La Dame Blanche

All throughout his childhood, Tim thought Batman was a hero. He followed him around, both through the news and later with a camera, and thought himself lucky to catch even a glimpse. When Robin - Robin! - tells him to stay away, he takes it as a challenge. Back then, he did not know what desperation looked like on Jason's face. It is one of the first things he learns.

---

Tim never met Alfred, but his ghost lingers everywhere in Wayne Manor.

After Bruce hits Tim for the first time, his cheek burning with shock more than the impact itself, Tim locks himself up in his room, wondering what he did wrong, how he can be better.

That night, Jason sneaks into his room, face white and voice breaking more than it holds steady.

"It's not your fault," he tells Tim solemnly. "It's mine. I killed Alfred."

He did not. It was an accident. But Bruce does not believe in accidents. He believes in guilt and how to punish it.

"I'm sorry," Jason says. "I'll try to protect you, but -"

But.

Alfred left an entire life worth of hollow spaces behind. It is not just that he cooked and cleaned and made sure that the Manor's inhabitants were comfortable and looked after. He also seemed to be the only person still tying Bruce to this pesky little thing called morality, to conscience. With Alfred gone, there is no one to keep Bruce in check anymore.

---

The next morning, Bruce sits Tim down at the breakfast table.

"Let's talk about chores, Timothy." His eyes linger on the faint bruise he left on Tim's cheek. There is no regret, just a mild interest that immediately crushes all of Tim's appetite.

"Yes, sir," he says nonetheless, voice even the way his parents taught him. Manners are important and he can be good.

"Jason grew up basically on the streets. He does not know how certain things are done." The way Bruce does not even look at Jason is more disparaging than his tone itself. "But you do, don't you, Timothy? Your parents must have taught you what is important in a place like this. We have certain standards to uphold."

Tim has grown up with a number of tutors. Languages, music, math. He has been taught how to run a business, how to talk people into doing what he wants from them. He has no idea how to run a household. That, his parents liked to say, is what servants are for, even though they left him without most of the time.

"I will show you," Bruce concludes and manages to make it sound like he is doing Tim a favour.

There is only one answer Tim can give. "Thank you, sir."

He does not yet know Bruce, but he knows these kinds of games. His parents did not physically hurt him, but their expectations were also a noose around his neck.

For a long moment, Bruce watches Tim, dissecting him like a colourful bug. Tim knows better than to hold his gaze, so he drops his eyes and searches for flaws in his body language. When his parents were away on their trips, Tim could do with his life what he wanted. These times, he realizes, are over.

"See," Bruce then calls out to Jason, who is frozen in his seat. "He already knows how to be polite, at least. You should follow his example."

Tim's breath catches at the implied threat, but he does not move. This entire morning is a trap and Tim can do nothing against the way it pulls close around him.

---

The first time Bruce has Tim use the iron cast skillet, he can barely pick it up and keep it even with just one hand.

"You need to hold it steady," Bruce says, looming over Tim from his side, too close, and not in a helpful way.

"I'm trying."

Bruce frowns at him, never happy when Tim dares to talk back. But then his expression smooths over and that is worse. "Here," he says, voice dropping lower. "Steady it with your other arm."

He circles Tim's wrist with his hand, holding it tight enough to be uncomfortable. And then he presses the bare skin of Tim's lower arm against the hot skillet.

Immediate agony shoots through Tim, white hot pain stretching out from that small point of contact. His other hand lets the skillet go instinctively. It clatters to the kitchen counter, sauce flying everywhere.

Bruce, still holding Tim's wrist, pulls the arm closer to himself and inspects the burn. "How clumsy," he muses, pressing a thumb against the aching skin, and then again when Tim instinctively flinches.

Finally, he lets Tim go, leaving behind a faint, red imprint of fingers, which fades while the ugly mark next to it just goes darker.

"Pick up your mess."

---

Tim does not believe in coincidences anymore. Not in this house. Not with someone as pedantic and prepared as Bruce.

So, when Bruce appears silently in the kitchen and then calls out, "Tim," his voice ringing sharply in the empty space, Tim has no doubt that he timed it exactly for the moment Tim was getting the casserole out of the oven. It happens so quickly; one moment he worries about the colour of his dish but decides to take it out anyway, the next he flinches at Bruce's tone and the casserole falls, glass breaking on the kitchen floor, food spilling on the ground.

He does not look up, does not want to see Bruce's face. It does not matter whether he is angry or smug or any of the dozens of other things that spell disaster for Tim.

"How disappointing." Bruce sighs. He sounds quiet, contemplating, as if he has not thought of any way this situation could play out before he ever stepped into the room. "Robin really shouldn't be so clumsy."

That is enough to make the muscles in Tim's back go tense to the point of pain. The days Bruce is in the mood for mind games are always the worst.

"I'm sorry, sir," Tim says, more because it is expected of him, not because he thinks it will actually do something.

He stares at the mess on the floor, feels a sad kind of kinship with the ruined food.

Bruce moves forward until just the tips of his shoes appear at the edge of Tim's vision. 

"Well," he orders, expectant, "Pick it up."

Tim nods and turns to get a rag and dustpan when Bruce clicks his tongue. It stops him immediately, like a well-trained dog. Now, he does look up, expecting a blow coming towards him. Jason always takes them head-on, and Tim has not yet decided whether it makes the pain better or worse to see the hit coming.

"You have two working hands, don't you?" Bruce asks, deceptively gentle. His lips curl up just slightly. On someone else, that might be mistaken for a smile. "And do take care to pick out all the glass. Jason is a growing boy and eats everything, but maybe glass shards are a bit too far."

Nothing seems like it goes too far in this house. But Tim wisely does not say anything. He kneels down to look at the ruined food, locates the biggest pieces of glass still intact. Somehow, he doubts he will be allowed to use a sieve, even for the sauce.

"Mitts," Bruce points out, the first hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

Tim breathes, his face carefully lowered, so that Bruce cannot add disrespect to his list of things Tim did wrong today. Then he pulls off the oven mitts, slowly to stall for a bit more time. Not too slow, of course, because Bruce's wrath is infinitely worse than getting a few burns from the still hot glass dish. It might have been out of the oven long enough that he should be able to handle it if he moves quickly. Either way, he is no stranger to burns anymore.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Bruce watches, his eyes almost hotter on Tim than the broken glass. Knowing him, he takes note of every wince, every sign of discomfort, every red spot blossoming on Tim's skin.

Working slowly is usually not a good idea in this house, but Tim still meticulously searches through every spoonful of food to not leave any piece of glass in. Perhaps he would, if he knew there was even the slightest chance Bruce would eat any of this. Not with Jason in danger, though. Never that.

He is done, finally, and removes the pile of glass pieces without looking at the sorry remains of their meal. His hands are burning, his fingertips are red, some already forming blisters.

"Sir?" he asks, quietly. Because this is not it. It is never that easy.

"I still need dinner. Something simpler, perhaps," Bruce drawls with the lazy, mocking tone of the unrepentantly guilty. "We can call in Jason for his food when you're done with mine."

The implication that Tim will not get any food, ruined or not, hangs heavy in the air, but Tim does not react to it. This is not the first time he has missed a meal. Will not be the last either. He is more concerned with cooking with burned fingers. He hopes that this, at least, will all the punishment for the day.

---

Bruce keeps Jason busy all day, loading him down with new reports to write or cases to go through every time Jason comes up from the cave. Not once does he see any trace of Tim. Not since dinner the night before, which had consisted of a cold mess of slightly mashed vegetables and halfway congealed sauce for Jason while Bruce had salad and steak. Tim had to stand back to watch them eat and clean the kitchen afterward. His hands were red and blistered, but of course Jason was not allowed to help.

That is the last he has seen of Tim. Several times this day, he has contemplated to go looking for Tim, consequences be damned. It is never just him who would feel those consequences, however, and Tim is more important than him. So, Jason keeps working and pretends his attention is not on the stretched-out silence clogging up the halls, making it impossible to breathe normally.

At dinnertime, there are, once again, only two plates on the table, and only Bruce is waiting for him. 

Doing his best to appear unhurried, Jason sits down in his seat. "Where is Tim?" he asks, although he knows better.

Bruce watches him for a long moment. "He needed a break."

Only practice allows Jason to swallow down the immediate panic. The cabinet Bruce uses to lock Tim up in is cramped and dark and soundproofed. It messes Tim up more than a beating. Shut away with nothing but his own thoughts and his nightmares rising out of the darkness.

"It's been an entire day," he points out and cannot quite keep his voice from breaking.

The backhand comes out of nowhere. It is not unexpected, of course, because Bruce is a master of nonchalant violence. But there is no buildup, not a hint in his expression. No, Bruce's hand connects with Jason's jaw and Bruce does not even look when Jason has to grip the edge of the table to remain in his seat, when a soft sound escapes him as if this is the first time he ever took a hit. Keeping his eyes down, Jason rolls his jaw several times, testing the pain.

Then, stubbornly, he raises his chin. "You need to let him out."

It is never a good idea to demand anything of Bruce. They are utterly dependent on him, and Bruce has made it abundantly clear that their well-being is not much of a concern. They serve a specific purpose here and what they want or need has no impact on that at all.

The corners of Bruce's eyes crinkle the tiniest bit, which is the only sign of his displeasure. "Do you really want to argue with me right now?"

Every last bit of instinct screams at Jason to back down. This is not about him, though.

"He needs food and water," he insists, knowing better than to plead. They have to count themselves lucky that Bruce Wayne is still a public figure and that someone would notice if two of his adopted children simply disappeared. Or starved to death. Jason just has to remind Bruce of this, that he has to be pragmatic about abusing them.

"He has water," Bruce says, void of all empathy. With a raised eyebrow, he adds, "And he would have food if he had not wasted it."

Tim is a meticulous learner. He has taken to cooking like he does to anything else: with relentless discipline and ingrained perfectionism. Most of that, he learned from his parents, but Bruce naturally does his best to push things farther. Jason does not know what happened the day before, but would bet anything that Tim did not mess up dinner on his own.

"Bruce -"

"Do you need my attention, Jason." It is not even a question. Bruce has stopped wrapping his threats up in pretence. Why would he waste energy on that? It is only them in this house, only Bruce's word that counts for anything.

Fear spreads through Jason's insides, sickly cold, familiar in all its ugliness. Still, he says, "I need you to not kill Tim."

Bruce smiles, and that hits harder than the backhand. "I won't," he says. Not in a don't worry way. More in a I have no intention to give up my newest plaything so quickly way. "Now eat, or he'll stay in there for another day."

Jason's hands are moving before the words fully register in his brain.

---

Tim's hands keep trembling until well into the night. The window is wide open, letting in an icy breeze, but Tim relishes the sensation on his skin, desperate for anything after too many hours of nothing. Jason simply puts on another sweater and bullies Tim to put on warmer socks after he bandaged up the bloody scratches Tim left on his own arms, as if breaking himself is a viable alternative to breaking the dark box Bruce likes to lock him up in. Since then, Jason has been reading The Hobbit, his quiet voice a soothing reminder that Tim is out and still alive and not trapped in his own head. He does not hear any of the words, but neither of them minds.

"I'm sorry," Tim says, cutting Jason off abruptly. "We should sleep."

They have school in the morning, and he should really put some effort into pulling himself together if he wants to be able to pretend he feels like a normal person and not like a ghost.

Jason looks up at him, the book open on his knees. He is going to reassure Tim. He is going to pull Tim onto his bed and wrap him up in a hug, the only touch Tim can still tolerate, the only touch that still makes him feel safe.

Instead, Jason says, "We could just leave."

People have told Tim that he is smart and quick all his life. These words, however, bounce in his mind, making no sense, until the implication hits like a punch.

"Do you have a fever?" he asks, getting up quickly.

Perhaps he missed some glass shards in Jason's food. Perhaps he perforated his oesophagus or stomach and is now slipping into sepsis and Tim will have killed his brother and there is truly no more saving either of them.

"I'm serious," Jason says, too steadfast for someone who might be dying. He leans forward, waves Tim closer. And, after a moment of hesitation, Tim does. When it comes down to it, he will always follow Jason.

He sits down gingerly on Jason's bed, lets Jason pick up his hand and hold on for dear life. 

"We're vigilantes. We're trained," Jason says as if that means anything is a world that is controlled by people like Bruce Wayne. "We can go wherever we want."

Tim shakes his head, half in denial, half to not let the words settle inside him. They cannot think about such stupid ideas.

"B has all the resources to find us anywhere," he points out with desperation. "He's not going to let us go."

But Jason is not talking about asking for permission. "There's enough places in this world where there's not a camera every few feet," he says, full of the same stubbornness that lets him get up from the ground time and again, no matter that Bruce will only send him back down.

Pressure builds at the back of Tim's throat. He does not know whether it heralds laughter or tears, but he does not plan on finding out. Concentrating on keeping his breathing even, he asks, "And how do you propose we get there?" He does not manage to sound as dismissive as he was going for.

Jason's mouth curves into a smile that is sharp enough to cut. "Quickly."

"Funny." It gets harder to breathe, the walls closing in around Tim like he is back in the cabinet.

"I'm serious." Jason's hand tightens around Tim's, grounding him in the present. "If he finishes that thing -"

"It can't be that much worse than the cabinet," Tim lies and chokes on it, on the memory of being in the dark, even the sound of his own breathing muffled, unable to get out.

Bruce keeps talking about the isolation chamber he is building and Tim is suffocating at the mere idea of it. Even with the soundproofing, the cabinet is not cutting him off completely. Certainly, Bruce will correct that oversight with how much planning he is putting into this project.

From a distance, he hears Jason talking, hears him dragging the memories closer and closer to the surface. "It's not just dark and small, Tim, it's -"

"I know, Jason," Tim snaps, just barely piercing the suffocating weight settling on his skin. "Believe me. I don't -" He draws in a shuddering breath, keeps his eyes on the warm nightlight so he does not drown in darkness. "I don't ever want to go in there, but we don't really have that many options."

"I'm telling you, we can -"

"Jason." Tim does not manage more than a whisper, but Jason stops himself immediately anyway.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, eyes wide as he takes in Tim. "I don't mean to make things worse. But I can't help you when he puts you in there."

"You're helping." And he does. Without Jason, Tim might have lost himself ages ago. His mind is not the kindest place. Locked in the cabinet, however, he does not have anywhere else to go. After, Jason always helps to draw him back out.

"Not enough," Jason insists, because he has not yet learned that he cannot save everyone, cannot even save the ones closest to him.

Tim would love to offer him reassurances, but he is too worn out for that. Instead, he settles against Jason's side, tugging at the blanket to be let in. Then he asks, "Keep reading?"

And Jason pulls him close and fills the silence once again, taking them far away to a place where monsters can be fought against and defeated.

---

When the sensory deprivation chamber is finished, Bruce makes an entire thing out of it. He has Tim cook a three-course-meal - even without supervising and correcting and accidentally burning Tim - and, after, summons them up to the attic. He looks, Tim thinks, nausea already roiling in his stomach, like a child on Christmas morning, giddy in his excitement for the presents under the tree. Worse, even, he looks like he wants to talk.

"This one is special, boys," he says as he ushers them through the door. "It can also be filled with water, but we'll see how practical that is. We'll test it without for now." Then he shifts, allowing Tim the first glance at his newest prison

It does not look small, at least from the outside, just an unassuming box of sleek wood, strangely fitting in with the rest of the stashed, forgotten things in the attic. It would be tacky if the cage for one of his wards would look out of place amongst his family's keepsakes, after all.

Tim is rooted in place. He knew this was coming. Bruce had certainly kept them updated enough and shared his data, because I know you like your research, Tim.

"Tim," Bruce orders and sounds happy about it.

Next to him, Jason is trembling. Neither of them has ever dealt well with watching the other get hurt. And this is Tim's nightmare. This is being left in an empty house for months at a time or getting accidentally locked in the car and forgotten about - but so much worse. This is specifically created to shut Tim away from the world.

Impatience taking over, Bruce taps his foot. "You're wasting time."

With a shuddering inhale, Tim steps forward. He is not getting out of this. That is one of the first things he learned in this house. Bruce gets what he wants. There is no arguing, no bargaining. There is not even a guarantee that certain behaviour will get specific results. Bruce is clinical and methodical, but he is also hit with strange whims at times, and he is in a position to follow through on them, no questions asked.

The inside of the box is dark. Of course, it is. But even from the outside, there is no telling what is waiting for him. He is not sure what is worse, knowing or not. In the end, it does not matter. He will go in either way.

