Happy Clone Fic Exchange! I got a prompt with cooking/kitchen chaos and celebrating holiday traditions, and thought making cookies could be a nice thing to explore. Hope you like it!
Normally you would frown upon the state your kitchen was in, but today you decided to let it slide, simply because of how alive it felt, and somehow you couldn‘t help but think that it might benefit the clone medic standing on the other side of the kitchen counter.
The room smelled of cinnamon, sugar, cocoa and other sweet things, as the dim last rays of sunlight filtered through the windows of your small apartment on Coruscant, making the sugar Kix had previously dropped glisten like a treasure against the counter top. He had a smudge of flour against his cheek, and somehow the forgotten the war raging in the galaxy, in favor of spending a few hours with you.
The distant hum of city life beyond the thick walls was muffled, leaving behind only the sound of soft laughter and quiet focus.
You stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a smudge of flour also streaking your cheek like a battle mark, as Kix had teased you before. Your hair was pinned back with more hope than precision, and a few stubborn strands had broken free, brushing against your skin, which you tried to push back with your fingers while sorting out the mess on the counter.
You glanced sideways at Kix, who was looking down at a ball of dough with the same intensity and a hint of frustration he usually reserved for when his brothers didn‘t comply with his orders to rest up.
“You’re overthinking it,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips. “It’s just cookie dough, Kix. Simple cookie dough”
He let out a sigh then, brow furrowing a little deeper and he looked at you almost pleading, however still with a hint of a small smirk. “I’m not sure dough and I are on speaking terms.”
The laugh that escaped you was light then, a sound that seemed to brighten the small room.
You then stepped to this side, and looked down at the ball of dough that Kix had been trying to work into shape for almost ten minutes now.
“Trust me, it’s not that complicated. Just roll it out with a little pressure, like that.” You stepped closer, placing your hands over his on the rolling pin, your fingers steady and warm. Some small sparks went through you, as you tried to ignore the feeling of Kix next to you. You could think about how good his calloused hands felt against yours later, now the cookies come first, you told yourself.
Together, you guided the pin smoothly over the dough, pressing it into an even sheet. “See? You’re a natural.”
Kix’s shoulders loosened, and he smirked, giving you a sidelong glance. “You say that now. Give it five minutes, and you’ll be regretting this.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” you teased, bumping his arm again. “I usually only regret going drinking with Fives.”
„As you should“, Kix claimed confidently, „I swear I heard him talking about trying to get you wasted next time“
„Bold to assume there will be a next time.“, you answered, with a teasing edge to your voice and Kix smiled.
For a few minutes, the two of you worked in companionable silence. The scrape of the rolling pin against the counter mingled with the occasional rustle of a baking sheet. The awkward hesitance in Kix’s movements gradually gave way to something steadier, more confident. He pressed a star-shaped cookie cutter into the dough, carefully lifting the shape and holding it up for your inspection.
“Like this?” he asked, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet need for reassurance. It was almost adorable, as he looked at you like that. Almost like a little boy who‘d never cut a cookie in his life. But then again, you supposed it was like that in some way.
You leaned in, studying the cut-out star. Your smile softened. “Not bad, Kix. You might not be a hopeless case after all.”
He chuckled, setting the star onto the baking tray. “High praise, coming from you.”
Grinning, you ruffled his slowly growing hair. “Hey, not everyone can master the fine art of cookie cutting on the first try. It’s practically a combat skill.”
Kix shook his head, a reluctant smile playing on his lips. “I think I’ve dealt with battlefield plans from Skywalker with fewer instructions than you’ve given me in the last ten minutes. And walked away every time.”
“Precision matters,” you declared with mock seriousness, lifting a perfectly cut snowflake-shaped piece of dough and placing it carefully on the tray. “Now, watch and learn.”
He leaned his forearms against the counter, eyes glimmering with quiet amusement as he watched you. “I’m watching.”
Rolling your eyes at his teasing tone, you stuck out your tongue before focusing on cutting out a series of hearts. Your hands moved with practiced confidence that was gained from years of making cookies with your family, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to the simplicity of dough, cutters, and the warmth of the afternoon sun. Kix watched you, but it wasn’t the cookies that held his attention. It was the way your face softened in concentration, the golden light catching in your hair, making you seem almost ethereal. For someone who had seen too much darkness, this small moment of light felt precious.
When the last batch of cookies had been cut, you handed Kix a small bowl of colorful sprinkles. “Alright, decoration duty. Think you can handle this, soldier?”
He raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “You’re trusting me with sprinkles?”
“Don’t mess it up, and maybe I’ll keep trusting you.”
He laughed, shaking his head, and took the bowl from your hands. Carefully, he sprinkled the red and green sugar over the cookies. His movements were tentative at first, as though one wrong move might shatter the fragile shapes beneath his touch. But as you began to hum a soft, festive tune, he felt himself relax. The ever-present tension in his shoulders—the weight of duty and war—began to ease, if only for a while.
Tray by tray, the cookies transformed under your combined efforts. Some were decorated with meticulous care, others a little less so, but each one held a quiet joy that you both were proud of. They may look a bit messier than usual, but that just made them all the more special.
When the final tray was complete, Kix leaned back, surveying the chaos you’d created together. Flour was strewn over the countertops, and stray sprinkles lay scattered across the floor like tiny, colorful stars. You also hadn’t fared any better you decided then, as you saw your reflection in a window, your clothes full of flour. The trays held cookies of every shape, from perfect to endearingly misshapen.
You wiped your hands on your apron, a proud smile lighting up your face. “We did good.”
Kix nodded, his smile softer now, although with a teasing edge.“I don‘t know, I don‘t think some of them are anatomically correct.“
You snorted at that.“It‘s cookies, Kix. There is no anatomy for coolies.“
„If you say so“, he answered then, putting an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. It felt peaceful, you realised then as you leaned against Kix and as the air smelled of spices and sweetness. Like times long forgotten amidst the chaos of war.
Kix then looked at you, seemingly sensing your thoughts drifting away.
„What‘s on your mind?“
“Back home,” you said quietly, “my brother and I used to do this every year. No matter how crazy things got, he always made time for it. It made everything feel… normal, you know? Like we could carve out a little bit of happiness, even when the world was falling apart. Nothing mattered then, we were together, and we were happy”
Kix swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. He looked down at the cookie he’d just decorated, the red and green sugar forming a lopsided pattern. “That sounds nice.”
You looked up at him, your eyes shimmering with something you yourself couldn‘t place. “I guess I wanted you to have that, too. Everyone deserves something simple and happy.”
Warmth spread through Kix’s chest, settling deep in his bones. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing a stray strand of flour-dusted hair from your cheek. His touch lingered, his eyes holding emotions he didn‘t dare voice quite yet.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Your lips curled into a faint smile. “Don’t go getting all sappy on me now.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Too late.”
You laughed, the sound genuine and bright, and for a moment, the weight of war and duty melted away. There were no battles to fight, no injuries to mend—just the two of you, side by side in a kitchen that smelled of sugar, cinnamon, and the fragile hope of better days.
“Alright,” you said, breaking the moment with a clap of your hands. “Let’s get these in the oven. And if we burn them, I’m blaming you.”
Kix rolled his eyes, smirking. “Fair enough, I‘ll just give them to Fives then”
Together, you slid the trays into the oven. The heat warmed your faces, a comforting contrast to the chill of the world outside. As the door clicked shut, you leaned against the counter, your shoulder brushing his. Kix stayed close, the quiet joy of the moment filling the space between you. There was still a little smile, a small flicker of a sense of wonder there in his eyes, and you knew, even if these cookies turned out to taste horrible, this small smile on his face made it worth it.
lol at Kix not being on speaking terms with cookie dough, and his anatomically incorrect cookies. I enjoy the bittersweetness and the quiet companionship throughout. Also the description of the aftermath in the kitchen is 100% accurate (and yes I do make cookies with my bro :) )
Heheh. If they end up tasting horrible Fives can have them. Poor guy.
Prompt: Hot Chocolate | "We agreed to never mention it again!"
SFW, fluff and angst, friends to lovers, 4800 words.
For @captainsophiestark
You never expected your first holiday season away from home to be because of a Galactic-scale civil war, but here you are, stuck on a planet with no seasons at all. At least Coruscant is the most well-defended planet in the Republic.
The Senate has really been pushing that image lately. From the armada of warships in orbit, brighter and more numerous than the stars; to the incongruously shiny troopers patrolling the top levels of Galactic City, Coruscant is protected.
The troopers are even here, in the Little Lantillian market. Armored and silent, but not standing as rigid as the shocktroopers in the Federal District. You catch them tilting their helmeted heads, shifting from one foot to another, probably talking on their helmet comms.
You smile to imagine the kinds of conversations they might be having. Based on the troopers you’ve met so far, they’re bound to be curious, analyzing the environment with scathingly perceptive skill and more often than not coming to hilariously inaccurate conclusions. Like the time Fives insisted that candy bars are a perfectly acceptable substitute for a meal, because he simply couldn’t rationalize why something so conveniently shaped and energy dense could be anything less than 100% utilitarian.
“What’s so funny?” the candy store merchant asks, mirroring your expression.
“Ah, just… the troopers,” you chuckle, continuing to browse the selection but finding no cocoa, not even substitutes. “I’m trying to make hot chocolate…”
“Out of stock,” the merchant replies, expression souring as she glances at the troopers. “But perhaps I can interest you in some tang bark? Uyterese special. Steep it in hot water and it really brings out the flavor of the beans.”
“If I can find any beans,” you grumble. “This is the ninth market I’ve tried.”
The merchant presses her lips together, holding the exorbitantly priced bark expectantly.
“I’ll, uh… I’ll pass. Thanks, though.”
Life Day without hot chocolate…you’re not even from Kashyyyk, but the tradition has spread throughout the Slice, all the way to your homeworld and into some of your fondest memories. But with the way the military has locked down shipping and transport lanes coming and going, you’ll probably never get ingredients in time.
It’s not a total loss. You pick up what sweets you can actually afford, candied mujas and freeze-dried mallow paste. The troopers from earlier let their visors trail in your direction just enough to be noticeable, and you’re reminded of Kix and his massive sweet tooth.
“You troopers off duty?” you ask, casually approaching the armored men head-on.
All three snap to attention.
“Yes, sir! Sorry. Ma’am,” the man in the center replies.
“Candied muja?” you offer.
The troopers eagerly accept, tucking the dried fruit into their belt pouches with gloved hands.
“Told you it was her,” the second trooper ribs, knocking his elbow against the third’s chestplate.
“Do I know you?” You don’t exactly recognize them with their helmets on.
“You volunteer with RSO, right?”
“Yeah,” you squeak, “I do. Or…did.”
“Well, thank you. For the fruit, and for your support. We appreciate it.”
You don’t even know this man, but his familiar voice sets your face ablaze, the heat settling fondly in your chest.
“I should be thanking you,” you stammer. “Uh…” You scan their armor for identifying marks, but find none. All three are what Captain Rex would call shinies.
An awkward pause passes between you, before Trooper Number Three visibly starts.
“Names!” he blurts. “You want names, right?”
“I- yeah, but only if you’re comfortable-”
“CT-51/2307, Ozzie, 501st battalion!” Trooper Number Two chirps, outstretched hand jutting into your space.
You shake Ozzie’s hand in a daze as he introduces his brothers by number, not caring that his grip is making your fingers numb. The Five-oh-First is back.
“It was nice to meet you,” Ozzie continues. “Maybe we’ll see you at the club?”
“Yeah. Maybe you will.”
You’re heading there right now. You turn towards the EasyRide station, and catch the merchant from earlier shaking her head.
Kriff her. Troopers are often intense and lacking in social graces, but they’re also totally genuine, infectiously loyal, and absolutely fascinating conversationalists. The more you think about it, the more you convince yourself that you’re long overdue for a visit to RSO.
The Republic Service Organization’s Galactic City club is situated in the entertainment district near the GAR barracks, and the surrounding streets are so full of off-duty troopers in various colors of uniform that it feels like one facility. You check in for the first time in months, receive a tan uniform and a locker card, and head inside to change.
Even with all the other recreational options opening up to troopers, the place is packed. You recognize the 41st Elite Corps by the gray and green insignia on their shoulder patches. According to the roster, they’ve checked out all the board games. The kitchen is understaffed again. No 501st, but there is one number you do recognize: ARC-27/5555.
ARC. He’s actually done it.
You make a few rounds of the club, searching for Fives. He’s not playing games, or watching bolo-ball, or snacking at the sparsely stocked buffet. You don’t find him until you enter the kitchen on a request to refill the fizzade machine.
His helmet is new, but you’d recognize that Rishi eel anywhere.
“Fives?”
His head shoots up from the counter and freezes in place. “You’re here.”
“Stay put, I’ll be right back.”
You rush back outside with a fresh cartridge of flavored concentrate and wrestle it into the dispensing machine to a chorus of cheers and applause. Apparently it’s something none of the other volunteers have managed to accomplish in over an hour. Grinning uncontrollably, you duck back through the swinging kitchen doors, only to bounce off a wall of ARC armor.
“Where are you going? I told you to stay put.”
Fives doesn’t retreat or attempt to move past you. He stands still, visor pointed straight at your face, and slowly extends his arms.
You step forward and let him embrace you. The angular ridges of his utility belt dig into your stomach, and there’s nowhere on his bulky torso to comfortably place your hands, but he’s here.
“Congrats on your promotion,” you mumble, cheek pressed awkwardly into an impressive shoulder pauldron.
“Thanks,” Fives replies mechanically.
“Any particular reason why you’re hiding in the kitchen?”
“Ah, you know. Trying not to be a massive party pooper.”
“One of those days?” you ask, tracing the blue V-shape painted over his heart.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
“Aw. But you’re feeling better now, right?” he teases.
“Yes, Fives. All because of you.” You roll your eyes, but mean every word. “I was looking for you, actually.”
Fives leans back, and you see the imprint of his pauldron on your face, reflected in his visor. Normally, this is the part where he’d make some cheeky remark, but he remains silent, impassive, all cold hard edges pressed into your unarmored body.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” you offer, gently pushing him away.
“Kinda.”
“Alright. I’m listening.” You pull up a stool at the counter and motion for Fives to sit.
“You know I’ve always wanted to be an ARC.”
“I do.”
“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“But it didn’t just happen, did it? You earned it. And I’m really proud of you.”
Fives sighs. “And whenever I start to feel proud, whenever I’m reminded that this…” he motions to the kama around his hips, “…is real, I just- I miss them. Especially Hevy. We were supposed to do it together.” His helmet doesn’t quite disguise the way he chokes on the last word.
Heart-wrenching understanding washes over you. It’s a story you’ve heard a hundred variations of: lost brothers, lost dreams. Fives, for all his incredible skill and good humor, hasn’t been spared.
“Anything I can do?” you ask.
“Hold me,” Fives answers without a hint of self-consciousness. “It’s grounding.”
“Okay,” you agree, “but can you take off your armor?”
Fives places his helmet on the counter, followed by his pauldrons. His expression is unexpectedly serene as he scoots his stool closer and squeezes you close to his side.
“Ow. Lose the belt too, please?”
“Wow, forward.”
There he is. You smile even as you shove him away.
“So, what’s got you down?” Fives asks, dragging your arm over his head to loop around his waist.
“It’s dumb.”
“It’s not.”
“Homesick, I guess.”
“Anything I can do?”
You steal a glance at his face, but Fives isn’t teasing this time. Despite the coolness of his hug, the way he’s looking at you just might make you melt, the warm brown of his eyes reminding you of the one thing you miss the most right now.
“Not unless you somehow have access to chocolate.”
“I do. Why?”
“Wait, seriously?” You twist in your seat to face him. “How?”
“Chocolate rations are standard issue on Kamino. I was just there.”
“For the last time, ration bars are not the same thing as candy bars.”
Fives snorts. “What do you even need chocolate for?”
“Life Day.”
Fives raises his brows, intrigued, and waits for you to explain.
“It’s a tradition. Maybe not authentic to Kashyyyk, but lots of planets along the Perlemian drink some variation of hot chocolate, and I always associate it with this time of year.”
“Wait, you drink it? Do you melt it first?”
“No, it’s usually in powder form, mixed with some kind of milk and sweetener.”
“Hmm.” Fives has that look in his eyes, that calculated curiosity that says he’s either about to save the day or spend the night in a holding cell. “Is this one of those things that people consume just for fun? Like alcohol and candy?”
“Pretty much. Though the first people to grow it mainly consumed it for its nutrients…”
Fives absorbs every word attentively, his earlier melancholy apparently forgotten. Soldiers like him have to be able to switch tracks quickly, and right now, you don’t hate it. Not when he’s laughing as you share memories of cold weather and hot chocolate.
“Can’t believe you’re making me want to go back to Orto Plutonia,” Fives drawls contentedly, somehow leaning against you without making you bear his weight.
“You know there are envirosims here on Coruscant? That people go to, just for fun.”
Fives scoffs, eyes wide. “Actually, no, I didn’t know that.”
“Ask your general, I think they even have them in the Jedi-”
You’re interrupted by the announcement that the club is closing in fifteen minutes.
“Kark, I need to clean up.”
Fives catches you by the waist. “I’ll help.”
You make swift work of the closing checklist. Fives is extremely thorough, never needing to be told twice how to do something.
“You know, Fives, if you like this kind of work, I could see about getting you actual kitchen privileges.”
“YES,” he replies immediately, startling you. “Please.”
“Okay.” You leave the kitchen to a mostly empty club, Fives following after you. “How long are you on Coruscant?”
“A week.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Promise?” Fives bats his eyelashes at you, but his smile is sly, not bashful.
“Promise. Good night, Fives.”
You get changed, gather your things, and submit a request for kitchen training for ARC-27/5555, volunteering yourself as the trainer. It’s approved by the time you get home.
Fives shows up the next day in an un-belted two-toned red tunic, skin-tight black pants, training boots, and a gray officer’s cap.
“Out of uniform, brother!” a 41st infantryman jeers.
“Actually, I think it’ll do nicely,” Fives retorts, twisting around as if to admire himself. “Close-toed nonslip footwear, easily washable, allows for ease of movement, no cords or flowing sleeves, hair covered. What do you think?”
“I think someone did his homework,” you reply, already dressed to the same standards with the addition of disposable gloves. “You ready?”
“You’re on kitchen duty?” the previously mocking clone asks. “Our hero!”
Fives is a quick study, memorizing holding temperatures and pressure cooker settings with confidence.
“It’s just equipment, same as blasters and detonators,” he insists. “See, it’s got a timer, and it’ll explode under certain conditions. Easy.”
Within an hour, you’ve stocked the normally empty buffet with the full range of available foods, but Fives isn’t finished. He installs a remote camera on the buffet to send real-time monitoring of food levels to his datapad, then steps outside the club, only to return moments later.
“Kix is on his way,” he announces, pocketing his comm.
“I thought you said he was doing a surgical sim?”
“He was, until I told him I’d save him some pastries if he works an hour in the kitchen.”
“You volunteered me to train more kitchen staff? Do I get pastries?”
“No, I volunteered myself,” Fives smirks, offering you one of Kix’s pastries anyways. “If you want to go home, I can take it from here, trust me.”
“I never said anything about going home.”
“Trust. Me.”
“What are you up to?”
