breath stutters in his chest. “The chrono says 18 hours,” he replies weakly. “But the timeline doesn’t add up, if it’s right.”
Fox releases his death grip on Thorn’s fingers. Thorn’s hand feels cold without him, and suddenly Fibs is shining a torch in his eye, and Fox is getting up and he’s pacing again, and Thorn is beginning to panic –
“107 hours,” Fox says harshly, turning neatly back on himself, and Thorn hears a high-pitched noise that he belatedly realises must have come from himself. “I received your message 107 hours and 34 minutes ago. That’s how long you’ve been gone.”
“Fox,” Oryx scolds gently, ducking back through the door with another bag of IV fluids in hand. He’s by Thorn’s side and has stuck him with the line and vanished again before Thorn can manage to say a word.
“Oh,” he manages, and Fibs grips him on the shoulder gently. It hurts in a distant kind of way, beneath the whooshing in his ears. “Oh, fuck.”
107 hours. That's. That's more than two days. That’s even worse, even longer that he'd been AWOL, that's over four days of his life gone, forgotten, and four days of worry and panic and extra work and lost sleep for the others, four days they’ll never get back and he can’t –
Hands come to cradle Thorn’s face, and it startles him into sucking in a breath, the noise loud and hysterical in the room. He blinks through the fog that’s clouding his vision and his face is wet and he’s crying, and oh, here comes the breakdown he’s worked so hard to stave off.
“You’re alright,” someone is saying, gloved fingers sweeping arcs under his eyes. “C’mon, Thorn, you’re alright. Breathe.”
Thorn hiccups, the sound deafening in his ears. He squeezes his eyes closed further, feels the throb of his face and his ribs and his everything, and then he’s being pulled against plastoid armour, the lines harsh but solid against his face, warm hands cradling around his skull and his back. The chest under the armour moves exaggeratedly, a pattern to follow, and he rasps a wet breath in in his attempt to mimic it.
“That’s it, you’re okay,” Fox says, voice muffled. His fingers press circles into Thorn’s hair. Thorn hiccups again, leans into him despite the ache it causes. “You’re alright.”
Something sharp nips in the crook of his arm as he brings them up to claw at Fox’s back. He thinks he hears the plastoid creak under the pressure of it as he digs his finger under the backplate, feels Fox’s ribs rise and fall against him.
“Sorry,” he manages to croak out, after a few shuddering breathes. “Fuck – sorry –”
“Fuck off,” Fox says, but there’s no heat to it at all. “Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault. Fibs, did you get him?”
“I got him,” Fibs says from somewhere over Fox’s shoulder. Thorn is distantly aware of something pressing into his elbow before releasing, and the ache that’s been building over the last however long he’s been awake starts to dampen down. “Just a painkiller and an antibiotic for now. Can I reattach the IV? Don’t look at your hand until I have, it’s bleeding a bit.”
“S’fine,” Thorn croaks, and winces at the sting of an alcohol wipe and a needle on the back of the hand that’s still buried the space between Fox’s backplate and belt. “Sorry.”
“Just be careful when you separate so you don’t pull it back out,” Fibs says mildly, and there’s a pat on Thorn’s shoulder. “Or just give me a shout when you’re ready and I’ll come and disconnect the tube. There’s no rush, not until we get the bloods back. Take it steady; stay awake if you can. Fox, you know the drill.”
Thorn feels more than hears Fox’s grumbled reply, reverberating through his chest. It’s soothing, and he becomes aware of the whir of machinery and the footsteps outside in the ward as the roaring in his ears settles.
He drags in a breath, and it doesn’t hurt quite so much. Fibs must have him on the good stuff.
“Five days,” he says, more to himself than anyone else, but Fox must hear him all the same.
“Fucking awful,” Fox murmurs, and warm hands thread through Thorn’s hair, catching on the sweat and the blood and fuck knows what else. “Longest of any of us. Why’s it always you?”
“Dunno,” Thorn sighs. Gods, does he want to sleep. He feels as though all his limbs have been sunk into the awful sludge-like caff that the mess produces when there’s been a prison break. “Didn’t mean to. Was supposed to be Thire on duty.”
The fingers in his hair tighten to the point just before pain. “Don’t. Don’t make me think about that,” Fox says. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re back.”
“M’back,” Thorn replies, and it hits him all over again with a fresh wave of vertigo, an ache in his gut that makes him shudder. “Fox—”
Fox hums in acknowledgement, and resumes dragging his fingers through Thorn’s hair, round his ear down the back of his skull, dragging across the meat of his shoulders and upper back. If his fingers bite in just a bit too much as Thorn begins to shake again – well. Neither of them can judge each other for that.
Thorn isn’t sure how long they stay like that – it could be minutes or it could be hours, and the pain has dulled enough to leave him just exhausted, worn out as though he’s been flattened by a speeder. He may well have been. He can’t remember.
At some point, Fox loses his gloves and vambraces and sinks down onto the edge of the cot. There’s a shake to his limbs that Thorn hadn’t picked up on, before, beneath the force of his own tremors.
“Have you slept at all?” he asks thickly, and earns a snort for his trouble.
