Prompt: New Year's Tradition
Wordcount: 2.3K
Pairing: Captain Fordo/Reader
Rating: G
AO3 Link
Note: Ok, so I didn't make the Advent challenge in time, @merlincmgirl, so I made a New Year's story instead for Captain Fordo. Thank you for inspiring me to craft a short tale. I've desperately needed to get back to writing. Enjoy!
Note, Part Deux: It's my life's mission to ensure that @yukipri's vision of Fordo with a mohawk becomes canon.
“All right, I’m off! Good work today, you’re fitting in great!”
You wave to your clinic partner, a bubbly Pantoran with pink hair that spends more time ogling her patients than actually treating them.
It’s the end of the cycle and all of the nat-born staff on Tipoca City were hurrying to catch the last shuttle off planet to celebrate the Galactic New Year anywhere but here. Except you, because you’ve only been on planet for a few rotations, brought in by Grand Army medical staff to cover end of year activities. Commandos and ARC troopers had been filtering through the clinic for most of the week, getting blood tests and sent back to the field. The war machine doesn't stop just for a soldier's physical.
You approach the door, glad that the long day on your feet was complete and excited for a hot shower and a quiet evening of watching New Year’s celebration holos. But the door slides open, and before you can stop yourself, you walk into a man-shaped wall. Firm hands grasp at your shoulders as you look up to see who would dare to touch a medical staff member.
Head and shoulders taller than you, your eyes take in the large man wrapped in red and white armor. His hands gently squeeze you again before relinquishing their hold. He reaches up and releases the seal on his helmet, pulling it off and shaking out his non-regulation hair.
“Got time for one more?”
He brushes past you into the room, and rests his hip on the table, setting his bucket down to run his hands over his hair again. You’ve seen all kinds of clones walk through this clinic, but this soldier is different, all the way up to his flattened mohawk. He presents his left arm as you approach, allowing you to scan his identification.
“I’m sorry, soldier, but…” you say as the scan on your pad states his designation as ‘A-77’.
He interjects, his voice a little too friendly for someone attempting to correct you. “Captain.”
You heard the word, but it didn’t register over his lack of manners. “What?”
“You said soldier. I’m a captain.”
You look at him this time. Large pauldrons frame his shoulders. His long, thick torso is circled at the waist with a red and black kama. If you squint, you can see dual blasters hanging in their holsters at his hips. He initially reminds you of the commandos you’ve worked with all week, except he’s not built like a soldier developed for special forces. He’s constructed like a one-man army, potentially replacing an entire commando unit on his own. In your most recent experiences, they all have that cocky confidence like they can take down a battalion of droids by themselves, but looking at this man, you’re pretty sure he actually could.
“Well, Captain, the clinic is closed for the evening.”
He reaches into a pouch in his belt, and pulls out what looks like a sucker. He rips off the wrapper and pops it in his mouth. “Look,” he pulls the sucker out of his mouth, and holds it out to you. You wrinkle your nose at the offer. “I gotta catch the first shuttle out in the morning. Longnecks won’t let me leave until I give my yearly donation. Two minutes, and I’m out of your hair and you can get on with what I assume is an exciting evening in the mess hall.”
You almost drop the data pad at his audacity. “Excuse me?”
He’s already pulling off his gloves, leaving them with his helmet as he moves to the neighboring bed. “Where’s the med droid? It’ll be faster.”
You’d dealt with brash insensitive men all week. The doctor you had replaced made sure you were informed about your new patient base, and this captain was the perfect example of that alpha male. You set down the data pad and push your glasses up into your hair. “We are closed. We’ll re-open at sunrise tomorrow. Please come by then and we can take care of you before the first shuttle leaves. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
You turn to leave him alone in the clinic when your comm goes off. The tinkling is quick, and the incoming holo appeared before you could stop the message. Your best friend’s face comes into view, and you can see the crowds of people moving around her.
