For as long as he can remember, Tup can't help but sometimes laugh at how serious Dogma can be. It's endearing and very cute - much to the chagrin of his partner. Even with the deaths of the Jedi and the rise of an Empire that cast aside the very clones they used to take over the galaxy, that feeling has not changed.
I like Clones speaking Mando'a. I like Clones taking parts of Mandalorian culture and merging it with their own. I like Dogma and Tup. I especially like Dogma and Tup being alive and in love and getting together (:
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I also like fics/fanart of post-order 66 Dogma with long hair.
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Tup: Mhi solus tome-
Dogma: "Tome".
T: Huh?
D: "Tome". You said it incorrectly.
T: Oh! Right. Lemme start again. Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome-
D: "Dar'tome".
T: Mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'di - hehe
D: Tup.
T: Mhi me'dinui - haha
D: Tup, be serious.
T: hehe - I'm - haha - sorry! Haha! Just - haha - just give me a sec - haha!
Our story began when Clone Commando Gregor was presumed lost after his courageous sacrifice on Abafar. I had recently been assigned as a medic to the 104th battalion. And when a faint signal indicated his survival, I knew I had to interveneâno matter the cost.
Written by MAE || Illustrated by LEENA
Warnings: Descriptions of injuries
He sighed again. Since the moment Callie stepped into his sterile and meticulously organized office aboard the Venator, Commander Wolffe had let out seven audible sighs, each more irritated than the last. She had been keeping track. Better to silently count than speak up and risk all out war. This latest exhale, heavy and sharp, twisted his mouth into a sneer and his brow into a deeper scowl. It also brought the count to eight.
âCommander-â
âSilence,â he snapped, voice low and edged like durasteel.Â
He didnât look up from the data tablet in his hand. The report he reviewed cast a dim glow in the sterile lighting, lines of tactical information scrolling under the rapid scan of his mismatched eyes. The cybernetic one moved in quick, unnatural flicks âfaster than the human eye beside it. The effect was⊠unsettling. Disjointed. Like watching a clock ticking out of rhythm with itself.
It explained the constant tension in Wolffeâs brow, the deep-set crease that never seemed to leave his face. He needed a recalibration, that much was obvious. Callie suspected it was the source of the tension headaches he refused to acknowledge. She could do it in minutes. But the odds of Wolffe letting her â or anyone â near his prosthetic were slim to none. He was fiercely private about it. Possessive, even.Â
âBut-â
âDonât test my patience. Itâs already worn thinner than ration-paper, Lieutenant,â Wolffe growled.
Then he reached without ceremony for the steaming cup of caf sheâd placed on the corner of his desk. He didnât thank her, of course. He never did. The fact that he reached for it at all said enough. Callie had learned quickly: never show up to his office empty-handed. He drank the caf in long, scalding gulps like a man at war with his own exhaustion. The burning fluid, his munitions. His scalded throat, the collateral damage.
Callieâs jaw snapped shut with a click. She hadnât realized sheâd been gaping until that moment, frozen in place as her eyes locked on the Commanderâs weathered, tan hands gripping the pen like it had personally offended him. The silence in the room stretched taut, broken only by the scratch of the stylist against flimsi. Every controlled movement he made radiated barely restrained fury.
Sheâd been summoned the moment she exited the intensive care unit. No time to clean up, her uniform still dirty. Report immediately. Do not delay. The trooper who escorted her â Sinker â hadnât said a word the entire walk to Wolffeâs office. His gaze avoided hers with deliberate effort. He kept glancing toward the hallwayâs corners, the walls, anywhere but at her. That, more than anything, told her just how bad this was.
They hadnât cuffed her, not yet at least, but it felt close. The silence, the unsaid weight in the air, the precision with which the escort was arranged, it wasnât protocol. It was prelude. She knew what sheâd done. It had been a calculated risk. One sheâd made under pressure, with lives on the line and instinct screaming louder than protocol. But defying a direct order, defying his order, that wasnât the kind of thing that got swept under the durasteel floor of a starship. Especially not when the entire fleet had witnessed it. Not when high-ranking officers were present.
Now, sitting rigid under his scrutiny, she was about to face whatever consequences a man like Wolffe, one of the most respected commanders in the entire Grand Army of the Republic, deemed appropriate. Her throat felt dry, but she didnât dare swallow. Not yet. The silence between them was razor-thin, stretched to its breaking point. Finally, Wolffe exhaled, not another sigh of frustration, but something heavier.