“Making sure this place can run without you. You’re one of four people who volunteers in the kitchen, and you haven’t even been here in a while. Food quality really suffered.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I have sources.” Fives glances around to all the surrounding clones.
“Alright. Fair enough. But I’m supervising.”
Fives grumbles good-naturedly, but you don’t think he actually resents you for staying. He just takes on all the work like he’s proving his point, effortlessly holding conversation until Kix arrives, wearing a clean medic’s uniform and smelling amazing as usual.
“Ah-ah, payment first,” Kix insists when Fives tries to put gloves on him.
Fives stoically produces the pastries from under the counter. Kix checks the contents like they’re doing a spice deal, and proceeds to scarf one down without breaking eye contact with Fives.
“Hey, staff can’t eat in the kitchen.”
Kix whips around and fixes you with his sharp gaze. “I’m not staff.” Another pastry, gone in a second. “Yet.”
You roll your eyes, grumbling about how guests aren’t supposed to eat in the kitchen either.
Fives cuts you off before you can reach the broom. “I mean it, you can take a break,” he urges, cleaning up Kix’s crumbly mess.
“Yeah, I’m a medic, you think I don’t know about hand washing or how to program a food processor?” Kix snarks, though his smile is as sweet as the pastries.
“And what if I just want to catch up with two friends?”
Fives and Kix exchange a look, some kind of charged, silent communication passing between their eyes.
“Alright,” Kix grins, laying on the charm. “Put me to work.”
Fives rattles off instructions in verbal shorthand, bringing Kix up to speed faster than you ever could have. They start reconstituting portions based on what needs refilling most urgently, alternately dodging and assisting each other as they work, like two parts of some perfectly calibrated machine.
“Do you guys move like that on the battlefield?” you ask, nothing left to do but watch.
“Like what?” Fives asks, taking his eyes off his task to smile at you. Kix takes over, guiding Fives’s hands to prevent him from burning himself.
“Like you somehow know exactly where the other is going to be.”
“Like a dance,” Kix suggests.
“Yeah.”
“We do,” Fives confirms. “Me and Echo, usually, but Kix isn’t such a bad dance partner.”
“Excuse you, I’m an excellent dancer.”
“Eh.”
“Careful, Fives, Kix just saved you from burning yourself,” you tease.
“He’s just saving himself the work of treating me.”
A timer goes off, and the flawless teamwork vanishes.
“Fives, you broke him.”
“Nah, my hour’s up,” Kix explains, removing his gloves and dusting off his tunic. “Why don’t you join me out there? I’ll show you some real dance moves.”
“Sure, why not.”
Kix smiles triumphantly, and as you leave, you notice Fives smiling exactly the same way.
Kix drags you out into the club, where a few troopers are already bobbing and swaying to some thumping, slow-paced piece with a thready, shimmering melody.
“Watch closely,” he commands, demonstrating a sequence of swift, sharp jabs and twirls, like he’s fighting some slow, invisible opponent, precisely on beat. “That’s your part, now you try.”
“Okay…”
Kix has to guide you through it the first two times, but once you have the first ten beats memorized, he adds his own bold weaving movements, staying so close to you that you’re sure you’ll hit him and yet he precisely misses contact with you every time.
“Stay on beat, or you actually will hit me,” he laughs.
“How did you keep from hitting Fives earlier? Are you imagining a beat?”
“That is the next step, but no. Keep this up long enough, cover each other on the battlefield, and you actually do learn to anticipate each other’s moves.”
You’re drawing a small crowd of eager-looking troopers and curious civilians. Someone changes the music to something with a much faster tempo, and you make it all of four steps before a split second’s hesitation spares Kix a smack in the face but makes you lose your balance.
“See?” Kix catches you mid-step, laughing.
“Please, I could do that in my sleep,” someone scoffs, brushing past you.
“Perfect, you’ll demonstrate.” Kix smoothly switches you out for the other clone, and the two lunge at each other, the slow, intricate dance turned ferocious.
Once they progress past the steps you’d managed not to fumble, they do touch, but every time it’s to assist the other with acrobatic lunges disguised as attacks. Onlookers gasp every time they narrowly miss striking each other, but they finish the dance unscathed, beaming, to a round of applause.
Kix and his partner grasp forearms and part, sweaty and tired.
“That was awesome,” you call. “I’ll get you some water!”
“No need!” someone in 212th gold armor interrupts, clipping past you as he barrels towards the kitchen. “I got it!”
“Since when does everyone do kitchen duty?”
“Fives probably bribed them,” Kix replies casually, pulling up a seat in the middle of the room, directly in front of you. “The way I see it, it’s a win-win. You don’t have to stay stuck in there, and everyone gets food and the joy of your company.”
“Smooth, but I have work to do.”
“Plenty more to do besides reheat things. Play games. Talk to someone. Relax. I bet the Captain wouldn’t mind a rematch.”
“He’s here?”
Kix stands up in his seat to look around. “Yep.”
Kix practically dumps you on Captain Rex, only to slink back to the kitchen.
“They think they’re being so sneaky. Do you know what they’re up to, Captain?”
“No idea,” Rex lies. “Dejarik?”
He beats you easily, but only because you’re distracted by the groups of clones, sometimes whole squads, moving in and out of the kitchen as if on timed shifts. Fives and Kix haven’t shown themselves, but the food and drink keep coming in precisely the necessary amounts.
You get up to try it at one point, Rex not-so-subtly tailing you to fix his own plate.
“Not bad,” Rex comments. “Seems your training paid off.”
“I was hardly with Fives for an hour, this is all him.”
“Give yourself some credit. He wouldn’t have made it into the kitchen at all without you, just like he wouldn’t have made ARC without me.” Rex gives you a dry, knowing smile. “We’ve given him the best tools to succeed, which allows us to focus our limited faculties on other things…like a proper rematch.”
He wins three more games.
“You’ll beat me next time,” Rex chides.
“I’m done. It’s almost closing time, I need to get back there and make sure they’re okay.”
“No.” Rex is already resetting the board. “Sometimes, leadership is about trusting your men to do their jobs. I trust my men. Do you?”
He juts his chin in the direction of the buffet. It’s already being taken down, with no instruction from you.
“One more round. We have time.”
You give Rex everything you have and he holds his own, the outcome anyone’s guess. Until you hear a crash from the kitchen.
You start to get up, and Rex moves a piece that would have let him win six turns ago. The move triggers a timed action, leaving you twenty seconds to make your next move or forfeit.
See what’s going on in the kitchen, or continue the game.
“Oh, you are so in on this,” you accuse.
“In on what?” Rex asks with mock innocence, fingers drumming down the seconds on the table rim.
You don’t hear any screaming, or smell any smoke. You make the next move. Rex smiles, satisfied.
You play right through the fifteen minute warning, barely managing to sweep the last of Rex’s pieces off its holographic feet in time.
“Good game,” Rex congratulates, physically out of breath.
“I know you didn’t let me win…” Your hands are still shaking. “But I can’t help but feel that winning wasn’t your main objective.”
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
Fives chooses that moment to show himself. “Hi, Captain!” he waves, drying his sweaty forehead with a towel before replacing his cap.
Neither he nor Rex offer any resistance as you push through the kitchen doors, only to find the place spotless. Everything is put away, and there’s an actual flimsi chart pinned to the wall, with running tallies of supplies used and notes in at least six different peoples’ handwriting.
“Er, I hope you don’t mind. I just figured, since volunteers come and go, it would be useful to have some kind of communication in place.”
“Impressive work, Fives,” you compliment. “Have fun today?”
“Sure did. You?”
“Yeah.” You yawn. “It was exhausting, but just what I needed. Helped me forget all about yesterday.”
“Oh.” Fives glances at the floor, but keeps talking. “Well, I’m glad you had fun. And thanks, for letting us into the kitchen. I was able to convince a lot of brothers that it’s not just work for droids.”
“How can you say some work is for droids, then not allow droids in your club and expect it to get done?”
“Exactly!” Fives smacks a fist into his other hand. “So, anyways, now that we have things sorted, maybe you can take the day off?”
“I kind of have to. I have a real job, too.”
“Right. Obviously. But I’ll see you again?”
“Zhellday.”
“Perfect!” Fives bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ll see you then.”
Maybe Rex is right, and it’s a testament to the quality of your training that you don’t get any calls banning you from the club for instigating the troopers’ takeover of the communal kitchen. Or maybe he was way off base, as you discover when you return to the club on Zhellday to find it surrounded by the Coruscant Guard.
Something is off. Corries are frequent guests, but they don’t hang around outside. And they don’t bring Commander Fox.
“What’s going on?” you ask one of the shocktroopers, peering around him to watch Fox’s distinct armor disappear into the club.
“You can’t go inside, ma’am. Guard business.”
You mouth a few silent, incredulous obscenities. “What business? This isn’t a crime scene, or else you’d have the place cordoned off.”
The shocktrooper says nothing. Behind him, a group of three regular volunteers is escorted in.
“Oh, so they’re allowed in?”
“Sorry, ma’am. No entry. I suggest you come back in an hour.”
“If this was any sort of official guard business, you would’ve kept your mouth shut. You’re in on it, too.”
It’s at this moment that he does decide to shut his mouth.
“Unbelievable.”
You park yourself at the trooper’s feet, glaring at the doors until Fox makes his leisurely exit.
“Everyone stand down,” he says.
The trooper towering over you reaches down to help you to your feet, and Fox himself swings his head to indicate you can enter before boarding a karking LAAT/i with some of his men, the rest opting to follow you into the club.
Inside, Fives greets you like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. Other than people giving you odd looks, you don’t spot anything untoward, either.
“Fives.”
“Hi!”
“Fives, I’m not stupid.”
“What? Of course you’re not?”
“So, what? You’re friends with Commander Fox now?”
Fives wheezes. “Commander Fox doesn’t have friends, he has contacts.”
“You know, I played along last time but I’m getting tired of you lot pretending like I can’t tell something’s going on.”
Fives winces. “Let me make it up to you, then.”
He leads you back, surprise surprise, to the kitchen.
It’s mostly clean, other than a small spill on the counter, and the overwhelming scent of chocolate. Shockingly, there are no hyper-efficient clone squads turned kitchen staff. Just you, Kix, and Fives. Who looks like he might actually burst into tears.
“It. Was. An. Accident,” Kix intones, eyes wide with guilt.
“How?” Fives wails. “How are you allowed to operate on people but can’t be trusted with a drink mug for five minutes?”
Kix lifts his hand, which trembles seemingly out of his control. “No way I’m operating on anyone like this.”
“Hey. What happened?”
“Attempt number sixteen happened.”
“We agreed to never mention it again!” Fives hisses.
“Just admit that chocolate ration bars are not the same thing as chocolate candy!”
Fives’s shoulders heave, and he suppresses a sob.
“Aw, Fives, I didn’t mean it like… Look, calling Fox was brilliant. You agreed that attempt seventeen was delicious, and eighteen is even better, and we can recreate the formula with the right ingredients.”
“Here. Fives, sit down,” you urge, shoving a stool in his direction. “Kix, are you okay?”
“I’ll live. I just have, oh…six hundred seventy milligrams of caffeine in my body right now.”
“What.”
“Okay, okay, chocolate rations aren’t the same as chocolate candy!” Fives nearly shouts. “They’re packed with extra calories and nutrients and caffeine and we definitely should have accounted for that when concentrating the flavoring for use in hot chocolate.”
“So this is what you were hiding from me?”
“Yes,” Fives answers sullenly, eyes slightly red. “I wanted to make you feel better like you made me feel better, but that was the last of the chocolate. Sorry we upset you over nothing.”
“Fives.” You tug his hand until he looks at you. “Fives, this is the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me in ages. It’s not nothing.”
“Sweeter than the kilogram of sugar mysteriously missing from the supply cabinet?” Kix rambles.
“Shut up, Kix,” Fives glares. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” you sigh, filling a tall glass of water and unwrapping a straw for Kix. “It’s actually pretty funny now that I know what was going on. Did you seriously convince Fox to come down here to give you chocolate?”
“Sell him chocolate,” Kix corrects. “Fox’s favors aren’t free. Fives owes me twelve units of field-”
“Drink,” Fives orders. “And we agreed on ten.”
“That was before you made me test number sixteen.”
Kix raises his hands in surrender and sneaks out the door.
“Six hundred seventy milligrams? Really?” you ask.
“Kix has freakish caffeine tolerance, even for a clone. He said he could handle it, but I guess he was just trying to prove his point. Now I just feel stupid.”
“For what? Sounds like you didn’t actually force him.”
“I didn’t even get to be the one to tell you.”
“That you like me?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to. All this? Just to cheer me up?”
“And make sure you don’t have to do all the kitchen duty yourself. And to impress you.”
“I know, Fives. And in case it isn’t obvious…”
You tilt his chin up and rest your forehead against his. Up close, he smells like chocolate, cream, and sugar.
“I like you, too.”
Fives grins, closing the gap to kiss you, open-mouthed and unhurried.
Whatever he did in attempt seventeen was perfect. The taste is faint, but it’s home. Memories of warmth flooding your chilled hands rush forth as you savor the lingering sweetness on Fives’s lips.
“Mm,” you sigh. “I think you nailed it with number seventeen.”
“I did? I was worried it wasn’t strong enough.”
“No. Just how I like it. Ready to try again?”
“Yes,” Fives groans, capturing your lips even more fervently than the first time.
sign ups for the 2024 exchange are officially open, and will continue to be through october 26th!
the faq for the event can be found here and the rules can be found here, and you can find specific information about life day and what it could mean for fic here!
here’s how the exchange will work:
1. Read over this post, reblog it to the blog you want to participate with, and fill out the sign up form linked below!!
When you sign up, you’ll choose which of the clones you would like to receive an xreader fic about. Because this event is random, I require participants to at least be comfortable writing and reading for Rex, so no one gets an assignment they can’t fulfill.
2. The day sign ups end, you will receive two emails from me:
I’ll be using a secret santa website to do the matching, so one email will come from that website, and it will tell you who you will be writing for. I can easily randomize the assignments this way, and it ensures that everyone has a match.
The second email will come from this blog’s event email ([email protected]) and it will have posting information, general information for the participants, and a document of all the prompts. Once you find out from the secret santa website who your person is, you just need to find them on the list to see your prompt and the characters you have the option of writing for.
3. You will have about seven weeks to write your fic, and the word minimum is 800 words. On December 14th (that’s a Saturday), participants will post their fics to tumblr. I’ll send out more details about posting when the event gets closer, so don’t worry about that. I will also put together a list of all the fics when the event is over, which will be linked on the blog’s pinned post with the other past exchanges.
you can sign up here!!
please feel free to reach out to me with any questions! hope to see you in the signups :)
tagging those who said they were interested: @urfriendlyneighbornightfury @eclec-tech @dragonrider9905 @rinksu-no-joo @intricatechaosofyou @winniethewife @caerulea-divilu
Lieutenant Levendy and the Case of the Haunted Supply Room
Summary: As a medical scientist in the Republic Navy, you’ve worked with hundreds of clones, and struggled to save the lives of thousands more. A chance encounter with a combat medic turns into a careful dance, and as the war presses against the four walls of your cloistered laboratory, your only solace is found in him. But are you willing to risk your heart on someone you can’t protect? In a world of identical men on identical casualty lists, can you afford to watch for just one, over and over?
(Or: the laboratory supply room is rumored to be haunted, it’s definitely your fault, and Kix isn't sure when he turned into a ghost. Fortunately, Lieutenant Levendy is on the case.)
Prompt: "My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand"
Characters: Kix / F!Reader (no use of Y/N)
Word count: 11,831
Rating: T (for suggestive content and canon-typical injuries)
A/N: This fic is a gift for @happy-beeeps! I've loved the song "ivy" since I first heard it, so I hope I did your prompt justice. Shout-out to @cloneficgiftexchange for hosting this exchange! It’s been great fun.
(Fellow medical and/or laboratory professionals: forgive my creative liberties, but it’s Star Wars fanfiction.)
Dividers by @saradika-graphics!
The laboratories of the medical frigate Panacea are slow at this time of day—in the late afternoon when most of the blood samples and other tests have already been processed, but the day shift hasn’t yet begun to tidy up. Dr. Sung, the physician who directs it all, is fairly lenient, and the staff often take breaks around this time. Your headphones are currently playing 7920s Alderaanian rock music, a new favorite of your colleague Maven. There have been no accidents or strange occurrences today, which means that you’re entirely unsurprised when an announcement crackles over the ship’s speakers, cutting through your music: the Panacea has a new mission, and you’re to report to your commanding officer to receive your orders. Never a quiet day.
The laboratory staff shuffle lazily into the conference room where you typically meet. It’s a cramped fit, so you end up squished between Maven and Levendy. Maven, like you and most of the other non-clones on board the Panacea, bears the insignia of the Judicial forces, and below that the bars of a first lieutenant—the lowest rank granted to non-clones who join the Republic Navy. Somebody in the Senate decided that a random person signing up for the Judicial forces deserves a higher rank than the vast majority of the military-trained clones.
Everyone knows it’s nonsense.
Levendy wears the plain uniform of a clone medical officer, which also marks him as a first lieutenant, but unlike you and Maven, he earned that rank for his leadership skills. To be quite frank, you’re still not entirely sure what his job title is, but in practice he’s the second-in-command of the laboratory. While Dr. Sung wields her decades of medical expertise, he fine-tunes your operations to military precision. His hair is dyed an impressively saturated dark blue, a fact for which you’re quite grateful. Working on a ship with hundreds of identical men is a challenge even for your detail-oriented eye.
Dr. Sung strides into the room on quick feet. The situation of the 212th and 501st on Christophsis is worse than they thought it would be, she explains. The Panacea is on its way to bolster their medical staff.
There’s nothing special about the mission, for now. You go back to work, and switch your music to something a little calmer.
The sun is nearly kissing the horizon when the Panacea arrives on Christophsis. You watch from a port window as the ship descends through the atmosphere, slow and steady, as medical frigates always are. Smoke drifts from the wreckage strewn about the capital, marring the otherwise breathtaking view; the crystalline towers act as prisms that fragment the rays of the sun, creating a kaleidoscopic effect.
The Panacea has a rhythm, this many months into the war. You’ve already prepared the laboratory as best you can, and in the precious few minutes after the ship lands, you sit quietly. Then, you start to receive samples from Medbay 1—the part of the ship that you would call the emergency department, if it were in a civilian hospital. You process them, test them, and send the results back to the medics and doctors. One tube of blood shows anemia. One urine sample shows an infection. So on, and so forth.
Five hours after your arrival, your comm dings with a reminder.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” you tell Dr. Sung. “I need to check on the bacta starter.”
Dr. Sung hums in acknowledgement, then says, “Take a break, while you’re at it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The bacta starter tanks are kept in what you call “wet storage”, which is effectively a miniature laboratory off of the large supply room down the hall. It’s a short enough walk that it doesn’t inconvenience you, but a long enough walk that you get a mental break when you venture out for supplies. This section of the ship is nearly empty right now, and you go at a leisurely pace, allowing your thoughts to wander just a little. You reach the supply room, type in the code, and open the door.
Immediately, you freeze.
There’s a clone standing at the back wall, clad in white armor that looks to have been hastily wiped down after the battle, dirt still caked into its crevices. It bears the red Cross of Koros on its pauldron—a combat medic, then. His helmet sits at his feet, so you can see the bantha-in-headlights look of surprise on his face as he notices you in the doorway. You glance over him. No blaster. Good. You hate it when the men bring their weapons to the lab.