"Hands," Bruce orders, almost brimming with excitement.

Mechanically, Tim holds out his hands. The mitts are familiar. The first time Bruce left him in the cabinet overnight, Tim scratched up his face and throat and arms, caught in a never-ending panic attack, driven by desperation to just get out, unable to differentiate whether that meant out of the dark or out of his body. After, Bruce fretted over him like he actually cared for the damage, like his eyes were not alit with satisfaction. The next time, he had presented Tim with the mitts. Just a precaution to make sure you don't hurt yourself. No, that is Bruce's prerogative.

A hand presses into the place between his shoulder blades, which is a threat all on its own. He steps forward, unable to look away from that dark hole awaiting him. There is a small noise, almost a sob, and he is not sure whether that came from him or from Jason, but it does not matter. Now that he is moving, Bruce will not let him stop again.

Darkness greets him as he steps through the door. He stops, one foot still outside, bracing himself against the frame. He barely manages to take one more, shaking breath, before Bruce pushes him the rest of the way in.

He falls to his knees, barely feels an impact. The door closes behind him with a quiet hiss.

And then, nothing.

Tim is aware he is breathing heavily but he can barely hear it. Everything is muffled, like wool has been pushed into his ears. Even his heartbeat, erratic and too fast, sounds wrong. The air is thick, filling his lungs only sluggishly. Briefly, he wonders whether fresh oxygen can come in from somewhere or whether Bruce intends for him to suffocate slowly. He pushes the thought down, hard.

Slowly, he situates himself. The ground is made of something almost soft. It does not really give way underneath him, does not shape into him, but it also does not press back. It is almost like he is touching nothing at all, like he is not getting any proper sensory feedback. Which is the point, obviously.

Carefully, he reaches out, tests the boundaries of this new cage in the complete darkness. He cannot stand, cannot stretch out on the ground. He can, however, curl into himself and try to keep the panic at bay for as long as he can manage.

It is a battle he will lose.

---

For long minutes, Bruce simply stands in front of the locked box, almost as if he is waiting for something.

Abruptly, he turns towards Jason. "Do you want to take a look?" he asks and does not wait for an answer.

Bruce leads Jason to his office, lets him stand behind the chair. On the right-hand monitor is a window already open, which punches all the air out of Jason's chest. 

Of course, there is a camera. It is not enough for Bruce to know Tim is losing his mind in the dark. No, he would want to watch.

The quality is not good, but it is enough to see Tim curled up on the ground, face buried between his arms, knees pulled into his chest. His body is fluttering with uneven, too shallow breaths.

A high-pitched, desperate whine claws its way up Jason's throat and he does not manage to swallow it. Usually, Bruce would pounce on such an obvious show of weakness. Now, however, it is like he does not even notice it. His eyes are transfixed on the screen, on Tim. His expression is bright with wonder, almost happy.

Jason's stomach heaves and he barely manages to pull out the bin before he is vomiting out the entire cursed three-course-meal. Bruce does not even react to it.

---

Jason has been sitting outside of the attic for hours when Bruce finally comes.

"Eager?" he asks and sounds excited himself, although for entirely different, entirely wrong reasons. At least he does not send Jason away. At least he did not find something better to occupy Jason's time with instead of waiting around uselessly.

Bruce walks with a spring in his step while Jason can barely keep his knees from shaking enough to get up from the ground. He wants to blame it on fury, but the truth is that this sheer helplessness is hollowing him out.

Without further fanfare, Bruce unlocks the panel set inside the wall of the chamber - this thing seems to be locked up tighter than the entrance to the cave - and then the door finally hisses open.

Nothing happens. No sound makes it out, no movement.

Jason stumbles forward, but Bruce stops him with an arm across his chest. So, he is allowed to watch but not to help.

It takes so long that Jason is ready to throw all caution in the wind - surely, no beating can be worse than being forced to wait, now - when there is finally some movement.

"Tim," Jason calls out. Immediately, Bruce's hand grips Jason's upper arm, tight enough to bruise. A warning.

It was enough, however. Tim uncurls on the ground of the chamber, his breathing becoming more erratic but at least deeper. Almost like sob, but Jason cannot think about that now. He can help to pick up Tim's pieces as soon as they are alone. Because, if he thinks about it right now, he will do something stupid, like hit Bruce. He would not mind the pain that would follow for him, but he has the terrible suspicion that Bruce would simply lock this door again and leave Tim in there until he is done dealing with Jason. Pain is nothing. Sometimes, the pain is even welcome, better than the mind games Bruce plays. But he needs to get Tim out of there as quickly as possible.

In the darkness, Tim raises his head, blinks against the sudden, violent light filtering in. And then he is moving.

The door is not tall enough for him to come out at his full height, but he does not look like his legs are working properly, anyway. Instead, he is crawling more than climbing through the opening, gasping in air like these are the first true breaths he could take in hours. He collapses right outside the box, eyes unseeing.

The hand around Jason's arm tightens, keeping him in place. So, for another, unbearable moment, Jason has to watch. Bruce watches, too, his lips pulled up into some caricature of a smile, drinking in the sight as if there has never been anything more beautiful. It makes Jason sick, bile rising in his already raw throat.

Finally, he cannot take it anymore. He rips himself free from Bruce's hold and steps forward, crouches down by Tim's side.

"You're out," he says, quietly enough that he hopes it will not jar Tim's no doubt strained senses. "I've got you. I've got you."

Bruce does not move as Jason gets the cursed mitts off Tim's hands and gently tries to coax him to his feet, only to realize it will not work and picks him up to carry him instead. No, Bruce does not move, does not stop them. But he watches.

---

That night, Tim alternates between hiding himself away in Jason's hold and pushing Jason away in mad, panicked scrambles. It earns Jason a number of bruises because the switches happen so quickly. He does not mind, of course, but knows he will have to hide them in the morning. On top of everything else, Tim does not need to feel guilty, too. Jason is doing that enough for the both of them. Because he could not protect Tim. Because he cannot truly make things better now.

All throughout the night, he makes sure there are things for Tim to see and smell and hear. He burns some incense he found in a closet down the hall from the kitchen. He holds Tim close or draws circles on his back or runs a hand through his hair. He reads or hums or promises Tim that he is there, that he is not going anywhere.

Somehow, they make it through the night. If only daylight were any safer.

---

"How long?" Tims asks in the morning, looking small and fragile. His skin is glowing red from where he must have scrubbed it raw under the shower.

Jason hesitates, knows the truth will not make anything better, but he owes it to Tim nonetheless. "Four hours."

Tim closes his eyes briefly as he takes a moment to breathe.

It will not stay at four hours, they know. Things always get worse.

---

"We could steal a car," Tim says, completely out of the blue one night, as if he had not shot down Jason's vague thoughts about running away before.

The chamber changes things, however. He feels like he is barely anchored in his own body anymore. He is terrified of losing himself, of leaving Jason behind on his own. There is not much they can do to actually help each other, but they are together, at least.

Jason turns towards him. He looks too grim to have been on his way to falling asleep. Of course, neither of them sleeps well. Sharing a room has made that better, but it does not actually make them safer. 

"Do you really want Bruce to bail us out of jail and keep here on house arrest?" Jason asks, not accusatory but simply pointing out a real danger. "Now he has to at least keep us functioning for school."

Sometimes, Tim wonders whether that is actually a good thing. School is just another place draining their energy. Pretending to be all right, pretending that their family is completely normal, is often an enormous task. Both of them are good liars, but nothing is without cost.

"We could steal one of his cars," Tim insists. There is an entire garage of them right underneath the house.

Jason barely takes any time to contemplate that before pointing out, "He's got too much security."

Most of that is to keep people out, though, so Tim says, "I could get around that, probably."

Looking at him, Jason sits up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "And then?"

Reading The Hobbit has filled Tim's subconscious with a number of fantastic ideas. Of simply walking wherever the wind carries them. Of adventure. Of braving mountains and armies and anything getting in their way.

"Well, we'd either have to get somewhere specific fast, or get lost somewhere," he says, unable to meet Jason's eyes. Sometimes, Tim thinks they are already lost. Drowning in this place with its empty halls and rooms, drowning in Bruce's grief-turned-cruelty.

Gentle, despite the clear worry underneath his voice, Jason argues, "It'll get worse when he catches us."

"We can't let him catch us, then." Normally, Tim is more realistic than this. Something is going to give, however, and he desperately does not want it to be either of them.

"Tim." Jason is utterly still, like he is undecided whether to lean in or away and decided to freeze instead. "You were the one who said it won't work."

"So, what? We just let him do whatever he damn pleases?" Tim snaps, although he is not angry at Jason. "We can't - I'm not sure I can keep going like this. I can't keep going back into -"

The box. The cage. The lockable chamber of nothing, specifically designed to hollow him out and drive him insane. It is already working.

Too quickly, Jason says, "All right."

"What?"

Tim knows what Jason is doing, of course. The same thing he always does, getting up and in front of Tim, drawing Bruce's attention, offering the other cheek. He has no sense of self-preservation. Tim loves and hates him for that in equal measure.

"We'll think of something," Jason promises, his face settling in the kind of determined expression that has Tim's stomach fluttering.

"No, Jason," he tries to argue, even knowing this is his fault and there is no going back now. "Don't do anything stupid."

Flashing him a grin, Jason shrugs. "Don't worry about me."

Funny. All they do is worry about each other. Tim sits back and watches Jason with growing worry weighing him down. He has a very bad feeling that he just pushed Jason into doing something reckless, into paying for Tim's cowardice with his own pain. That is not at all what he wanted.

"Jason," he warns, not sure how to stop him now, but Jason shakes his head.

"You think about which car would be best," he says as if this is already a done deal, as if all they have to do is pack their bags and step out the door. "We can't take anything too flashy."

Tim leans forward, holding Jason's gaze. "Promise me."

But Jason does not. Instead, he winks at Tim and lies back down, pulling his blanket up to his ears, pretending he is ready for sleep. Nausea rises in Tim that, for once, has nothing to do with the fact he has not gotten dinner, again. Neiter of them will rest easy this night.

---

Bruce comes to dinner in a suit. It fits him like a second skin. Not a fold out of place, not a wrinkle to be seen. It has taken Tim a while to learn how to iron Bruce's clothes to Alfred's exacting standards. It did not help that Bruce cannot seem to pass by any chance of pressing any burning hot thing he can find against Tim's skin.

Beyond his impeccable clothing, however, Bruce looks winded. He sits down at the table and when he picks up the napkin, Tim catches a glance of his knuckles. They are coloured an angry red and rubbed raw in places.

"Will Jason be joining us, sir?" Tim asks, biting the inside of his cheek to remain calm. Despite everything, Bruce values politeness.

"Training ran long," Bruce responds dismissively, not caring for the picture he paints when he studies his knuckles in clear view of Tim. "You can serve."

The rule is, when Jason is not at the table when food is served, he does not eat. Often, on days Bruce knows Jason will not be on time, when he makes sure of it, he specifies exactly what he wants to eat, measures out exactly what ingredients Tim has to use. He knows Tim sneaks food out whenever he can. He knows how to make it harder for them. Food, after all, is a privilege they have to earn.

---

Bruce takes his time, inspecting each course when Tim brings them out, chewing each bite thoroughly, asking for a second serving. All the while, his knuckles are in plain sight, a mockery and a warning both.

When he is finally done, Tim clears the table in record time, surprised that Bruce is letting him go. This is a lesson, then.

Jason is in their room, lying on one side, curled up but gingerly so. He is breathing and awake, which is enough for fury to win out over worry in Tim. At least for the moment.

"You said you wouldn't do anything stupid," Tim hisses as he steps up to Jason, eyes running over him to find any wounds he has to take care of immediately. His face is clear. Of course, it is. Bruce knows better than to leave marks where everybody might see them.

"Don't flatter yourself, Tim. He's simply neglected me while building that hellhole for you," Jason replies with the kind of bitter cheer that just makes it sound like he is barely hanging on. "This has been long overdue."

It probably has, because Bruce is normally better at keeping his attention equally divided between them. It would not do for either of them to get ideas. 

"And you didn't provoke him? You didn't make things worse just to draw his attention?" Tim asks sharply, not at all satisfied when Jason will not meet his eyes.

"I don't regret it."

And why would he? They are both trying to mitigate whatever damage is coming for the other. Locking Tim up at least does not leave any physical marks, however. It does leave him bleeding through his bedsheets.

"Jason, you can't -"Tim cuts himself off, bites his cheek hard enough to taste iron. "How bad is it?"

Now, Jason looks at him, at once sheepish and dismissive. He shifts a little, testing his own body. "Nothing broken. Nothing's bleeding anymore either," he decrees and has the gall to sound relieved about it.

Tim closes his eyes, wills his lungs to keep breathing even while the rest of his body feels ready to fall apart.

Jason's hand finds his, pats him twice before falling back to the bed. "It's all right, Tim."

"It's not," Tim shoots back with a vehemence that only hollows him out more. "One of these days he'll do permanent damage."

They both know that is unlikely. Bruce does not hurt them in fits of rage. He always remains cold, collected, clinical. He knows exactly how hard he can push them, has never gone too far before. There is still the possibility that he might not want to hold himself back anymore, that he decides to get rid of them.

"I can take it," Jason vows. His eyes burn into Tim, but now it is Tim's turn to avoid him.

"You shouldn't have to," he says, stubbornly.

It is entirely expected, when Jason replies, without hesitation, "Neither do you."

This has nothing to do with what they can take. Probably also not with what they deserve, although Jason's opinion on that changes depending on how much pain he is in, no matter how often Tim tells him that Alfred's death and, more so, Bruce's descent into cruelty are not his fault. They are not asking to be hurt, to be dismantled slowly. All of that is on Bruce and Bruce alone.

Swallowing a sigh, Tim walks around, further into the room. Like the stupid, self-sacrificing idiot Jason is, he has put the bed they dragged in for him closer to the door. As if that would actually make Tim safer. As if it actually makes Tim feel better to watch Jason get hurt in his stead.

As he is getting their cobbled-together first-aid kit out from under his bed, Tim says, aiming for nonchalance, "I've chosen a car."

Immediately, Jason shoots up, unable to hide his grimace as he pulls at bruises and, probably, worse. "What? No, Tim. That was a stupid idea. We can't steal a car from Bruce." He keeps his voice low, but the words tumble all over each other in his hurry to get them out.

Tim looks up at him with a calm he does not feel. "We can't stay here either."

He brings the kit to Jason's bed but does not open it yet, keeps looking at his hands, at the fading burns all over them.

"Where would we even go?" Jason asks, smaller than he should ever sound.

Somehow, Tim finds the energy to smile at him. "You said we could go anywhere we want."

But Jason shakes his head. "You know it's not that easy."

Easy was never what Tim was going for. Nothing in either of their lives has ever been easy, and it is steadily becoming less so with every passing day.

"It's an option," Tim says and leaves it at that.

He tugs at Jason's shirt, revealing the mess underneath, and gets to work.

---

"Are you done with your homework?"

Jason glares up at Bruce, takes in the nonchalance, the perfect three-piece suit. His back is throbbing, raw with pain. But, of course, he is caught up with schoolwork.

"Yes, sir," he bites out, not caring that he cannot keep up even a facade of politeness. Right after a beating, Bruce is often a bit more lenient with Jason's temper.

"Good. I'll be going out," Bruce says, fiddling his cufflinks into place. "The Foundation Gala is tonight and I'll have some things to take care off before then."

"You're -" Jason breathes, listens for the silence in the house. "Where's Tim?"

Bruce watches him, zeroing in on every twitch, every tense muscle, every weakness. Entirely too calm, he answers, "You know where he is."

Of course, Jason does. It takes everything he has not to jump up, not to throw himself at Bruce. "You have to let him out." Just barely, he manages to make that into a plea. 

The Gala will run long and the sun is not even dipping right now. That is too many hours. If Bruce even remembers to let Tim out after. The chamber is worse than the cabinet ever was, and Jason is not at all sure how much of Tim will get back out of that dark hole if they keep going like this.

"Do I, now?" Bruce asks, slightly bemused even as his face hardens. "It seems rather that you need another reminder of where you place is in this house." 

At the very bottom, Jason is aware. He is feeling the echoes of that lesson with every breath he takes, etched into his very skin.

Out of breath, he says, "It's too long."

"We'll see," Bruce says simply. As if this is an experiment. As if he can push and push and push without consequences. As if Tim is not Jason's little brother. As if that thing does not leave Tim close to breaking every time. "Do not wait up."

