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"How far you have fallen, my old apprentice." Sidious is still laughing under his breath, lightning still dancing at his fingertips. "I was right to abandon you when I did."

Rage burns under Maul's skin, familiar and eager as a lover's touch. Not only has Sidious taken something from him, but now he dares to mock him with it. Maul spent the majority of his life trying to impress this man -to prove himself worthy in his Master's eyes- and all it has brought him is misery and loss.

He lost his childhood.

He lost Savage.

He lost his legs.

Well, he has had enough of losing. He will not lose Fox. He will not lose this fight. The gossamer thin bond he still has with Fox is frayed, fading with every moment that the man isn't breathing. Maul grits his teeth and imagines he can feel his control grind to ash between his molars. He looks inward, feels his own hearts beating in his chest and allows himself to reach for something other than hatred. Devon constantly brought up her principles, the desires of a dying order. Lawson spoke of hope with every breath, the thing at the heart of every rebellion, even their own broken little cabal. Fox talked about faith, in his brothers, and in Maul's strength.

Trust.

The Force has not been so clear to him as it is in this moment. There is no grand moment of realization, or turning point in his mind where he decides that he's been wrong. He's not wrong. But maybe his actions have been based on a fallacious belief from the start. Everything Sidious taught him is suspect. His old Master made him strong -there is no denying that- but Maul had clawed himself out of the gutter on his own, with his own power.

"You made yourself who you are. Don't let him have an ounce of credit for what you've turned yourself into."

Fox's words from what feels like so long ago ring true.

Maul snarls and bares his teeth. He shoves power down through the withering bond, forcing Fox's heart to beat and hoping it will be enough, putting his trust in something other than himself. Fox will have to do the rest on his own, to fight where Maul cannot. Maul has his own battle to return to, and he doesn't intend to lose.

Thire took a steadying breath. He wasn’t scared of Thorn—no sibling could ever fear Thorn, he of the suplex hugs and giggle fits—but no one could ever dissuade him from his chosen course of action, either.

That was, no one except…

In the dimly lit commanders’ bunk room, Thorn sat at the head of the lower bunk on the right of the room, hunched in a way that had to be agonising for his back after spending so long in the position. He held a blaster across his lap, and Hammer had been tucked beneath the bunk, but in concession to the sleep space Thorn wore only the lower part of his armour. His plastoid-covered legs were stretched out in a guardrail between his charge and the rest of the planet.

His charge. Currently observable solely as a pile of blankets with a tuft of wild curls smushed against a stack of pillows flatter than Stone’s arse, there was nonetheless nothing more precious to be found anywhere on Coruscant. Each tiny snuffling snore held more worth than kyber. Every single Coruscant Guard trooper would have thrown themselves between that bunk and the galaxy, if given half a chance.

Thire dragged his eyes away from the curls and back to Thorn. The man looked like a parsec of rough road as he blinked heavily, like his eyelids were weighted. Even his blond curls seemed faded, hanging limply around his face.

“Please, Thorn. At least let someone share shifts with you. You don’t even have to leave the room!” Thire tried.

“No,” Thorn repeated, almost bored.

“Don’t make me do this.”

“If you think you and Stone can make me leave—”

“Kriff no,” Stone muttered, extremely unhelpfully, from his place in the doorway. He’d refused to enter any further into the room, or as he called it, dangerous frenemy territory.

Thire delivered a flat look over his shoulder, getting only a shrug and a ‘your target’ handsign from Stone in return. He gave Stone a significantly curter gesture in response and returned his full attention to Thorn and the package.

(That’s what Thorn had said over the radio. We’ve received a package. Commanders’ bunks asap. Thire had thought— bomb? But there hadn’t been an order to evacuate. There hadn’t been anything but that tight panic in Thorn’s voice, that Thire had felt like a fist around his heart, until he’d slammed open the door to the bunkroom and then—)

The next little snore had a whistle on the end. Thire rested his eyes on the mound of blankets for a moment, steeling himself for what he had to do. He felt Thorn’s attention on the side of his face, curious at first, and then with urgency.

“No, don’t—!”

Thire did. He cleared his throat and spoke, firmly but unhurriedly, with every gram of officer materiel he possessed.

“Commander Fox. Wake up, sir. Commander Thorn needs you.”

The snores immediately cut out. Thorn and Thire both froze in place. Stone muttered something unintelligible about leaving a tooka in the ‘fresher and fled.

Blankets trembled with impact from a quake caused by wiggling limbs. There came first a snuffling, then a decisive snort.

Thorn’s hand went tight around his blaster, but it was too late for retreat as a hand shot out from between the blankets to grab hold of his; the difference in size made no matter to the effect. Thorn wouldn’t move for all the silk on Naboo with that hand on his. Despite himself, Thire’s shoulders relaxed at the presence of a superior officer.