Although, in this case, you’re not sure why an infantry clone would come to the lab at all.
“What are you in here for?” you ask, as you shut the door behind you and make your way over to the small sink.
“Umm…” says the medic, and you can almost hear the gears turning in his brain, searching for a reasonable excuse. “Five minutes of peace and quiet?”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, and the medic seems to relax at the sound.
“Aren’t we all,” you say. “Well, don’t mind me. I’m just here to check on my little friends.”
“…little friends?”
You gesture to the door that leads to wet storage. “The bacta starter needs to be fed.”
The medic nods and looks back down at the datapad in his hand, so you leave him be and set about your work: measuring out synthsugar and nutripowder; adjusting the pH; gently breaking up the biofilms, so they stay liquid and usable; checking the cell density. Working with bacta is far more complicated than working with normal cultures, and you find it rather fun.
You’re nearly finished when you glance up and find the medic not fidgeting with his datapad, but looking at you with curiosity in his eyes. He glances away when he notices you looking back at him. Interesting. Most clones couldn’t care less about lab work.
You find yourself stealing glances of your own. The clone’s hair is a standard cut on top, but buzzed a little shorter on the side with a zig-zag pattern. After you close up the starter tanks, you walk over to him, stick out your hand, and introduce yourself. He responds not with a handshake, but by gripping your forearm firmly—a common clone greeting.
“Private Kix, 501st Legion, Nimbus Company.”
“Pleased to meet you, Kix.”
“Uhh…you, too.”
That’s another mannerism you’ve noticed among the clones, the awkwardness in the face of the empty pleasantries that Republic society so often employs. It’s kind of endearing.
Kix clears his throat. “Can I ask you a question? About the bacta, that is. I just asked you a question.”
“Of course.”
“What do the labels mean?
You glance back over at the tanks lined up on the counter, neat colored stickers on the sides and lids—Maven insisted that they be arranged in rainbow order.
“Those are starters for different types of bacta. Clone-specific, Humans and Near-Humans, Rodian, Duros and Near-Duros. So on, and so forth.”
“Clones use different types of bacta?”
“Of course. You reserve tanks on the Resolute for General Skywalker and General Kenobi, don’t you?”
Kix tilts his head thoughtfully. “I thought we did that so we always have them available. I didn’t realize the bacta was different. But…we use the same bacta on clones and Jedi in the field?”
“Clone bacta works on Humans in a pinch, but it’s not the best formula for more advanced care. I don’t mean to be rude, but did you never learn this in your training?”
Kix shakes his head. “We learned how to patch up other clones in the field, but everybody else has to wait until you guys get there. Most of our training time was spent on combat skills.”
That makes sense, you suppose, but you never thought about it like that before. None of the clones that you work with are older than ten and a half, which was why the Republic Navy had been so desperate to hire medical and technical personnel—the clones couldn’t possibly have enough experience to run a hospital ship on their own.
“What sort of skills? I’ve heard about medical officer training, but never combat medics.”
“Jetpacks,” Kix says immediately.
“Jetpacks?”
That’s all it takes, apparently, to get him talking, launching with enthusiasm into a story about jetpack training. He’s just begun describing his squadmate crashing into the ceiling when the keypad on the door beeps.
In a flash, Kix darts around a corner, out of sight. You turn on the faucet to wash your hands in a panicked attempt to make yourself look busy.
The door opens. Luckily, it’s just Levendy.
“Was there somebody in here?” he asks, as he starts plucking vacuum tubes out of bins.
“No,” you say, trying to keep your voice nonchalant. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I heard voices.”
“Maybe from the other room?”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Levendy only takes a minute to gather what he needs, and is gone. Kix emerges from his hiding place.
“I guess I should go,” he says. “I’m really not supposed to be here. Coric will come after me, at some point.”
You check the time. “Ah, I’m sorry. You came in here for peace and quiet, and I’ve been a chatterbox.”
Kix smiles at you, soft with a hint of smirk. “I don’t think it’s a bad trade to find a clever woman, instead.”
“Oh, you think I’m clever?”
“And pretty.”
Your breath catches a little, not so much from the compliment as from the bluntness with which it was delivered. The curiosity you’ve seen in his eyes for the past half an hour now takes on a new shade of meaning, and you find…you find that you don’t mind it at all. You’ve always found the clones reasonably attractive, you suppose, but none have ever brought a flush to your face before. Your cheeks are burning, now.
Kix glances down at his feet, and you realize that you’ve been quiet for too long.
“So,” you say, keeping your voice light, “there’s an officers’ lounge in the northwest wing. The one with the kitchen?”
“I know it.”
“Meet me there after latemeal?”
Kix tilts his head a little, as if trying to read whatever expression is written on your face. It emphasizes the strong, smooth curve of his jawline, just enough to catch your attention. You wonder if he did it on purpose.
“I’d like that,” he says.
There’s a hint of a smile on his face as he picks up his helmet and shoves it back on his head. You watch him leave, see the way he glances back at you before the door shuts.
You try to ignore the little flutter in your stomach that lingers for the rest of your shift.
Your baking adventure—a plain chocolate cake—is already in the oven when Kix arrives in the kitchen, exactly five minutes after the end of the latemeal period. It’s a distinctly clone habit, the precise arrival time. Nearly all of the Judicial officers on the ship come from civilian hospitals, which are notoriously unpunctual.
Polite greetings are exchanged, flimsy things. Kix wanders the kitchen, prodding curiously at the mess of baking ingredients that you have scattered over the countertops.
“What is this?” he asks, gesturing to one of the plain white cannisters.
“That’s granulated sugar, from Alderaan.”
“Sugar…like for hypoglycemia?”
It takes you a moment to realize that he isn’t joking, and you end up spending the next twenty minutes explaining to him what a dessert is. Eggs and flour, at least, he’s already familiar with, but he’s never even heard of cocoa before. The notion that cake doesn’t really have nutrients in it absolutely flabbergasts him, and you’re equally as flabbergasted by the lack of interesting food on the Resolute—clones, apparently, only earn the privilege of food for taste’s sake when they’re living with people like you. Still, it’s an amiable conversation, light and meandering, the sort you rarely get to have anymore.
At one point, Kix taps on the machine under the countertop. “Is this an autoclave?”
“It’s a dishwasher.”
“So…I was close?”
You burst out laughing, and Kix takes it in good humor, though he rolls his eyes at you a little bit.
“Yes, you were close,” you say.
The kitchen is slowly filled with a sweet, rich aroma. You shut the timer off five seconds before it chimes—it’s an irritating sound—and pull the cake out of the oven. You realize that you’ll need a plate to put it on, once it’s cooled some.
To your dismay, when you open up the cabinets, you find that the large plates have been moved to the top shelf. You can reach them, technically, but it’s a pain to stand on your tiptoes for everything.
Then an idea strikes you.
You turn to face Kix, leaning back a little with your hands braced against the countertop.
“Would you mind grabbing the blue plate for me?”
Kix eyes you for a moment before glancing upwards, seeing the large blue plate on the shelf above your head, clearly noticing that it’s within your reach if you stretch. You’ve given him an easy out.
He doesn’t take it.
Without saying a word, he crosses the small kitchen. His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he reaches up, his face tilted down at you from a precious few inches away. You can feel warmth radiating from his body. There’s a gentle clink as he sets the plate down on the counter, and his hand brushes yours.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
Kix doesn’t move away, nor does he break eye contact, so there’s no mistaking when he glances down at your lips. Once, twice. You tilt your head up a little more, a clear invitation.
His lips meet yours before any other part of him touches you. The kiss is hesitant at first, but you lean into it a little and he responds with warm hands on your hips, then on your back, and then he’s holding you closely enough that you don’t need to be braced against the counter anymore, so you let yourself reach up and card your fingers through his short curls. You gasp a little bit between two kisses, but the reaction is purely physiological—there’s no well of anxiety or surprise or pent-up feelings here.
You make out like teenagers for ten minutes before you remember that there is cake to be eaten. Afterwards, the last kiss he gives you tastes faintly sweet.
That’s the first time. In a world as large as yours, you don’t actually expect there to be a second.
Often, the Panacea functions as a field hospital for whichever legion needs you most. The rest of the time, you serve as an interstellar ambulance of sorts, taking critically wounded men from battleships to Republic medical stations. The ship’s current mission is one of the latter, an easy transfer from the Resolute to the Comfort. There are only a few casualties needing advanced medical care, so you’re docked at the Resolute for less than an hour.
It’s not until later that day that you see a clone sitting in the nearly-empty mess hall, wearing the shade of blue that most of the experienced 501st troopers now sport. There’s a Cross of Koros on his pauldron and a familiar zig-zagged edge to the buzzed sides of his hair, one that you haven’t seen in months, but you haven’t forgotten.
“Kix!” you call out.
Kix turns towards the sound of your voice, and his eyes widen when he sees you. “Hey. It’s been a while.”
“It has. If you don’t mind me asking—why are you here?”
“Commander Tano took a hit during the campaign.”
Oh gods, you think, not the kid.
“She’s fine!” Kix says, almost immediately—your shock must have been written on your face. “They were able to put her straight in bacta. I’m going with her so that a medic she knows is around when she wakes up.”
“Still, I’m sorry. It’s always nerve-wracking when it’s young people.”
Kix shrugs. “I trust the docs. I’m just trying to kill time until sleep cycle.”
His food tray is empty, you notice then. His datapad is open to a diagram of the veins and arteries in the human thigh.
You speak without really thinking:
“When you need a break, I’m thinking of watching the postball game in the officers’ lounge. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Postball?”
You blink. “You’ve never heard of postball?”
Kix shakes his head.
“It’s the galactic sport. Well, that and podracing, but I’ve never liked podracing. Today is Hosnian versus Brentaal. Hosnian will win, of course, but whatever.”
“Do they always win?”
“Not always, but often enough that cheering for them becomes dull after a while.”
Kix looks down at his datapad, and after a moment of deliberation, shuts it off.
“That sounds fun.”
A standard postball game in the Republic league is one hundred and sixty-five minutes long. You and Kix arrive in the break room twenty-six minutes after the start of the game.
“Did we miss anything?” he asks.
“Sort of, but first third of the game is always boring.”
Then, you begin teaching him the rules. Postball is simple to watch, but devilishly challenging to understand. While anybody can see when a ball goes between two posts, few people actually know how many points it was worth until the commentator announces it. You narrate the game yourself, answering Kix’s myriad of questions.
“So, does everybody watch postball?” Kix asks, around the seventy minute mark.
“Nearly.”
“Where is everyone else, then?”
“In the large rec room, I imagine. That’s where we typically watch the games, if we’re lucky enough not to be working when they happen. The rec room viewings are always horribly loud, though. I wanted some peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet…so you invited me?”
You wink at him. “Now we’re even.”
That’s how it goes, until minute one hundred and thirty-one. It’s Brentaal’s play, and they’ve set themselves up quite well, all things considered.
“Now, if Brentaal can score between the fifth and sixth posts, they—”
You trail off as you notice Kix’s face. His eyes are fixed on you, dark brown and unbearably handsome, and a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. He discarded the top half of his armor when you settled down to watch the game, plastoid stacked neatly on the nearest table, so there’s nothing hiding the way his black undersuit clings to his chest.
“I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t love postball,” you say.
Kix chuckles. “It’s not bad.”
“But you’d rather be doing something else?”
His fingers come up to brush your cheek, and twenty years pass between the first spark of skin on skin and the moment his lips meet yours, warm and languid. He cradles your face in his hands, the rough calluses somehow making it all the more tender. The kiss is slower than the last one was, a touch more intimate. The butterflies you felt those months ago are mellower today, but accompanied by a snake that coils beneath your naval. Kix tilts his head a little more, but lets you deepen the kiss first. You tug him closer, tangling those lovely curls between your fingers. You feel his hand snake around your waist and toy with the hem of your shirt.
Kix breaks away for a brief moment and raises his brow at you in a silent question. You nod. His hands are hot as they slide up beneath your shirt, his mouth a little more insistent when he kisses you again.
You thank your past self for locking the door. Then you turn the postball game off, so the only thing you can hear anymore is his whispers.
Later, you find out that Brentaal scored a winning goal with eight seconds left on the clock. Maven is aghast that you missed it.
“It was the game of the century!” she cries.
But you can’t really bring yourself to care.
“How well can you play sabacc?”
The question catches you off-guard. You’re sitting with Kix on the floor of the officers’ lounge, eating food that you brought from the mess hall and chatting aimlessly. The Panacea is four hours away from Coruscant, on its way to deliver Commander Tano to the Jedi Temple and allow its staff a well-deserved week of leave.
“Well enough that I’ve robbed your brothers blind. I don’t know if you can afford a game with me,” you tease.
Heat rises to your cheeks, and you can only hope that it isn’t all that visible. This isn’t a normal way to play sabacc among the men—that much you’re certain of. Clones without money play for the good rations or extra colors of paint.
You clear your throat. “You’re wearing three times as much clothing as I am.”
“If you’re as good as you say, it’s an even playing field.
You can’t resist the challenge. When the game ends, you’ve only removed your left shoe, and Kix is in nothing but the bottom half of his blacks. He displays no false modesty; he leans back on his left hand and runs his right hand through his hair in defeat, and the gesture outlines his musculature in a way that belongs in a painting. Kix is broad-shouldered and well-built, the way that men used to heavy labor are, and you would readily admit that the sight catches your eye like nothing else.
“Stop looking so smug,” he grumbles at you.
“I’m not smug. I’m…admiring the view.”
The blush that rises to his cheeks spreads down past his collarbone. It’s glorious to witness.
When he leaves to accompany Commander Tano to the Temple, he doesn’t say goodbye.
Two months later, the Separatists destroy the water treatment facilities in a major city on Karlinus. Republic forces are hardly impacted, but the civilian population soon falls victim to the widespread contamination, and the Panacea is sent to respond.
The illnesses are varied, and Karlinus is speciologically diverse. With a civilian population, it falls on the Judicial staff to do most of the clinical work. You dust off your phlebotomy skills and your gentlest smile, and you assume the task of taking samples from ill patients.
The first day is long, the work both monotonous and demanding, and you can’t let your unhappiness show on your face when you’re around patients the way you can when you’re alone in the lab. Anxieties swirl in colorful patterns around your head, unheeding of your attempts to placate them. These diseases are curable, you remind yourself. In the eightieth century, with the resources of a Republic hospital ship, these diseases are curable.
Still, by the time you’ve showered and eaten after your shift, you feel like a burned-out motor.
You’re on your way to your room when a thought strikes you.
It’s a silly thought. Kix is a combat medic. He probably left the ship after he escorted his patients here.
It’s a silly thought…but it’s harmless, right?
Your detour is short, but as you approach the door to the supply room, you start to feel that you need an excuse for this, some reason why you would need to go to laboratory supply after your shift has ended.
But when you open the door, you discover that your foolishness has paid off. Kix is there, standing against the back wall in medbay whites, tapping at a datapad. He smiles when he sees you, and you summon what energy you can to smile back at him. Greetings and pleasantries, though, are the last thing on your mind as you walk to him.
“Are you on duty?” you ask.
“I have a shift in triage in fifty-five minutes.” An odd expression flickers across his face, but you don’t pay it much heed. You run your hand over his shoulder. You’ve never seen him in a proper uniform before, and while you think you prefer the armor, it’s not by a lot.
“So, these are clean?” you ask.
“Yep.”
“Good.”
That’s quite enough talking. Without preamble, you slide a hand behind his neck and gently tug, and he leans in to oblige you. Like a starving man sitting down at a feast, the kiss is mannerless, hands immediately roaming and clutching and tugging at hair. You can’t be sure who starts it, but you end up stepping backwards, waiting for him to press you up against the shelf behind you.
But, in a stroke of extraordinary misfortune (and a flagrant violation of code) the wheels of the shelf are unlocked. It goes rolling, which sends you jolting backwards in a horrifically undignified manner.
Kix catches you. He does not catch the shelf.
There’s a spectacular crash as it hits another set of shelves behind it, sending supplies toppling. You both stand there for a moment, petrified, as if moving an inch will somehow knock the shelf over again.
There’s a beep from the door.
“Hide!” you whisper, just as you did on that first day, and Kix slips into his corner.
Levendy barges into the room a split second later, Maven and two clones hovering over his shoulder.
“What the hell happened?” he exclaims.
You think of a lie almost instantly: “I tripped and tried to catch myself on the shelf. Somebody forgot to put the brakes on.”
Unfortunately, it’s a rather bad lie, because Levendy immediately asks: “What did you trip on?”
“…I’m clumsy sometimes.”
Though he’s the same rank as you and less than half your age, Levendy’s withering stare feels like the worst dressing-down you’ve ever suffered.
He motions the other three away. “You guys can go. I’ll get this cleaned up.”
“No need!” you say. “I can do it myself.”
“Alright. Just make sure you tell me if anything needs to be replaced.”
Levendy lets the door close loudly behind him. You count the seconds: one, two, three, four, five.
“I think you can come out now,” you say.
Kix appears, still wide-eyed. You look at him. He looks at you. Both of you burst out laughing. You laugh until your stomach aches, body flooded with adrenaline and endorphins and sheer relief. Luckily, the shelf debacle didn’t create too much of a mess, and it only takes you a few minutes to restore everything to its rightful place.
You clear your throat. “I guess we should—”
“—keep our hands to ourselves in the supply room?” Kix finishes.
You stand on your tiptoes so that your mouth is near his ear. “My room isn’t far from here, and you have thirty-eight minutes left.”
Kix grins.
It happens again the following week.
…and again, two days after that.
Attention to detail is a non-negotiable skill in the laboratory. The fine shades of yellow and green in a pH test or the detailed edges of colonies on an agar plate can change the entire outcome of a patient’s life.
You find yourself learning to categorize other details, too, as your trysts with Kix turn into a pattern, then into a habit.
Kix keeps the sides of his hair meticulously buzzed. After a while, he starts keeping all of it short, making him all the easier to distinguish in a crowd. The medic symbol on his armor is painted in the more traditional shape, rather than the slightly simplified version used on mass-produced equipment. His smile is a little tilted, one cheek dimpled but not the other. The smell of antiseptic lingers ever so faintly on him until the end of the day, when it’s overridden by the soap that he buys when he’s on leave.
In a world of identical men, you learn to find him over and over again.
The next time you’re planetside with the 501st, the overlap is so brief that you resign yourself to knowing that you won’t see Kix. You’re sitting in a medics’ station, clicking away at a computer console, when he startles you by leaning over the counter.
“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?” you ask.
“T minus eighteen minutes. Can I borrow some bacta starter?”
“Oh! Of course. It’s in the supply room on…you know where it is.”
Kix winks at you. “I know where it is. Same passcode?”
“Mhm. Take as much as you need.”
Kix opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it as his eyes flit to the side, where another medic is sitting.
“Thank you,” Kix says softly. “And sorry about the late notice.”
Perhaps you’re reading into it too much, but you wonder if that’s his filtered way of apologizing for not being able to spend any time with you.
You hope the affection comes through in your voice when you respond, “It’s no problem.”
(It is absolutely a problem, though.)
“How does an entire tank of bacta starter go missing?” Levendy cries.