âAt least tell me heâs stable,â he muttered, low and gravelly.
His eyes finally lifted to meet hers, still hard as durasteel but the edge had dulled. Not quite soft, but no longer sharpened to cut. It wasnât a truce. Nor was it mercy. A crack had formed in his wall.
Callie opened her mouth, hesitant. âSir-â
âI asked you a question, Lieutenant Kestral,â he cut in, sharper again. Formal. Cold.
The sudden shift back to protocol hit harder than a slap. She straightened instinctively, spine stiffening as though bracing for impact. The use of her rank wasnât just a reminder of the chain of command, it was a warning. A boundary being reasserted.
âHe is stable,â she replied, voice clipped but steady.
The words lingered in the air between them, more fragile than sheâd intended. Because despite her answer, they both knew âstableâ didnât mean âsafe.â It didnât mean âout of the woods.â It just meant not dead. Not yet. From the look in Wolffeâs eyes as he looked away, she knew he understood it.
Wolffe was silent again. The kind of silence that made the skin between her shoulder blades itch and the hair on the back of her neck raised. He didnât look down at the report this time. Instead, he slowly set the stylus aside with care, then placed the tablet on the desk in front of him face down. The gesture was small, but felt significant. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked onto her like targeting coordinates settling on a mark. Not hostile but intense enough to make her pulse quicken.
âWhy?â he asked at last.
Just one word, which carried with it more weight than the drawn out reprimand sheâd been expecting. No rank this time. No barking orders. Just a raw, quiet demand for truth. Callie felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, cautious breath. Her throat was still tight, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. The cybernetic one flickered slightly, adjusting focus. The dark human one narrowed, waiting.
âI made a judgment call. I had intel you didnât. Real-time updates. If Iâd waited for permission we wouldâve lost him.â she said evenly, but her voice betrayed a trace of something she hadnât had time to process. She noticed his jaw tighten. So she added, âI didnât do it to undermine you, I did it because his sacrifice saved all our lives.â
A long, heavy silence settled between them. Wolffe didnât speak, didnât move. For a moment, she couldnât tell if sheâd made things better or worse. Then, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on her like he was trying to read past the surface and down into the core of her.Â
âYou broke rank,â Wolffe said.Â
âI know,â Callie replied.
âIn front of my men. In front of senior officers.â He said.
âI know,â she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper now.
He didnât raise his voice. Didnât lash out. He didnât need to. His silence was louder than shouting. And still, she stood her ground. Because no matter how much trouble she was in now, sheâd make the same call again.
âWe have rules. Structure. Protocol. Order. I canât have medics deploying themselves on instinct and a prayer, hoping to save one man.â Wolffe said, his voice quiet but unwavering. His tone steady. Each word landed with the force of something carved in stone.Â
Then Wolffe picked up the tablet again, posture returning to rigid formality, but the moment of focus--of almost human connection--still lingered in the air between them. She tensed, expecting the worst. A formal dismissal from her post. No, a disciplinary removal. The Grand Army didnât tend to tolerate insubordination, especially not when it happened in front of witnesses. Instead, he read from the screen, voice neutral and clinical.Â
âYou will receive a formal mark of disciplinary action on your service record. You will be suspended from field deployment for thirty standard rotations. You will undergo an updated psychological evaluation before you are cleared for independent medical operations. Andââ he paused, briefly glancing up at her ââyou will attend continued leadership debriefings to determine if you will be permanently reassigned.âÂ
Callie blinked. That was it? No demotion? No official permanent reassignment? Not even a formal tribunal? In GAR terms, it was barely more than a slap on the wrist. Maybe a firm talking-to. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it. This wasnât what she'd expected. It wasnât even close.
âBut sir-â
âI advise you to think very carefully before you finish that sentence, Callie,â Wolffe said, cutting her off with a groan as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He didnât even look up. She froze at the use of her first name. Callie, not Lieutenant Kestral. It wasnât an accident. It wasnât protocol. It was personal.Â
âThat seems like... a light punishment,â she said cautiously.
