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    Summary

    Jon's attempts to avoid a war he wants no part in are ended when Dark Woman drags him to Coruscant and straight to a posting with the Guard. He intends to keep his head down and do his work, but the mysteries around the Guard - and Fox - immediately have him in out of his depth and on uncertain ground.

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    There's a moment of silence before Mace breathes out, leaning back against his desk. “Master Antilles,” he says more quietly. “Do you mind being called that?”

    Jon should reject the name, should deny he answers to it, but—it’s his. A secret, for so long, and then at his Knighting, when he could finally make his own decisions, he’d told it to Master Yoda, had it written down in the Order’s ledgers. Dark Woman had been furious, but—

    It’s his.

    “No,” he says, a little hoarse, and folds his hands into his sleeves, hiding the tight grip of his fingers on the cloth. “My name is Jon Antilles.”

    Fox is watching him, steady, and at that he tips his head. “I'm Fox,” he says, not curt, but—defiant. It resonates, even though it shouldn’t. Jon was just a nameless Jedi padawan, not a cloned soldier sold off to the Republic to die.

    <><><><><>

    A hand, right up against his back. He flinches on instinct, almost jerks away but just manages to catch the reaction in time, and looks up.

    Fox is watching him, steady, and his hand is still on Jon's back, flat against his shoulder blade despite Jon's reaction. “Come on,” Fox says, and it isn't anything but calm, a little brusque. That helps, too. “My second is waiting in the hall. He’ll be over the kriffing moons that we finally have a Jedi of our own.”

    Something about the wording makes Jon's throat feel a little dry, and he can't find words, just nods. If Fox isn't going to mention his flinching, he won't dwell on it, either.

    “I don’t…speak with politicians,” he says after a moment, and lets Fox steer him towards the door. “I've never been on Coruscant before.”

    There’s a huff, amused, and when Fox smiles there are more teeth behind it than there is humor. “That’s just fine. I like dealing with senators. They don’t generally yell at me if I carry enough weapons. Thanks, General Windu.”

    Mace nods, looking faintly amused. “Thank you, Commander. Master Antilles, contact me directly if you need anything.”

    Jon dips his head, a half-bow, and then slips out the door as Fox waves it open.

    <><><><><>

    Fox’s fingers curl around his wrist, light. “It will be fine,” he says, gruff. “The Guard’s different. You’ll fit with us.”

    Jon wants to swallow, but his throat is dry. The press of Fox’s armor right up against him is…not intimidating. Like those words were permission to relax, a clear order in the way of Dark Woman’s command to find the Sith. He nods, reaching up to tug his hood forward a little more, and Fox squeezes his wrist as Thorn lifts off, and then just—doesn’t withdraw his hand.

    No one has ever touched Jon casually, deliberately like this. Not in any moment he can remember, and it’s entirely overwhelming.

    <><><><><>

    Fox touches his cheek, light, his callouses rough against Jon's skin, and says, “If you want me to stop touching, just say so.”

    Because of the flinching, Jon thinks, and swallows. His heartbeat is too quick in his chest, but—he can't tell if the edge of adrenaline comes from Fox’s closeness or the automatic response to someone reaching for his face.

    “Just don’t hit me and it’s fine,” he says.

    He means it as something close to a joke, but Fox’s expression darkens faintly, his lips curl. When he leans in even closer, it’s hard for Jon to breathe, and all he can focus on is the gold of Fox’s eyes, the thin white line of a scar at his hairline. There's grey in his hair, like frost against the black curls, and lines around his eyes, his mouth. Laugh lines, Jon thinks, but—Fox isn't laughing right now, and there's something, some edge of adrenaline that just keeps rising.

    “I'm not going to hit you,” Fox says, low. The tone and the look together are too much, and Jon closes his eyes, tries to scrape his self-control back together. Fox’s closeness is electric, humming with a strange energy, and it’s as though Jon can feel every inch of him.

    Knuckles skim Jon's cheek, over one of the scars there, and Jon twitches. Another pass, and this time his breath shudders out of him. He leans into the touch instead of flinching away, and Fox makes a pleased sound, almost praise. It hooks in Jon's belly, and he swallows, glances up again.

    Fox is still watching him, steady, and the look in his eyes is nothing Jon can put into words.

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