“I don’t know,” you say. “I asked everybody.”
The first part is a lie, of course, but the second part is true. You did ask everybody—just to make sure that nobody had seen Kix at the scene of his accidental crime. At least, you presume it was accidental. You did tell him to take as much as he needed, which you’re experienced enough to know means a sample of the starter, and not the entire tank. As a field medic, he didn’t have any way of knowing that; all of the bacta he uses comes pre-packaged, so taking the entire tank would make the most sense to him. But you can’t explain that to Levendy.
“I think that supply room’s haunted,” says Maven.
“I think she’s the one who’s haunted,” Levendy mutters.
You turn away to hide your smile. Haunted, indeed.
Then comes Umbara.
With less than an hour of warning, the Panacea goes from restocking at a medical station to racing across the sector. The planet looks grim even from space, and the surface is worse, a land of endless twilight. You’re not the only medical frigate to arrive. A large field hospital is erected in the capital city.
Dr. Sung has the honor of explaining to the laboratory staff what sort of misery you’re preparing for, and she doesn’t cushion the blow:
“General Pong Krell is dead. He told the 501st that the enemy would be wearing clone armor as a disguise. He told the 212th the same thing. They slaughtered each other.”
The fear that seizes you is cold and burning and nauseous and visceral. You shove it down, down, down, and concentrate on the words reaching your ears.
“Casualties are high and they’ll be coming in for at least a day as search and rescue finds them in the jungle. The 501st captain reports mostly blaster wounds, but there are also a lot of injuries from the flora and fauna. Pretty much everything here is poisonous, venomous, or both.”
Dr. Sung turns to you. “I’m putting you in charge of taking samples. You have the most experience.”
You nod, not trusting your voice just yet.
The rest of Dr. Sung’s instructions only barely register, skipping over your conscious mind to be filed away somewhere. You approach her when she’s finished.
“Doctor?”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Is there a casualty list, yet?”
“Only about a sixth of the men are accounted for, but I’ll send you the tally.”
Dr. Sung opens up her datapad, drops a file in your inbox, and asks no questions.
It’s a list of every man stationed on Umbara and the last time and place at which they were accounted for.
CT-6116, CT-6116, CT-6116…
There he is.
CT-6116: Basecamp 5C.
The timestamp is from twenty minutes ago. You let out a shaky sigh of relief, and allow yourself a few seconds of grace before you start to gather your supplies.
Medbay 1 is an exercise in organized chaos. Dr. Fiaroli is directing triage, sending the men who are severely injured but not actively dying to be kept in one of the large temporary medical buildings. That’s where he sends you, to take samples from the men who’ve been affected by venom. Umbara is an ecologically diverse world, and a perilous one. Without knowing what sort of toxins they’re dealing with, the doctors can’t do anything for these men.
So you make your way through the rows of stretchers, a tiny assistant droid floating behind you. The GAR learned long ago that injured sentients, even clones, respond better to living beings than they do to droids alone. You take the samples yourself, drawing blood and swabbing wounds, and the droid scans the identifying barcode on the inside of each clone’s wrist so that it can label the tubes.
One of the medics points you to a clone a few rows over.
“He was attacked by a fucking tree,” says the medic.
There’s a bitterness in his voice that you know isn’t directed at you, and you understand it. You’ve already seen four victims of the carnivorous plants. It’s like something out of a horror novel.
You make your way to the man between the rows of stretchers, and you realize that his left hand and forearm are wrapped up in statis bandages, the sort that keep a wound stable until it can be operated on, but don’t heal it the way that bacta does. His identifier isn’t visible. From the way blood has begun to soak the bandages, you doubt it’s even still intact.
“What’s your designation, soldier?” you ask.
The man isn’t lucid enough to respond. Hopefully it’s because somebody gave him a very strong hypospray, and not because of the venom.
“We have names, you know,” says a derisive voice from behind you.
You turn to see a man in 501st blue lying on a stretcher, his leg shot clean through with a blaster. He’s scowling at you.
“I know,” you say, “but your real names aren’t attached to your medical records.”
The man harrumphs, then turns to the clone on his other side and says, “Hey, Finnick!”
“What?” comes a voice.
The 501st trooper jerks a thumb towards your patient. “What’s his designation?”
The man called Finnick, wearing 212th orange, lifts a bandaged head to peer over. “That’s Trapper. I don’t know his number, though.”
“His name will be enough, for now,” you say.
The man in blue nods approvingly.
You pull a pen from one of your endless pockets and carefully label the tube with TRPR, which should be enough of a distinguisher to prevent any mix-ups. With steady hands and a trembling heart, you peel back a tiny bit of the bandage and swab the wound.
Trapper groans weakly.
“You’re going to be okay,” you whisper.
Then, you move onto the next soldier.
The entire staff of the Panacea ends up working for at least ten hours straight. You’re lucky that Dr. Sung dismisses you after thirteen, and you make your way to the breakroom to eat a snack before you go to sleep.
You can’t remember how you got here, but you end up dozing on the couch, ration bar crumbs on your shirt. Two soft knocks rouse you. You stumble over and open the door, expecting Maven, who occasionally tracks you down when you fall asleep in odd places.
It’s not Maven. It’s Kix. Dried blood, dirt, and debris are caked in the crevices of his armor, which you don’t think has been taken off for at least a few days. His helmet is missing. Deep shadows are pressed beneath his eyes, and his skin has that two-weeks-unwashed look that the men get after long campaigns, and something you can only describe as misery outlines his expression.
“Kix, I heard what happened, I’m so—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, softly.
You’ve never heard his voice break like that before.
Kix lets his gaze wander to something behind you and leaves it there, staring past as if meeting your eyes will cut deeper than he wants it to. No talking, then. You can’t imagine he’s here for the sex, either. That burning, needful look that you’ve grown used to is entirely absent, and even if it were there…this is not the sort of stress that one can vent through filthy whispers. His gaze is diverted from you, but not distant, you think, and you wonder if he even knows what he came here for. There’s only one thing you can think of that would help.
“Do you want to use my shower?”
Kix looks down at himself, as if he hadn’t yet noticed the battlefield still coating his armor.
“Yeah. That would be good.”
You gesture down the hall. Kix is clearly unharmed and steady on his feet, but you find yourself leading him up a level to your room with a hand hovering behind his back, the way the medics do when they’re walking with injured soldiers. Nobody is in the corridors.
You arrive in your room, and close the door behind you.
“Give me your armor, first.”
This is something that you can’t help with. Kix has always been fastidious about his armor, never letting you fiddle with the clasps like you’ve wanted to. You watch him closely as he undoes the straps, his hands steady even though his breath trembles. You take each piece from him and set them on your desk.
“There’re clean towels under the sink,” you say.
Kix nods and disappears into the bathroom.
You take a moment, standing in the center of your room with your arms crossed over your chest, staring at the white plastoid and its chipped blue paint and light carbon scoring across the thigh and blood and soil and gods only know what else. There’s probably a standard cleaning solution for it somewhere on the ship, and you need to find clean clothes for Kix to sleep in, anyway. It feels wrong to leave him like this, but you slip out and make your way to the barracks.
Levendy finds you as you’re rummaging through a closet.
“Hey,” he says, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “What do you need those for?”
“These?” you say, holding up the shirt and pants you’ve stolen. “I sleep in them. They’re comfortable.”
(Later, you’ll wonder when you became so smooth a liar.)
“Really? I’d have thought that you civvies would have nicer clothes than us.”
“Yours are lighter. I run hot.”
Levendy hums thoughtfully. “So do clones. Well, help yourself, I don’t care.”
You nod in thanks and scoot around him, snagging socks and underpants behind his back as you pass.
After finding armor cleaning solution in a different closet—thank the stars for the naval habit of clearly labeling everything—you return to your room and sit down at your desk to work on the armor. No sounds can be heard from the bathroom, and you don’t know if Kix took a very fast shower, or if he hasn’t started yet. You’re halfway through scrubbing at his cuirass when you hear the sounds of shuddering pipes and spraying water. That answers that question.
You let ten minutes pass before knocking twice on the door, cracking it open, and hanging the clothes on a hook. Light steam wafts out. That’s your hot water ration gone for the next day. It doesn’t bother you. You shut the door and go back to scrubbing grime off of plastoid.
You hear the water shut off about thirty seconds later, but Kix doesn’t emerge. You finish cleaning the armor and arrange it on the desk, then sit on your bed to check your comm. Fifteen minutes later, he opens the door, wearing both the pants and the shirt—a rarity, in your bedroom.
The next few moments are like a stone sinking to the bottom of a pond.
“Thank you for that,” he says, finally. There’s a smile on his face, delicate but not insincere.
“You’re welcome.”
You tap the spot next to you on the bed, and Kix comes over to sit on the very edge of it. He’s leaned over a little, his hands braced against the frame that surrounds the mattress. For a moment, you wonder if he’s feeling sick. Then he sits on the floor instead, back against the bedframe. You slide down next to him.
Slowly, as if he were a skittish bird who might fly away, you set your hand palm-up on his thigh. The seconds pass more sluggishly than they usually do, and you’re about to retreat when he takes your hand in his.
“God, your hands are cold,” he murmurs.
“My hands have always been cold.”
Kix rubs circles with his thumb into the center of your palm, measured and deliberate. You don’t know how much time passes, nor do you really care, as the muscles in his body slacken one by one. Eventually, you slide a little closer to him and rest your head on his shoulder.
It’s a strange feeling: this docile, innocuous intimacy. Neither of you speak. Occasionally Kix picks at his skin, as if trying to scratch away the ghost of his brothers’ blood. At some point, he taps your knee to get your attention and motions to the bed. You end up laying between him and the wall, and he holds you close with your head tucked under his chin, as if protecting you from the monsters that you never saw.
When you wake, your bed is empty and your desk is clear. You check your comm.
The 501st is shipping out, again.
The next time you see him, it’s in space, for a transfer of men injured in the 501st’s most recent battle. The Panacea is flying side-along with the Resolute to your next campaign, taking advantage of the Venator-class hyperdrive.
You don’t talk about Umbara. You don’t talk about anything, really, except card games and postball, which Kix is now overly invested in, to your delight.
You’re both lying half-awake in your bunk in the early morning, Kix facing the wall with your arm slung around him and your face against his neck. Your comm buzzes. It’s Levendy.
> did the laboratory supply ghost migrate to your room?
You read the message twice, then three times before it clicks, and your face burns with embarrassment.
Well…it’s Levendy. He was bound to find out eventually.
> Possibly.
> okay, I’ll tell his captain he’s with me
> Thanks. I owe you one.
> no you don’t :)
Kix picks that moment to roll over sleepily, probably wondering why you pulled away from him.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
In lieu of an answer, you hand him your comm, and he reads it with a look of bewilderment on his face.
“‘Laboratory supply ghost’?”
“That’s you.”
Kix hums thoughtfully. “That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called.”
With that, he rolls back over, and falls asleep.
You’re both sitting in your room in your underclothes, eating some sort of overly sweet flatcake that Maven made, when Kix says:
“You know the weird stuff that ghosts leave behind? We read about it in children’s stories on Kamino.”
You take a moment to swallow your food before you respond. “You mean ectoplasm?”
“Yeah. Do you think you could make it in the lab?”
Questions tumble through your mind—namely, “Did you think ectoplasm was actually real?”—before you notice the shit-eating grin on his face, and you suddenly understand.
You kiss him on the mouth and clap him on the shoulder, in that order.
“I love the way you think.”
The ectoplasm is the easy part of the plan, mostly agar with a splash of a “non-toxic” fluorescent dye that should nevertheless probably not be used for this purpose. The difficult part is rigging the lights to flicker—Kix has to recruit Jesse to help with that, one of his squadmates that you’ve heard about but never met. Kix doesn’t tell Jesse who you are, but you think he knows anyway. Then, you have to bait Levendy to come to the supply room at the right moment, alone, and at a time of day when other people won’t be around.
“What if he doesn’t realize what it is?” you ask anxiously, staring at your beautiful blob of spooky goop on the counter. Only a few minutes remain before your plan has to be set in motion.
“Hmm. Well, I think our artistry deserves a signature. That should do it.”
Kix pulls a pen and a scrap of flimsiplast from his pocket, which looks to be a note to remind him to fix the hem of his pantleg, and writes on the back:
Respectfully,
Your local ghost.
You steal the pen and add a little heart, for good measure.
Kix checks to make sure everything is in place, and then tugs you by the hand out of the supply room and down to a nearby medics’ station, where you can wait without looking suspicious. It doesn’t take long.
Levendy’s laughter reaches you clear as day down the hall.
War is hell. You knew that when you enlisted. What you didn’t understand was how many different sorts of hell there are in the galaxy, and you think that the Battle of Sarrish is the worst one.
There’s no visceral horror like there was on Umbara, no evitable tragedy. Sarrish is a sunny world covered in wide plains and plateaus, with few trees to shade the men as they march against the endless sea of droids. Clones thrive in situations where brains triumph over brawn, where tactics and subterfuge are the masters of the game. This is not one of those situations. Sheer numbers carry the Separatists to the brink of victory before reinforcements arrive to bolster the Republic forces, and even then, the cost in lives is not worth what the Republic gained.
There’s another thing, too, that sets Sarrish apart from the many other battles that the Panacea has seen. You arrived on the planet along with the star destroyers, in anticipation of heavy losses, rather than coming to the rescue after everything went sideways. The casualties trickle in endlessly for days and nights and days. Nearly all of them are traumas, so there’s not much for you to do except keep up with the endless demand for bacta.
It’s during one of the lulls in your work that Dr. Sung comes to you with a request: Dr. Fiaroli hasn’t answered his comm in ten minutes, and the metabolic panel of one of his patients is—in Dr. Sung’s words—absolutely fucked.
“Would you run it down to Medbay 1?” she asks.
“Of course.”
You find Dr. Fiaroli quickly, doing a neurological exam on a clone who looks to have been hit in the head.
“Sir? The lab results for CT-09-87-2746 were very abnormal.”
“The one with delirium?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give the datapad to Sergeant Angel in room 67C. He’s the medic with the stupid hair.”
You find room 67C. In the bed is a clone who seems to be fitfully dozing, and next to him stands a clone medic with bright red hair shaved in a complicated pattern that you’re almost certain is meant to look like hemoglobin. You would not call it stupid, but it certainly is…unique.
“Hi. I have his labs.”
“Oh, thank the stars!” Angel exclaims. “Or, actually, thank you, and thank whoever else is in the lab right now. Thanks. This is all I needed.”
On your way back to the lab, Dr. Fiaroli’s voice calls out, “Lieutenant!”
You turn to see him standing over an unconscious soldier in a stretcher, pressing gauze into a bleeding abdominal wound. A medic is putting an IV in the clone’s arm, and a nurse is simultaneously handing gauze to the doctor and trying to keep the clone calm.
“Yes?”
“Glove up and put pressure on this.”
“Sir, I’m a scientist, not a—”
“Who cares? You have two hands and a brain.”
In all likelihood, this is one of the few orders you’ve been given that you could disobey without serious consequences. Dr. Sung is your commanding officer, not Fiaroli, and she would never ask you to do work that you’re not comfortable with. You can say no. You can go back to the lab.
You snag a pair of gloves from the box on a nearby door caddy, and do what you’re told.
It’s only when a surgeon comes to take the clone to an operating room that you have time to comm Dr. Sung and tell her where you are.
“Does Fiaroli still have a use for you?”
Dr. Fiaroli is at a sink, scrubbing his hands with a particular viciousness.
“Sir…do you still need me?”
“We can take all the help we can get.”
You raise the comm back up to your face. “He says—”
“I heard. He can keep you, if you’re okay with it.”
So, that’s that. Dr. Fiaroli has you assist him with another patient before passing you off to one of the nurses who could use a hand. People bark orders to you and give no explanations, and you follow them without complaint. The work is simple: slide a patient from stretcher to bed; fetch more petroleum gauze; open packages so that the medic’s hands remain sterile. You’re tugged to and fro, barely given time to breathe—which also means that you don’t have time to drown in your fear.
The hours stretch out. After restocking all of the carts with packs of fresh bacta, you find yourself in a medics’ station, taking a minute to sit and chug three cups of water. You vaguely register that a clone has come up on your left to root around a cabinet, but you pay him little heed. Then the man says your name with a shocking amount of familiarity, a warmth that you only ever hear from—
“Kix?”
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Working, I suppose.”
“In Medbay 1?”
“Desperate times, desperate measures.”
“I didn’t think we were that desperate.”
The comment stings. “I do see patients to get samples, you know. I’m not shiny.”
Kix turns from the cabinet to look at you. His brow is knit in an expression you can’t quite interpret.
“I know,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to be here, that’s all. But as long as you are, I could use help with Tup.”
Tup, apparently, is a long-haired 501st infantryman who took a chunk of shrapnel to the unprotected flesh above his elbow. Kix leans over with a pair of shears to cut away the black undersuit clinging to the wound.
“What’s the damage?” Tup asks.
“I’m not sure how bad it is, yet, but I am sure it’s something that can be repaired. You’ll be just fine.”
Kix holds out his empty hand towards you, still facing Tup. You hand him the tweezers, and he looks back, confused.
“Gotta clean it, first,” he says.
Oh, right. You take the tweezers and hand him the antiseptic solution and sterile gauze, instead.
“Thank you,” he says, softly.
Tup grits his teeth through the disinfecting process. As Kix pokes around the wound, Tup turns his face towards you with curiosity.
“Do you work in the lab?”
“Usually, yes. You might have seen me taking blood from the men, though.”
Tup opens his mouth to say something, but it turns into a sharp gasp when Kix pulls the shrapnel out of his arm.
“Warn a man, will ya?”
“Sorry,” says Kix, and he really does sound sorry. “You always flinch when someone warns you, and that causes more damage.”
You watch as Kix digs through the wound a little bit to check for leftover bits, while Tup glares at the ceiling like it’s offended him. Still, Tup doesn’t really seem annoyed with Kix.
“I think I’m good with my two hands, for now,” Kix tells you.
The comment is so open-ended, you can’t figure out whether it’s a dismissal or not.
“I’m sure Fiaroli could use your help,” he adds.
That’s definitely a dismissal.
“I’ll go find him. Let me know if there’s anything you need?”
“Will do.”
Kix’s face is a little sorrowful as you go to leave, to find somewhere else to be useful. You want to kiss it off of him, assure him that it’s all fine.
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” says Tup.
“You as well.”
You realize, after the fact, that you never actually introduced yourself to him.
After Medbay 1 calms down enough that they let you go, you end up back in the lab for another hour, music blasting in your headphones to distract you. You’ve just finished loading a set of streak plates into the incubator when you feel a tap on your shoulder—Dr. Sung.
“Lieutenant,” she says, “take a break.”
“For how long?” you ask.
“Let me rephrase: you’re off-duty for the next twelve hours.”
A part of you itches to argue with her, to beg for more work to keep your hands busy and your thoughts bloodless, but you know it would be futile. Your body is on autopilot as you leave the lab, go to your room, and strip out of your scrubs. As you ball them up to throw in your laundry basket, something in the corner of your eye yanks you from your mental haze, and you hold your clothes up to the bright overhead light. Flecks of blood are scattered along the hem of your shirt and the upper thigh of your pant leg. You didn’t notice that, earlier.
