Chapter Text
The files go out all at once.
Encrypted copies to Jedi High Command. CorSec whistleblower boards. Anonymous leaks dumped across the Holonet—timestamps, documents, blackmail logs, command overrides. Everything Fox almost died for, Cody and Wolffe send it straight into the veins of the Republic.
They don’t speak while they do it.
Wolffe’s jaw is locked. His posture rigid. Cody doesn’t realize how hard he’s shaking until the last data transfer completes and his hand is still hovering over the console, fingertips trembling.
“I hope it burns,” Wolffe mutters, voice hoarse. “All of it. Every last lie.”
Cody exhales slowly. “It will.”
He clicks the final command. Somewhere, the Senate will wake up to a nightmare of their own making.
The room Rex answers from is dark.
He’s still in his blacks, stripped of armor. There’s no one else in the barracks hall—just the faint hum of lights, and the pulsing blue glow of the incoming transmission.
Cody’s face appears first. Tired. Grim.
Wolffe is behind him, arms crossed like a dam holding back something dangerous.
“Rex,” Cody says softly. “We need to talk.”
It doesn’t take long.
The words are careful at first—measured steps around a minefield. But the moment Cody says “Fox found everything,” Rex’s expression cracks like thin glass.
He doesn’t speak. Just listens.
Listens as Cody explains the bunker, the call, the files, the sacrifice. Listens to how Fox bought the truth with blood.
And when it’s done, there’s a long pause.
Then, quietly:
“He died thinking we hated him.”
Cody flinches. Wolffe takes a sharp breath.
“Rex—”
“You know I did. I—” Rex’s voice breaks. “He called me right before he went on this mission. I told him he was a failure. I told him he didn’t deserve command.”
“Rex, he didn’t—”
“He thought it was his fault,” Rex says, like he’s trying to drive the knife deeper. “All of it. Fives. The Guard. The chips. I treated him like he was broken. Like he was— less. ”
Cody looks down. His voice is low. “We all did. We didn’t mean to. But we did.”
Wolffe’s eyes are wet. “He didn’t blame you. He only asked us to tell you he was sorry.”
Rex clenches his jaw. His shoulders curl inward, like he’s folding under the weight of it. “I should’ve been there.”
“He was thinking of us ,” Cody says gently. “Even at the end. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t beg. He gave everything he had and called it enough.”
Silence again.
Then:
“I should’ve been there,” Rex repeats, barely a whisper.
They find Thire and Stone in the medcenter waiting room, huddled in opposite corners of a bench like the space between them might stop them from falling apart.
Stone has blood on his knuckles—split skin, bruising already blooming purple. The plastoid of the wall panel behind him is cracked in a spiderweb shape.
Thire’s helmet is in his lap. He’s staring into it like it might give him an answer. His hands are clenched so tight around the rim that the white paint is flaking under his nails.
Cody crouches in front of them slowly, like approaching wounded animals.
“He’s alive,” he says gently. “Still unconscious. But alive.”
Stone doesn’t move.
Thire does. But not much—just enough to glance up. His eyes are bloodshot and raw, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“But for how long?”
Wolffe sits beside Stone. Not saying anything. Just grounding the moment.
“They say he stabilized,” Cody offers. “He’s got the best healers in the Temple. He’ll wake up.”
“He shouldn’t have had to do it alone.” Thire’s jaw is clenched so hard his teeth creak. “He locked us out. Told us to stay put like we were rookies. ”
“Because he knew we’d follow,” Stone finally mutters. His voice is flat. Empty. “He knew we’d go down there and not come back.”
“You wouldn’t have left him,” Wolffe says.
Stone lets out a broken breath. “Neither would Thorn.”
That breaks the silence like a window cracking under pressure. Thire’s breath catches and his hands clench harder around the helmet.
“He never stopped blaming himself,” Thire says quietly. “Even when we told him—when we begged him—he never believed he did enough to save the Guard.”
“He thought if he worked harder,” Stone adds, “if he followed every regulation, every protocol, maybe— maybe no one else would die.”
There’s an awful pause. Cody looks down.
“I saw him once,” Stone murmurs, like a confession. “In the barracks after a shift. He was scrubbing his armor so hard he bled through the gloves. Couldn’t get the red stains off. He thought no one noticed.”
Thire leans back and covers his face with one hand. “We all noticed.”