He looked up sharply, the edge of his cybernetic eye catching the overhead light. âDo you want me to increase it?â he snapped.Â
âNo, sir. I justâŠâ She hesitated, studying his face, trying to read the thoughts behind his expression. âIâm just⊠confused.âÂ
Wolffe didnât reply. His gaze held hers for a moment longer, and then dropped back to the tablet. Not a dismissal, not quite. The silence pressed in again, dense, uncertain. Then Wolffe spoke, his tone clipped, all business. âIf anyone asks, you were granted retroactive permission under Tactical Protective Directive 0-9.âÂ
Callie blinked. âWhat?âÂ
âHe survived,â Wolffe replied. His gaze remained fixed on the tablet and his voice grew more deliberate. âIf Separatist intelligence had caught wind of that, heâd have been marked as a high-value target. A liability. You have been retroactively granted authority to intervene, on the grounds of protecting a compromised asset.â
He paused, then looked up, waiting until her eyes met his. That same sharp stare, softened only by the gravity behind it. âBut donât ever do it again,â his voice dropped a notch, call and cold. âYouâll be out of here faster than you can say kriff. Got it?âÂ
Callie swallowed. âYes, sir,â she said, her nod slow and deliberate.Â
âYouâre dismissed. Report back to your patient. I expect a full medical workup on his progress before end-of-cycle.â He said.
She hesitated. âI thought we were transferring him to an Outer Rim med facility and redeploying with the fleet?âÂ
âWe are,â Wolffe replied, setting the tablet aside once more. âYou are staying with the trooper.â
Her breath caught. âSir?âÂ
âNot my call,â he said, already looking back down at the screen. âOrders came in while you were en route to my office. You're to remain at the station and oversee his treatment personally.â
Callieâs thoughts raced, the implications slamming into her one after another. If she stayed behind, sheâd be cut off from her team. From the front. From the war.
Wolffe continued, eyes still fixed on the screen in front of him, âYouâll rejoin us once he reaches Recovery Level Three. Until then, station duty.â
Callie stood frozen for a breath too long, the words settling in her mind like dust. She wasnât sure how to respond. She wasnât even sure what response would be appropriate. Eventually, she managed a small nod. âThank you, Commander.â She said.
âDonât thank me,â he responded.
âBut, sir--â
Wolffe finally glanced up, his gaze steady. âLook. You went out of your way to help one of us. That matters, even if you went about it the wrong way.â A beat passed. His lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like a grim acknowledgment. âWeâll call it even. Alright?â
Callie blinked. For a man like Wolffe, that was the closest thing to forgiveness she was ever going to get.
âOkay,â she said softly.
âYouâre dismissed.â He said.
Callie nodded again and then turned before he could change his mind. Her boots echoed lightly against the polished floor as she crossed the room and reached the door. She didnât look back. If she did, she might start asking questions neither of them had answers to.
Once she was through the threshold, the tension sheâd been carrying finally began to crack. This last rotation â everything from the mission, to the medbay, to now â settled on her. The weight of it slumped her shoulders, hunched her back. Why? Why did she do it? What was she thinking? And what would happen now?
It felt like the galaxy had shifted a few degrees out of alignment and she had to make sense of it. Station duty. Isolation from yet another legion sheâd grown closer to. Sheâd be on her own again. Except, that wasnât trueâŠ
The trooper.
He would have died on Abafar. If not for her that is. Her mind drifted. Her thoughts focused on the moments after the explosion.
The ship trembled from the aftershock of the explosion when it happened. Sirens faded. The chaos had quieted just enough for reality to set in, but Callie hadnât even gotten that far. She was standing in a corridor outside the medbay, dazed, when the little WAC droid had bounded up to her, his small mechanical limbs clicking with urgency.
âMedic!â he chirped, almost cheerfully, as if he were announcing a victory and not a disaster. âA clone saved us! Quite the heroic display, really!âÂ
Callie barely heard him over the rush in her ears. Her mind had snagged on two words: saved us. Her stomach twisted. Sheâd assumed, maybe even hoped, that someone had already responded. That recovery teams were already mobilizing. That comms were relaying coordinates. That someone was doing something. But no.
When she checked the mission logs, her numb fingers tapping through the data, there was nothing. No deployment orders. No medevac notice. No beacon signals sent planetside. No one had gone after him. That lack of action, more than the explosion or the droidâs rambling, was what broke her.
She didnât remember making the decision. One minute she was staring at the screen in disbelief, the next she was in the hangar bay, climbing into one of the auxiliary transports. She had barely trained on the controls, and flew the damn thing running on pure instinct. Her hands shook as she keyed in a basic descent pattern, her breathing shallow and mechanical as she coaxed the vessel into launching. All she had was a vague approximation of where the squad had been last seen and a few topographic references from the WAC droid's rambling. It wasnât much.