Then he tensed all over again as the familiar glower of Commander Fox emerged from beneath the pile of blankets, rendered no less effective by the addition of cherubic, sleep-flushed cheeks and a wild mop of salt-speckled curls. That familiar honey glare first went over Thire’s shoulder, as if noting the absence of Stone, then to assess Thire himself, and finally to Thorn, where it lingered.

“You haven’t been thleeping,” Fox declared. He wrinkled his nose briefly at the lisp caused by his still growing-in canine teeth. “You’ve gotta th—sleep. Lay down. Properly.”

Not even forming a token protest now that his commander had spoken, Thorn put aside his blaster and began removing the last of his armour without complaint. Sure, he gave Thire poisonous looks the whole while, but that still counted as success in Thire’s book. Future Thire would be paying the moment back with laps for the rest of his life, but he was a clone. How long could his life possible be?

At last, Thorn was disarmed and disarmoured and he shuffled to lay more fully next to Fox, who had generously permitted Thorn a blanket and a pillow from his hoard.

“Better,” Fox declared, once the two of them were situated.

Thire turned to go.

“Thire.”

Thire closed his eyes and grimaced where Fox couldn’t see him. Then, composing his expression, he turned back around.

Fox sat upright in the bunk, wrapped in his blankets, while Thorn curled around him like a comma, his back to Thire. Ever a wall between Fox and the world. Fox had one hand on Thorn’s upper shoulder, gripping a fistful of fabric, as if ready to yank Thorn to safety and dive on top of him if needed. They were both such idiots about each other.

Thire would have already stepped in front of the blast before it got anywhere near either of them.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, as blandly as he could.

The patented CC-1010 Eyebrow of Judgement on that little face should’ve been absurd.

It was not.

Thire had the urge to comm his tube and apologise for everything he’d done since deployment, up to and including interrupting the commander’s naptime. Maybe he’d start with that and work backwards toward decanting. While doing those inevitable laps for Thorn.

“Well done for recognising when you need the,” Fox’s nose wrinkled as he carefully pronounced, “ass-is-tance of a thenior officer. Kark. Senior officer.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“I wasn’t done.”

“No, sir.”

Thorn’s shoulders shook. Oh, now he found the whole thing funny. Now it was Thire’s turn for a dressing down, Thorn had returned to being the cheerful arsehole Thire knew and loved.

That Fox loved, too; Fox’s lips quirked in a grin that briefly lit his entire face like an explosion, a tubie entirely too pleased by having made his friend laugh, guileless and young. It was like being gutshot with a slug thrower. Thire wanted to press his hand to his stomach. He wanted to cart Fox over his shoulder and flee Coruscant. He wanted to pen a thank you I hate you novella to the darksider who’d left that trap to destabilise the Coruscant Guard.

(Ha. Joke was on them. The Coruscant Guard had been uniquely unstable since about three hours after deployment. If anything, the addition of Cadet Commander Fox had given them a rallying point, and their battle cry was you will have to go through every single one of us first.)

“Commander Thorn will sleep for a full shift—yeth, you will, or there’ll be no pudding—while you investigate the security breach at the Senate,” Fox told Thire.

“Security breach, sir? I haven’t heard about any security breach.”

“That is what Commander Stone is in charge of,” Fox explained. He projected his voice in the way Thire hadn’t yet managed to imitate. “Isn’t that correct, Commander Stone?”

“Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir! Breaching security now, sir!” Stone shouted back, from along the corridor.

Fox’s gaze returned to Thire. When he smiled again, nothing of the cadet remained. There sat a soldier and a strategist, and the blade that Coruscant had honed. There sat Thire’s commander.

Coruscant beware.

“Maul told me a lot while he set the trap, you see,” Fox explained, as he patted Thorn, almost absently. “So, when Commander Thorn is fully rethted, he and I will meet up with Maul then make our way through the chambers and ath— ath— for kriff’s thake— ass-ass-i-nate the Chancellor.” His smile turned warm again as he dropped a kiss onto Thorn’s curls. “Okay? Okay! Sweet dreams.”

Then he flopped to his side and fell asleep between one breath and the next.

Slowly, so slowly, Thorn twisted to look wide-eyed at Thire over his shoulder.

Assassination? he mouthed.

Thire held up his hands, palm out, in surrender. Hadn’t Fox just praised Thire for recognising when he needed the assistance of a senior officer? Assassinations were definitely the purview of someone—anyone—other than Thire. Perhaps it was time he respected Stone’s attitude. He had a lot to teach, did Stone.