Wolffe speaks, low and steady. “He carried it all. The Guard. The guilt. The silence. And he still chose to walk into that bunker with nothing but a datapad and a deadline.”
Stone finally looks up. His eyes shine but don’t spill over. “He wanted us to have something when he was gone.”
Thire stares at Cody. “And what do we have now?”
Cody doesn’t try to answer.
Instead, he moves closer, sits down beside them on the floor, right in front of Thire. Stone leans forward, palms to his knees, shoulders trembling.
“He gave us the truth,” Cody says. “He bought it with everything he had. And now we make sure it means something.”
Stone’s lip quivers. “He can’t die, Cody. Not after everything. He can’t. ”
“He won’t,” Wolffe says. “Not yet.”
There’s silence again—but this time, it isn’t sharp. It’s heavy, slow. Like the moment just after a bomb has gone off and the world is still settling into place again.
Thire lowers his head, forehead resting against Cody’s armor.
Stone leans into Wolffe’s side, tense and shaking.
No one tells them to pull themselves together. No one dares.
They just sit there. Four soldiers who’ve seen too many brothers fall. Four men trying to hold together the pieces of a commander who nearly died to save them all.
And in the sterile hum of the medcenter hallway, it finally feels okay to cry.
It’s late when Fox wakes up.
The room is quiet, save for the low beeping of monitors and the soft hum of Temple ventilation. The light is dim. Cool shadows play across the ceiling. His limbs feel heavy, but not numb. The air smells clean. Medicinal. Nothing like Kamino.
He blinks slowly. Once. Twice.
Then breathes.
His chest aches . Everything aches. But he’s alive.
“…Fox?”
The voice is distant. Familiar. Closer than it should be.
Cody.
Fox blinks again—and there he is. Sitting in a chair beside the bed, armor scuffed, eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Next to him, Wolffe leans forward, a hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he’s anchoring himself.
Fox opens his mouth. Tries to speak.
Cody leans in quickly. “Don’t try too hard—Force, you’ve been out for weeks. ” His voice wavers, just slightly. “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re okay. ”
Fox frowns, confused. His throat is dry. “I—what…”
Wolffe grabs the water from the side table and tips it gently toward him, holding the straw. “Sip. Small ones.”
He obeys.
Everything comes in fragments. The cold bunker. The datapad. The call. The darkness.
“I thought—” Fox starts, voice like paper, “—I didn’t make it.”
“You almost didn’t,” Cody says. His hand is clenched around the blanket now. “You flatlined. Twice. We thought—” He doesn’t finish.
Fox turns his head slowly. “The files?”
“We got them,” Wolffe says. “We sent copies to the press, the open-net, the Jedi. Even some of the Separatists.” His voice carries a quiet pride. “You started a storm , Commander.”
Fox stares at the ceiling. “I don’t remember… after the call.”
“You passed out.” Cody shifts. “By the time we reached you, the room was collapsing. Some fail-safe Palpatine must have installed. We thought we were too late.”
Wolffe’s jaw clenches. “You’re lucky Cody’s a lunatic with a speeder bike.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at Fox’s lips. He doesn’t quite manage it.
“So what happened?” he asks softly. “What did we do ?”
The silence stretches, and then Cody leans forward. “We won. Not the war. Not yet. But we tore open the lies.”
“Dooku resigned,” Wolffe adds. “Publicly. Broadcast his confession. Said he and Palpatine orchestrated both sides. Said he was done being a pawn.”
Fox blinks slowly.
“The Council didn’t cover it up,” Cody continues. “Didn’t hide it. Couldn’t. Too much was already out. There are peace talks now. Real ones.”
Fox’s brows knit. “The Chancellor…?”
“Dead,” Wolffe says. “The four of you really made sure of it.”
Fox is quiet for a long time. He stares at the ceiling like it holds the galaxy’s last secret. “Thorn?”
Cody doesn’t look away. “Gone.”
Fox shuts his eyes.
“He fought hard,” Wolffe says. “You both did. And the Guard… the Guard’s been standing tall in your name. Stone and Thire are—”
“Here.” Another voice from the doorway. Thire. Quiet. Raw.
Fox turns his head. Slowly.
Thire and Stone step in, still in their armor, helmets held under their arms.
“We’ve been waiting,” Thire says. “Didn’t want you waking up alone.”
Stone doesn’t say anything at first—just moves to the edge of the bed and places something down.