The surface of the planet was still scarred, still bleeding in its own way. Smoke curled from the remains of the skirmish, rising in slow tendrils that painted the horizon in shades of gray. Ash stuck to her boots as she moved through the outskirts of what barely qualified as a settlement, the air thick with the acrid sting of scorched metal and something worse, something human. And then she saw him. Collapsed amid the rubble and ruin, armor scorched and broken, but unmistakably alive.
The trooper wasnât moving much, just the shallow rise and fall of his chest under the plastoid plates of his armor, a twitch of fingers that hadnât yet given up. His helmet had been knocked off, and blood traced a dark line down the side of his face, mixing with soot. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but open.
Callie dropped to her knees beside him without a second thought. Only the bare essentials in her med kit. No field support. Just her hands and her training and the raw, consuming instinct that she had to do something.Â
She did it because no one else had.
Because in a war where lives were tallied like numbers on a screen, someone had to remember that every number had a name.Â
And his, was Gregor.Â
⊠. âș ć âș . âŠ
The world had tilted askew.Â
Or maybe he had.
It was hard to tell with the gray sky spinning like that.
The ground beneath him was uneven, cold through the ruined armor at his back. Ash stuck to his skin, to his throat, to his tongue, bitter and metallic. Every breath came thin and hot, like he was dragging air through smoke and glass. His ears rang. Constantly. Like something inside his head had burst and never stopped screaming. The last thing he remembered clearly was the explosion. Heat, a blinding and violent light, and then silence. Not the kind that comes from peace, but the kind that follows when everything else has been torn away.Â
And now there were fragments. Snatches of sensation. The pulse of pain in his ribs, sharp and hot. The weight in his chest could have been a collapsed lung, or could just be fear. He didnât know. Couldnât think straight. His vision swam whenever he opened his eyes, distorted by sweat and blood and concussion.
Light stabbed into his skull when he tried to move. His limbs felt disconnected, like heâd been unplugged and scattered. He couldnât even remember if the mission had been a success. All he knew was that he was likely going to die here. He had planned to die. That last push, throwing himself between the droid squad and the blast radius, well, he knew he wouldn't survive it. He did it because there hadnât been time to think. He had a mission. His last, as he saw it. Get those important out of the fray.
So when he heard the footsteps, quick and light across the shattered terrain, he thought maybe his brain was misfiring. A hallucination, the last dying spark conjuring images of a rescue he didnât deserve. Then the steps kept coming. Closer. Real.
He tried to lift his head but only managed to twitch. The pain sharpened, and the world narrowed to a pulse behind his eyes. He gasped, at least he thought he did. It came out broken, more like a wheeze. He couldnât call for help. Couldnât warn them if the droids were still nearby.Â
A pair of hands landed on his chest, tentative but firm, pressing lightly against the cracked plates of his armor. Not searching for weapons. Not looting. Assessing. There was pressure along the line of his collarbone. Fingers slipped under his pauldron. They stopped at the side of his neck. Pulse check. The contact was clinical, but not cold. She was gentle, despite the urgency in her movements.Â
He blinked, vision clearing for the briefest moment. Just long enough to see a blurred silhouette against the rising smoke, crouched over him like a shadow given shape. Light framed her from behind, haloing the figure in gold, though it was broken by the dark outline of her frame. Shorter than him. No helmet. He couldnât make out her face. A voice reached him. Soft, then firmer. He couldnât process the words, only the rhythm. Steady. Focused. Human. She was speaking to him. Or maybe to herself. Her voice cracked once, but it didnât break.
Then he felt the sting of medspray against his side, the quick jerk of fabric as she tore open a sealed pack. Field dressing. She worked fast, sealing wounds, stabilizing where she could. Her hands trembled slightly when they touched bare skin. Nerves, probably. Still, she never stopped moving. She couldâve left. Couldâve waited for a real med team, waited for backup. She didnât. She had come alone. The droid⊠the one with the round head and endless commentary, hadnât he been on the ship? Had he told her? He couldnât hold the thought long enough. It slipped away like oil through fingers.