And then Bruce is gone, out of their room and down the hall, walking with measured steps as if everything is just how it is supposed to be.

Jason cannot breathe. He sits frozen at his desk, mind racing. This is too much. He cannot let this happen. He has to help Tim.

As quietly as he can, he walks down the hall to the grand staircase leading down. He folds himself into the shadows and watches Bruce leave, watches as he gets into the car waiting for him outside, watches as it is driving out of sight. Then, just to be sure, he waits half an hour more.

He has no idea how to get Tim out of the chamber. It has to work, but he knows any manipulation of the system will send an alert directly to Bruce. Once he starts, everything has to go quickly.

Jason goes back to their room and gets out two bags, throwing in things haphazardly. Tim would be better at this. He knows better how to remain calm. But Tim is not here yet, so Jason has to do this by himself.

He gets their bags and fills another with food from the pantry and gets it all down to the garage. He can hotwire a car, at least, if it comes to that. Then he goes back up to Bruce's office. This is risky, he knows. There are cameras everywhere, but especially in this room. It does not matter, though. There is no going back now.

Jason checks the footage from Tim's chamber, swallowing down his nausea when he sees Tim's curled up form. He minimizes the window and then goes through Bruce's drawers, looking for anything useful. Money, their passports, car keys. His hands are shaking but he pushes on. He finds an itinerary and knows exactly when Bruce will get on stage tonight. There, he has their window of opportunity. The too small amount of time in which Bruce will be occupied, no matter if he gets an alert that they are breaking out.

Hours crawl by, driving Jason nearly insane. But then, the old grandfather clock strikes six. Jason has never run so quickly.

Conner wakes up screaming. He cannot move. Restraints are digging into his wrists; the cold white-tiled walls of the lab are closing in around him; Luthor's voice echoes from somewhere. Let's see how it reacts to this.

He thought he got out. There had been fields and blue skies and - harsh hands holding him down, prying him open and -

"Conner."

Luthor never called him that. Nobody in the lab called him that because he did not have a name. Just a number. Just a file with points awarded in or against his favour to see whether he would be killed.

"Conner."

He comes to in his room on the Kent farm with Ma sitting at his side, her hands on his arm like shackles, wide-eyed with something that might be worry. Overlaying all of this is the still more familiar memory of the lab. The chipping paint on the wall replayed by clinical white, metal underneath his bedsheet, people in lab coats, restraints around his wrist.

He does not know what is real. Superman got him out of the lab, but he never wanted Conner either.

With a sob, he tugs his arm out of Ma's grasp - endlessly relieved when she lets him go, when it is really just fingers instead of cuffs - and curls up around himself, tries to shut out the world around him until he can tell reality from nightmare again. If he ever could.

"What happened?" Ma asks softly once his breathing evens. She reaches out with a hand to smooth the hair away from his forehead, her touch barely there and yet a comfort. People have never been careful with him before. That is not what he was created for.

"Nothing, Ma," Conner lies, badly. His voice cracks. "I'm sorry for waking you up." That, at least, is true. Usually, he manages to keep quiet when having nightmares. Some people in the lab liked him screaming, though, so he cannot always stop himself. Most of the time, it is far easier to just give people what they want.

"Nonsense. I -" Ma frowns, her mouth pinched into a deeply unhappy expression. She looks at him, at the distance he put between them even in the small space. "I don't think I helped much, did I?"

"No, you did," Conner protests immediately, the lie coming to him like second nature. He is fine. He always will be fine. Until someone decides to terminate him because he does not make the cut. That, he knows, is just as present a danger as it was in the lab. "I just didn't know where I was. You being there was a big clue."

At least it was once he recognized her.

Ma nods but does not relax. For a moment, Conner thinks about reaching out. Her hand is still just there. He could simply shift a little bit closer and touch it, hold onto it. It would not have to be a big deal. He could swallow down the panic, show her he is fully back in the present - pretend that he is not still afraid of her. Most of Conner's terrors live in his memories, but he is perfectly aware that he lives on borrowed time, that he is still being observed, still tested. He is still one wrong move away from being locked up in the dark, never to see the sunlight again.

Conner has just begun to move, when Ma says, "I will call Clark."

"No," bursts out of Conner, too high-pitched, too trembling. He tries to salvage it, even as his muscles lock into place and his heart threatens to burst in his chest. "I'm sure he's busy. You don't need to disturb him because of a stupid nightmare."

If Clark gets involved, things will become ugly quick. He is always so adamant about Conner needing to control himself, to keep all of his emotions in check, to never forget he is dangerous. Nightmares are a rather pointed signal of not being in control. What if he did not wake up when he did tonight? What if he lashed out and hurt Ma?

The look Ma sends him is soft, completely wrong for the conversation they are having. "He won't mind. You're his -"

"Please." Whatever Ma wanted to say, Conner does not want to hear it. Child? Absolutely wrong. Clone? Correct, but it is never good to remind him. Project? Prisoner? Nothing, at the very least, that warrants wasting Superman's time.

And a shameful part of Conner thinks, he should not be punished for something out of his control. Yes, he should be better and leave the lab behind, but he has not set out to hurt anyone. Clark likely will not see that, though. He will see the trails of violence in Conner, even if they were done to him instead of by him. He will see the trembling as a lapse, the tearstains as a weakness.

"He should know," Ma insists, burning most of the fight out of Conner. "He can help."

Clark probably should know. He is always on the lookout for signs that Conner will snap and if he finds out Conner is hiding things from him, it will just get worse. It is definitely not going to help to have Superman looming over him or locking him up again because he is too much of a danger to be left free.

In a last-ditch attempt, Conner says, "He can't stop nightmares."

Because they are just nightmares. They are just memories of a place he never wants to return to, not signs of him becoming dangerous. Considering what Luthor wanted Conner to become, the nightmares probably are a sign that he is rather far away from becoming a super villain. He just wants some peace.

Ma pauses, considers his words as she looks at him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He really, really does not. He wants to sleep and he wants to be able to let his guard down without it coming back to hurt him. "Thanks, Ma," he adds, more to get her to back off than for the actual offer.

He is grateful for Ma and Pa taking him in, for letting him sleep in the room that was once their son's, for giving him food, for letting him go to school. They are giving him as much of a normal life as he could have ever hoped for, more than he ever knew to dream off back in the lab. Yet he cannot help waiting for the second shoe to drop, for Clark to decide that he is not worth the trouble, that human rights do not actually adhere to clones made from stolen DNA.

Although she does not look happy with his refusal, Ma nods. "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

Tentatively hopeful that he has dodged this particular bullet, Conner attempts a smile. "Yes, please."

---

As much as Ma and Pa are kind to Conner, they are still Clark's parents. They are still here to keep an eye on Conner, to report if he makes a misstep. It should not come as a surprise that Clark appears two days later and tersely asks Conder to accompany him outside for a talk. It really should not hurt. Conner is not their grandson nor their ward. He is just a lab experiment that no one quite knows what to do with.

He follows Clark without protest. Ma might accept the occasional no but not Clark. Never Superman.

They settle on two chairs and Clark shifts his so he can look directly at Clark. He is blocking the way, too, as if Conner would have a chance to run. As if he would ever try.

"How often do you have nightmares?" Clark just throws them right into it. No small talk, no building up slowly. He is here on business, because Ma told him something that raises all kinds of red flags about Conner.

"Not often," Conner says, staring at the hands in his lap.

"Don't lie." Of course, Superman would notice. Conner's heartbeat is all out of sorts, sitting right at the edge of pushing him into another panic attack, but he is still entirely too readable. "Maybe Luthor left some trap inside of you."

Again, it should not hurt. Of course, people are not worried for him. They are just waiting for him to snap, to reveal some new power with which he will easily get rid of Superman and then become the next big villain, destroying everyone in his path. Conner is the trap.

It does not matter that he has not yet gone on a killing spree or whether he will promise a thousand times that he never will. It does not matter that they have gone through all of Luthor's files front to back and found nothing about a kill switch inside Conner. Yes, he was made to fight Superman, but Luthor was apparently convinced Superman would manage to make Conner hate him all on his own.

Conner ignores the urge to clench his hands lest it will be seen as a sign of aggression. "Sometimes."

"How often?"

"I don't know." Perhaps he should start a dream diary, write down notes about everything he does and thinks and feels and dreams. Perhaps Superman would feel better about him if he could continue Luthor's files.

Clark makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "You have to."

Quickly, Conner chances a glance at Clark. He does not look particularly angry. Yet. Then again, Clark knows all about masks, about looking like one thing but being another. Other than Conner, who will always look like a cheap copy. 

"Maybe twice a month," he answers quietly. 

At least the ones he remembers, so it is not a lie. He is not going to count the days he wakes up anything but rested, cold sweat drying on his skin as he lies frozen in bed, unwilling to open his eyes in case every good thing that ever happened to him was the dream. The escape, the farm, Pa showing him to repair the tractor. He will not admit to sneaking out some nights just so he can sleep under the open sky, count stars he was never allowed to see before. Everybody knows he is broken, but he does not need to give them more evidence, more reason to act against him.

"Are they getting more regular?" Clark has sounded more empathetic when interviewing sleazy politicians, but he has not moved out of his seat, has not come any closer, so Conner still counts it as a win.

"Less."

"What?" Clark asks, clearly getting impatient. He is probably used to more comprehensive reporting and not these monosyllabic attempts to get out of punishment.

"I used to get more of them," Conner admits and cannot help but look up to see how his words are received. "It's getting better."

Clark frowns, like he does not want to believe Conner but cannot find physical evidence for it. "What are you dreaming about?"

Conner wants to laugh. He read somewhere that nightmares are supposed to be full of imagined fears, shadows in the dark, things that are easily dispelled with the morning light. His are all memories, nothing he can ever get rid of again.

He does not want to tell Clark about it. He was there. He got Conner out, so he should know. He saw the tubes, the cells, the doctor's offices, the room with the metal table. He broke the shackles off Conner. He read the files.

With an impatient knock against the arm of his chair, Clark says, "Speak up, boy."

Tears shoot into Conner's eyes, unbidden. Luthor used to call him clone, but the tone was exactly the same as Clark's boy. "The lab," he blurts out, desperate to get the parallel out of his head. He might be afraid of Superman, but he is terrified of Luthor. "I'm dreaming about the lab."

There is just the slightest pause, but Conner can read nothing in Clark's face. 

"What about it?" Clark then asks, his voice no less hard.

Conner can only stare. Well, Clark told him in the very beginning that he should never make the mistake of thinking he is human. He is an experiment, a mistake. Apparently, that means he does not get to have human fears, either.

He takes a deep breath; feels it push against the pressure on his sternum. He can do this. In the lab, he was always afraid, but he learned to turn off certain parts of him, to go somewhere else while they were hurting him. Not all the time, of course, because Luthor did not like being ignored. But he can let himself be interrogated by Superman and not break something inside him further.

With his eyes closed, fingers digging into the flesh of this thighs, Conner goes back to his hell.

"I dream I'm back on the table. There are shackles around my wrists and ankles. Around my chest. Sometimes I'm muzzled. Sometimes they let me scream," he says, haltingly, feels like choking on buried terror. "I dream of their experiments. I can still feel them cut me open. Or drowning me to see how long I can hold my breath." A chuckle like broken glass tumbles from his lips. "You know, those were always the worst. The exposure or the deprivation. Checking how much I could take. When they hurt me, I could at least go away in my head. They were doing that to me and I couldn't fight them. But if they put me in the dark or the cold - there's no getting out of your head. Not without leaving a mess you'll have to pick up later. And then -"

A hand on his snaps Conner out of the memories. He flinches back hard enough to hit his head on the wall behind him. It is enough, at least, to get him fully back to the present. Which he is not quite sure is a good thing. Because Superman is staring at him. Superman, who asked him for facts, not a sob story. Although he knows the facts, knows exactly what Luthor did and how Conner reacted to it. It was all written down minutely, along with speculations and thoughts for further experiments.

"I don't want to go back," Conner blurts out, small and weak and entirely out of line. He has no control over his life. He does not get to make decisions. But even if he never gets anything else in his life, Conner cannot just let them put him back there.

He does not want to look at Clark, does not want to see the rejection, the disdain, but he forces himself to. It is usually better to know what is coming for him.

Eyes narrowed, Clark tells him, "Nobody will make you go back."

This is important, so Conner leans forward, closer than he would normally ever willingly get to Clark. "If you can't trust me, then kill me," he pleads, voice cracking. "Don't lock me up again."

Clark freezes in place, staring at Conner like he did that first time down in the lab, when he found out that Conner was made with his DNA. At least it is how he looked before the anger set in.

"Conner," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He clears his throat, then tries again. "I won't kill you."

"I don't mind," Conner insists, not even lying. "Just please don't lock me up there again."

Conner is no stranger to dying. He came close so many times and wished for it more often. He knows pain, knows having no control over anything that is happening to him. He would prefer death over all of that.

"Look at me, Conner," Clark orders but his tone is soft, more so than he has ever used with Conner. His hand hovers in the air, not quite reaching out for Conner but looking like he thought of it. "No one is going to put you back in a lab. No one will cuff you down or experiment on you. And no one will kill you either." After barely a moment of hesitation, he adds, "You're safe now."

Conner wants to laugh, but he is afraid of what will come out if he releases the pressure in his chest. He cannot afford to break down in front of Superman. "But I'm not," he argues, as if he does not know better. He is just so tired of waiting. "You said I'm not safe. You're here because, what? Because you think Luthor is giving me commands through my dreams? You think he built in a secret switch that will make me turn into a monster in my sleep? I can't even have nightmares without you suspecting me of doing something bad, so don't tell me I'll ever be safe."

He cuts himself off, out of breath, rubbing against the pain underneath his sternum. This is all wrong. They should have never let him live in the first place. They should have burnt the lab down and him with it, destroyed all of Luthor's data and experiments, eliminated the danger they think Conner poses. It would not have even taken much. He does not remember how long he had been on the table when the Justice League stormed the place. It should not have been hard to just snap his neck, to just leave him there. Surely, it would have been better than this, the dark expectations chaining him down, the waiting for him to break. They are just delaying the inevitable.

"I'm sorry," Clark says, at once quiet and strong. It cuts through Conner's spiralling thoughts like a blade, severing the thin thread that is holding Conner suspended in the air. Without it, he is falling.

"You don't get to say that." Conner wants to shout, to lash out. Instead, the words come out more like sobs, carved out of some hidden place inside his chest. "You don't get to pretend you're sorry when you wish I would have died down there like all the others." The other failed experiments. Conner's brothers. How he envies them, at times.

"I wasn't happy to find you down there, Conner. But that isn't your fault." Clark sounds earnest, his eyes never leaving Conner. And then he just keeps on lying, "I don't want you dead. And I won't hurt you."

Conner's eyes burn. It gets harder to swallow around the pressure in his throat. "I wish you would."

"What?"

He wants to curl up in shame, wants to close his eyes and make everything disappear. He has never said any of this out loud, but now he cannot stop it anymore. It feels cathartic to just let go.

"I'm tired of waiting for it," he admits. "I don't want to be afraid anymore."

Clark is suddenly right in front of him, reaching for something behind Conner, although there is nothing there but the wall. But he is raising both his arms and - and he is hugging Conner, pulling him close to his chest and putting his arms around him like Conner is something precious, something to be protected.

"I am sorry," Clark says quietly, and all Conner can concentrate on is the way the words vibrate against him. "And I promise I won't hurt you."

Everything is too much. The world, the memories, Clark's arms, not poised to hurt but holding him. Finally, the pressure gives and Conner dissolves into sobs and tears. And Clark just holds him closer.

---

Conner wakes up on the couch in the living room, curled up against someone big and warm. He does not want to open his eyes. This is the safest he has felt in as long as he can remember. Safer even than when he realized that he could run through the fields surrounding the farm until he lost sight of the house, and further still, and no one would stop him, no one would drag him back inside and lock him up.

Quiet voices filter in from the direction of the kitchen, sounding like Ma and Pa, which - between one heartbeat and the next, Conner is fully awake. If Ma and Pa are in the kitchen, that leaves precious few people who could be on the couch next to him.

It is Clark. Superman. Sleeping or dozing or pretending, one arm curled around Conner's shoulders, looking soft like he never has before where Conner could see him.

Conner cannot help but clam up. Every muscle in his body goes from relaxed to tense in the blink of an eye. Clark wakes up only a moment later.