Well, it’s nothing that the medics and nurses and doctors haven’t dealt with before. Maybe you were the last being on the ship to have experienced it. The thought spins around your mind, lazy but stubborn, as you shower, dress, and venture out to find food.
You’re not in the mood for the noise of the mess hall, so you head for the kitchen. To get there, you have to pass through the hall where the labs of the ship meet Medbay 4, where the laboratory supply room is. You almost go into the supply room out of habit—almost. You’re too hungry for distractions. There’s nothing in there that you need, anyway.
Of course, you see Kix just a minute later, sitting alone in the corner of a medics’ station.
You stop short in the hallway, eyes roaming over Kix’s back, clad in what looks like a clean medbay uniform. It feels like ages have passed since that early afternoon on Karlinus, since your hope was rewarded in that stupid supply room, when you took out your frustration on the fabric of his uniform and kissed him to the point of drunkenness. You could do that, now. You could whisper sweetly in his ear and unlock your bedroom door for him; you could let the heat of his skin burn away your exhaustion.
But your blood doesn’t stir at the sight of him.
For a moment, you consider asking him to join you for lunch, but what would that accomplish? It’s Kix. You don’t talk. You play card games and watch postball and make love—and even that seems too intimate a term for it, but you wouldn’t use a word as vulgar as “fucking”, either. Whatever you call it, it’s not in your body’s plan right now, as sore in your back as you are in your heart. All you want to do is stretch out in a field and let your thoughts ripen on the vine. That’s not the sort of person you are when you’re with him.
So you pass by unnoticed, and as you wait for your dinner to heat, you decide it’s as good a time as any to make a mess in the kitchen. The cake doesn’t taste as sweet as you remember, and you only finish one slice, leaving the rest out for your colleagues with the note: Help yourself :)
Two days pass before you see Kix again. No words are exchanged as you pass each other in the hallway, but your eyes flit down and up his body in a way that you know he can’t miss.
He arrives at your door late into the night cycle and pins your wrists to the wall.
You don’t come up for air long enough to let him speak, and he returns the favor.
Months later, you’re woken by a pounding on the door, and you nearly fall out of bed.
It’s Maven, here to tell you that you slept through Dr. Sung’s messages summoning you to a general meeting. You make it there only two minutes late, and Dr. Sung explains that the 501st, 104th, and 327th have all been struck by some manner of viral illness. The Panacea is on its way to meet them on the uninhabited side of a mostly rural planet in the Outer Rim.
The mission isn’t unusual, save for the sheer number of infected men. The Panacea arrives, you all gear up, and Dr. Sung quickly discovers that you’re dealing with a strain of Finnian crumple virus. Then comes a full day of taking samples and running tests, as you always do.
On the second day, you arrive in the laboratory early, only to find that Dr. Sung is already there.
“How many cases do we have so far?” you ask.
It takes her a moment to respond, bent down over her microscope. She straightens, blinks a few times, and turns to you.
“Seven hundred and fourteen in active medical care,” she says. “Two recovered. Two dead. Unknown number of total infections.”
You don’t ask what that means for the predicted death rate. Finnian crumple virus is widespread across the galaxy, and its early symptoms are almost always consistent: a shockingly fast onset—hence the name “crumple virus”—that begins with muscle weakness, then progresses to tremors and short recurring fevers. What happens next is dependent on the strain. Dr. Sung has been trying to solve that mystery, but until she does, you have no idea what to expect.
On the bright side, the ease of accessing samples has made your job easier than it ever was back in the civilian hospital. You hope that you’ll be able to repeatedly test all of the men, to set up a quarantining system that will prevent the virus from spreading too quickly. Before that happens, you just need to figure out an efficient way to test them. In pursuit of that endeavor, you have no fewer than eight datapads in front of you, containing every scrap of information about crumple virus that you could get your hands on.
Research projects were always your favorite.
“I think I know what strain we’re dealing with,” says Dr. Sung, not even a day later. “If I’m right, there’s a stock of antibody therapy in one of the university hospitals on Corellia, but I don’t know if they’ll get here on time. I expect a lot of the men will start to decline in about thirty hours.”
“One of the Jedi will be able to bring it, right?” asks Maven. “They fly the fastest ships in the galaxy. They’ll be able to make it on time?”
Dr. Sung swallows hard, maybe the only sign of nervousness you’ve ever seen her display.
“I really hope so.”
Nowadays, you know better than to work until Dr. Sung kicks you out of the lab. Your internal clock is wonky, though, with the shift between ship-time and planet-time, so you end up taking a lunch break in the middle of the afternoon. You go to the mess hall, unwilling to spend any effort making yourself food, and have the line cook put your grains and stew into a bowl that you can take back to your room for some peace and quiet.
Then, across the mess hall, you see Kix, and your plans go up in smoke just as they do every time. His hair has grown out, but after two years of knowing him, you would recognize that one-dimpled smile anywhere. He has a Republic cog tattooed on his bicep, now, and it’s visible from across the room. Just like Jesse’s, if you remember correctly. He’s holding a bowl too, though his is larger than yours, and is walking towards the exit.
You corner him—politely—outside the mess hall. His eyes light up when he sees you, and you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of that.
“How long are you free?” you ask.
“Forty-five minutes. You?”
“It’s flexible.”
You both fall into silence, tense enough to be cut with a knife. This is the part of the script where you decide between a quick tryst in your bedroom or filling an hour with postball and laughter. This is the part of the script where you settle into something that isn’t supposed to break your heart if it ends.
“Let’s eat outside,” says Kix.
“Okay,” you agree, and you feel like you’ve just plunged into water too dark to see the bottom.
The path to the nearest exit cuts through Medbay 4 and a slice of the barracks, and you wonder if anybody will question why the two of you are walking together. Then, you wonder if that’s a conceited thought. Kix offers you his hand as you descend the steps to the earth and sit on the very final one, your feet planted in the beat-up grass.
The wind caresses your face, and you realize that you’ve been indoors for a week.
“I haven’t been out here in a while,” you say.
It’s small talk—small the way a mouse can fit in the palm of your hand.
“You’re going to get deficiencies, hiding in there,” he says.
“Probably. We should have a skylight.”
You fall into silence, sitting on the step of a starship, eating lunch, and it’s the most terrifying thing you’ve done in a year. There is no sabacc to save you from the blankness of the page you have opened, no postball, no desperate kisses, no hands up shirts. You’re nearly finished with your food when Kix finally breaks the silence.
“How long have you been working?”
“Today? About seven hours. You?”
“Nine.”
Kix frowns. “Well, that’s terrible.”
“It’s not so bad. Sarrish was worse.”
“Was it? This feels worse, to me.”
You hum in disagreement. “Sarrish was violent. They had me in Medbay 1, of all people. I’ve never seen that many injuries in my life. I still dream about it, occasionally.”
Kix has fully abandoned his food, now. He’s staring at you with an expression so tender that it’s pained, and you feel a spike of guilt between your ribs.
“I didn’t mean to dump that on you,” you say, quietly.
“I’m a good listener,” he says.
The words are simple statement, but you hear a question in them: Why didn’t you say this before? Now, sitting face-to-face with him, you’re not sure of the answer. The fragile little parcel of joy that had been your relationship before today lies broken at your feet, its contents exposed for examination. The guilt has mellowed in your chest. You didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t hurt him in any way, but as you set in his palm the feelings that you’ve held so close to your chest, all of your other interactions seem like they were conducted at arm’s length.
You clear your throat. “You really think that this is worse than Sarrish?”
“I understood what I was dealing with on Sarrish. I could dismantle the things that were killing my brothers. I knew how to patch up a blaster wound. This is just…I fix IVs all day. There’s nothing else I can do to fight it. I can’t even see it.”
“Neither can I. Not without equipment much more powerful than I have here.”
“You know how it works, though.”
That, you do. Sometimes you forget how little the clones have been taught outside of their duties. Even the surgeons are trained only to stabilize traumas long enough to bring the patient to a real medical station. Everything that you know couldn’t possibly be taught with how little time they have. It’s strange to think about—that men so skilled can be so lacking in knowledge.
“Remember the day we met?” Kix asks.
“Quite well.”
“I couldn’t believe you were willing to teach me that. It was so basic. You were kind about it, too.”
“I thought I was being a bore! You never asked about it again.”
“You never talked about any of that stuff again.”
You didn’t, did you? You steered all those conversations away from work.
“You’ll learn,” you say. “The war will have to end eventually, and you’ll all end up in the Judicial service or in public hospitals, I’m guessing. There will be time to learn.”
“I’ve never put much thought into it. I guess I thought I’d be dead, by the end.”
Dead.
The word stings; it cuts at you like a paring knife that slipped against the peel of a fruit. There’s no use in arguing it—Kix is right. Casualties are mounting across the galaxy, and every hour he spends in the field could be the death of him, and every minute you spend together could be your last. You both knew what you were getting into.
“You may have to revise your plans,” you say.
You didn’t mean it to be funny, but Kix laughs, a sound that sinks into the base of your spine and the soles of your feet and the skin of your cheeks.
“A soldier is always adaptable, ma’am.”
You huff. This time, the silence that follows is comfortable. He holds his hand out to you, palm-up, and you thread your fingers with his.
“Speaking of adapting,” he says, “do you get leave whenever you want?”
“Within reason. I haven’t used much of mine, though.”
“The 501st has a week of shore leave next month. If you wanted to go to Corsucant—”
“Yes,” you say immediately, then realize that you interrupted him. “…sorry.”
In lieu of a reply, Kix tilts your face towards him and kisses you. It’s a chaste thing—your location demands that much—but it burns down beneath your navel all the same. You delight in running your hand through his hair, now long enough again that it curls.
When you break away, a thought occurs to you:
“You’ve never seen me in anything except navy-issued clothing, have you?”
“No…?”
All of your other clothes are back at home, but an old friend of yours works at the Republic hospital in the capital district on Coruscant. You’re sure she’d lend you something appropriate for a night out. The thought puts a stupid grin on your face, and Kix raises an eyebrow at you.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say.
He rolls his eyes, and you rest your forehead against his, brushing your thumb along his jaw. His break is near to its end. Kix pulls away with a hushed apology and stands to leave, pressing one last kiss to your temple. As you turn to watch him go, you realize that that was the first time you kissed him in the light of the sun.
You swear to yourself that it won’t be the last.
General Koon makes it in time to save all but five of the men.
The news comes through the ship’s loudspeaker system, and you swear you can hear relief in the voice of the communications officer as he announces that the Jedi’s ship has touched down on the airfield. Maven gives a great whoop of joy, while the rest of the staff seem to melt with relief. Though you have no time to find him before you’ll be needed, you know that somewhere nearby, Kix is smiling that one-dimpled smile of his.
Ten minutes after General Koon lands, you have six large freezers of antibodies and the molecular template you need to create a vaccine. Dr. Sung assigns you to begin working on the vaccine, and you dive into it with a satisfaction that you haven’t felt in a long time.
Hours into the process, you find yourself back in the supply room, rooting through the rows of shelves for aluminum salts. The door emits four quiet beeps and a loud click before it opens, giving you enough time to turn around and see who it is. Your small hope is dashed on a rock when you see the navy blue crop of hair. Levendy lets the door close behind him, then stands still for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest, head tilted at you in careful consideration.
“So, you two finally worked it out?” he says.
“What are you talking about, and why are you in the supply room at twenty-one hundred?”
“Why are you in the supply room at twenty-one hundred?” he counters.
You wave the cannister of aluminum salts. “I’m trying to create a vaccine for ten thousand soldiers. Do you have a science project in here that I don’t know about?”
“No. I was just here for inspection.”
“You are a dirty, filthy liar.”
Levendy gives you a dull look. “Fine. Kix was looking like a love-sick tooka, and I was wondering if you were the reason.”
You sigh and roll your eyes—you feel that the situation calls for more than one display of exasperation.
“I’m just saying!” says Levendy.
With no response, you go back to digging around for supplies, waiting for him to go away. He doesn’t, of course.
“So, did you two finally work it out?”
You pause. There’s a gravitas in Levendy’s voice that you rarely hear. Did you two finally work it out? Instinctually, you want to protest, to tell Levendy that there was nothing that needed to be “worked out” between you and Kix. And also, a relationship between Levendy’s brother and his colleague was none of his business.
Neither of those things are true, though, and you can’t bring yourself to tell a lie this heavy—to yourself, or to Levendy. He’s heard enough of your little fibs and excuses.
“We worked it out,” you say.
There’s a long silence. You keep your gaze firmly fixed on the cannister
“I think he likes you more than you realize,” he says. “I think he trusts you more than you realize, too. That’s a rare thing, with men like us.”
It may be the highest praise you’ve ever received in your life. There’s a pang in your chest, longing but sweet, and it’s only your rather time-sensitive battle against nature that stops you from going to find Kix and dragging him outside to kiss under the stars.
“Aww, you look flustered!” Levendy exclaims.
“Levendy…”
“Alright, alright, I’m going.”
You glare at him, but your heart isn’t in it. Something catches your eye—the note that you and Kix wrote is still taped to the wall above the counter.
“Hmm. You’d better watch yourself. This supply room is haunted, and I hear the ghost is vengeful.”
Sergeant Boss x gn!reader (no pronouns, no use of 'y/n')
Word Count: 4,700
Warnings: Frustration, feelings of otherness, disrespect
---
“Ten o’clock, Boss,” Scorch muttered, elbowing Boss lightly in the side.
Boss glared, but he knew it was useless. Nothing could put a damper on Scorch’s personality, especially when he thought he was helping. Besides, the head’s up was a sign that there were more important things to focus on.
And, sure enough, there you were.
A long-term mission with standard troopers hadn’t been a good use of Delta Squad’s time, in Boss’s opinion. The main strength of a commando squad was that they were fast and subtle, able to move in and out of an area without drawing a lot of attention. Strapping them with an entire Venator-class Star Destroyer was taking away that advantage as much as anyone could.
But you had turned out to be an unexpected benefit. From what Boss could gather, you did something with the computational systems aboard the Resolute, though he hadn’t narrowed down exactly what your specialty was. You seemed to bounce all over the ship, working on whatever needed attention at that particular moment.
Maybe you would have continued to be just another member of the ship’s crew - nat-borns weren’t common on ships, but they were hardly as rare as he would have thought - but you had quickly drawn Boss’s attention with your sharp temper.
The first time someone had interrupted a vital power connection so they could charge a datapad, you had removed the offending connection and taken the datapad for good measure. The foolish owner had attempt to dress you down for confiscating the datapad, but you had pushed him aside with ease. In the end, you had threatened to tell his commanding officer that he had left sensitive information in such an easily accessible place.
Any other stupidity had been met with an equal amount of sarcasm and impatience. It was everything Boss wanted to do when he was tired of trying to set a good example for the rest of Delta Squad. There was only so much idiocy any one person could be expected to endure, and it was clear that you had hit your limit.
So, yes, watching you was one of Boss’s great joys. He justified it to himself that he was being respectful. He could also make sure others were being respectful, as well. From your temper, Boss assumed that you could take care of yourself, but you were in an unfamiliar place. You were outside of the typical power structure, which could put you at a disadvantage if someone decided to push your boundaries.
Boss only realized how far his thoughts had drifted when he felt the others staring at him. Sev shook his head despairingly. “I thought you’d be able to handle yourself better than this, Sarge.”
“Are you kidding?” Scorch asked. “This is the first time I’ve seen him look that way at something other than his Deece.”
“Shut up, Six-Two,” Fixer ordered. “Three-Eight, if you want to make a good impression, I hear conversation is a good start. You won’t get anything out of staring from across the room.”
“For once, I agree with Fixer,” Scorch said.
“I do, too,” Sev said.
Boss started to seriously consider the merits of desertion.
“We’ll leave you to weigh your options,” Fixer said, marching away. Sev and Scorch followed after a moment. Scorch offered a broad grin as he left, nodding so determinedly toward you that he attracted a suspicious look from your direction.
Boss turned away before you could follow Scorch’s gaze to him. That was all he needed - to be taken out by Scorch’s irritating nature before he’d even had the chance to make a good first impression.
By the time he glanced back over, you were putting the finishing touches on some wires you had been setting up near the front of the room where this meeting was to take place. He didn’t envy you - the Negotiator was moving in and out of hyperspace to throw off chances of being tracked. It was a strong method of ensuring security, but it made connections to outside sources complex and unreliable.
You hardly seemed concerned, face unworried and hands sure as you wove together connections, typed strings of code into the terminal, and laid out the holoprojectors.
Boss tucked his helmet under one arm, inching closer to you under the guise of making room for the others who were filtering into the meeting room. You were just as stunning up close. Boss was struggling to come up with a conversational opening when you gathered some spare bundles of wires, tucked them into a bag on your shoulder, and left.
He was still trying to manage his disappointment when General Kenobi started the meeting.
Somehow, Boss managed to pay attention to the rest of the meeting. He chalked it up to some quirk of Jango’s genes that allowed him to remember every word with only half of his attention fixed on the proceedings. Delta Squad was a temporary attachment to the 212th. What did they care about setting long-term goals for better intelligence? Intel was intel and all of it was terrible. That was just how it went.
“Sergeant Boss,” General Kenobi called. Boss turned his way, allocating approximately 5% more of his attention to the meeting. “Commander Cody tells me that you recently experienced trouble on a mission due to subpar intelligence. Can you tell us more about what happened and how you handled it?”
Boss fought back a snort. “You’ll have to be more specific, General. Most of the GAR’s intel is subpar, especially for the commando squads. More often than not, accuracy takes lower precedence than timeliness.”
General Kenobi’s gaze sharpened. “What percentage of your information would you estimate is accurate and useful?”
And so it went. Kenobi wasn’t satisfied knowing about Boss’s low opinion of GAR intel - he wanted to know details. It was a special kind of hell for Boss, who wasn’t used to explaining his thought process or how his squad worked to anyone other than General Windu. Even then, the Coruscant debriefing sessions were usually kept as short and vague as they could manage without sacrificing important information.
The meeting devolved further and further until it was little more than CTs asking for stories about commando missions. General Kenobi cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m sure we all have important tasks to which we must return. If the sergeant has time, he can answer your questions. In the meantime, you are all dismissed.”
Despite Boss’s best efforts, he was surrounded by standard troopers, stuck in the room until he had given enough vague answers and sharp reprimands that the crowd dissipated. He allowed himself a moment to silently curse Kenobi’s name before voices at the front of the room attracted his attention.
“Excuse me, but that is not the proper way to disconnect a holoprojector.”
There was a sigh, and Boss could recognize the sound of it without a moment of hesitation. You were back.
“You aren’t listening to me,” the officer repeated. It was one of the nat-borns - a tall, lanky man drowning in his own self-importance. “I said, that is not the proper way to disconnect a holoprojector.”
You dropped the cords in your hand, letting them hit the table with a weak slap. “Listen, lieutenant-”
“Captain,” the man corrected, puffing out his chest so you would be sure to see the collection of medals there. Boss was willing to bet that none of them were earned for doing anything that could sully the captain’s perfect uniform.
“Captain, then-” You paused again, letting the silence dangle as you peered at him. “What’s my rank?”
The captain frowned. “You… don’t have a rank.”
“Exactly.” You started gathering the cords again, eyes dropping to your work. It was clear from your posture and the tone of your voice that you weren’t meekly looking away. No, the man had been dismissed, for all that you were still talking to him. “That’s because I’m a contractor.”