“He hasn’t slept, no,” comes the voice of Oryx, heralded by heavy footsteps and the ever-present tapping on a datapad. No rest for the weary. “And he’ll be getting in that cot with you as soon as you’re cleared for it, don’t think he won’t.”
A hand escapes from Thorn’s hair, almost certainly to flip Oryx off.
“Anyway. The bloods are back,” he continues, and immediately Fox freezes as though in carbonite. “You’re in the clear. Nothing weird going on beyond a lot of inflammatory factors and cortisol, but that’s to be expected – hang on, Fox, you’re going to damage the IV, wait –”
Fox freezes again, midmotion where he’s started untangling himself from Thorn’s hold, and there’s pressure at the back of his hand before Fox is pulling away and wrenching off his helmet to reveal skin that’s bordering on grey, bags upon bags under his bloodshot eyes, lips bitten to the point of scabbing and – he looks wretched. Thorn wants to cry all over again.
“No, come on, you’re okay –” Fox says hoarsely, but his own eyes have a sheen to them and he takes hold of the hand Thorn reaches out, cradles it between his own. He swallows, hard, and turns to look at Oryx. “We can get the good stuff in him now?”
“Grim is picking it up as we speak. OpSec have the bucket, but they reckon it’s gonna take a while to get anything from it, if that, and they’re trying to figure out where the rest of the armour came from. Don’t you dare start pacing again, sit down before I tranquilise you. Armour off, too. I’ll get the sponge if you don’t, don’t think I won’t.”
Fox pauses half turn, red eyes narrowed. Oryx meets them with his own steady gaze and wins whatever silent battle as Fox slowly backs down, peeling himself from his shell with stiff fingers. Thorn itches to help, but he’d be as much use as a paper chair. He settles for watching as closely as he can, foggy mind categorising the way Fox winces at the removal of his boots, his plates.
“Want an IV too, or will you drink?” Oryx asks, once Fox has sunk back down by Thorn’s side, slowly swinging his legs up to rest besides Thorn’s own. Oryx looks about as pleased as Thorn has ever seen him, and tucks the blankets around their legs with gentle hands.
“IV,” Fox says, and Thorn jerks his head to look at him with enough force that it brings the dots back. “No comments from the peanut gallery, please; it’s been a long week.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Oryx replies, rolling his eyes before raising a hand in greeting as Grim reappears, brandishing a large green syringe that Thorn recognises as the real good stuff. He’s only had it once before; what a treat. “Ah, good, you can watch Grim put the nice drugs in the bag. Don’t mind me.”
Fox flinches all the same as Oryx sticks him with the line, hard enough that it rocks through Thorn’s ribs. He bites back a hiss, if only so that Fox doesn’t get that look of despair back in his eyes.
“Got you a bacta patch for your head,” Grim grins once she’s deposited the contents of the syringe in the IV bag. “It’ll sting a bit; you know the drill.”
Thorn does indeed know the drill, and it barely stings at all behind the weight of the painkiller. Grim pats it into place with maybe more force than necessary, before leaning down to tap her forehead to Thorn’s own. “Glad you’re back, Boss,” she says quietly. “We’ll deal with everything in the morning. You’ve fractured a load of ribs and fucked up that ankle, but we’ll let the swelling go down before we do anything more. Might need Fibs to go in and nail the fibula, which he’ll think is funny, so I guess that’s a silver lining.”
“Thanks, Grim,” Thorn manages, mind whirling and accepting the hand that ruffles his hair without complaint. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Good. We done here, Boss?” she says, turning to Oryx who’s delicately taping the IV line to Fox’s arm with surgical precision. Fox’s arm is little more than a patchwork of tape when he’s finished.
“We’re done. If you need anything, press the buzzer. Do not get out of bed, Thorn, or I swear to hell I’ll break your other ankle. No weightbearing.” Oryx rolls his eyes as Thorn makes a vague attempt to salute his understanding. “Sleep well. That’s an order.”
“Fuck off,” Fox grumbles, but as soon as the medics are gone and the room is plunged into darkness, he sighs a shuddering sigh and sinks further down the cot, rolling onto his side and carefully worming his way under Thorn’s unburdened arm. It’s a shame about the fractured ribs; the weight isn't enough to squeeze the calm back into Thorn’s body, but it’s better than nothing. He tucks his hand around Fox’s side, feels the rabbit of his heart under his ribs, and lets himself finally go heavy. The drugs are doing their job; he can’t think enough to be upset about anything anymore at all.
There’s a moment of silence, heavily loaded, before Fox pushes his head under Thorn’s chin, eyelashes fluttering against his throat. He’s shaking.
Thorn digs his chin down onto Fox’s head and squeezes his hand as best he can around Fox’s ribs, about as much comfort as he can offer between the numbness overwhelming his body and the exhaustion clawing at his mind.
“Did you get me that pudding cup?” he asks thickly, and feels the shaky breath Fox exhales into his neck, the tears that are pressed hotly into his pulse point.
“Fucking – yeah,” Fox breathes, chest shaking with a laugh that turns to a sob halfway through, and then he’s burying his face into Thorn’s throat as he finally crumbles. “It’s still on my – on my fucking desk. It’ll be mouldy as hell. I’ll get you another one. Thorn."