#post death

Not the kind carried by the wind, but the kind that slid across a desk in a manila envelope, pushed toward him without ceremony. No dramatic alarm bells, no trembling voice to soften the blow—just… paper.

Aventurine didn’t even glance at it at first. His smile was still in place, the same calculated curve he wore in meetings and at poker tables.

“You’re late,” he said lightly, voice a smooth drawl as he shuffled a deck of cards between his fingers. “If this is about Penacony’s projections, I already—”

“It’s about [Name],” the coworker interrupted. Their eyes didn’t meet his. “The mission to Xianzhou. They didn’t make it back.”

His fingers stilled mid-shuffle. A single card slipped, fell, and fluttered to the floor face-down.

He gave a soft laugh, too quiet, like he’d missed the punchline of his own joke. “Try again. You’re not a very convincing dealer.”

The coworker didn’t speak—just slid the envelope closer. It scraped faintly against the polished surface of his desk.

Inside, there were photographs.

Scorched terrain.

A shattered comms device with a fragment of a charm he’d once idly hooked onto their belt.

And—just enough to be cruel—a blurred shot of them in their final moments, back turned, running toward the blast zone.

His eyes didn’t flicker. Not once.

He picked up the photo by its corner, examined it with the same dispassionate precision he’d use to read an opponent’s tell.

“Could be anyone,” he said finally. His tone was flat, almost bored. “Bad lighting. Poor resolution. I’ll wager you’re wrong.”

But he didn’t set the photo down.

Didn’t shuffle the cards again.

Hours later, the office was empty.

The lights were low, the embroidery on the back of his blazer catching faint gold from a desk lamp.

The photographs sat scattered before him now, arranged like a losing hand. He hadn’t touched them, hadn’t even tried to stack them into something orderly.

His left hand was hidden behind his back, fingers digging into his own wrist hard enough to leave crescents in the skin. His right hand—always so steady—rested lightly on his shirt, as though keeping his own heart from making a sound.

“They knew,” he murmured to no one. The smile he wore earlier was gone, not even a ghost of it lingering. “They knew they wouldn’t make it, and they still…”

His voice cracked, and the sentence trailed off into silence.

When the first tear fell, he didn’t notice. It slid down past his glasses, darkening the photograph beneath it.

Aventurine didn’t cry loudly. He didn’t collapse into sobs or bury his face in his hands. His grief was quieter—slower—like a poison he’d willingly swallowed. Every breath was a calculated gamble against the weight in his chest, and every exhale felt like losing another round.

He reached forward finally, picking up the charm from the evidence bag. Turned it over in his palm once. Twice. Then, almost tenderly, he slipped it into the pocket over his heart.

The cards on the desk remained where they were. No more games tonight.

Not when the only player worth betting on had already left the table.

As soon as he could catch a glimpse of what was going on inside, his good mood faded and he entered the room in silence. The door behind him slid shut and blocked the light from the hallway, only a datapad lit up the darkness. Echo leaned against a wall and was reading, Fives leaned against his right shoulder and blinked is eyes open, as Kix entered. Cutup sat on Echos left side, his outstretched legs serving as a pillow for Hevy and Droidbait. Rex sat next to Fives, Jesse stretched out on the floor in front of him. He had a hand gently wrapped around Ahsoka's ankle, she looked like she would never want to leave Rex's arms again. Her back rested against Five's side, her nose somehow buried in Rex's arm. She sat there that twisted, that the Commander's grip was all that kept her from falling to the ground. But Rex made sure she stayed safe and warm with him.

Kix quietly took off his armor and moved over to his brothers, with a quiet puff he sagged on the floor next to Rex and stretched his legs, Jesse rolled over a little and laid his head on them. Sighing, Kix stretched once, then wrapped a hand around Ahsoka's other ankle. She kept shaking and when she felt his hand she sniffed and shuddered. "Just me vod'ika.", Kix mumbled softly and leaned his head against the wall, in the silence he could hear Rex humming softly to the young woman in his lap. Ahsoka relaxed again and turned her head a little, with tearful eyes she blinked at Kix and he patted her foot lightly. Sniffling, she closed her eyes again, her muscles losing tension while Jesse's hand moved higher and aimlessly painted patterns on her bare calf. Kix raised his other hand and cupped Ahsoka's feet, her toes were kriffing cold. He watched as Fives and Echo kept glancing briefly at Ahsoka and talking with their hands in the light of the datapad. All of his brothers tried to hide their worry and pain, but Kix could still see it in their eyes.

She had made such good progress in the last months of the war. Kix had wanted to jump in joy the first time she slept through the night after weeks. He had been so proud!