"Conner?" he asks, sounding sleepy and altogether like he does not know where he is, who he is hugging close to his side. Yesterday, all Conner could think of was how much damage Clark would be able to do if he ever let himself go. Never would he have expected such softness. Not for him. "Is everything all right? Did you have another nightmare?"

Nightmares. Conner remembers. Clark came to assess whether he is a danger, then Conner had a meltdown and Clark hugged him. He also must have carried Conner inside and then stayed while Conner fell asleep.

"No," Conner says and is not quite sure which of Clark's question he is answering. He did not have another nightmare, but he is not quite convinced this is not a dream, that this might not turn ugly any moment now. He definitely is not all right. Has not been even once in his short, miserable life.

"You're awake," Ma calls from the door. Conner has never been gladder to see her. Now, he can untangle himself from Clark's hold and flee. There is surely some work to be done on the farm, something menial but physically demanding to make him stop thinking. Something far away from the house and Clark.

"I'm sorry," Conner says on reflex, only to have Clark tighten the hold on him.

"Nonsense." Ma clicks her tongue. "Breakfast will be ready in five. I'll expect you both at the table then."

"Yes, Ma," Conner and Clark say in unison, which makes Conner wince, waiting for a reprimand. Which never comes.

She turns back towards the kitchen but leaves the door open. It means nothing. They neither could nor would stop Clark from doing whatever he wants, but Conner still fixates on the small view he has of the hall, on the muffled noises filtering into the living room.

"I'm sorry for pushing you yesterday," Clark speaks up, still soft. "But I want you to know that I mean what I said. You're safe. From Lex Luthor, and from me, too. Nobody will lock you up, neither in a lab nor anywhere else. I'm overly cautious because I know what I can do. What I could do if I lost control. I shouldn't have put that on you."

Conner cannot meet Clark's eyes It is bad enough that they are still so close, that Clark will be able to feel his racing heartbeat instead of just hearing it.

"You don't have to apologize," he croaks out. Apologies are for people, not for failed lab experiments.

"But I do," Clark argues, no heat behind the words, no anger at being contradicted. "And I want to do better from now on."

Ducking his head, Conner says, "You've already done so much. You've given me a place to stay." He is sure he cannot take more attention from Clark. He is already balancing on the edge of panic attacks more often than not.

But Clark shakes his head. "There's more to life than being allowed somewhere. We're not family in the traditional sense, but I -" He trails off, breathes, waits for Conner to look at him. "I want to change things."

"You don't -" Conner tries to argue, but Conner cuts him off quietly.

"I want to," he says, looking like an entirely new person. Not hard like Superman on a mission, not kind like he is to victims after the fighting is over. No, something else. Something soft and self-assured at the same time. Something Conner is not sure he can trust. As if he read his mind, Clark adds, "You don't have to say anything. It's on me to show you I'm serious."

Conner has not yet liked many things people showed him or life has thrown at him. He does not want to fight anymore.

"Now," Clark exclaims and sound eager. "Let's go and wash our hands before Ma feeds our pancakes to the chickens."

Jason has been here before. Darkness presses in all around him and the air is heavy with dust, clogging his lungs. Something is pinning down his midsection and he cannot see his legs, cannot feel the right one, either. Jagged pieces of rock and metal cluster around him, leaving a small pocket for his torso and head, but not enough to sit up, not enough to see anything other than debris. His helmet is cracked, but he cannot blame his lovely surroundings on messed up night vision. He knows what it feels like to be buried.

His chest constricts, which has nothing to do with anything physical holding him down and everything with panic shooting through him, stealing what little air he managed to get into his body.

He cannot move. He cannot see. He cannot breathe. He cannot think.

Distantly, he hears laughter. Crazed and loud, coming and going, one moment directly in his ear, the other far away but causing the building to shake. Metal rings out against metal, against stone, against flesh.

"No," Jason wants to say, a denial and a cry for help all in one, but he cannot hear anything other than Joker laughing and grave dirt piling up around him.

One of his arms is pinned out of his sight. The other flares with pain when he struggles to bring it up, to push against the stone encasing him. The pain pierces the fog in his brain a little, enough to think that, maybe, it is not the smartest idea to try and make the building around him move. But then his fingertips catch on something rough, the nail and skin breaking in his mad scratching and he is back in his grave, back to suffocating.

Darkness closes in, tugging at him. He wants to let go, wants to be anywhere but here, anything but buried once again. He has been taught to fight, though, not to give up.

So, Jason fights.

---

"-ood - hear me?" a voice rings out, weak and staticky.

Jason closes his eyes against it. He thought he heard voices in that burning warehouse, too, thought Bruce would come to his rescue. Nobody ever comes. Not for the likes of him. Every Crime Alley brat knows they are on their own. Jason just needed a bit longer to understand that lesson.

"Red Hood - you. We - longer."

The voice ebbs and flows. He knows it, even through the weak connection, although he cannot put a name to it. He is not entirely sure he wants to. Few people in his life would search for him, almost none of them good.

"We're coming - hear - not."

Are they coming or not? Jason thinks and laughs. Something shifts inside him as he breaks out into a coughing fit. And then something shifts around him, creaking ominously, pressing in closer.

He pushes against the stone. Pushes and pushes and pushes. Nothing happens.

His night vision is failing, greying out more and more. Or perhaps that is just his eyes. He does not want to close them, does not want to die here.

Well, Jason has rarely ever gotten what he wants.

---

Jason wakes up. His body feels like it is floating, wrapped up in something soft and warm. He does not trust it.

Before he opens his eyes, he feels into himself, feels the pressure on his chest and something throbbing in his abdomen. He tenses his legs and - sharp pain shoots through him, piercing the cloudy haze. Then another when he moves his right arm. He does feel all of his limbs, though. Pain is good. Pain means he survived more or less intact. For now, at least.

"Jason," someone calls, dissipating the low ringing in his ears.

Blinking his eyes open, the world needs a long moment to come into focus. He hears the beeping of the heart monitor before he can see it. Feels the hand on his arms before he realizes the voice was real.

Or, perhaps, he has really vivid hallucinations, because that is Tim Drake sitting at the side of his bed, his hair greasy and unkempt in a way he never is, an oversized sweater making him seem even smaller. Of all the people in the world, though, why would he hallucinate Tim? He has less reason to be here than Bruce. Less reason than all the rest of the batfamily put together.

Jason opens his mouth to say something, even if he has no idea what. He does not get past one mangled sound, scraping up the raw insides of his throat.

The upper part of the bed moves, pushing him into more of a sitting position. Then something hits against his lips. A straw. Water. It hurts, going down, but the coolness also soothes.

"Are you with me?" Tim holds the glass close, waiting. His tone is gentle, even in its exhaustion.

"What happened?" Jason asks, or some close approximation of it.

Tim seems to understand him nonetheless. "Remember the bank robbery? Well, the bank collapsed on you." He hesitates, his eyes flicking away for a moment. "We got you out, but you're pretty messed up."

We, he says, but Jason sees only him. He has no idea who we could be. Surely not Bruce. The old man would be glad if a bank finally did him in.

With effort, he pushes down all thoughts about Bruce. Only madness lies that way and he has had his fair share of that. Gritting his teeth, Jason asks, "Damage?"

Tim smiles, although it is a small, bitter thing, devoid of all humour. "Nothing permanent," he reassures dryly. "Well, we're almost matching now, since you lost a part of your spleen. And they had to patch up a few other holes in your insides and drain the blood out of your lungs." He shrugs, although his eyes are intent, never leaving Jason. "Other than that, a concussion, a few broken ribs, broken right arm and leg, broken hip. Your spine's intact. You're looking at a lot of time for recovery and rehab."

That last part comes out hesitantly, as if Tim knows that Jason will not stay down willingly as soon as he gets out of here. He cannot, really. Even if he has given up on his grand plan to bring Batman to heel, he has responsibilities. Red Hood needs to protect his people, even if he has no one to protect him in turn. Almost no one.

"What are you doing here?" It comes out more suspicious than intended, but Tim does not seem offended. He just looks tired. Jason does not know how long he has been out, but if he had surgery, it must have been a while. Somehow, he doubts Tim went home during that time, even if he cannot explain why.

Tim watches him, his face eerily blank, and Jason is sure he will get nothing but lies out of him. But then something shifts. Tim's shoulders slump and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I was close to the bank. When it came down -" He clenches his jaw and, just briefly, looks like Bruce when he gets angry. "You weren't answering your comms."

Jason never does. They are not a team. He is not a bat. He is just the remnant of a failed experiment. Silence on his end has never bothered anyone before.

"So what?" Jason scoffs, aiming for dismissal but falling painfully flat. "Good riddance, right?"

"No." Tim's vehemence is a surprise. This is the most fire he has shown since Jason woke up. The most life.  "Bruce is -" He exhales audibly. "You're his son."

Tim's entire posture screams that this is somehow important. He is leaning forward in his seat, his back in a rigid line, hands clenched around the sleeves of his hoodie. Even his face, which he usually has under ironclad control, is tense.

That is the only thing that keeps Jason from laughing. Instead, he says, his voice rough, "Not anymore."

Maybe he never really was, either. Things were frayed for a while even before Jason got himself murdered.

Dick told him that Bruce fell into a hole after Jason's death, that grief claimed him and almost pushed him past the point of no return. He cannot believe it, though, because Bruce never showed even a hint of relief that Jason came back. Perhaps he grieved the stupid kid Jason once was. Perhaps he grieved the possibilities that died with him. Grief out of love should look different, though. It should not hurt the person that left. 

"Yes, you are," Tim argues, almost beseeching. "He chose you. That should mean something."

Something about that feels off, a slight nagging in the back of Jason's mind. He is too out of it, too tired to chase it, however. Thinking about Bruce never does him any good. All expectations he had were crushed, all hope for nothing.

Jason drops his eyes and looks at the iv in the back of his hand instead, curls his wrist to feel it move. "You should know that Bruce forces the world into a specific mould," he says slowly, trying to put into words what he himself is struggling to believe. "Everything that doesn't fit gets cut off. I don't fit."

It hurts but it is the truth. There is no hiding from it. Jason came back wrong and they all drew their lines in the sand.

Tim reaches out, his hand appearing in Jason's line of view only to falter and drop to the bed like a forgotten tool. His voice, however, is strong, when he says, "You're my brother, then."

The words hit like a punch against his broken ribs. shifting something inside him that is already barely holding together.

"It doesn't work that way, Replacement." The name tastes bitter on his tongue. Tim and he are by no means friends, but Jason does not hate him anymore, either. He knows he was wrong to. He can admit that now.

Tim snorts and, when Jason looks up at him, smiles briefly, just a twitch of his lips. "Actually, legally, it does."

"Legally," Jason drawls, aiming to punch back, “I'm dead."

"But not really. We -" Tim shrugs, forces the movement to seem casual. Any other time, it might have been believable. "That doesn't matter right now. You need to get better."

Everything hurts, even through the pain medication he is certainly receiving. A building fell on him and his body will not let him forget it soon.

Still, he says, "If it hasn't killed me yet, it won't." Because that is true, too. Death is an old friend of Jason's. Despite everything, he does not seem eager to claim him.

Withdrawing slightly, Tim's posture becomes a close facsimile of his usual unbothered grace. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Jason has not a single idea what he is supposed to do with that. Under the collapsed building, he thought he would never wake up. He definitely did not think he would wake up to someone sitting at his bedside or that this someone could ever be Tim. None of this makes sense. He would think Tim is a hallucination, but Jason would never imagine him this unkempt, this defeated.

"Go home, Tim," Jason all but orders. Whatever this is, it is just an interlude, a misstep. They are nothing to each other beyond having both been Robin once.

Something dark flits over Tim's face, there and gone again before Jason could hope to catch it.

"I'm going to get a nurse," Tim declares and gets up, reaching for the bed to steady himself. "They'll want to have a look at you, now that you're awake. Don't you dare move out of this bed until I'm back."

Those are the magic words to make Jason want to rip out the iv and jump out of the window. He would not get far with two of his limbs in casts. He knows that. He almost wants to try, anyway.

"You're not my keeper," he says instead, sullen, trying to push Tim away.

And Tim just smiles at him, small but genuine. "It looks like you need one."

---

A week passes in which Jason drifts in and out of sleep. The doctors keep telling him he is doing good progress. Inexplicably, Tim remains faithfully at his side almost constantly, only leaving when the staff tells him to or when Jason has examinations.

When the doctor tells them that Jason will be moved out of the ICU, Tim looks more relieved than Jason.

"Good," Tim says and follows after the doctor when she leaves.

Jason expects that to be it. For some reason, Tim stayed with him, working when Jason was sleeping, and bullying him into eating and drinking when he was not. Now that he is out of immediate danger, Tim must be done with him. Why would he not? It is time to return to the Manor. To the comfort of his own room and Alfred's cooking and perhaps even Bruce's presence. Still, a part of Jason stings at the obvious relief in Tim's tone.

Before he can examine that closer, however, he hears slightly raised voices outside of his door. Tim and the doctor.

"We advise against checking him out at this point," the doctor says with all the fraying patience of someone who should be used by now to patients who want too much too quickly.

"I know. I heard you," Tim replies dryly but with steel underneath the words. "And if anything changes, I'll bring him right back."

They are talking about him, Jason realizes. Specifically, Tim talks about getting Jason out of here. Which is what he wants, of course, but had expected to deal with himself.

"This isn't a hotel," the doctor snaps. "You can't just come and go as you want."

"Are you saying you won't treat him if it becomes necessary just because he felt unsafe and needed to get out?" Tim asks in a tone he must have learned from one of WE's lawyers. "I'm just asking, so we can choose another hospital next time."

"Sir. Who even are you?" The doctor's exasperation makes Jason smile, despite being as confused as her. "You left most of his details blank when -"

"I'm his brother," Tim says with all the icy conviction of someone used to getting their way. This time, it hits harder than when he told Jason the same thing. People say all kinds of lies in private. But there is no hesitation in his tone as he declares Jason family to everybody who is around to hear it. "And we value our privacy. Please finish whatever paperwork you need. We have to make a trip to the pharmacy before we can go home."

After that, everything goes quickly. A nurse comes in to free Jason from all the monitoring equipment and the iv. Then she tells him how to handle the casts and which movements he should avoid. The doctor, looking very much put out, explains his lingering issues and how he should deal with them as well as which medication he should use. Through it all, Tim stands at Jason's bedside, radiating smugness and exhaustion in equal measure, probably listening more closely than Jason does himself.

They help Jason into a wheelchair, ready to be rid of their particular strand of annoying.  Tim pushes Jason outside and leaves him sitting in a spot of sunlight as he goes to get the car. And then they are on their way home. Probably to Wayne Manor, which Jason wants to fight against. He can take care of himself. He does not want to deal with Bruce's anger and Damian's contempt and Alfred's coddling. He wants to crawl into his own bed and forget the feeling of being buried.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks a few blocks away from the hospital. He does not look at Tim but watches the streets outside.

"You are my brother," Tim repeats, daring Jason to argue. Which, of course, he does.

"I tried to -"

"I remember," Tim cuts him off, gentle despite the memory of Titan's Tower hanging in the air. "Guess what, you're not special. Damian tried to kill me, too. Doesn't mean I have to return the favour." His tone remains light, like it does not matter that their family is unbelievably messed up.

Jason does not know what to say to that. He does not think there is anything appropriate he could say. Tim is strange, always has been, more logic-driven than the rest of them, and a master of pushing anything else down and out of sight. He does not want Tim to suddenly remember that he should hate Jason, that he has a thousand reasons not to help him.

Instead, he keeps looking out the window, a nauseating mix of emotions turning in his stomach that he decides against examining too closely.

After they have missed their turn twice, Jason looks at Tim. "This is not the way to the Manor."

"No," Tim scoffs, half-amused, half-incredulous. "Didn't think you'd want to go there."

That is true, of course, although he did not expect Tim to care. And they are not going towards Crime Alley, either, so there goes the idea that Tim will just deposit Jason in one of his safehouses.

"Then where are we going?"

Tim glances at him briefly, something shifty in the way takes his time to reply. His hands tighten around the wheel. Quietly, he offers, "My home."

"You moved out?" Jason asks, surprised and yet also not.

"Yep," Tim says, popping the p like a gunshot and then does not elaborate. If he wants to make it sound like no big deal, he is not succeeding.

---

They park underneath some modern apartment building in downtown Gotham, as far away from Crime Alley and Bristol as possible.