“Yes, you are.” The captain frowned harder, like he was trying to see the trap in your statement. Boss started to grin, having already spotted it. “But-”
“If the GAR had to hire an outside contractor to handle their comms, it means that no one else knows how to do the work I do.” You finished rolling the cords into neat bundles and turned your attention to the holoprojector itself. “I’m the expert here. So you can take your opinion on how I do my job and-”
You glanced around the room, eyes meeting Boss’s. He felt electrified by the eye contact, but you turned away just as quickly.
“And keep it to yourself,” you finished.
“You’re a civilian serving on a military vessel,” the captain sputtered. “I am certain you signed an agreement to obey commands given by the officers-”
“My contract says I answer to General Kenobi,” you told him. “Any complaints about my performance go directly to him. He’s on the bridge if you want to report me because you don’t like the way I roll cords.”
And then you turned to retrieve the case for the holoprojectors. It was an end to the conversation, as clearly as if you had left the room entirely. The captain stiffly walked away. Boss wondered for a moment if he really was going to the bridge, but then he put the man out of his head. You were in the same room, and he wasn’t going to waste another chance to speak with you.
“Hey,” he started, walking over to the table where you were working.
…Only to freeze when you fixed him with an evil look. “I’m not in the mood for anyone else to tell me how I’m doing my job wrong, thanks. Since everyone is so concerned, let me explain how it works: I sign out all of the equipment I use, and it is regularly inspected by someone else. If there’s any damage from the way I set up or break down the equipment, it will be found and I’ll be held accountable. Leave me alone.”
Boss was loathe to refuse such a direct request, especially since he could hear the weariness in it, but he was horrified at the idea of leaving you to think he was on the same level as the others who had doubted your ability to do your job.
“Sorry, I just- wanted to tell you how much I respect the way you’ve been handling all of the osik they’re throwing your way.” An expression of bone-deep irritation had crossed your face when Boss started to speak, but it faded as you listened to the rest of his statement.
“Osik is banthashit, right?”
Emboldened by the lack of vitriol, Boss nodded. “Basically. Any idiot with eyes can see that you know how to do your job. They’re just questioning you to make themselves feel better about not being able to do what you do.”
“Among other things,” you agreed dryly. “I already know that’s what they’re doing.”
An uncharacteristic self-doubt swept through Boss and he wondered if he had overstepped. That was eased when you took a deep breath, shoulders relaxing when you let it out. “But thanks. It’s nice to know that someone else sees it, too. Makes me feel less like I’m pushing a speeder uphill.”
“You’re good at your job,” Boss said firmly. “That’s not in doubt by anyone who matters.”
“That’s-” Your comlink interrupted and you let out a frustrated groan when you looked at it. “Sorry, I have to get to another setup on the bridge.”
Boss nodded again, but you didn’t see it. Your practiced motions had picked up in speed, working quickly to pack up the equipment from the meeting and load it onto a small cart. He helped with the last few containers, but the process would have gone just as fast without his help. Maybe faster.
You were almost to the door when you turned back. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Boss,” he told you reflexively.
You grinned at that, and the sight of it made Boss’s heart stutter in his chest. “Great name. I’ll see you around, Boss.”
All things considered, that had gone better than Boss had expected.
From that point, he really did seem to see you more often. You were fixing comms channels, checking on issues with the droids in the mess hall, or working on the data terminals in the main sections of the ship. Every time he saw you, you were too busy for another conversation - even as short as the last one had been - but you always took a moment to smile and greet him by name.
If Boss had been half in love with you when he was watching you verbally eviscerate officers from a distance, he was fully gone now that you actually knew who he was. Any day was a little brighter when you were working nearby, and he found himself looking forward to meetings. There was always a chance that you would be responsible for the setup, especially if the required equipment was tricky or difficult.
The downside was, he suspected, the same as it had always been: that you were given shockingly little respect by the people you helped. Boss had personally witnessed troopers and natties alike complaining about the technology and blaming you specifically. He made a point of dressing them down when he witnessed it, but it seemed to be widespread.
“I can’t believe you found a nattie to moon over in the middle of hyperspace,” Fixer complained. At least, it was framed as a complaint, but Fixer’s tone was as close to camaraderie as Boss had ever heard it.
“You wanna keep your voice down, Fixer?” he asked, purposefully cutting the other man off as they walked into a meeting room. “You know how regs like to talk. The wrong thing overheard by the wrong person leads to-”
“An unhappy Three-Eight,” Fixer finished for him. “I’ll stow it, then. But you might see more of… your person of interest if Kenobi wasn’t obsessed with meetings.”
Boss snorted despite himself. None of the troopers were overly big fans of meetings - Jango’s genes made them men of action rather than words, and they didn’t get much from endless planning - but commandos seemed to have a particular loathing for them.
Of course, it could be that the 212th had simply gotten used to them after working with Kenobi for as long as they had.
Fortunately, this meeting was likely going to be shorter than previous ones had been. Kenobi and Cody were busy with a different meeting, so this would be attended by Delta Squad, a few officers from the 212th, and an ARC who had been attached to the battalion for their upcoming mission.
“What do we need the long-range holos for?” one of the officers asked as Delta Squad walked into the room.
Boss’s heart gave an exaggerated thud in his chest at the mention of equipment you might be responsible for, but it looked like this holoprojector had already been set up.
“The ARC, Aftermath,” another answered, blissfully unaware of Boss’s sudden interest in long-range technology. “He’s finishing another assignment right now, but he’ll meet up with us as soon as we drop out of hyperspace. He requested an early briefing.”
A sergeant who Boss vaguely recognized - his name was Heft, if Boss remembered correctly - was trying to turn on the holoprojector. The first click of the button did nothing and Heft scowled. The second, third, and fourth times didn’t have any more effect, and Heft’s expression grew darker with every failed attempt.
“This karkin’ thing is broken,” he concluded eventually.
The holoprojector looked fine, but Boss couldn’t argue that it didn’t seem to be performing its intended function.
“Maybe we should call the tech specialist,” one of the others suggested.
Heft snarled. “Yeah, call back the ‘specialist’ who couldn’t set it up right the first time. Great idea.”
Keeping a professional expression was a skill every trooper learned from a young age, but Boss suddenly found it more difficult than he had in a long time. The rest of Delta was throwing subtle glances his way, clearly trying to figure out if and how their sergeant would react.
The tricky part was that Boss couldn’t figure that out, either. Heft was a sergeant, too. Since there was no clear chain of command between the two of them, Boss had fewer options on how he could handle things.
After a few moments of internal debate, Boss decided it would be the most helpful if he took charge of the situation. He found your GAR-issued comm channel on the directory easily enough, putting on his helmet so he could make the call in a little peace… especially since Heft was still spewing insults.
You answered the call with your last name. No greeting, not even a first name. Boss blinked stupidly for a moment until he could shake himself. “Hey, it’s Boss. We’re in conference room 37 and the holoprojector isn’t working. Can you give us some ideas on how to fix it?”
“37?” you checked. “For the ARC briefing?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll be there in two minutes.”
And the line went dead. Boss pulled off his helmet. “Specialist is on the way. ETA two minutes.”
Heft grumbled while a lieutenant offered to comm Aftermath to let him know about the delay. Boss cleared his throat. “Who will be delivering the briefing to Aftermath? I’d like to wrap this up as quickly as possible.”
“Who doesn’t?” Heft demanded, delivering a solid slap to the projector. “If this osik was set up correctly, we’d already be done.”
“Do y’think he realizes what a shabuir he’s being?” Scorch asked, too quietly for anyone outside of Delta Squad to hear.
A single, perfunctory knock sounded through the room and then you were standing in the open doorway. Boss looked at you immediately, offering a subtle smile, but your attention had been captured by Heft. The other sergeant had stridden up to you, looming far too close.
“This is ridiculous,” Heft ranted. “This was supposed to be set up and completed hours ago. Now we’ve had to delay a briefing for an important mission, all so you could get back here to see if you can do your job on the second try.”
Boss bristled, but you were already studying the holoprojector - from across the room because Heft was blocking the way, but your eyes were roving over it determinedly. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t work. I tested it myself when I set it up. Has anyone messed with the settings since I left?”
“No,” Heft said frostily. “That’s your job.”
“Di’kut,” Sev muttered under his breath.
You eyed Heft, clearly unimpressed. “I can do my job a lot better if I can get a look at the projector. Do you mind letting me past?”
Rather than wait for him to let you through, you stepped around Heft, the edge of your shoulder brushing against his armor as you passed. You took quick stock of the holoprojector, studying it from every angle even as Heft took a breath in preparation for more complaining.
Heft’s face was red with anger and Boss’s fingers worked on his vambrace. Putting his helmet on would be too obvious, but his HUD could record even if it wasn’t currently sealed to the rest of his armor. With the helmet tucked beneath his arm and facing forward, Boss was sure he had a shot of you.
“Maybe I do mind,” Heft bit out. “I want an apology for you wasting our time. We have an ARC trooper in the field who is taking time away from his mission to be debriefed. He has been waiting five minutes past when we were supposed to start and I’m not going to be the one held responsible for that delay! I’m going to Kenobi with this, I can tell you that much.”
Because Boss was watching you so closely, he noticed exactly when your eyes stopped roving over the projector. You straightened, standing calm and proud, a stoic monument against the weight of Heft’s irrational irritation.
You pressed two buttons and the projector flickered on, a holographic image of an ARC trooper appearing in the next instant.
In the quiet of Heft’s sudden speechlessness, you stepped forward and faced the projector. “Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Aftermath reported immediately.
You gave a satisfied nod and turned back toward the door - and, coincidentally, Heft. “It helps if you turn on the console.”
Boss wouldn’t have blamed you if you had gloated for another ten minutes. Heft would have deserved every second of it. But you left the room, letting the door quietly close behind you.
He wanted to go after you, burned with the need to make sure you were okay, but he couldn’t leave the briefing. Not without a good reason. Especially since Heft was starting to brief Aftermath on the upcoming mission.
Fixer tapped his vambrace, then jammed his helmet onto his head. A moment later, he pulled it off, glancing at Boss. “Important call for you, Three-Eight. Needs an immediate response.”
“Understood,” Boss acknowledged with a nod. There were times when Fixer could be the most devious vod… Boss glanced over at Heft, who was watching them curiously. “I assume you have it from here, Sergeant?”
“Of course, Sergeant,” Heft replied, using Boss’s rank just as pointedly as Boss had used Heft’s.
Boss ducked out of the room, spotting your retreating figure immediately. Following you was simple - you clearly weren’t in a hurry, and his brisk strides caught up to your meandering pace with ease.
“Hey-”
You turned to face him with an expression of frustration and disbelief that made him freeze. “It’s working now, I tested visuals and audio myself. What else could you need?”
Boss raised his hands, hating that you had thought he would follow you to continue Heft’s beration. “No, I- Everything is working fine. It always was - Heft is just an idiot. Are you okay?”
You let out a breath, and Boss could hear the hint of a tremble in it. He sent out a silent plea that you weren’t going to start crying. Your eyes were bright enough that he worried he was seeing tears, but he would give anything he owned to be wrong.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” you confided, voice sharp. “It’s not enough for me to do my job - I have to constantly reassure everyone that I know what I’m doing. Basic tasks take me triple the time they should because I have to convince people I’m competent, which puts me behind schedule, then everyone else thinks I’m incompetent because I’m late! Everyone warned me that government contractor work was a bad idea, but this is ridiculous.”
To Boss’s utter relief, you didn’t sound sad. Upset, sure, but more angry than sad. The glint he had seen in your eyes was barely-suppressed rage. He could deal with that.
“Then don’t let me make you late to your next job,” he told you.
Your expression froze, taking on a shade of guilt. “Boss, I’m not- I’m just venting. None of this is directed at you-”
“I know that,” Boss reassured you. “But we can walk while you vent. Lead on.”
“I-” You started walking, Boss gamely keeping pace beside you. “I think I might be done, actually.”
“You sure?” Boss didn’t mean to sound so skeptical, but you still looked tense. “It’s good for you to bleed off the frustration. Better than keeping it all inside.”
“Yeah, I’m good.” You sighed, rubbing at your temple. “I’m just tired. Seems like everyone has a grudge against me. I’m good at my job and I know it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swim against the current.”
Boss gave a sympathetic hum. After a moment in which you didn’t say anything else, he asked, “Do you want to quit?”
“Yes.” You gave a little laugh, which had the interesting effect of restarting Boss’s heart immediately after it had stopped. “But that doesn’t mean I will.”
“I understand wanting to quit.”
You squinted at him. “Do you? I thought you were, like, engineered to be the perfect soldier. What else would you want to do, if not this?”
“I-” Boss hesitated. “It’s more theoretical than that for me. If I quit, it’s desertion.”
You scoffed, and Boss liked to think it was at the institution of the GAR rather than at his confession. Judging by the warmth in your expression, he was correct.
“Are you going to leave?”
The question came out softer than he had meant it to, leaving the conversation with a sudden feeling of intimacy. You shrugged. “I’ll decide after this mission. We’re in hyperspace - I can’t exactly step off the ship anytime I want. Besides, I’ll get hazard pay when we actually reach the war zone.”
“Lucky.” Boss’s pouting mutter made you laugh again. Wayii! He had just heard it for the first time few minutes before, but he already knew he would do anything to listen to you laugh.
“If it’s any consolation,” he added. “I recorded your conversation with Heft and I’m sending it to Commander Cody. None of the men should speak to anyone the way Heft spoke to you. I couldn’t interfere, or I wouldn’t have gotten a clear recording. I’m sorry for not giving Heft what he deserved. But since he’s a sergeant, too, it’ll be better for it to come from his commanding officer-”
“Boss, Boss,” you interrupted, lifting your hands up when he kept trying to explain. “I understand, and thank you. I don’t expect you to defend me against your brothers, though. That’s not a fair position to put you in.”
“You haven’t asked me to do anything,” Boss rejected. “I’m following up on this because it’s not right for you to be talked down to for doing your job.”
“Be careful, Boss,” you warned. The way your eyes sparkled, he knew it wasn’t a real warning, but he was still intrigued. “If you keep being so nice to me, I’m going to insist on buying you a decent meal when we’re back on Coruscant.”
Boss’s face went hot so quickly he wondered if they had wandered too close to the engine rooms. “You don’t have to do that.”
“And you don’t have to do this,” you told him, gesturing at his helmet. “You’re the only one on this ship who talks to me like I’m an actual person.”
“Sounds lonely.” Boss had experienced his share of dehumanizing experiences, both in the GAR and when they were in civilian surroundings, but he always had his brothers around. Without the rest of Delta Squad at his back, he wasn’t sure how well he would handle that kind of treatment.
“It is,” you agreed. “So I want to thank you. And I… I enjoy spending time with you.”
You looked so sweet, so sincere… Boss was losing himself in your eyes, but he wasn’t about to stop it from happening. “Name the time and place. I’m there.”
Your smile was just as breath-taking as every other time he had seen it. You gestured to the door that led to another set of conference rooms. “I have to go do some work for another long-distance comm this afternoon. But we could meet up later? We can debate about foods and restaurants, narrow down our options.”
“Sounds great,” Boss agreed, finally breaking into a smile of his own. He gestured toward your comlink. “I called you from my frequency earlier. You can always reach me there, just save it to your files.”
That smile turned undeniably to a grin as you ducked into the room. Just before the door closed between you, you winked. “I already did.”
Boss laughed to himself as he walked back toward conference room 37. With any luck, the briefing with Aftermath was already over. If not, at least he had something to look forward to.
---
Author's Note - I'm pretty sure this is my first fic featuring Boss x reader and I'm really happy with how it turned out!
Reminder, this is a gender-neutral reader. But I'm also a woman who works in IT, so all of Heft's complaints were taken almost word-for-word from the stuff people have said to me. (Just in case you wanted some background!)
Thank you for reading and thank you to the anon who gave me this prompt! You can find other works on my masterlist here.
"Boss started to seriously consider the merits of desertion" made me lol. Also Fixer being sneaky.
Vibing hard with competent but disrespected reader, my last job was like that. People like Boss who saw how good I was and acknowledged it still have my respect so I guess it's working out for him.
In time for Fingers in his Ass Sunday, the Final Installment to the Pegging Delta Squad Series
18+, Scorch x GN! Reader
almost 5k oops
one-night stand, Sev plays matchmaker, hot springs, massage, anal sex (reader penetrating), reader wears underwear in space and uses it to shut Scorch up
Ao3 (includes uncensored art)
Sev [fic] [art] Fixer [fic] [art] Boss [fic] [art]
The night fog had already rolled in when you got the comm.
Are you looking to get laid tonight? —RC-1207
Straight to the point as ever.
Who’s asking? you replied casually. Sev was intense, but never boring, and you were game if he was.
There’s someone I want you to meet. But if he says no, I’ll make it worth your while.
Sev relayed a set of coordinates, managing to add an element of intrigue to what was really just a trip to Akanet Park in the city. You loaded your speeder and made your way to the large outdoor plaza, which was covered in market stalls and people despite the cold, humid weather. With the sheer diversity and size of the crowd, Sev would be hard to spot if he wasn’t wearing armor: humanoids didn’t exactly stand out in the city.
Exceptional tracker that he was, Sev found you first. His unmistakable voice called out to you from near the open-air bar. When you knocked your forearm against his in greeting, you noted that he was wearing light body armor under his well-insulated traveler’s getup.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Sev offered, motioning to the empty stool by his side.
“Thanks.”
He remembered your order.
“So who’s the mystery guy?” you asked, sipping your beverage and wishing you’d thought to ask for it heated.
“His name’s Scorch,” Sev continued. “My brother. Let’s just say he hasn’t seen any action in a while, and I figured you two might get along.”
“What’s he like?” you prompted, searching the crowd for other men who looked like Sev.
“Wise-cracker. Heart of gold, balls of steel. Never shuts his fekking mouth. Nothing you couldn’t handle. I’ll introduce you if you want.”
“Lead the way.”
You downed the last of your drink and prepared to match Sev’s long strides, but with the way the crowd parted for him, it wasn’t even necessary. Even from a few paces behind him, you had a clear shot to a table where two men were arm wrestling.
“Scorch, I found you a date,” Sev interrupted the moment you arrived.
One man’s arm was slammed down on the table. The other cheered in triumph as the first nearly choked on a hello.
“You must be Scorch.”
“Yeah, that’s my name.” Scorch wore that carefully blank expression you’d seen on many a trooper, and didn’t say another word.
You shook his gloved hand and introduced yourself in turn. He was strong, and that was all you could tell about him.
“He’s being shy for some reason,” Sev ribbed. “Don’t tell me you’re still worried you sound like Fixer in bed.”
“I AM NOT!” Scorch shouted indignantly, ditching the anonymous clone act. He glared at Sev with so much heat that it would explain how he got his name.
“We’ll leave you two alone,” Sev said, winking and dragging the arm wrestling champion away. “Have fun, and spare me the details.”
Scorch scowled at his brothers’ backs and slumped over the table with comical dejection.
“Why’d he have to blow this for me?” he lamented, with a boyish brightness in his voice that Sev definitely lacked.
“You haven’t blown anything…yet,” you teased.
Still flat on the table, Scorch stared at you, dumbfounded.
“Too much?”
“No, that was hot,” Scorch blurted, eyes darting around nervously.