It’s Fox’s helmet.
Polished. Repaired. The scorch marks buffed clean.
“You brought the Republic down with a comm and a datapad,” Stone says. “You saved us all.”
Fox stares at it.
“I didn’t mean to survive.”
“You did,” Cody says. “And now you get to live. ”
Fox turns his eyes toward him. And then to Wolffe. Then Thire. Stone.
They’re all here.
They stayed.
A deep, fragile breath shudders through him. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”
“You don’t have to,” Cody says. “You just have to be here.”
Wolffe leans back, just slightly. “We’ll take the rest one step at a time.”
No one says anything for a while. There’s no need to.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Fox lets his head rest against the pillow.
He’s still hurting.
But he’s home.
The sun is setting through the Temple windows.
It spills amber and gold across the stone floors, warm and slow, casting long shadows that sway gently with the breeze. The room isn’t large, but it’s cozy. The cot is pushed up near the window, surrounded by scattered chairs, a battered caf table, a few datapads, and someone’s crumpled jacket acting as a pillow on the floor.
Fox is sitting up, legs pulled under him, a blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape. His hair’s longer now—thicker, messier. There’s a new scar beneath his jaw. Another beside his temple. He doesn’t flinch when people look at them anymore.
His fingers are curled around a steaming mug.
Across from him, Cody’s lounging on the floor with his back against the wall, arms resting on his knees. Wolffe’s in one of the chairs, leaned back with his feet propped on the edge of the cot like he owns the place. Thire’s perched near the foot of the bed, and Stone sits cross-legged beside Fox, humming something low under his breath.
Cody’s halfway through a story—something about how many times his General has dropped his lightsaber in the middle of a battle, only to stress the sacred importance of it to his former Padawan. Fox can see the way Wolffe is holding in a smirk, eyes sharp with amusement, but he doesn't say a word. They all know better. Cody’s loyal to the bone, and he’ll bite if anyone mocks the chaos he’s lived through.
Someone left a tray of real snacks earlier— real food, not rations—and Thire’s been steadily working through them, absentmindedly passing things to Stone without even looking. A half-finished sabacc game sits forgotten on the floor, and someone’s stuck a bright yellow sticky note to Wolffe’s armor that reads “grumpy” in bold Aurebesh.
Fox hasn’t laughed yet, but when he sees it, he smiles.
Eventually, the conversation slows. The stories trail off. They each cradle mugs of warm tea, courtesy of a determined Padawan healer who shoved them into their hands earlier and left without waiting for thanks.
Fox takes a sip, then speaks—quietly, almost like he’s afraid to break the moment.
“Cody.”
Cody hums in response, glancing up.
“You ever think we’d make it to the part where we got to sit still?”
Cody’s smile is tired but real. “Not once.”
Wolffe snorts. “Still not convinced it’s not a coma dream.”
Fox gives him a look. “If this is a dream, it’s a very boring one.”
Wolffe grins. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
Stone chuckles under his breath. “I dunno. Boring’s kinda nice.”
“Speak for yourself,” Thire mutters. “I miss punching corrupt senators.”
“I don’t,” Fox says—and everyone falls quiet for a moment, watching him.
He takes a slow sip of his tea. It’s spiced. Warm. Doesn’t taste like standard issue.
“…but I miss Thorn.”
The silence that follows is heavier than it should be. Everyone goes still. The words feel like an unexpected weight in the room, a ghost they can’t ignore.
Cody’s face softens, his eyes momentarily distant, before he shifts in his place. He says nothing, but there’s a softness to his gaze, an understanding Fox doesn’t need to explain.
Fox shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the weight of his thoughts pulling at him like a thousand invisible threads. The room is quiet, too quiet, and he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all still his fault. Thorn, gone. The Guard, broken. And him—alone.
He glances at his brothers, trying to find something, anything, to hold on to. The guilt is suffocating, curling in his chest like a storm. He looks down at his hands, the scars there a silent reminder of all the things he’s failed to do.
“I should’ve been there,” Fox says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “For Thorn. For all of you.”
The words hang in the air like smoke, and for a moment, no one speaks. But then, Thire shifts, his posture softening as he climbs up onto the bed and leans closer, his expression quiet but understanding.