As if he has done so a hundred times before, Tim gets the wheelchair out of the trunk and unfolds it before helping Jason into it, all without saying a single word. There is a lot of grunting on Jason's part and a quiet look of concentration on Tim’s face. But Jason has a feeling Tim is not in the mood to answer questions, even if Jason is burning with them.

They take an elevator to the penthouse - of course - but when they get out, there are people coming and going, carrying boxes and furniture.

There is only one door, however, and Jason has to ask, "You sure you got the correct address? Seems like someone's moving in."

Tim glares at him, but even that lacks heat. He is really going out of his way to not argue with Jason.

"Is the guest room ready?" Tim asks one of the passing men, who does not seem surprised to see a kid walk around like he owns the place, pushing someone in a wheelchair who looks like he has been run over by a train. Or had a building collapse on him. Jason hopes they are paid enough not to care.

"Yes. The doc said she'd be back in an hour, but everything should be up and running."

Tim inclines his head with a tired smile. "Thank you."

They keep moving. The apartment is still rather empty, but as they pass several doors, Jason catches glimpses of half-built furniture, of blinding white rooms slowly being filled.

Suspicion rises in Jason and he twists to look at Tim. "When did you move out of the Manor?"

The smallest twitch pulls at Tim's lips, not really amused, but at least a break from his suffocating professionalism. "Two weeks ago," he admits, sounding slightly sheepish. "I crashed in one of your safehouses when the hospital had enough and threw me out."

Jason's thoughts are racing. None of this makes sense. The timeline is pretty mangled up in his head, considering he spent days more or less unconscious. Two weeks ago could have been the robbery. Two weeks ago could have been when he was hospitalised. He does not remember anything else that could be an explanation. Jason might not be very involved with the bats but he surely would have heard about a breaking-point argument between Bruce and his prodigal son. But Jason cannot be the reason, either.

"Why?" he demands, sharper than he intended, but he really does not like not knowing what is going on. "You had a fight with B and then decided to latch onto me when I couldn't say no?"

Tim stills, just briefly, but noticeably enough. Finally, he says, "Something like that."

Jason's hand flies to the brakes of the wheelchair. Once they come to a stop, he twirls around, looking up at Tim with a glare. "No, Tim," he snaps, almost an accusation. "Tell me."

And Tim looks back at him, still enough that Jason knows he is anything but calm inside. It does not do anything to get rid of his sudden suspicions.

Haltingly, Tim offers, "I had a fight with B over whether or not you need our help. He agreed to disagree and left." He shrugs, although there is nothing casual in the gesture. "I didn't."

The rumbling pain underneath Jason's sternum is wholly unappreciated. He knows Bruce has given up on him. He knows Bruce would have preferred he stayed dead instead of coming back like this. He knows they are not family anymore. Yet, he can never really accept that, can never really get over the instinctive sense of betrayal and loss.

"So, what?" he pushes, wants to be angry about it. "You moved out for me?"

"Not just for you." Pointedly, Tim resumes pushing the wheelchair until they get to a sunny room that looks, if not friendly, at least complete. "I had them make up the guestroom first, since you won't be able to move around easily. Tell me if something's missing. Tam helped organize most of the furniture."

The room is made up tastefully, coloured in gentle blues. But the walls are bare and it is all too shiny, too clean.

"It looks like it's out of a magazine," Jason says as if he cares about any of that. As if anything is important other than finding out what got into Tim. What had him leave his home only to spend time with Jason of all people, rescuing him, even.

"It probably is," Tim admits easily. "I didn't give her much time."

No, he apparently did not. "Two weeks to furnish an entire apartment," Jason says flatly, trying and failing to hide his growing confusion.

Tim shows himself entirely unaffected. As if there is nothing to it, he says, "And to find the apartment."

Jason stares, but there is no getting past Tim's facade. "You're serious."

Finally, a hint of irritation pulls at Tim's expression. "Don't flatter yourself, Jason. This has been a long time coming. You've just been a convenient catalyst."

Things have not been going well for years now in the Wayne family. Probably not since Jason died. But Tim is the one person amongst all of them who always seems to be in control, to have his shit together. He makes juggling work and patrol and being a Wayne look easy, even if he might lack a healthy social life. They all do, though.

"Why?" Jason asks, even though he is not entirely sure he will like the answer.

"Because Bruce is suffocating. And once he's made up his mind about something, there's no arguing with him," bursts out of Tim. Then he straightens, pulls his expression back into something calm. "You're family, Jason," he says and sounds like he means every word. "He doesn't get to change that."

"That's not -"

That is as far as Jason gets before Tim talks right over him.

"Yes, it is," Tim insists, not a hint of doubt showing. "Because you were right, I was your replacement, and it was only ever meant to be temporary. I used to be glad that it wasn't, but not if being family hinges on so many conditions."

Tim does not sound bitter about calling himself a replacement, but his expression cracks at the end, as if the thought of their family not sticking together for the sake of being a family is a worse crime than expecting to be discarded as soon as someone better comes along.

The thing is, Jason understands that. He did not believe Bruce had good intentions when he was first picked up from the streets. He did not think someone could help him just like that or that they could grow into family. To have that thrown back at him when he needed his father most is a wound he will never completely get over, no matter how much he buries himself in anger and work. Perhaps it was naive to believe that Bruce would do better with the children that came after Jason. That Bruce could get over himself, over his own trauma.

He understands Tim, but that does not mean he is ready to be pulled back into this entire mess. He barely got out the first time. Not alive, at least.

"So, you decided to kidnap me and make up a happy family of our own?" Jason asks, more an accusation than an honest question.

Tim turns away from him towards the bed and pulls at the blanket, attempting to fix something that is already perfect. "Don't make it sound creepy," he says, keeping his face hidden. "I can bring you back to the hospital right now."

Jason does not look away even for a moment as he replies, "I can just go home."

There is just the tiniest hint of a wince. More a tensing of Tim's neck and shoulders. It is enough. It tells Jason all he needs to know. Right now, Tim needs him just as much as Jason has needed someone a hundred times before.

"And die in the middle of the night with no one noticing?" Tim scoffs, quickly regaining his balance. Out of all of the Wayne children, he is the best at this game.

Jason tries to cross his arms but abandons the movement when he remembers the cast, jarring his broken bone. "I've been told I'm stable," he says, keeping the jolt of pain out of his voice.

Finally, Tim looks back at him, his mask reassembled. "Yeah, until you have the next nightmare and jump out the window during a panic attack."

Jason does not remember his rescue, does not remember being cut out of the collapsed building, but he guesses it was ugly. Caught between his broken body and the phantom weight of grave dirt in his lungs, there is no way Jason went quietly. And Tim was there to witness it all.

He wants to lash out, to demand answers about what happened, to push down the memory as far as it can go. Instead, he says, so flat it is almost sharp again, "It's not your job to save me. I can save myself."

"But do we have to?" For a moment, Tim sounds so vulnerable that Jason is taken aback, that he almost overhears the we. "Anyway, I'm not locking you up. You're free to go whenever." But I don't want you to, hangs in the air, unspoken but heard. "You'll miss Alfred's cooking."

"Alfred?" Jason asks, surprised, craning his neck as if Alfred is going to come around the corner any moment now. In the privacy of his mind, he can admit that he would not mind that.

Still, he does not miss the way Tim relaxes, almost as if he thinks this battle is won. It is not. Jason will get answers, and if he does not like them, he will talk to Bruce, his own issues be damned.

"He terrorized the poor movers into building the kitchen just right," Tim explains, then smirks. "Politely, of course."

Of course. Alfred is nothing but polite. That has never stopped him from getting what he wants. On the contrary.

Jason briefly closes his eyes and just breathes. Then, he lets reality back in. "All right."

Tim freezes. "What?"

"All right, I'll stay," Jason says, like he never put up a fight. "For now. Honestly, everything hurts, and I'll gladly not make pharmacy runs myself."

Something unclenches visibly in Tim, although he tries to hide it. His expression warms, as he steps back towards the wheelchair. "Into bed with you, then," he orders with audible cheer. "Leslie will come by later, and you will do everything she says."

Tim pushes the wheelchair to the edge of the bed and clicks the brakes into place, but then he takes a step back, allowing Jason to do this on his own terms. That, perhaps more than any words before, let Jason make his decision. He is still not sure what to make of the funny feeling inside of him when Tim called him brother, but maybe it is not a bad thing. At the very least, he can let his bones mend in comparable luxury. That is it.

But then Tim lingers in the door, looking him over with concern and he does not even try to hide it.

"You've got a bell," he says and points to Jason's side. "Use it if you need anything."

There are a hundred jokes Jason could make here, a hundred opportunities to abuse this. Instead, he finds the small button that has been carefully put on the nightstand and shows it to Tim.

"Thank you," Jason says, honestly and careful about it. He means more than just the bell, and they both know it.

Tim twitches, uncomfortable but also pleased. "You're welcome."

The posting on Coruscant is a disappointment. After years of training for battle, years of learning strategy and troop management and how best to kill and die, Fox is expected to stand guard over politicians and do paperwork. After years of being moulded to work with the Jedi, Fox is not going to get one.

Shame burns in his core as his batchmates talk excitedly about their assignments and their Generals, but when they laugh at him, he gives as good as he gets. They were made to serve, so he will, in whatever capacity they think suits him best.

---

Nothing could have prepared Fox for Chancellor Palpatine. The most powerful man in their galaxy, who swings between being a genial old man and a serrated blade, whichever will serve him at any given moment. He sends people to oversee the Coruscant Guard moving in and summons Fox at his earliest convenience to welcome him. He apologizes for the bare state of the Guard HQ, the blank duracrete walls, the cramped, underground space, but offers a smile when Fox assures him there is nothing wrong with it. It feels like he has passed some kind of test.

Everything else - the work, the senators, the entire city - is not as welcoming. And, of course, everything goes downhill from there.

---

"What's on your mind, Commander?" the Chancellor asks during a meeting three months into Fox' service on Coruscant.

They meet often, more often than Fox thinks is necessary, but it is not him calling the shots. Palpatine likely just wants to get a feel for the men here to keep him and the Senate safe. The brothers have been bought and paid for, trained to be the best, but there have never been any outside inspections during their training. It only makes sense that stricter supervision is necessary for them to work more smoothly together in the future.

Still, the Chancellor always wants to know what Fox is thinking, whether everything is all right.

"Nothing I can't handle, sir," Fox reassures with perfect nonchalance. He stands at attention in front of the Chancellor's desk. Palpatine has not given him permission to stand at ease. He forgets, often. An oversight, surely, considering he is not a military man but a politician.

"Nonsense." Palpatine smiles and leans back in his seat. In moments like this, it looks more like a throne than an office chair. "I want us to work together well, Commander. Part of that is being honest with each other."

Honesty, Fox has learned early on, is dangerous. The trainers never wanted honesty but results. They also instructed the clones to always do as they are told.

Fox locks his muscles, impossibly, more as he regards the Chancellor through the safety of his helmet. He needs to make a decision here. In the end, however, there is hardly a choice. 

"A few of the Red Guard keep bothering my people," he admits slowly. The natborns have made their dislike of the sudden presence of clones very clear ever since they arrived. And since they outrank the clones, there is little Fox can do against them, other than brief his brothers to be on their best behaviour at all times, to never go anywhere alone, and to let things happen. "Two of my troopers are currently in the medbay."

One of them talked back when he should have just swallowed the insults and tried to walk away. The other did not get up fast enough when the Red Guard tripped him, so they pulled him into an impromptu bout of training. Neither of them will be fit for duty for the week.

"Ah." Palpatine nods sagely, his eyes piercing Fox as if searching for something. "I see how you could perceive this as a problem."

Fox stills even before the words fully register. Something in the air has changed, like a predator has entered while he was looking in the other direction. Could, the Chancellor said, as if there is a big but hanging between them. Could, as in is not.

Within days of arriving at Coruscant, Fox has realized that this posting will not be as easy as his batchmates have prophesized. Yet, this rather incongruous meeting seems suddenly dangerous. 

"Sir?"

"Well, my dear CC-1010," Palpatine drawls Fox' name with sudden disdain, the corners of his lips curling up just so as if he smelled something burnt. The kind, grandfatherly man is gone, replaced by something sharp-edged. "Such a thing would be unacceptable if you and your men were sentients. Tensions are running high in the galaxy, thanks to this ghastly war. It is only understandable that some frustration needs to be let out. I think we should be thankful that the Red Guard decided to do so in a constructive manner. Imagine if they were to pick on actual people."

Fox can do nothing but stare. He has never been gladder for his bucket than he is in this moment. This is wrong. His first thought is that someone must have poisoned the Chancellor. That, or mind control. They have met at least once a week since Fox has arrived on Coruscant and never before has there been such malice in Palpatine's eyes, such potential for cruelty in the air. How could he have missed this? All the brothers have been taught to be wary of natborns, of their fragile place in this world. The sole reason they exist is to die so that real people will not have to. For some reason, Fox had begun to forget that.

"Is there a problem, Commander?" Palpatine asks, hissing the title in the same way other natborns say clone.

Fox' posture never wavered, yet he attempts to straighten. There is only one answer to give. "No, sir."

"Good." Just like that, Palpatine's face smooths back into something soft as if he never slipped. Only his eyes remain cold. "I've decided to take a genial approach with you. You do fill an important role here on Coruscant and I want our partnership to be fruitful. But don't think that I cannot take away everything I am giving you."

Fox swallows. "Understood, sir."

---

He had not. Understood, that is. Of course, he has heard civilians call him and his brothers flesh droids. Of course, he knew that they were bought and paid for, nothing more than a product to be used as cannon fodder. Of course, he has run into problems at every corner while trying to do his job because people like to test their limits. But knowing something and being confronted with it in such clear terms are two very different things.

There were signs. The headquarters the Coruscant Guard was assigned are terribly depressing. Bare duracrete walls and floors, cramped spaces, far enough down that they never see the sun other than when on duty outside. It is only marginally better than the prison they guard.

Things are falling into place, however. What Fox thought to be starting problems or organizational defects might just be the new norm. So, he sits down in his shoe-box office, gathers his notes on all the incidents that have happened, all the issues he heard his brothers talking about, and plans. They are not in power here, but Fox will be damned if he does not protect his men as best as he can.

---

Once a month, like clockwork, Fox and his batchmates meet for a vid call. Not everybody makes it all the time - there is a war happening, after all - but the familiarity of it is comforting. Less so is the way his brothers' jokes keep getting sharper, turning against Fox more than including him. In part, he can understand it. They are out in the galaxy fighting, losing brothers. He has tried to explain that things are not just sunshine and boredom here on Coruscant either, but they do not want to listen. He has stopped trying. As a result, he starts to talk less. Hearing his brothers has to be comfort enough.

They are going on about what crazy manoeuvres their Jedi Generals get up to in battle when Fox' gauntlet pings with an incoming message from his CMO. Fox barely swallows his sigh. He seldom received good news from the medbay.

"What's up with you, Fox?" Cody asks, always too observant. "Is your cushy desk job already getting to you?"

With effort, Fox does not show them his office. Nothing is cushy about this place. But they are stationed on cramped Venators with a lot more men, so he really should not compare their situations. 

"Nothing," he says instead, opening up the message instead of looking at his batchmates. "Just got a report from my CMO."

Wolffe's laughter grates, but Fox guesses it is supposed to. 

"Of what? Your boys getting too many papercuts?" A frown is audible in Cody's voice, but Fox still does not look up, does not want to see whether Cody is smiling, too. 

"Maybe the trainers did choose the right assignments," Wolffe cuts in, sharp and aiming right where it hurts. "I don't imagine they could handle being actually shot at if that's what you're whining about."

Fox currently has six people in the infirmary, two of them with broken bones. Last week, the Chancellor had him sign off on a reconditioning request for one of his troopers who took a blaster bolt for a senator because he did not stop the attack from happening in the first place. Fox actually begged Palpatine to reconsider. Only to receive a hard glare and a, we have exacting standards for our Guard and we can't let that slip just because you think it's hard to do your duty.

He does not say any of that, does not think his batchmates will hear him. They keep going on about Fox' comfortable assignment. Not, he knows, out of jealousy. Not even pity. Their realities are just so vastly different now. They are losing brothers in battle. Fox trying to keep the angry Red Guard at bay and, almost more impossible, keep demanding senators happy is nothing compared to that.

"Just a mission gone wrong," he finally answers, carefully.