You followed his gaze to find that his two brothers had regrouped with a third, and all were observing you intently.
“Ignore them,” you smiled. “I’m here to get to know you.”
“They can lip read,” Scorch said stiffly through his teeth.
You huffed a small laugh and maneuvered to block Scorch’s view of his squad. Hidden from his brothers’ scrutiny but still close enough to fall under their protection, Scorch straightened up like the rehydrated flower stalk of a driss.
“So…” Scorch grinned conspiratorially, leaning back on his stool. “You like clones?”
“What, was that supposed to be a pickup line?” you snorted.
“No.” Scorch tilted his head to the side and regarded you with brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, his smile never fading. “But I think it’s working anyways.”
“Adorable,” you sassed.
“I know.” He placed the backs of his hands under his chin, fingers pointing down, and giggled.
“Are you drunk, or are you just like this?”
Scorch leaned in. “Totally sober. Guess I’m just one of a kind.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Scorch rocked back in his seat, cackling. “No one’s ever called me ‘sweetheart’ before.”
“And I’ve never met a giggly commando before.” Dank farrik, he was cute. “Tell me more.”
“I’m, uh… I’m good at blowing things…” Scorch trailed off, lowering his voice. “Blowing things up, that is.”
“Sounds like you’re an expert in all things hot.”
Scorch waggled his eyebrows and posed with his arms folded behind his head. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“It’s cold out here.” Keeping both your hands in view, you sidled up close enough that Scorch could put his arm around you if he wanted. “You think you could help with that?”
Scorch bit his lip. “Yeah, I can do that.”
He didn’t just put his arm around you. He pulled you into his lap and held you there, leaving you breathless at his casual display of strength. Like Sev, he was wearing body armor, but it didn’t stop his warmth from seeping through to you, nor did it stop his bulge from pressing into your backside. You hummed appreciatively and twisted around to face him, meeting his hungry eyes.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Scorch mimicked.
“How far do you want to go tonight?”
“As far as you’ll take me.”
“Tell you what, I’ve got a speeder packed with enough supplies to last a night. We could camp out at one of the natural hot springs, get naked…”
You slid out of Scorch’s lap before he got too aroused to walk. “C’mon.”
Scorch froze when you grasped his hand, distracted for a split second at the sight of your fingers wrapped around his. He stood up to follow, glancing back at his brothers once.
“Do you want to check in with them first?”
“Can I?”
“Go ahead.”
Scorch bounded up to the table his brothers had occupied, gesturing animatedly and receiving multiple slaps on the back and a thumbs-up. Then he turned around and made his way back just as quickly, a big smile on his face.
“My speeder’s this way. It’s about ten kilometers to the outskirts, there’s a plateau to the northwest with hot springs everywhere,” you explained.
Every commando you’d ever worked with valued accurate, detailed information, and Scorch was no different. His posture relaxed as he walked beside you, though he remained alert, taking in the steaming streams of water that flowed alongside the road. When you reached the speeder, he circled it before easing into the passenger’s seat.
“Why’s your speeder got infrared sensors?” he asked.
“It gets pretty foggy around here, especially outside the city limits. You’ll see.”
“Huh.” Scorch secured his crash webbing and fidgeted in the seat. “Civvies really think of everything.”
“Hardly,” you scoffed, starting up the speeder and smoothly gliding it away from the city.
Scorch watched you intently, curious but unwilling to distract you as you navigated traffic. Once you were outside the city proper, you glanced back at him with a wink and reached over to pat his thigh.
“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and you saw rather than heard his breath hitch.
“I was wondering how fast this speeder can go,” he admitted, breathless and barely audible over the drives.
“Then I guess we do this the fun way. Put your head back.”
Rather than take the winding road to the base of the plateau, you plotted a straight shot across the plain and gunned it.
Scorch whooped with glee, voice carrying on the damp air. His reflection in the rearview mirror was the picture of delight: windswept curls sticking to his forehead, watery eyes, and a face-splitting grin. Apparently all it took to coax the man out of his hard armored shell was a bit of privacy and a thrill.
“Damn, you really can’t see a thing out here,” Scorch observed once you’d brought the speeder to a halt somewhere over the expanse of black volcanic sand. The fog obscured everything, even the hazy glow of the city below.
“I know. Nice and private.” You pulled up an infrared image of the surrounding area on the speeder’s dashboard. “Check the scanners, I’ll let you pick our destination.”
“Whew, it’s humid.” Scorch considered the options, zooming in on each nearby zone of heat rising from the ground. “And…fifteen degrees warmer than it was in the city, wow.”
“I thought you liked hot.”
“‘Course I like hot.” Scorch tugged off his jacket. “There,” he pointed at the dashboard. “Looks an ideal temperature, don’t you think?”
“Good find.”
You parked the speeder and released your crash webbing, then turned to Scorch. Without warning, he rocketed forward and smashed his lips against yours in a clumsy, desperate kiss. You chuckled against his face while he sucked on the corner of your mouth, patiently running your fingers along his scalp until he pulled away.
“Aren’t you eager,” you teased, shucking off your own jacket and leaning over the center console. “You wanna try that again?”
Scorch nodded so enthusiastically that his hair bounced in his eyes. You smoothed it out of the way, taking hold of either side of his face and kissing him properly.
Scorch moaned. And then you felt him freeze up, no longer kissing you back.
“Sorry,” Scorch hissed, like he was cursing himself.
“You’re not comfortable hearing your own voice, are you?”
“How did you-” he spat, before catching himself and turning his frustration inward.
“I don’t mind, Scorch. As much as I enjoy your wit, I can think of plenty of other ways to keep your mouth occupied.”
You exited the speeder, letting him sit with your implications as you checked out the campsite. You hooked up the power to your speeder, and the ground-level lights bathed the area in a soft glow.
There was the hot spring itself of course, a natural depression in the rocks filled with steaming hot water. Then there were the facilities: this site included a flat, stony area near the water for rinsing off, and a simple wooden shelter to rest in. Everything else was in the back of your speeder.
“You okay, Scorch?” you asked, popping the trunk and hauling out towels and soap. “Area’s clear, you can come out now.”
“Maybe not all civvies think of everything, but you sure do.” Scorch nodded at all the supplies in your arms. “Do you have protection?”
“Yep.”
“Life jackets?” he smirked.
“Water’s not that deep.”
“Fire extinguishers?”
“Yes, actually.”
“See? Everything.” Scorch stood there smiling at the ground.
“Well, I’m gonna get undressed.” You stepped into the shelter and stripped without fanfare, stowing your clothes inside to keep them dry.
Scorch was much slower and more meticulous about undressing. You had already found a bucket and set up a bathing area before Scorch finished folding away his many layers and emerged looking… not quite self-conscious but definitely cautious.
“Relax, Scorch. It’s just us. And if it’s not, then the speeder has a proximity warning.”
“Are you a mind reader?”
“No, I just know how you guys think.” You motioned for Scorch to sit down on the flat stone-paved area beside the water. “Why do you think Sev trusts me?”
“Because Sev’s crazy,” he retorted, settling his coiled, muscular form on the stones.
Scorch hesitated when you filled a bucket with hot spring water and extended it to him, so you poured it over yourself instead, then tried again. He took the bucket this time, steeled himself, and flattened his hair against his head with the force of its deluge.
“Oh,” Scorch gasped. “Oh, that’s nice.”
“Not what you were you expecting?”
“Not really. We used to pour buckets of rainwater on each other back on Kamino. I don’t know why I was imagining that, I mean, it’s a hot spring-”
His next words were washed away as he dumped several more buckets over his head. You watched him have his fun while you lathered your body, and Scorch assisted by pouring water over you far more than was necessary to rinse off.
“Here,” you offered him your soap. “Can you do my back?”
“Sure,” he whispered, inhaling the unfamiliar scent before setting down the bucket to very gently run his hands over your bare shoulders.
You laughed at his ticklish, barely there touch.
“What?”
“You can touch me, Scorch. I won’t break.”
He took that as a challenge, building up to soaping circular patterns into your back with a strength that you had to brace against. His warm hands soothed the tension in your muscles, and you couldn’t help but groan.
“Don’t stop, that feels good,” you urged when he pulled away.
“You know, you don’t have to act tough for me.”
“You don’t believe me? Turn around.”
Scorch bucketed water over your head, the hot water leaving your skin tingling in the wake of the friction from his hands. You sputtered and shook the water out of your eyes.
“If you don’t want to turn your back to me, just say so. I won’t force you.” You took Scorch’s hand instead, lathering between his fingers and massaging up his forearm, letting him watch you the whole time. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” he said, not meeting your eyes.
“Is there anywhere you don’t want me to touch you?”
“I don’t know. Can we just take it slow? I’m not used to this.”
“Of course.”
You smoothed over his biceps, then tentatively wrapped your fingers around his upper arms. Scorch couldn’t see your hands anymore, but he could feel exactly where they were. You maintained eye contact and squeezed along his shoulders, just barely brushing his neck-
“Not there.”
“Okay.”
You withdrew and lathered more soap to start working through the hair on Scorch’s chest. His breath hitched, but he leaned into your touch, his muscular pecs filling your palms.
“Mm, these are nice,” you hummed, kneading the supple flesh.
Scorch flexed his chest and met your eyes with a cocky smirk. You trailed your hands over his ribcage, sweeping your thumbs over his nipples, and he flinched away, laughing.
“That tickles!”
“You do it, then.”
Scorch scrubbed vigorously at his chest and belly while you turned your attention towards his feet. He was ticklish there, too, giggling and kicking away even as he washed his ass with the same thorough, brutal attention as he gave the rest of his body. You were far gentler, caressing up his calves, behind his knees.
“Wait.” Scorch stopped you, half hard before you were even halfway up his thighs. “Not yet.”
And then he surprised you by turning around.
“You can, um… Wash my back? Please?” He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Just don’t put your hands around my neck.”
“You got it.”
You rewarded Scorch’s trust with broad, steady strokes up and down the length of his back. Once he was used to the sensation, you added more pressure, feeling into the knots between his shoulders.
“Kark, you’re tight,” you observed.
“That’s what he said.”
You snorted and rolled your eyes, digging into Scorch’s shoulders and wrenching another moan from his lungs.
It was a beautiful sound, but Scorch froze up again.
“Well,” he sighed. “There goes my boner.”
“You need something else to do with your mouth?”
“Is it that obvious?” Scorch rinsed off then dunked himself into the water. He stayed under for a moment, releasing a stream of bubbles before coming back up. “Come here.”
You slid into the water beside him, savoring the heat seeping into your body.
“You wanna make out?” you suggested.
“I’ll moan.”
“You could…blow me.”
“I want…”
“Yes?”
Scorch chewed his lip before boldly meeting your eyes. “I want you to gag me with your underwear.”
“I can do that,” you hummed lowly. “Anything else you want to try?”
“Can we do it in the butt?”
“I’d have to get prepared, but sure, we have time.”
“I meant…I want you. Inside me.”
“Oh,” you smiled. “Have you done anal before?”
“I can take it. I’ve put stuff up there before, it just wasn’t sexy.”
“I’ll be right back.”
You returned to the shelter for your underwear. If Scorch ruined them, you’d just have to go without.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” You sat down on the edge of the bath.
Scorch stared up at the fabric in awe, nostrils flaring. “Can you do it?”
“Open,” you ordered.
Scorch opened his mouth and presented his tongue for you. You wadded up the cloth and gently pressed it between his teeth, then closed his jaw with your fingertips under his chin.
“Comfortable?”
Scorch squeezed his eyes shut and nodded affirmatively.
“Good boy.” You plunged back into the water. “If you need me to stop at any point, tap me three times fast,” you explained, before demonstrating the motion. “Got it?”
Scorch nodded again.
“Now, I want you absolutely boneless before we try anything penetrative. Can I keep working on your back?”
“Uh-huh,” Scorch vocalized, sinking into the water and exposing his back to you once more.
You only caught dim reflections of his face in the water as you wrestled the tension out of his back. He had his eyes closed, and twice a quiet groan slipped past his gag, but he didn’t react to the sound.
“You’re doing so well,” you murmured as you memorized the constellation of scars and spots on his back. “Can I go lower?”
“Mmm.” Scorch bowed forward, presenting his ass for you.
Your hands never left his skin as you glided down his spine to rest on either hip. From there, you worked into his powerful thighs until you felt him go limp. He must have weighed at least a hundred kilos, but in the water, you could support him with no strain, brushing up against his butt as he leaned against you.
“You’ve got a great ass, Scorch,” you complimented, grinding against it. “Do you work out or something?”
“Yeah,” he panted, slipping your underwear out of his mouth enough to speak. “Every time I carry the squad.”
That earned him a light pinch on the butt, and he lolled his head back, sucking his gag back in with a frothing sound. You laughed against his shoulder, kneading and spreading his cheeks.
“Once you’re ready to get out of the water, I’ll get some lube and stretch you,” you offered.
“Yeeh,” Scorch pleaded, not bothering to remove the cloth.
You stepped out of the bath first, then turned to see the full result of your handiwork emerge from the water. Scorch was drooling around the balled-up fabric in his mouth, eyes half-lidded and shoulders lax. His skin was flushed red everywhere he’d been submerged, and his cock was standing at full attention.
“Stars, you’re gorgeous,” you sighed, suddenly lightheaded.
You spread some of your towels out inside the shelter, on a flat raised platform wide enough for Scorch to lie down on. As he got comfortable, you pulled on a pair of flexpoly gloves and warmed some lube between your palms.
Scorch lay on his side with one knee raised, watching you with an absolutely intoxicated expression. You guided his leg down, gelled fingers gliding along his inner thigh and brushing the side of his shaft.
“Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”
Scorch nodded, jaws working against your soaked underwear before he swallowed thickly. Then he reached back and spread his cheeks for you.
You found his hole easily, spreading lube across it and feeling the way he fluttered in response. Applying firm pressure around his rim, you circled and massaged until one finger popped past. Scorch was tight, but not impossibly so. Slowly, you slid in deeper, one finger engulfed in soft warmth while the others stroked and teased at his entrance. Scorch took a few smooth thrusts, his whole body writhing around your finger.
“Think you can take another?”
Scorch shook your whole arm with the force of his nods.
You withdrew and applied more lube. Scorch cried out when your fingertips breached him, pressing his fist to his mouth to keep the gag from falling out.
“You okay?” you asked, stilling your hand.
“I’n oh-eh,” Scorch said.
“Do you want to touch yourself?” you suggested.
“Ooh?” Scorch glanced at you over his shoulder with wide eyes.
“What?”
Scorch pulled the cloth out of his mouth. “Lube?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Thanks.” Scorch smiled and winked, then shoved your underwear back in his mouth and started lazily fisting his cock.
“I’m gonna move a bit, let me know when it starts to feel good and I’ll go deeper.”
Scorch hummed through his nose, wiggling against your fingers again. You wiggled your fingers back, searching for his sweet spot without pressing any deeper.
Scorch released a high-pitched “Nn,” thrashing forward into his slick hand. Your fingertips slipped out and a shudder wracked its way down Scorch’s spine.
“Again,” he panted around the gag.
This time you pressed in a little deeper, feeling Scorch’s body stretch to accommodate. You held still until he started rocking back against you of his own accord, keening violently whenever you tried to twist or scissor your fingers.
“Is that a good reaction, or is it too much?”
“I’m good,” he gasped, barely catching the gag between his teeth. He ground down on your fingers, not even bothering to silence his groans. “Please fuck me,” he begged, trembling around your hand.
“I promise, I will. You’re almost there.”
You worked a third finger inside, kneading against Scorch’s walls and rubbing into the spot that made him drip precum onto the towel. Eyes defocused, Scorch mouthed half-formed curses and pleas around the underwear practically wrapped around his tongue.
“Alright, you’ve earned it.” You pulled out and removed the gloves, giving Scorch’s behind a pat when he wiggled impatiently. Once you were ready, you notched your protected length at Scorch’s entrance. “At your own pace, then.”
Scorch’s pace was desperate. He rolled his hips back, powering through the initial stretch as his fingers clawed at your thigh.
“Scorch,” you groaned, working his fingers loose and lacing them with yours.
He rolled his body again, and you popped out. You molded yourself along his spine and pressed back inside, this time holding his hips firmly.
“Let’s try that again,” you said, and gave a slow thrust.
The underwear in Scorch’s mouth wasn’t enough to stop the occasional cry so intense that you weren’t sure if it was one of pleasure or pain. Still, he didn’t tap out, and he continued to rut against you so vigorously that you slipped out again.
“Can you roll forward a bit?” you asked, positioning yourself slightly on top of him when he obeyed. “There you go, how’s that feel?”
“More,” Scorch whined, breathing hard through his nose and hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.
You braced your hands on either side of Scorch and widened your stance, filling him as deep as you could.
“You did it, Scorch,” you praised, resting your weight comfortably against the cushion of his ass.
Scorch rolled a bit further on his front, taking you with him. Knees spread, he cocked his hips back and stretched forward until his chest was flush against the platform. Then he took your hand and tugged, pulling you down chest-to-back, close enough that you could kiss his jaw and see the tears in his eyes.
Scorch held your legs open with his own as you rocked into each other, the movements of the hand around his cock growing slicker by the second. You throbbed and twitched and squeezed inside him, arms locked around his waist. Totally pinned, Scorch made no attempt to wriggle away, he just sobbed and clenched around you.
“Kriff, yes, Scorch,” you huffed with your cheek pressed against the side of his neck. This close, you could hear his sweet moans before they even left his mouth. “Let go whenever you’re ready. You deserve to feel good.”
Your voiced reassurances served to cover up the steadily increasing volume of Scorch’s incoherent babbling. He didn’t seem to notice either way, solely focused as he was on sliding up and down your shaft. You finished off a particularly deep thrust with a slow grind, and Scorch released a hiccuping wail, lungs seizing with silent laughter.
“You gonna cum?”
“Uh-huh,” Scorch sighed, trembling beneath you.
“Go ahead, sweetheart, make a mess.” You trailed one hand down his belly to stroke his cock just once, and felt him explode.
“Mmmmhhh!” Scorch practically growled, narrowly missing giving you a concussion as he threw his head back and thrashed.
Scorch was cry-laughing as his orgasm rippled through him, his eyes wide open and body rigid. He pulsed around your length, letting you blow his mind over and over and over. When he finally went limp, you stuttered forward and melted inside him.
Your heart pounded against his back.
Exhaling heavily, you nuzzled between Scorch’s shoulders, exhaustion dragging you down along his spine.
“Don’t move,” Scorch whispered.
“I’m right here,” you panted, slumping to the side to spoon Scorch, still nestled inside him. The warmth of his skin and surrounding steam negated the need to cover up.
Scorch was designed, created, and trained for destruction. Your lives were about as different as human lives could get. For a calm, heavy moment, none of that mattered. You were one and the same. Sweat fused your skin to his, his heat was your heat. Slowly, your bodies cooled, re-solidified, and separated, but you still held Scorch like he was the most precious thing in the galaxy.
“What happens now?” Scorch asked once he’d regained control of his breathing.
“Can I kiss you?”
Scorch wiggled and you pulled away, overstimulated.
“Hey-” Scorch rolled over, chasing after you as you moved to straddle his torso.
“Please?” you asked again.
Scorch lay boneless, hands eventually finding your hips. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Take your time.”