He tried to move again, to say something, anything, but his mouth didnât cooperate. His jaw worked, but only a rasp escaped. She looked down. She had noticed. Her hand gripped the strap of his chestplate, bracing him as she shifted. The angle gave him one last glimpse of her face, just a glimpse, but he caught the glint of something silver pinned to her collar. A medicâs badge. GAR. Her eyes, too. They were sharp and tired and burning with something that looked a lot like anger. Anger that heâd been left behind. Anger that no one else had come.
She had.Â
She wasnât part of his squad. He didnât know her name. He couldnât even see her clearly. In that moment, as the world spun sideways again and his consciousness slipped into the dark, that didn't matter. Someone came back for him.
In a galaxy where soldiers were built to be expendable, that meant everything.
happy clonemas! may i request dogma, tup, and sentence 28? thank you! âš
Well, I'm finally doing this đ thank you very much for the prompt 𫶠and for organising this little event!!
For the 7th day of Clonemas, Kamino gave me: Dogma is there when Tup's chip malfunctions, and it changes almost nothing (yes, there's angst under the cut). AO3
Tup woke with a start. His armor was digging uncomfortably into his ribs. Why was he still wearing it? Oh, if heâd fallen asleep during guard duty, Dogma would rip him a new oneâŠ
He went to sit upâand found he couldnât. There was something looped around his chest, pressing him down onto the cot or whatever it was he was lying on. Thinking was hard, too. His thoughts moved slowly, sluggishly, like blaster grease dripping out of a container. He struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids weighed heavy, slipping closed again any time he blinked into the white, sterile glare surrounding him.
Medbay? Perhaps he was injured. Not dying, thoughâhe wasnât hurting, not at all. Then why medbay?
He tried to sit up another time, even though his head swam and his vision fractured at the edges any time he got an eye open. But the thing across his chest was still there, and now he could feel one around his legs, too. Holding him down. Restraining him.
Tup wasnât usually one to panic. Usually.
âBreathe.â
A hand came to rest atop his heaving chestplate. It pressed down, making him exhale, before it lightened again, directing the rhythm of the air rushing in and out of his lungs.
Tup still choked on the pounding of his own heartbeat in his throat. âDogma?â
âRight here.â The hand caught his own. A warm palm wrapped around Tupâs. A strong thumb began to rub circles into the tender skin of his wrist.
Tup swallowed down the tightening of his throat. âAm I in trouble?â
Dogma didnât answer immediately, as if he was taking a breath. When he did, however, he sounded so sure Tup could only believe him.
âNo. Youâre not in trouble.â His hand was squeezed. Tup would have preferred the touch of Dogmaâs lips against his own, no matter how chapped and chaste, but his heart unwound in his chest, anyway. âGo back to sleep.â
Tup smiled, already feeling the effect Dogmaâs deep, soothing tone was having on him. âAlright. Love you.â
He didnât hear Dogma say it back before sleep overwhelmed him once more. He didnât need to.
Dogma was here. They were both safe, and that was all that mattered.
Everything was going to be alright.
Dogma stared down at Tupâs fever-slick face. It blurred in his vision when hot, thick moisture suddenly beaded in the corners of his eyes. Confused, he wiped at his face, dampening his gloves.
SomeoneâFivesâtook his elbow, pulled his hand from Tupâs grasp and began steering him toward the door. âYou did well calming him down,â the ARC was saying, voice close and yet so far away. âGo get some rest now. Weâll call you if we need you again.â
Dogma twisted, trying to get one last look at Kix and Rex standing over Tup restrained on the hovercot. âIs he going to be alright? Can you tell me?â
Tupâs lips were moving, like heâd begun to murmur under his breath again. Like heâd started doing right before heâd pushed Dogma aside, leveled his blaster at General Tiplar and shot her, just like that.
Good soldiers follow orders.
âSure,â Fives was saying without looking Dogma in the eye. âHeâll be fine.â
âCan Iâ?â Dogma began, but Fives led him the rest of the way out into the hallway and let go of his elbow like heâd been burned before he stepped back and toggled the control panel in the wall. The door to the medbay slid closed, shutting Dogma out.
Good soldiers follow orders.
Youâre not in trouble. Go back to sleep.
Dogma didnât return to his bunk in the barracks. He just stood there, in the empty hallway, hand that had been holding Tupâs only heartbeats beforeâjust like Kix had told him toâclenched into a fist.
Togma as suggested by @clonewarswriter. Maybe. I usually default to the fluffy interpretation of a pose, so this probably isnât what either of us expected. >w> Pose ref from this collection.Â
origamiaround
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