"Mission," Cody repeats, doubt dripping from his lips. "It's babysitting. My general has a few choice words to say about politicians. They do need a lot of handholding."

Fox excuses himself soon after. He loves his batchmates. Since leaving Kamino, he has learned that not every battlefield looks the same and, already, his men are gathering scars that they will never be able to show off like their brothers from the frontline battalions do. Lines are being drawn in the sand. Not just between the Separatists and the Republic or even between clones and natborns. No, already, the Coruscant Guard feels lightyears away from the GAR, and only one side is doing the pushing.

---

During the next vid call with Fox' batchmates, Thorn comes in, barely pausing to knock. He is holding himself stiffly enough that Fox rises immediately. Everything is wrong all the time, but they have quickly come to develop a sense for when things are dangerous.

"I need to go," Fox says absentmindedly, waving at the camera, dismissively more than in goodbye. He had not really been part of the conversation anyway.

"What? Fox." Cody has always been good with wielding disappointment as a weapon. "You've cancelled on us the last two times and now you're running out early? Are you that desperate to pretend you actually have to work down there?"

Fox does not even pause as he picks up his helmet and seals it into place, glad to hide his face, even though he knows he is not showing any particularly damning expression. Regular meetings with the Chancellor have given him more practice in remaining unreadable than the Kaminoans ever could.

"Stay safe," he tells them. He barely even notices it anymore that they never say it back. Any why would they? He is doing nothing more than sitting behind a desk, pushing flimsi around.

As soon as he cancels the call, he falls into step next to Thorn.

"The Red Guard has Triple. Some senator wanted to -" Thorn pauses, looks at the empty hallway around them and still reconsiders, "examine him and he refused."

Fox curses, quickening his step with his heart hammering in his ears. Refusing an order is a deed worthy of decommissioning. It would not be the first time it happened either.

"How bad?"

"He's demanding a flogging," Thorn reports, not a hint of what he feels in his voice.

A flogging. Which, if the Red Guard doles out the punishment might just have the same result as decommissioning, only it will spare them all the expenses of flying Triple out to Kamino. Fox can only see two ways this will not end with a dead brother on his hands. As Triple's superior, he can accept the punishment himself - the Chancellor wants him alive, for now, and the Red Guard knows it - or he has to be the one to flog Triple. Both options grate at his honour. Both will just draw firmer lines into the duracrete ground that is the battlefield of the Coruscant Guard.

When they arrive at the scene, Fox' stomach twists into knots. Triple is on the ground, held down by two Red Guard. His bucket is on, but he holds himself stiffly enough that they must have gotten some punches in already.

"Senator," Fox greets with all the unaffected politeness he learned at the Chancellor's feet. "Might I inquire what happened here?"

The senator is all but frothing at the mouth. "Your dog refused a simple order. It clearly doesn't know its place."

Gritting his teeth, Fox makes a show to turn towards Triple. "Report."

Even half-lying on the ground, instinct makes Triple straighten his posture as much as possible. "The senator asked me to remove my armour, which I deemed unsafe in case of an attack," he answers, calm, methodically.

This is what they are here for, to keep Coruscant in general and the Senate in particular safe. And they have protocols for these kinds of incidents.

The senator, of course, does not care for protocol. "Don't waste my time with excuses," he spits. Some of his anger likely comes from having been caught. Nobody asks what happens to clones in dark corners, out of sight of everybody else. "You should do as you're told."

Time to do damage control. "CT-4744, report to the brig and I will -"

"No," the senator interrupts, voice cold enough to burn. "This will be done now."

With that, he holds out his walking stick, a heavy, ornamental thing, more of a statement than an aide. The Red Guard on Triple's left takes it willingly, eyes glinting with a malicious hunger that has Fox' stomach doing summersaults.

Fox steps forward, too hastily. He tries to make up for it with a deferential nod to the senator. "With your permission, CT-4744 is my subordinate. I will correct him."

The air is tense enough to crack with one wrong movement. 

"His failure is your failure. You should be punished right next to him." Then the senator takes in Fox' impeccable posture and waves dismissively. "But all right. Proceed."

Fox very carefully does not react other to look at Thorn. "Commander CT-2685, get me a whip from the prison."

The senator's sudden, ugly smile tells him his attempt is doomed, even before he speaks. "You already have a tool at hand."

"Sir," Fox says, pouring all his energy into being respectful. "If I used your cane, I'm afraid CT-4744 would be unconscious before he could learn the lesson." It will not work. It never does.

"Don't test my patience, clone. I think getting beaten until he's unconscious sounds like appropriate motivation to do better in the future."

There goes what little power Fox has, there goes his choice of tools and the extent of the punishment, all in one careless strike. With hands he carefully wills not to shake, he takes the heavy cane. "CT-4744, take off your armour."

Triple moves without hesitation. Right before he unseals his bucket, he says over their internal comms, "It's all right, Commander. Thank you for trying."

Fox is numb as he waits, thinking this is the perfect metaphor for their existence. Little by little, Coruscant strips them of everything they had, their names, their armour, their dignity, and it forces them to grind each other down. They had always known they would be fighting a war, dying for the Jedi and the Republic, but they thought they could protect each other while doing it, brothers having each other’s' backs. It is just not fair that they are forced to turn on each other. Clones, of course, have no right for fairness. They have been made to serve and die. Everything else is already a bonus.

"Get on with it," the senator demands, impatient like even this, a beating at his behest, is an imposition.

Fox breathes, encases his heart in armour, and lifts the cane.

---

Senator Amidala holds a passionate speech about the cost of war, both in a monetary manner and in regards to life, customs and societal principles. The Senate can only do something about one of these matters.

A week later, Fox is presented with a rather impassionate decree detailing the budget cuts he will have to deal with. They will be down to half-rations and no water showers at all instead of just cold ones. Their leave money is cut. Requisitions for medical supplies as well as replacement equipment, armour and weapons will, from now on, undergo careful consideration, which Fox knows means they will be denied more often than not.

Amongst all the sharks in the Senate, Senator Amidala is one of the few good ones. She even seems to view the clones as people. That does not keep her from doing damage, intentional or not.

That night, Fox breaks one of his own rules and helps himself to a bottle of the illegal moonshine his men have brewing in the barracks. Thorn meets him in his office later. They have quickly given up on cursing their circumstances and turned to finding solutions that will get the most of their brothers through this alive. So, they allow themselves one glass each and then turn to the paperwork. They will have to make this work.

---

"Perhaps I've been growing too lax with you, CC-1010," Palpatine drawls after he left Fox standing at attention for two hours while he kept on working.

"Sir?" Fox asks, immediate and obedient, just a tool at his master's heel.

He has quickly learned not to let his mind wander when in the Chancellor's presence. He seems to have a sixth sense for that, only waiting for the right moment to strike.

"You've been slipping. Just last week, you missed the deadline for two reports." Palpatine pauses, studying Fox. Then, with something Fox might have mistaken as regret once, he adds, "And the Red Guard keeps telling me about incidents with your men."

Yes, Fox thinks, because the Separatists have won some battles and public opinion has not been favourable to the clones, who are supposed to win the war for them instead of being a drain of resources and having the audacity to die without results. Why would they not want to work their anger out on people - sorry, clones - who dare not lift a finger to protect themselves?

He swallows all of that down, ignores how it scrapes like shards of glass.

"My apologies, Chancellor."

"Your apologies are worth nothing. I think another lesson is in order. Come in."

Six Red Guard enter, each looking too eager, their electrostaffs already in hand. Fox barely has a chance to brace himself before Palpatine gestures lazily at him, the order clear. The door has not even fully closed when he has to dodge the first punch.

The lessons vary. Sometimes Palpatine just has Fox kneel as he gives his reports, sometimes he calls in Red Guard, sometimes he does not allow Fox to defend himself. The rules for these encounters were never laid out and if Fox missteps, there are consequences. His military rank has no meaning. He is not a person. Palpatine keeps him around as a useful tool and occasional entertainment. Fox is bleeding himself dry, sometimes literally, to keep his men safe in a place that spares not a single kind thought for them. In fact, that is the one thing that has him get up every day, feeding himself back into the hungry, merciless machine that is the Republic.

After, broken and barely clinging to his sanity, he thanks the Chancellor and leaves the office, going back to work as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

---

Raising Thire to the rank of Commander was, perhaps, a too optimistic move. Most of the time, however, Fox feels like he is moving through molasses, drowning in everything the galaxy throws at him. They are losing too many men, forcing the rest to work double shifts more often than not and on far too meagre rations. No matter how accurately they stick to the rules - both open and unspoken - someone will always find fault in them, resulting in more loss, more wounded than they can handle. Triage was always supposed to be defined by severity of condition, not by the sad limits of their medical supplies.

Thire has somehow managed to hold on to admirable energy. He looks at Fox and does not dismiss him as someone tired, someone hurting, someone unable to do his job. He just steps up and refuses to let things break.

The moment he learns about Fox' special sessions in the Chancellor's office, he instals a system. Brothers are everywhere and the Coruscant Guard is nothing if not loyal. They look out for each other, and now they keep an extra eye on him and when he has to go to Palpatine's office, how long he is there, how straight he manages to keep himself after.

Fox has always been sneaky, but now he rarely manages to limp back to his office in peace to lock himself in with his work, without Thire already waiting for him, taking the decision off his hands whether he will accept medical assistance and whether to prioritize sleep over finishing his work.

The first time Thire took it upon himself to delegate some of the never-diminishing flimsiwork on Fox' desk to Stone and Thorn, and then all but carried Fox to his bunk, pushing him down under threat of sedation, Fox yelled himself hoarse - which admittedly did not take very long, considering that Palpatine likes to hear him scream.

Fox is their Marshal Commander. He exists to protect them, not the other way around. By now, however, he knows he will never be able to do it on his own. He will gladly let the Red Guard beat him into a pulp, he will gladly get up from the ground as many times as Palpatine wants him to, but even when he throws himself at the wolves, there are always more circling and he cannot have his eyes everywhere, cannot hold every front himself.

Thorn used to ask Fox to be allowed to help. Thire skips that step and easily forces everybody into compliance.

---

After Tano escapes and their ranks get even lighter - Fox' shaking signature on too many decommissioning requests - Fox stops trying to scrounge up energy for social calls from his batchmates. He cannot stomach Cody looking down at him or Wolffe's biting remarks or Bacara's dismissing jokes. It has been ages since he deigned to raise to the bait - why bother to defend himself when their opinion is as unmoveable as that of the senators who see them as nothing but flesh droids - but he simply does not have it in him anymore to make light of the Guard's situation. If they want to pretend Fox never had to make a hard decision since being deployed, he is too tired to prove them wrong. If they do not want to listen to him, then he will just not speak.

Time passes and Fox pretends not to notice when infrequent calls fade to no calls at all.

---

Then Fives happens. 

The clones have been created to fight the war, to protect the Republic, but Fox can admit to himself that his goal is to protect his brothers. 

Fives attempts to kill the Chancellor and Fox is given a choice that is no choice at all. Fives is one of Rex' men. Fox has been rejected by his brothers but he knows he will never let them go, in turn. The choice is impossible, unfathomable. One brother for all the brothers under his protection, brothers who live and breathe the same suffering as he does, who know hell intimately and still stand unflinchingly at his side, no matter how bad it gets. One brother, who thoughtlessly condemns them, against all the rest. There is only one way this can go.

Fox chooses and he chooses wrong, but only because there is no right choice here. He hates himself for taking the shot. He would do it all over again.

---

Cody storms into Fox' crammed office, tall and righteous in his fury. Fox knew he was coming. Just like he protects his men, his men protect him. They do not stand in the path of a raging Marshal Commander, but they let Fox know his doom is on the way. Fox tucks a casualty report out of sight under a stack of flimsi and just tries to breathe when his door is pushed open.

"How dare you?" Cody starts yelling before he is fully in the room. "We've all known you've lost your way, growing comfortable in your cushy planet-side assignment, arresting vode for the crime of celebrating they're still alive when you've never, not once in your miserable existence, experienced what it's like to be in real danger. But this? Killing a vod?

Fox has never seen Cody like that, not even back on Kamino when Priest had set eyes on brothers too close to home. He gets to his feet, careful to keep the movement fluid. He is hurting all over, curtesy of another lesson that the Chancellor, for once, had the mercy to call what it was, punishment.

"Are you not even going to say something?"

What could Fox ever say? He killed a brother. He broke the first promise they ever made to each other. His reasons are not important. The Chancellor of the Republic told him to kill Fives and he did. That is all.

"Dar'vod," Cody hisses and it hits like a blaster bolt, hits like the trigger giving way under Fox' finger.

Fox flinches and does not hide it. Despite all lessons they ever had on Kamino, this is something he learned on Coruscant; flinching, cowardice.

"You're not my brother," Cody says, as if the message was not clear the first time.

He steps forward, around the desk, pushing into Fox' personal space. Fox sees the punch coming and does not even attempt to dodge. Pain blossoms as he feels something break. The force behind the blow throws him backwards, makes him stumble. He allows himself to go down.

On your feet, clone, Palpatine's voice echoes in Fox' ears. But this is not a lesson. This is a break, a disavowal. This is Fox losing his family because of a decision he made to protect his family.

Cody glares down at Fox, still burning with a rage that makes his face blur into something unfamiliar, something finite.

Fox knows violence intimately, so he waits for the next punch, for Cody to take him apart. Instead, Cody does something worse.

"Don't come close to my brothers ever again, CC-1010," he says, too angry to be detached. 

The first time Fox meets Quinlan Vos, they are hunting the same smuggler on the lower levels of Coruscant. Fox is rude at the interruption of his mission and then almost dies from shock when Vos reveals he is a Jedi. Vos laughs the entire thing off.

Later, Fox thinks that was a fitting start to their entire, unconventional relationship.

---

The second time they meet, Vos sticks around after they have arrested some weapons dealer. He leans against the wall, legs crossed, while Fox deals with the bureaucratic nonsense that is part of his job. When Fox is done and ready to return to his patrol, Vos falls into step with him.

"Why are you still favouring your shoulder, Fox?" he asks, completely out of the blue, his eyes trained on Fox with a weight Fox is not sure how to interpret.

It is surprising Vos even remembers that Fox hurt his shoulder. They were hardly working together during their smuggler hunt and almost came to blows over who would be the one to take the guy in - at least until Vos revealed his status as Fox' superior. He hid his pain then just as he is hiding it now. If he pays attention, however, little seems to escape General Vos' notice.

"I'm fully functional, General," Fox declares and straightens further, as if to prove his point. 

The last thing he needs is a Jedi doubting he can do his job. Things are hard enough as they are. The Guard does not need more scrutiny. They need several weeks of leave, a full medical check-up including a soak in a bacta tank, eight hours of sleep and three square meals a day. Thankfully, Fox is not prone to dream of impossible things. He has enough crushing him without it.

"That's not what I was asking." Vos’ eyebrows draw together in an unhappy frown. "Don't tell me you haven't been to see a medic."

For a moment there, he sounded like Thorn when Fox returns from the Chancellor's office only to go directly to his next posting. A strained shoulder is, of course, nothing compared to a correctional meeting with Palpatine.

"It's not bad enough to waste anyone's time over it," Fox says and hopes they can leave it at that.

Instead, Vos stops him with an outstretched arm. "Not so bad?" he echoes, tone disapproving. "It hurts you. I can see that. What if it slows you down and you hurt it again? What if you do something more permanent to it instead of just sucking it up and get someone to look at it?"

Fox has been trained to suck it up, and Priest carved that lesson even deeper long before he ever braved the hell of Coruscant.

"If I can't do my job anymore," he stills says, "I'll get decommissioned."

If that ever happens, Thorn will curse his very name for having to take over. But he will, because they have all the fail-safes in place that they can get away with. Protecting each other is all they have left. 

"Force," Vos breathes, glaring at Fox. "I know the Jedi stopped decommissioning, but that's still not something you should joke about."

Circumstances have led to Fox having a very dark sense of humour, but that is reserved for his vode - and not for very real issues he has to deal with every day. He is not sure he can believe General Vos if he says his brothers on the frontlines really do not have to deal with decommissioning anymore, but things are different on Coruscant. They always are.

Fox is glad he can hide behind his bucket; not sure he can keep the dismay completely off his face. He turns to fully face Vos, stands at attention "How can I help you, General?"

Vos frowns but does not press the matter. "I just wanted to compare notes on that bomber from a few weeks back. The Council is not happy that the guy is still out there."