You left to clean yourself up, returning with a water bottle and a warm towel to wipe Scorch’s face. As you tenderly cleared the tear streaks and drool, Scorch stared into your soul from under heavy eyelids.
“I would die for you,” he mumbled, wiping water from his mouth.
“Please don’t.”
“No.” He closed his eyes and held your hand against his face. “I’m gonna.”
And then he pulled you down slowly until you hovered above him. His wet, parted lips brushed against yours in invitation. You closed the gap with a sigh of relief, tasting yourself faintly on his tongue and melting into him all over again.
“I get it now,” Scorch whispered against your lips. “Thank you.”
You rested your forehead against his. “Get some rest.”
It was an order he was happy to obey. Scorch yawned, and fell asleep tangled up with you.
He must have been out cold, because not even the sunrise starting to burn away the night’s fog woke him. He’d valiantly kept you warm all night, and you decided to spoil him a bit more, covering him with a towel against the lingering chill and letting him sleep in.
You snatched your stiff, crumpled underwear from the floor and went outside to wash it out. You were freshly bathed and attempting to dry your underwear with the heat from your speeder’s exhaust when Scorch wandered outside, yawning and stretching his naked body.
“What did you do to me?” he asked, grinning.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Great morning. I feel amazing…nothing hurts.”
“That means it worked,” you smiled. “They don’t call this water ‘poor man’s bacta’ for nothing.”
Scorch crouched down and washed his face with said water. “You wouldn’t happen to have a razor, would you?” he called.
“Here.”
“Everything,” Scorch laughed to himself.
You left him to do his thing and got dressed before packing up your garbage and towels. When you finished, Scorch was still crouching naked on the ground, admiring a rock.
“Get dressed, and I’ll drive you back to Chioro. Maybe grab breakfast if we have time.”
“Okay,” Scorch sighed, picking up the rock and taking it with him.
After making sure you hadn’t left anything behind, you set off for the city. Scorch stared glumly at his lap, turning the shiny stone over in his hands.
“Hey.” You extended your hand over the center console.
Scorch scrutinized it for a moment, then placed the cool, smooth stone in your palm.
“I was reaching for your hand, actually,” you laughed.
“Oh,” he realized, the end of the word riding on a smile. He plopped his hand over yours.
“Yeah, I don’t want you to go, either,” you admitted. “But we had fun. We can still have fun.”
“Are you gonna floor it again?” Scorch asked breathlessly, squeezing your hand in anticipation.
“Here we go.”
You raced towards the city, hand in hand with an elite soldier as he shouted his elation to the sky. He reverted to blank-faced seriousness the moment he let go and exited the speeder, but you wouldn’t soon forget what lay beneath the armor.
You sent him off with four sweet pastries and your comm frequency.
This quick request brought to you by an Anon who said:
I’ve requested this before but since you’re soliciting requests, p l e a s e record Yuuri saying “Victor, you’re gonna fuck my glasses off”
Contains: A short clip of…well…the request, with a bit of moaning for context. Also I do NOT remember getting this request…I would remember this request…
Rating: M [descriptive sexual content/graphic violence/mentions of character death]
Pairing: Cia/Hyrulian Soldier
Period: Post HW Plot/Divergent plot/Alternate Ending
The war was long over, but some things are too horrible to forget; a mysterious veteran of the conflict seeks comfort in the company of a young soldier whose face is so familiar.
In this chapter: body worship, voice kink, handjob, cum marking/eating, unprotected oral sex, sharing a bed, nightmares, angst, midnight snackies.
“Sev,” you sigh, “take your clothes off. K’baar’murcyur ni.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
Sev’s clothes are designed to come off easily. You watch, mesmerized, as the layers fall away. Sev’s rough and ready attitude seems to have disappeared as well, replaced with something intense, patient, and deliberate. His brow is smooth where it’s usually creased. His round jaw is rough, but you can almost taste the softness of his slightly pursed lips. His eyes are so dark, crinkled at the corners as he examines you in return.
“What are you thinking about?” he rumbles.
“I want to remember everything about you.”
Sev huffs, flashing a sliver of sharp white teeth when he can’t quite suppress his smile.
“You have a great smile, Sev. I’m so lucky I get to see it.”
“You sure know how to flatter a guy.”
You kiss his neck, feeling the contrast between the warm, delicate skin at his throat and the thicker scar tissue just beneath the slightly protruding cartilage of his larynx. Sev moans, setting your lips abuzz with the vibration, and tips his head forward until his fluffy hair falls over his forehead. He’s slightly salty when you flatten your tongue over his pulse point, and the ends of his curls tickle your face as he presses his cheek into the side of your neck.
“You’re good at that,” he whispers, breath shuddering when your fingertips dip into the deep, healed scar carved into the smooth expanse of his back.
“Is this okay?” you ask.
“Don’t stop.”
You lean forward, pushing Sev back until he’s supporting most of his own weight again, and trace the scar intentionally. Sev curls forward, bracing his hard forehead against your sternum and presenting you the full length of his spine.
“Don’t push me away,” he pleads.
You pull him in closer with a content sigh, burying your chin into his soft dark hair. From this angle, the striations of his accelerated growth covering his shoulders are cast into sharper relief, and you crane your neck to kiss those, too.
“Do you…like my scars?” he questions.
“I like all of you. Your scars though, they remind me of how much you’ve been through. How amazing you are. You’re so strong, Sev.”
“Keep talking.”
“You like my voice, Sev’ika?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. Your voice though…it really sets you apart. The first time I heard you speak, I was like, damn. That’s sexy.”
“You thought I was sexy before you even knew who I was?”
“Not you, just your voice.”
Sev snorts, then his words turn sensual. “Think I could make you cum with just my voice?”
“Probably, yeah,” you reply without having to think about it.
“I want to try it.” Sev tugs at your waistband. “I wanna watch you fall apart. Please?”
“Let’s do it.”
You wiggle out of your bottoms, pressed skin-to-skin with Sev. He runs the pad of his thumb over your inner thigh and licks his lips, devouring you with his gaze.
“You like it when I moan, don’t you.” It’s not a question. Sev looks smug, like he’s figured you all out, and leans in close. “Touch me,” he whispers roughly, sending a shiver down your spine. “Get yourself off on the noises you like so much.”
You turn your face to plant a sloppy kiss on Sev’s jaw, and he responds with a curious whine. The way your body responds means he’s absolutely on to something.
“You’re a fast learner, Sev.” You wrap an arm around his neck and spread your legs for him.
“It’s how I was raised.” His throat clicks when he swallows. “I was made to be the best at everything I do. Right now, that includes you.”
Sev’s words are boastful, but all you can hear is his devotion.
“So you’re the best at doing me…”
“Damn right.” Sev grinds against the mattress. “You wanted to hear me beg, right? Go on.”
You look Sev in the eyes and place your palm against the soft curve of his lower belly, slowly walking your fingers along the trail of wispy dark hair that leads to the neatly trimmed patch at the base of his cock. His eyes stay locked with yours every step of the way, and you can see his pulse jumping steadily in his neck. Beads of sweat form along his hairline, and he bites his lip when he feels the warmth of your hand hovering just over where he wants it.
“Please,” he breathes.
You oblige, and Sev sings for you. His head rests lightly on your shoulder, letting you hear his every gulp and gasp. Hot dampness collects on your skin where Sev pants, open-mouthed, waiting to accept anything you’ll give him.
You keep your strokes slow and tantalizing, savoring Sev’s every clipped whimper. He’s trying to make you work for what you want, determinedly keeping his hips still instead of chasing after your touch, even as his cock weeps for attention. He’s not expecting you to wrench a broken groan from his chest when you tug on his hair.
“I love this haircut,” you declare.
“S-shab.” Sev’s voice stutters, and so do his hips. “Do that again,” he growls, managing to sound both intimidating and desperate.
You tighten your fist in Sev’s hair at the same time that you take a firmer grasp of his shaft.
“Nnnhhah,” Sev cries out in satisfaction.
He’s not holding back anymore, both his movements and his sounds of pleasure flowing freely. He rolls his powerful body to the side, taking you with him, and continues to thrust slickly into your tight fist.
“I want to cum on you,” he declares, and his dick twitches in agreement. “Please?" He tacks on, as if remembering that he's supposed to be good for you.
“Preferably not in my eyes, thanks.”
Sev’s proud smile is the absolute sexiest thing about him as he covers your hand and makes you watch as you work together to jerk his straining erection. Once, twice, three times, and then you feel him burst as Sev surges forward and screams against your lips, shielding your eyes from the release that lands hot and sticky on your torso and arm.
“Pretty,” Sev pants, trailing a finger through the spatter on your ribcage. Then he pops his finger in his mouth and sucks it clean, giving you a sultry look from beneath hooded eyelids. “Your turn.”
He plants wet sucking kisses along the column of your neck, moaning into your skin each time. You echo him blissfully, encouraging him as he slinks down along your body, licking you clean. His journey ends between your legs, with Sev staring right at his objective.
“Look at that,” he marvels. “All that, just from listening to me?” Sev inhales deeply, then fans his soft breath over your arousal.
“That’s cheating,” you accuse.
“You love it, though.” Sev punctuates the statement with a slow, toothless bite to the inside of your thigh.
You barely hear him with the fog between your ears, but the way he rubs his thumb over the wet, sensitive skin is so good that you feel yourself drip onto the mattress beneath you.
“Wow,” Sev gasps. “You did like that, didn’t you? Can I do it again?”
“Uhhh,” you respond, your mouth refusing to form words. “Gentle. No blood.”
Sev doesn’t waste another second. He lifts your other thigh with one hand, rolls his lips over his teeth, and latches on, working the thick flesh between his jaws. All the while, he murmurs something unintelligible against your skin, but the vibrations go straight to your crotch.
“Do you want to keep this up?” Sev asks with his nose cradled in the bend between your hip and thigh. “Or do you want to cum?”
“I wanna cum,” you admit dazedly, although Sev could keep this up all night and it would feel just as good.
“I know you do. You’re so hot for me. And I haven’t even touched you.”
“You can touch me,” you say. “I want you to touch me.”
“Do you want my fingers?”
“I want your mouth.”
Sev groans again, and he’s not just putting it on for your sake this time. “You smell so good, you know that? I could eat you up just like this.”
“You can. I’m all yours, remember?”
“All mine,” Sev repeats. “I’ve dreamed about this.”
And then he licks along your slit, hot and wet, with nothing between you.
You nearly crush his head with your thighs, but luckily for you both, Sev is no quitter. He shoves his thick skull back where it belongs, opens wide, and swallows everything he can touch.
It’s different like this. His mouth is hotter, with more textures rubbing against your most sensitive nerves. You don’t even need to move. Sev takes perfect care of you, lapping and sucking, saliva pooling between your cheeks.
“Sev, I can’t,” you babble, “I’m not gonna-”
“Mmmm, it’s okay. Just let go.”
You can hear your own breath catching in your throat, and tears cloud your vision. And then Sev snakes one spit-slick finger between your cheeks and applies the gentlest pressure to your rim, and you’re gone.
Radio static fills your brain. It takes you some time to realize that the rushing sound is actually your own heartbeat, but even then, there’s not much you can do about it. Your fingers twitch, and that’s the full extent of the movement you manage.
Sev is there, though, so everything is okay. His mouth is all wet again, and you just smile dreamily at him, wishing he’d come closer.
“I think that might have been my best one yet,” Sev says.
“Your what?”
“Best orgasm I’ve given you. You look like you’ve transcended.”
“Okay.” You don’t have the energy to argue.
“You falling asleep? You should clean your teeth,” Sev reminds you. “Here, come here.”
He arranges you into some semblance of sitting up and hands you your multi-purpose groomer, ending up holding your hand when your fingers are too slow to close around it.
“I can do it,” you insist, but it ends up taking all your focus. Every few seconds, your mind wanders to your desire to curl into a ball and hug Sev until your bodies merge into one.
Ever the prepared soldier, Sev digs into his own hygiene kit for his toothbrush, spends exactly 180 seconds brushing his teeth, then dries the brush and packs it away before wiping his body down with a fresh-smelling moistened cloth. He does the same for you, wiping away the foam you haven’t even realized you’ve dribbled down your front.
“You’re staring at me,” Sev observes.
“You’re good.” That didn’t make sense. You try again. “You’re…I like looking at you.”
“I know.”
He’s so soft, the way he makes you comfortable and draws the covers over you before taking his place at your side. It’s everything you need. You hold one of Sev’s hands close to your chest, and his other hand finds its way to your face to tenderly brush your cheek.
“I didn’t break you, did I?” Sev sounds a little too worried for it to be just a joke.
“I’m fine, Sev. I’m great. Just tired.” You cup his chin and kiss him. He tastes fresh, like spring water. “Let’s go to sleep. Big plans for tomorrow, remember?”
“That’s right.” Sev reaches over to turn off the light.
“Good night, Sev.”
“Good night, ner Bral'ika.”
Sev talks in his sleep.
Some of it is just gibberish, and he stops when you nudge him under the covers. And some of it is just plain terrifying.
“Come out, come out…so I can kill you all,” he taunts.
Typical Sev. You should find him and bring him back to bed, but you can’t see him. Wherever you are is dark, and your limbs feel heavy in that dreamlike way. You don’t even want to move, you’re comfortable, and right where you’re supposed to be, but something that you can’t see or hear is nagging and wrong.
It’s probably just one of those dreams warning you that you have to pee. Maybe you don’t actually have to go that urgently, and you can just hold it and go back to sleep…
Sev starts cackling. He sounds close, and also like he’s having the time of his life. You just wish he’d do it somewhere else. You kick out, and your foot finds a warm lump. There he is. You stretch forward, trying to cover his mouth, and he elbows you right in the bladder.
That’s it. You’re awake now, and you really do have to go, so you steel yourself to roll out of your cocoon of bliss and make the short trek to the cold, hard vac tube.
You can still hear Sev, and you really hope you’re not still dreaming as you relieve yourself.
“Talyc rol’taab,” Sev snarls.
You have no idea what that means, and it might be nothing compared to some of the foul language he uses, but you’ve never heard Sev say anything with so much hatred.
“Sev,” you groan, rocking his body by the shoulder.
“Don’t stop me,” he says, like he’s talking to you. “I have to kill them all.”
“You do that. Just…can you be quieter?”
Sev makes an unintelligible noise, then goes silent. You have to poke him to make sure he’s actually still breathing. He doesn’t stir, not even when you rub soothing circles into his back in an attempt to dissipate his dream.
Maybe this is normal for Sev. His brothers have never said anything to you about it, but they’re probably used to it.
You’re almost asleep again when Sev makes another noise like a strangled akk call.
“Hey,” you grumble, trying to get his attention. You search for his hair in the dark, and find something hot and wet instead. “Sev?”
He gasps, and you’re fairly certain now that he’s crying.
“Wake up, Sev’ika. You’re dreaming. It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re on the Prosecutor, everyone is safe.” You manage to turn on the light, and frown at Sev’s teary, pinched expression.
“No,” he whispers.
“Come on, wake up.” You pat his face and smooth your hands over his hair.
“AAAUUGH-”
Sev bolts awake at the sound of his own scream, frantically taking in his surroundings but refusing to meet your eyes. You try to take his hand, but he pulls away to cover his face.
“I-I woke you u-up,” he hiccups. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, Sev. Anything I can do for you?”
“Why are you so nice to me?” he snaps. “You should be angry, or scared, or something. You should be running far away from me. I don’t deserve this.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” You are angry now, but not at Sev. “I’m not scared of you. And I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”
“You shouldn’t have to see me like this. I’m not supposed to be- I hate dragging you into this just because I’m broken.”
“Can I hold you?” you ask, carefully considering your next words.
Sev sobs openly, still hiding his face, but doesn’t flinch away from your tentative touch on his shoulder. He lets you wrap yourself around him, even relaxes into your hold.
“I forgive you, Sev.” You kiss the back of his head, where his hair is stuck down with sweat. “You’re a good man. Why else would you laugh at my jokes, and let me sit with you in the mess, and carry me around so we don’t get separated in a crowd? Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you’ve done, you have never given me any reason to be afraid of you. And if talking to you, or holding you, or just being here helps you in any way, then please let me do it.”
Sev doesn’t say anything, but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest. You can feel his thudding heartbeat regulate in response to his carefully trained breathing.
“How do you always know what to say?” Sev’s voice breaks. “I still don’t get why you do it. But thank you.”
“Can we lay down?” you request.
“Go ahead.” Sev slowly peels himself away from you. “I should go.”
“I won’t stop you, but you’re more than welcome to stay.”
“I can’t go back to sleep. And I’m hungry.”
“Wait,” you say, remembering the snacks you’d saved for him. “I have something better than ration bars, if you’re up for it.”
Sev’s brow quirks in interest, and you reach under the bed for the last of your snack stash. His eyes widen, and his tears flow anew when he realizes what it is.
“You…you didn’t have to do that.”
“But I did. And it’s all yours, if you want it.” You lay down facing Sev and set the bag between you.
“No one’s ever been this nice to me before,” Sev ventures.
“All the more reason you deserve to indulge.” You unwrap one of the more filling options, spiced jerky, and place a few strands between your teeth. “Come here.”
“You’d let me eat in your bed?”
“I let you eat me in this bed.”
Sev laughs for the first time since his nightmare. You beckon him closer again, and he catches on to your intent, closing his teeth around his end and following the trail to plant a short, spicy kiss on your lips.
“You spoil me,” he murmurs, jaws sticking as he chews.
“You love it, though.”
Sev loves the food, too, but he keeps looking between it and your face like he’s torn between eating and kissing you.
“Go on,” you yawn. “‘M not going anywhere.”
Sev is meticulous as he eats, and somehow manages to contain his mess to the folds of his belly in a truly masterful demonstration of accuracy. Even so, he checks the sheets around him like he’s clearing a room, only moving on to the next item when he’s sure he’s left no crumbs on your bed.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, noticing the mirth in your sleepy eyes.
“You and your aversion to making messes.”
“It’s just polite.”
“It’s adorable.”
“Is that really the hill you want to die on?” Sev jokingly threatens.
“I’m right. You know how I know? Because I adore you.”
“You’ve chosen a lonely hill.”
“I like this hill. Makes a good vantage point for watching you. I think I’ll build a fort here, Fort Sev is Adorable, and it’ll be easily defensible against anyone who says otherwise. I’ll let you in if you promise to play nice.”
Sev snorts. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“But I made you laugh.”
“Go back to sleep. It’s 0351.”
You doze off and on to the sounds of Sev’s breathing, swallowing, and the utterly considerate way his careful fingers reach for his next bites with minimal package rustling. You stir only slightly when he leans over you, warm snack-scented breath tickling your face before he kisses you.
His weight leaves the mattress, and you hear him use the vac tube. And then the unmistakable sound of his armor plates sealing together shocks you from your rest.
“Sev?”
“It’s okay, go back to sleep.”
“You’re leaving?”
Sev hesitates. “Yeah. When I can’t sleep, it usually helps me to work out, or practice on the shooting range. I’m not gonna stay here and keep you awake. Thank you, though. For everything.”
“Will you stay until I fall asleep?”
“...Okay.”
Sev kneels at the side of your bed, fully armored, and turns off the light. He takes your hand in his gloved one and waits like a silent sentry. With his helmet on, Sev can’t make his voice gentle, only quiet.