“Fox,” Thire says, his voice steady, “you didn’t push us away. You were just... trying to protect us. I get it. We all do. You didn’t want us to suffer with you, and we never blamed you for that. You’ve always carried so much, but you don’t have to do it alone.”
Fox’s chest tightens, and his eyes flick to Thire’s, searching for some sort of comfort. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve done more to keep you all safe.” His hands are trembling now, and he’s not sure when that happened—when his entire body became this raw, jagged thing. “I pushed Thorn away - all of you .”
Thire looks at him with quiet, unwavering resolve. “We never felt pushed away, Fox. Maybe you thought you were shutting us out, but you were never alone in this. Not really. We saw you trying. We saw what you were doing, even if you didn’t think we did. And Thorn... Thorn would never want you to feel this way.”
Fox swallows hard, the tightness in his throat almost choking him. His voice cracks as he turns to Stone, who’s sitting beside him, his eyes dark with the weight of the same loss.
“ Thorn ... I should’ve said something to him. I should’ve done something . But I just... I kept pushing him away, like it was easier to pretend he wasn’t hurting. And now...” Fox’s breath hitches. “Now he’s gone.”
Stone shifts beside him, his voice softer than it’s ever been. “He knew you cared, Fox. He never thought you didn’t. He understood why you did what you did.” He leans in just slightly, his tone quieter now. “You were trying to protect us, even from yourself. He would’ve done the same for you.”
Fox’s eyes flick to the floor, his hand curling into a fist around the fabric of his tunic. “I shouldn’t have shut you all out. I shouldn’t have kept you at arm’s length. Especially Thorn. He was always there, and I just... turned away from him.”
Thire reaches out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently places it on Fox’s shoulder, steady and warm. “Fox, you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. I know it’s hard, and I know you think you pushed him away, but he —he would never have let you feel like that. Not for a second. He would’ve wanted you to understand that.” His voice softens even more, if that’s possible. “We all need each other. And you don’t need to apologize for that.”
Stone nods in quiet agreement. “Thorn knew what kind of soldier you were. He knew you did everything you could. And he would’ve told you the same thing—we’re here, and we always will be.”
Fox’s chest aches, the words too heavy to swallow all at once. But something about the way Thire and Stone are looking at him—like they’re giving him permission to let go of this guilt—starts to loosen the knot in his chest. Maybe they’re right. Maybe he’s been carrying this for too long, this belief that he could’ve saved Thorn, that he could’ve made a difference if he’d just tried harder. But that’s not true, is it? It’s not what Thorn would want.
“I wish I’d had the chance to tell him... to really tell him how much he meant to me,” Fox murmurs, the words leaving his lips like a confession. “I should’ve... I should’ve said something.”
“Fox,” Thire says softly, squeezing his shoulder, “he knew. He always knew.”
There’s a long pause, and Fox’s gaze flits back to Stone, who’s watching him with a look that speaks volumes. It’s quiet now, the weight of their words hanging in the space between them. But as Fox meets Stone’s eyes, he sees something there—a gentle reassurance, a softness that wasn’t there before.
“You’re not alone,” Stone says, his voice more assured now. “You never were. You’re not alone now.”
Fox feels something in him crack, just slightly. It’s not fixed. It’s not whole. But for the first time, he feels like the weight isn’t as unbearable. Maybe, just maybe, the world hasn’t crumbled. Maybe he doesn’t have to carry all of it by himself anymore.
Thire gives him a small, quiet smile, the edges of his mouth lifting. “We’ve got you, Fox. And we always will.”
Fox closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, the tension in his body slowly unwinding. The guilt isn’t gone—not completely—but it feels less like it’s suffocating him. And maybe that’s enough for now.
None of them speak for a while. The silence folds in again, but it’s comfortable.
And then he says, quietly, “Thank you.”
Wolffe quirks a brow. “For what?”
“For coming after me,” Fox says. “For staying. For not letting me go.”
“You’d have done the same,” Stone replies, like it’s obvious.
“You’re not alone, vod,” Cody says, voice low. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”
Fox closes his eyes.
He breathes.
The blanket slides a little off his shoulder, and Stone gently tugs it back up. Wolffe reaches out and flicks the side of Cody’s head, just to be annoying. Thire falls asleep sitting up and nearly falls off the end of the bed.
Fox lets out the softest, smallest laugh.
It isn’t loud. It isn’t bright. But it’s real.
And for now—for tonight—that’s enough.