"Of course." Work, Fox can do. He sends a message to his patrol partner that he will be late and leads Vos to his office. The sooner he can get rid of Vos, the better.

---

Each time Fox thinks Vos is done with them, he turns up again, always full of obnoxious energy, always turning his eyes where they have no business being. The smuggler ring has been taken down, the arms dealer told them about his contacts, the bomber has been arrested. They do not have any current business with each other, and yet Vos seems to be there every time Fox turns a corner.

The trooper at the front desk warns him that General Vos is here to see him and would not take no for an answer, so Fox checks that nothing incriminating is on his desk - casualty reports, reconditioning requests, summaries of how badly equipped the Guard really is - and waits.

"Good evening my dear," Vos greets as he comes in uninvited and sits down in front of the desk before Fox has even a chance to salute him. "I have a few questions."

That sounds ominous, and Fox really does not have time for any of this. But he inclines his head anyway. "Of course, General Vos."

"None of that, Fox." Vos clicks his tongue. "We're all friends here."

Friends, of course. Natborns are not friends with clones. Jedi are not friends with their subordinates. But Fox has enough experience with the whims of other people that it leaves him unfazed.

"The last time I was here," Vos continues, thankfully not interested in any kind of reply from Fox. "I saw a number of your men walking around with injuries."

Yes, because General Vos is the type of person who does not accept a no and, when told that Fox is unavailable, goes searching for him, not hesitating to invade the medbay and even the barracks. Fox knows that nowhere is actually safe for them, that nowhere is actually theirs, but it still leaves him with a bitter aftertaste to see how little their privacy is worth.

"Yes," Fox agrees evenly and does not add anything else. Vos has not yet asked a question and Fox will not voluntarily give up information that could be viewed as punishable weakness.

Of course, Vos does not let it go. "Why is that?"

Once trained for battle, Fox has learned the value of paper trails. Most of his men's injuries are never even documented, because only the kind of people care that would use those reports against them. 

"Mishaps during missions. Prison riots. Unhappy people in the street," Fox counts off, using what few official reasons they do have. All the rest - angry civilians, unhappy senators, cruel aides, neglect, corporal punishment - will remain secret.

"All right," Vos drawls, sounding like he does not believe Fox, which is never a good position to be in with a natborn. "None of that is good, of course, but why weren't they in medbay? Why weren't they adequately treated before being sent back to work?"

Because they have neither the manpower nor the supplies. Because at least half of these injuries were done under the specific instruction that the troopers were not to receive treatment for them. 

"They were in working condition."

Vos' presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line. "Fox," he says, like an admonishment. But no order follows. No demand.

So, Fox stands his ground and simply shoots back, "General Vos."

"I don't understand." Vos stares, eyes fixed on Fox' bucket as if he can look right through it. "You care for your men."

He does. He does and it will never be enough. Will never save them. Keeping all of that out of his voice he says instead, "We have a job to do." And too few men and too little protection to do it.

"Is there something I can do?"

Now it is Fox' turn to stare, thankfully hidden behind his armour. If the Jedi believe that the Guard cannot do their job, things will get so much worse.

Tucking all of his fears, all of his hopes and misgivings deep inside, Fox lies, "We have everything under control, sir."

---

"I've made some inquiries."

More questions? Vos has been haunting the Guard HQ often enough that most of the shinies have stopped jumping at his shadow. By now, he has become a frequent enough a visitor in Fox' office that it sometimes feels empty without him sprawling in the uncomfortable chair across the desk.

"General?"

It is always the same with them, Vos saunters into Fox' office - or the canteen, or the medbay, or Fox' room, and once, even, the hall outside the Senate floor, anywhere he can ambush Fox - and opens with a question or an observation, all of which are too close to issues Fox would like to keep close to his chest. He rolls his eyes when Fox salutes him and calls Fox terrible nicknames. But when he talks about the Guard's injuries or Fox' schedule or their threadbare equipment, there is always steel in his eyes, almost like he does not like what he sees and yet does not blame Fox for it.

"One of your supply shipments was apparently held up in transit," Vos says with a tone that clearly shows this is not the complete truth. "It should arrive within the week."

Fox knows for a fact that no shipment was delayed because all of his requests were denied.

"Thank you?" he says carefully, nonetheless. His mind, though, is whirling. What's your price? he wants to ask. When will you ask me to pay?

The waiting is often worse than the cost itself.

---

The first time Vos commands him to bed, Fox feels the loss of something in his chest, so intense that he is frozen for a second too long, a second in which Vos' face scrunches up in displeasure that has Fox scrambling to make it up to him. It is stupid to feel betrayed. The clones were made to serve and even if the Coruscant Guard does not have a Jedi of their own does not mean that the Jedi cannot come to them and take what they are owed.

"Would you take off your helmet for me, Fox?"

A question is on the tip of Fox' tongue but he was not made to ask for explanations. With wooden fingers, he pulls his bucket off and then stares somewhere over Vos' shoulder while Vos musters him in return. Nothing good ever comes from natborns demanding the removal of a clone's bucket. Or any part of armour, really. Worst, probably, is that he did not expect this. Dozens of people in the Senate are prone to taking liberties, they have become as used to that as they ever will. But General Vos appeared to be different. 

At first, they had a grudging working relationship, but then Vos had started to ask questions, about the barracks, the state of their medbay, the shift length, the clones' injury rate. He never seemed happy with Fox' answers. Now, as Vos is silently shifting ever closer, Fox realised all of that might have simply been a buyer's concern with the state of his product. The clones were made for war, but perhaps the Jedi are concerned with how much damage is done to their property, how quickly they are going through clones. Replacements do not come cheap, after all, although the Chancellor likes to tell him it is more economic to produce a new trooper than to try and fix a faulty one.

A feather light touch rips Fox out of his musings. Glove on gauntlet, no skin involved, yet it burns.

"Is that okay?" Vos asks as if Fox can choose how to answer, as if there is anything acceptable to say other than yes, sir.

Fox does not trust his voice to hold steady, however, so he simply nods.

Vos leans even closer, right into Fox's personal space, which has him go tense, fighting the urge to stand at attention. Then there are lips on his, soft and warm, just a light pressure, no demand waiting behind them other than the unspoken order hanging in the air.

For a long moment, Fox lets it happen, lets his mind drift and leaves his lips lax. Then he snaps into action. He knows this part, knows his duty. As his lips begin to move against Vos', he raises a hand to cup Vos' cheek, making note of every small noise, every miniscule change in expression. This is the most important thing, to know what the natborn likes and wants. Some of them are happy to bark orders, making it easy to disappear into his head and just go with the flow. Others like to be catered to. Fox does not know who Quinlan Vos will be, but nothing about him has been simple until now.

Then, of course, Vos withdraws, at once smiling and frowning.

The stabbing pain in Fox' chest can easily be attributed to anxiety, to worrying he has made a misstep. It has nothing to do with the loss of warmth, of potential. "General?"

Vos winces, frozen in place. "This is inappropriate," he mutters quietly, like a secret between them.

Yes, Fox thinks, please don't ruin what could have almost been a friendship. Or at least as much of a trusted partnership as there can be between Jedi and Clone. Instead, he says, voice carefully blank, "This is what you want it to be."

Vos' frown deepens, dark lines of unhappiness. "What do you want?" he asks as if that ever mattered.

To keep his men safe, to keep the stores stocked, to have enough medical supplies on hand. To sleep. To have one thing for himself.

Fox studies Vos, sees the want in his eyes, even though he holds himself back. The decision is easy then, to caress Vos' cheekbone with his thumb and to pull him back in.

"Oh, thank the Force," Vos mutters and Fox makes himself relax into the touch.

He can do this. He has done so a hundred times before. Admittedly not with someone he might have begun to care about, but the motions remain the same. He will lie back, do his part, and protect his brothers another day.

---

Vos always stays, after, sprawling out in Fox' tiny bunk bed, soaking up warmth, tracing Fox' scars with an expression Fox cannot quite read. Almost like he wants to erase them, or like he is angry that someone dared to touch what he considers his.

The few times he runs out on Fox, he offers quiet apologies, as if Fox actually has time to waste lazing around in bed. Like he wants to remain here even a minute longer. Like there are not a dozen other people waiting for him to do his job.

The even fewer times Fox dares to leave first - when there is an emergency that Thorn has to call him in for or, once, when the Chancellor summons him - Vos catches Fox' hand as he stands, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I need this war to be over," he mutters.

Fox does not dare to ask What for? The clones were bred for war. He knows his batchmates sometimes talk about after like there ever will be one. Perhaps the frontliners need that to keep them going. Perhaps, for them, there will be an end, someday. Fox knows he will not see it. Most of the Guard will not.

He is tired enough that he does not even mind too much.

---

The thing is, Fox thinks he could enjoy this under different circumstances. If Vos were not a commanding officer. If Fox were not a clone. He never had the feeling that Vos likes to play power games. He just sees something he likes and takes it. Well, he apparently liked Fox and Fox is in no position to have a choice in anything. If Vos put his mind to it, he could woo anyone he liked. Fox, however, is convenient. Always on Coruscant - always busy, too, but not so much that he would deny a Jedi General his time. His commanders have quickly learned to shuffle around schedules whenever Fox is summoned to the Chancellor. There is no telling how long those meetings take. Or which state Fox is in when he comes out again. It is not too much of a hardship to do the same when General Vos saunters into the Guard HQ like the entire sad complex belongs to him, not just Fox.

Sometimes, Fox wishes that Vos were the jealous type. If he knew how much time Fox spends alone with Palpatine, he might want to do something about it. Of course, Palpatine only ever aims to hurt and he seldom touches Fox himself. This thing with Vos is something else entirely.

"You are distracted today," Vos says, stretched out, skin glistening after the exertion. 

Fox is always distracted, trying to keep a careful balance between being attentive enough for Vos and thinking about the real work he is missing.

"I'm sorry," he says nonetheless and forces some of the tension out of his body.

"Don't be," Vos dismisses, easy as always, like Fox is not here to please him. "Is there something I can help with?"

End the war? Or, even more impossible, get the Guard enough men and supplies so they can actually have normal shifts and sleep cycles.

"Just tired," Fox says instead. "I'll do better."

"You're already perfect." Vos sometimes says these impossible things that Fox cannot even begin to interpret. The Kaminoans wanted the clones to be perfect for the Jedi, but is this truly what they meant?

Fox lets his head sink on Vos' shoulder and pretends he wants to be here. Pretends he does not know that, sometimes, he actually does.

---

"Fox, my dear," Vos says by way of greeting before the office door is even closed behind him, not caring who might hear. "I brought medical supplies."

Fox straightens but fails to stand as the words register in his brain. "General?" he chokes out, too weary to be hopeful.

Throwing himself into the visitor chair, Vos grins widely at him, bright and careless, just a hint of bite underneath. "I don't know why you ran out, but it was easily rectified."

Easy. As if Fox has not spent hours and every argument under the moon to get the Guard resupplied. "I - Thank you."

"Nonsense. Anything for my favourite Marshal Commander." He looks very pleased with himself and Fox has no argument against it. This is a much-needed reprieve, and he almost asks what he has done to deserve this. Or what he will have to do.

"Give me two minutes, please, to wrap this up. Then I'm all yours." For once, he does not have to swallow so much bitterness. He realized early on that he will do anything to protect his men, his brothers, and being with Vos is not a hardship, since he is never cruel. Fox is not so proud anymore that he cannot admit that he will gladly go down on his knees for new medical supplies, for any scrap of goodwill for his people. He will gladly keep Vos happy if that means more will come, later.

Vos beams up at him. "Take your time."

Fox pauses briefly. With other people, that might be a veiled threat, but Vos leans back in Fox' single, uncomfortable visitor chair and seems rather content, eyes closed, fingers crossed behind his head. It is not a trick, hopefully. Vos has not tricked him yet. Not once. So, Fox deems it safe to finish up his report.

It takes four minutes and yet Vos does not call him out on it. He just jumps up eagerly when Fox announces he is done and leads the way to Fox' room. By now, he knows the way by heart.

---

"I'm close to the Senate, Foxy." Vos' message comes in when Fox is halfway through revising the patrol schedules. "Do you have some time for me?"

Fox wants to say no. He wants to say his shift is almost over and then he has four hours to sleep before he has to get back up again, and he needs that sleep because he has lost count of how long he has been up. He wants to say that he had a meeting with the Chancellor earlier and every movement hurts and his skin burns at the very thought of being touched by someone else. He wants to beg for later. For never, really.

He wants to say there are four decommissioning requests on his desk, and what good is it to fuck a Jedi when Vos does not even help save his men?

Fox breathes, conscious of the way the air flows into his body and back out, the way he learned to do in the moments before Priest gave the signal for the fighting to begin.

"My shift ends in half an hour," he tells Vos, respectful, professional. "I'll be in my office."

---

It is Cody who ruins everything. Cody, who has not informed Fox that he is on Coruscant and instead appeared at the Guard HQ without warning. Cody, who has not called Fox in months and has not done anything to curb his men's derision against the Guard. Cody, who looks at Fox' office with disdain first before his eyes fall on Fox, almost like an afterthought.

"Is that a hickey?" he asks by way of greeting, as if they still have the kind of relationship that allows for intimate observations. Then, of course, his eyes wander higher. "Did - is that a bruise?"

There is a reason why the Coruscant Guard keeps their helmets on at all times. Not just to keep them anonymous, but also so that nobody can see the damage underneath.

"It's nothing," Fox brushes off Cody's shock. And it really is nothing anymore, just a sickly green shadow plastered over the left side of his face.

"Fox," Cody says as if he expects Fox to be impressed by a mere admonishment. As if they did not both go through command class on Kamino. As if they have not both survived the war until now.

"It's just a bruise." And a broken zygomatic arch, but Thire forced him to actually use some of their already dwindling again bacta supplies to deal with that. Walking around with broken bones in his face is an invitation for disaster. Thire rightly argued that the Guard would descend into headless panic if he went down and did not get back up again. The smug smartass knows exactly how to get to Fox.

Something happens on Cody's face that Fox does not know how to interpret, his worry morphing into something darker, something almost accusatory. Out of the blue, he asks, "Obi-Wan told me that you and Quinlan Vos are an item?"

While Fox still reels over Cody's casual use of his General's given name, the rest of the words need a moment to register in his brain. When they do, Fox almost laughs. Of all the people Cody could blame, Vos is probably the only one who has never actively caused Fox physical harm.

"The two are not related." If he had not been left beaten and bloody by sexual partners before, he might have said it with more indignation. As it is, his voice falls flat and apparently does nothing to reassure Cody, so he tries again. "General Vos does not damage me." He barely suppresses a wince at himself. Apparently, he has forgotten how to speak to people other than his vode.

Cody looks like he is not sure which part of that statement to address first. "You call him General?"

"He is a General." At least Fox assumes so, and Vos has never corrected him. Apart from trying to get him to just drop the title completely. He is not a naive shiny, though. He knows the rules.

Cody cocks his head to the side. "Even in bed?"

Fox wants to be anywhere but here. What right does Cody have to inquire about what he does and with whom? Impatience pushing against his teeth, he says, "He prefers me not to."

"But you don't?" Cody asks slowly, eyes fixed on Fox', clearly searching for something.

Already, this conversation has worn Fox out more than a sixteen-hour shift in the senate. "My opinion hardly matters," he replies like he is reciting from the unofficial rule book of the Guard.

Any of his men would nod and accept that. Any of his men have been in similar situations, where they locked up their feelings and shielded their minds, just letting reality happen for a while. Cody seems to have skipped that lesson, or he really, truly believes all those jokes about the cushy desk job on Coruscant, meaning that Fox could not possibly know anything about hardship.

"What do you mean by that?" Cody asks. Cody, who never learned that it is always better not to fight back.

Fox swallows a sigh, keeps his face blank as if he is talking to a natborn, not a former batchmate. "What do you want, Cody?"

Clearly not seeing any irony in it, Cody replies. "I'm concerned for my brother." Fox cannot quite hide his wince at that. This is the first time he has talked to Cody in ages and every communication for a while has been stilted and professional, mostly about official business and not as batchmates. "And here you are with a bruise on your face and a hickey rather close to it. And you say -"

"I'm saying I'm a clone and he is a natborn Jedi General," Fox cuts him off. So much for staying calm. He does not have the energy to defend himself against someone who should understand him better than anyone else. Surely, Fox is not the only Marshal Commander who has to make sacrifices for his men. "General Kenobi can't be so lax you've forgotten how that works."

Cody flinches, an honest, full-body jerk as if hit by a blaster bolt. His expression morphs from suspicion to something more horrified. "Where did you get the bruise?"

On the ground in Palpatine's office with four Red Guard standing over him, alternating their boots and electrostaffs to keep him down. This time, it was not even disguised as training, so he had to take his armour off. To make the lesson stick better.

Pushing his shoulder back and raising his chin just so, Fox says, "While doing my job." It is not even a lie. Sharper, he adds, "We're not pushing flimsi around all day, Cody."

But Cody does not even hear the insult. Instead, he takes a step forward, almost pushing against the desk, making Fox wish he had cleared the it as soon as he heard Cody was coming towards the office. His paperwork is sorted by priority. If this conversation comes to blows, it will take ages to sort everything again.

"And what?" Cody snaps, tone burning cold all of a sudden. "You forgot to go to medical and Vos didn't bring you there either when he noticed the giant kriffing bruise on your face but decided to suck hickeys into your neck instead?"

"I went to medical." He did, if only because Thire forced him to. He got the fracture fixed.

He almost asked Vos, too, once, to not leave marks, but decided fleeting hickeys were not worth the risk when Vos could leave much more permanent things instead if he ever grows tired of being gentle.

"And they didn't treat you?" Cody's voice has lowered to almost a growl.

Fox' composure cracks, too exhausted to keep his tone even. "They fixed the broken bone underneath. Cody, what are you getting at?"

The anger bleeds out of Cody as if it never existed in the first place. He goes still, at once shrinking in on himself and growing tenser. He looks directly into Fox' eyes, brother and stranger in one. "Does Vos force you to sleep with him?"

Fox stares. His entire body is locked in place. Thankfully, he has much experience with remaining unmoved in the face of disaster. Why would Cody ask something like that? It does not matter whether there is actual force involved. Fox is a good soldier and he follows orders. Cody should know that. They have been trained for that. 

Cody's face falls, growing pale. Voice suddenly hoarse, he says, "You're taking too long to answer."

And Fox is just tired. He shrugs, going for flippant but ending up defeated. "I just don't know what you want me to say."

"A believable no would be appreciated."

"No," Fox says, slowly, meeting Cody's eyes unflinchingly. "General Vos does not force me into bed."

"Karking hell, Fox. I need to -" Running a hand through his hair, Cody drops his eyes, focusing on the desk as if that will give him answers. "I'll message Obi-Wan."

"No," Fox snaps. Panic runs through him like electricity, leaving him raw and aching like a dozen hits from an electrostaff. "Why would you - You can't do that."

It does not matter what Cody thinks about his General. It does not matter if Cody and Kenobi sleep together and think it means something. It does not even matter if Kenobi actually holds a protecting hand over the 212th, in payment for services rendered or otherwise. Fox and the Coruscant Guard are separate from the GAR. The are under direct command of the Chancellor. Their bed was made for them and they have learned to lie in it.

It was harrowing enough when Vos started snooping around, and by now Fox is glad that he is so easily satisfied, that what Fox can give him is enough. Involving Kenobi would only mean more natborn eyes on their business, more questions about their inadequacies, more brains picking their carefully built system apart. They were made for the Jedi but the Jedi have never cared for the Guard, and they really cannot take things getting even worse.

"If Vos is hurting you -" Cody starts, completely missing the point.

"He's not," Fox says desperately, fervently wishing Cody would just drop this. "He's one of the only ones who don't. And we need him. Because he's also one of the only ones who gives something back. Yes, he sometimes comes at inconvenient times. Yes, he lingers after, usually cutting my sleep cycle terribly short. And, yes, he's demanding. But he does not hurt me or my men. He even got our medbay resupplied when we've been denied for months." Becoming aware that he is rambling, Fox snaps his jaw shut, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes blood.

Cody looks at him, at the bruise, at the way Fox has raised his hands in a beseeching matter without even noticing it. "I'm not -" he says and stops, breathes. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"What isn't there to understand?" Fox all but cries, something sharp and bitter lodged inside his throat. He has long since learned to swallow around it, but right now he feels like choking. "Vos wants to sleep with me, but he also gives something back." Nobody else does. All everyone does all the time is take and Fox has nothing to give anymore. He is hollowed out, broken. Most days, he runs on instinct alone, leaving behind bigger and bigger parts of himself.

And Cody still does not understand. "And do you want to sleep with him?" he asks, circling back to what they have already established. It does not matter what any clone wants.

Slowly, quietly, Fox says, "It's not like I could say no." He does not mention that, sometimes, he would not say no either, if asked.

Cody takes a step back, like he finally realizes that Fox needs space, that he cannot breathe, that everything is crumbling. But he does not.

"I really need to call Obi-Wan."

Blood rushes in Fox' ears as everything else slows down and greys out. "If you do that," he says, carefully pronouncing every single syllable, "don't ever bother to come back here. We need those supplies."

"So what? You're okay with whoring yourself out for bacta?" The moment these words hang between them, Cody's face turns horrified, wide-eyed, forehead scrunching into tight lines, and he curses under his breath. "I'm so-"

"Yes," Fox cuts in, clipped and cold and as straight-backed as he ever is in the Chancellor's office. "We were created to serve the Republic and I do that. But I'd also do anything to protect my men. I thought you would understand that, Marshal Commander." And because he is tired of biting back the petty part of him that feels betrayed by his batchmates, he adds, "You don't presume to tell me that General Kenobi loves you, do you?"

Cody flinches but Fox does not take any satisfaction from that. He just wants to be alone.

"I'm sorry, Fox. We'll fix this," Cody vows, much too late.

Fox smiles but it tastes hollow. "The Guard doesn't need your pity."

"No, but you clearly need our help."

---

Nobody could say that Quinlan Vos is a coward. He gets his jaw punched by Obi-Wan and his heart broken by Commander Cody, but after a week of hiding in his rooms and drinking to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, he gathers every last scrap of courage and goes back to the Guard HQ.

The trooper at the entrance desk salutes him. "General Vos. I'll let the Marshal Commander know you're here."

That is how it always went. Quinlan came and everybody went out of their way to be helpful. He never saw anyone's face other than Fox' and those of the constant circling troops in the medbay, but he never gauged any unhappiness at his presence, never any reluctance. He knew, of course, that Fox has a lot on his plate, that he is working too much. It never occurred to Quinlan that he was another burden, another unavoidable appointment in Fox' schedule instead of someone Fox wants to make time for.

"Tell him to take his time," he says, not really trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He needs to preserve his energy. "I'm happy to wait."

The trooper pauses just briefly, short enough that Quinlan would have missed it if he had not looked for minute reactions. Underneath the helmet, the trooper is likely staring.

Quinlan bites his tongue to stop himself from asking the man's name. He has no right to that anymore.

"He'll meet you in his office, sir."

Of course. Quinlan can only imagine how Cody's conversation with Fox went. He has never seen Cody this distressed before.

---

"Commander," Quinlan greets, aching when Fox blinks at the use of his title. He remains standing just inside the door. Suddenly, the visitor's chair is too close to the desk, too close to Fox.

Fox stands like he always does, greets Quinlan like he always does. "General Vos."

Nothing seems to be amiss. Nothing has changed. That just makes everything more real. Cody and Obi-Wan were right. Quinlan had not wanted to believe them. A small part of him thought he would come here and Fox would laugh at the ridiculous ideas their brothers came up with. They could clear it all up and kiss it better. Now, though, the very thought of kissing has bile rising in Quinlan's throat. Through his work, he has come in contact with a lot of disgusting people in the galaxy. He realizes now that he belongs on that list.

"I want to apologize to you. I have been made aware that I have operated under false assumptions and -" Curse him. He had an entire speech planned and now he sounds like he is reading directly out of the instruction manual of one of their diplomacy classes in the temple. Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, Quinlan tries again. "I never meant to hurt you."

What a terrible thing to say. What good does regret do them? As if he could just say sorry and be done with it.

And then Fox makes it all worse 

"I have to apologize, General," Fox says, his tone even. His face, though, holds the same pleasant neutrality Quinlan has come to loathe. This is how Fox looks when he is overwhelmed, when he is not sure what to do but will say yes nonetheless. This is how Fox looked when Quinlan first kissed him. "This is all a misunderstanding. Commander CC-2224 had incomplete information and overstepped without my knowledge -"

Quinlan shakes his head and then bites his lip, hard, when Fox stops talking immediately. Still, he presses on. "Cody was completely right to involve Obi-Wan. I have been hurting you and didn't even realize it." Saying it out loud just makes his actions more despicable.

For a long moment, Fox just watches him, his brow faintly creased. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

The words hit like blaster bolts, burning against Quinlan's skin. He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"You have not hurt me. Not once," Fox declares without even a hint of hesitation, as if he truly believes that. "In fact, you have saved several of my men and I'm beyond grateful."

The taste of blood fills Quinlan's mouth, and yet he does not let go of his lip immediately. This is worse, so much worse than Quinlan feared.

"I didn't get you medical supplies to make you grateful," he says, his voice giving out on him. "I didn't do it to buy you."

No matter what he meant, every time he brought a ship full of essentials or even just a crate of basic supplies, Fox dropped everything he was doing to take Quinlan to bed. He never minded what he thought was enthusiastic thanks, not when he believed it was freely given, that Fox was happy to see him as much as the goods.

"You don't need to buy me," Fox says easily and then crushes what little hope Quinlan had left. "Clones already belong to the Jedi."

Quinlan curses his courage now. He should have done this per message, sent an apology after taking hours to find the right words. Then he could have disappeared out of Fox' life and they all could have gone their separate ways. No need to drag his shame out like this. No need to remind him what an absolute karking piece of bantha shit he is, repeatedly raping someone who cannot say no.

"You are a person," Quinlan says firmly and raises a hand to cut off Fox' protest before Fox can even open his mouth. "I don't care what the legalese says. You and your brothers are all people. You are all individuals with dreams and fears and needs. It's bad enough that the Republic forces you to fight their war for them." He makes himself look at Fox' eyes, not sure whether he is relieved when Fox stares at something right above Quinlan's shoulder. "I never meant to make things worse for you."

Now, their eyes meet. Now, there is a spark behind that flat expression.

"You didn't," Fox insists and Quinlan wishes for nothing more than that he could believe him. But he cannot.

To prove that, even though it will only hurt the both of them more, he says, haltingly, "So, if I told you right now to take off your armour and get on your knees for me, you would do it?"

"Yes." No hesitation, not even a twitch on Fox' terribly even face, the spark extinguished as if it was never there at all.

Bile rises once again in Quinlan's throat. "Even after I just said I don't want to hurt you and that I consider you a person with free will?"

Fox inclines his head just so, in a way that Quinlan always thought looked teasing. Now, he recognizes it for defeat. "I follow orders."

"Not these," Quinlan snaps. It is not Fox he is angry at, and yet he cannot help but making things worse. Unbidden, he asks, "Am I the only one?"

Fox is silent for a few beats too long. "I follow orders," he then repeats, flat, hollow.

Quinlan presses a hand against his eyes, as if this entire terrible situation would resolve itself if he just stopped looking at it. As if he could imagine himself somewhere else and just make it so. 

"This stops now," he then says, promises, really. It is easier to hold Fox' gaze when he gathers his determination instead of just carrying his guilt. "The Council is already working on getting you your own Jedi General."

Well, Obi-Wan is working on it. But Obi-Wan has been filled the kind of trembling fury that means he will stop at nothing to make this right. There has never been an injustice he saw and did not try to fix. He is the only one Quinlan trusts with this. More, certainly, than himself. He has done enough damage.

"Sir?" Fox asks quietly, looking wrong-footed for the first time since Quinlan entered his office.

"Not me, don't worry," he says quickly and then moves past it, unwilling to dwell on all the damage he has wrought when Fox will not do the sensible thing and punch him. Or yell at him. Or throw him out. Any healthy reaction would be a step in the right direction. "It has been a grave oversight that you've been placed directly under the Senate's supervision. We all know this place if full of vipers."

"The Chancellor won't allow that," Fox blurts out, clearly unhappy with himself for it.

And Quinlan heard him, loud and clear, sees the unhappy crease to his brow that was entirely absent before. "What do you mean?"

Pulling his hands behind his back, out of sight, Fox explains, "He can veto the Council's interference. He will."

"Why?"

Fox's jaw moves as he clearly considers and dismisses several possible answers.

Something is wrong. Something that has nothing to do with Quinlan. Maybe he should not throw himself at this, but he is desperate for any excuse to move them past Fox' unmoved, unquestioning ignorance of Quinlan trying to apologize. 

"Is there something I need to know about the Chancellor?"

Fox clenches his jaw for barely a fraction of a second. "No, sir."

There has never been a more obvious lie.

"Commander, I need you -" Quinlan comes to his senses and cuts himself off. What is he doing? He really has done enough damage here. "I'm sorry. I've known for a while that something's wrong here on Coruscant. You have never been treated well, but -" He clenches his hands, hides them just like Fox does. "Please cooperate with whoever the Council chooses for you. We want to help. We should have helped much sooner, but - I told them about your lack of medical supplies. About the restricted equipment. I see now I should have never assumed that was all of it." He looks at Fox, almost begs him, "Please let them help."

His tone and expression are as far from making this an order as he possibly can. Yet, he has the distinct feeling that this might be the only thing Fox would put up a fight against even if Quinlan ordered him. Accepting help, and from the Jedi no less, seems to be the point where Fox draws his line. If it were not such a terrible, hopeless situation, Quinlan might laugh. Where did they go so wrong?

And then Fox makes it worse. "Can't you stay?" he asks, a barely-there tremor to the words. That just breaks Quinlan's heart all over again, even before he can make sense of the actual words.

"What?" Quinlan asks before Fox can retrace. "You want me to - No, Fox. No. I hurt you. I -" He swallows, tries to breathe. He came here to stop hiding from the truth, so he pushes on. "I raped you, and I didn't even notice what I was doing. You deserve so much better."

Fox blinks, leaning back. With him, that might be the equivalent of a full body flinch. "You didn't rape me," he says, aghast, his tongue barely fitting around the word.

With bitter regret, Quinlan points out, "You didn't think you could say no to me and, really, I should have realized that. You never said no to anything else either, even if I knew you weren't happy about it." Ranging from how to go about a mission to forcing Fox to take a break, he never complained, never argued, never insisted on his opinion once Quinlan made his known.

"That's not rape," Fox tries again. "You never hurt me." He does not look like someone who is in denial that something bad might have happened to him. No, he looks like someone who experienced everything bad in the world and thinks this does not make the cut.

Quinlan breathes. Inhale, hold, exhale. "Your bruises. Did someone else -" he trails off. He is not the right person to lead this conversation. He does not even have the right to get angry over this, since he did the exact same thing to Fox. Perhaps he did no leave physical marks. Perhaps he did not mean to hurt him. None of that matters. Only what happened, which is that he abused someone he loves. Even thinking the word leaves a vile taste in his mouth, but he cannot hide from that. He believed himself to be in love and still hurt Fox, over and over again.

Pulling his shoulders further back, Fox says slowly, deliberately, "I would prefer if you became our General. You already know the Guard, and I -" His eyes flicker up to meet Quinlan's. "I believe you."

Breathing is not going to keep Quinlan calm for much longer. A pit has opened up in his stomach, aching and pulling at his insides. He wants to scream, to drink himself into oblivion to forget any of this ever happened. He has a debt to pay, though. Not for a moment does he believe that Fox trusts him, and he should not, but he has gone so long against Fox' wishes that he also does not want to brush him off now. Does not want to disappoint him again. This is a slippery slope and he is not sure there is a right answer. But this might be the first time Fox has asked something of him, no matter how carefully he dressed it as a mere statement.

"I can vet whoever they appoint," he tries to argue, thinking that he has to. "I can accompany them whey you are introduced."

"Please," Fox says and it would have been less painful if he stabbed Quinlan with his own lightsaber.

Quinlan guesses this is a thing of Fox rather taking the devil he knows instead of someone unknown. It is not a good solution, not healthy, but he finds himself nodding anyway. 

Still, he says, "We need clear ground rules. We will not be alone, ever, and you will tell me if you are of another opinion than I am. These are your men. I just want to fight the Senate and every other bastard who wants to treat you badly." 

"General," Fox says and Quinlan has no idea whether he means it as a question or an affirmation. Fox is a terrific actor, and Quinlan already knows he cannot take anything he says at face value until they have built some trust. If they ever manage to.  Quinlan is willing to give everything for it, though.