“Oh dank,” you mutter before she starts speaking, elaborating about the fantastic parties she’s attending on Coruscant tonight. You glance back to see the soldier watching you with one eyebrow raised. You start pressing buttons, trying to find anything that will stop the message from playing.
The view shifts and you can see tiny holographic fireworks displayed. You can hear your friend squealing as she tries to describe the show. Finally, you find the correct button and manage to disable the rest of the message. You look up to find the captain sitting with his arms crossed, watching your reactions.
“You from Triple Zero?” he asks. For the first time, he appears interested in you. “I hear Galactic New Year there is a complete shit show, full of debauchery and degenerates.”
With a sigh, you approach to stand before him. “No, but I was supposed to be there tonight. Last minute transfer to Kamino cancelled those plans.”
He continued watching you, carefully assessing the bags under your eyes and the perceived stress tightening your shoulders. “Then how about this, you run my blood and you can tell me about new year on your planet. I could use the distraction.”
You could see the hint of a smile on his stern face, giving you just a peek at the humanity inside. Maybe he figured out the arrogant routine wasn’t going to work here.
“Fine,” you concede. You walk to the scanner and turn it on while you track down a lancet and a couple of empty vials. When you return with the tray of supplies, he’s watching the door. You’re uncertain if he’s expecting someone to enter or if it’s just part of his training, always aware of his surroundings and entry points. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you grasp his warm hand to swipe the back with alcohol, prepping the skin for penetration.
“New Year’s is a time for quiet, private moments where I come from,” you state as you puncture the back of his hand, letting the needle do its work. “We celebrate new beginnings in the stillness, letting the silence guide our choices for the next cycle. It’s a time when people come together to reaffirm what they are to one another.”
The first vial fills, and you swap it for the next one. Looking up, you can see the captain is still watching you, attentive to what you’re telling him but clearly confused by your explanation. “What does that mean?”
You’ve never had to describe the rites to another person; it’s actually taboo to discuss it with outsiders. Every culture has their own mating rituals. You didn’t learn about this piece of your culture until the Crossing rites when you became an adult.
You tried to think of a different way to explain it. “It’s about finding someone that can share your hopes, and can help overcome your fears. And in time, that partner will help keep the community thriving.”
The second vial fills, and you pull it free with the lancet. Setting them both on the tray, you take a small can of bacta spray and apply it to his hand, careful to wipe away the tiny bubble of blood sitting atop his skin. His fingers grip yours slightly when you turn to grab the tray.
“Look doc, I’m just an old soldier, care to dumb that down for me?”
You blush unintentionally. His brow raises again at your response, but you step back with the tray and move to the scanner, depositing the two vials inside and press the button to start the machine’s analysis.
You can’t look at him, feeling embarrassed by the subject. “It’s a fertility rite for my people,” you rush through the words, proceeding before he can comment. “I should be home right now with my partner, creating the next generation.”
The clinic is quiet but for the soft sounds of the scanner. You hear the rustle of fabric as the captain slides off of the bed, the sound of his heavy boots click against the tiled floor. You still can’t bear to turn around as he moves around the space.
“Well, that sure sounds nice, doc. Different kind of duty than what we’re used to.”
You smile slightly, setting the empty tray on the table and pick up your data pad so you can monitor the blood analysis. When you finally turn back to him, there’s something like sorrow on his face, like a man that knows there are things he’ll never experience in this life. “Well, it’s not all bad. You’re safe on Kamino for the New Year rather than on a battlefield.”
“Safe,” he scoffs, the word laced with derision. “I guess that’s one way to look at it. But this is my duty. I can’t serve on the battlefield if I don’t pass this test.”
You consider his choice of words, and you finally turn to give him your attention. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know why you’re doing these blood tests at the end of the year?”
Your blank stare clearly showed you had no idea what he’s talking about.
“The Spindles refer to it as Cycle Zero. They clean house, remove things that are no longer necessary and purge items that miss their quality standards. For my brothers, that means genetic testing to make sure there’s no defects in our code.”
Your immediate reaction is to cover your mouth, trying to hide your shock. “And if there are?”
The captain simply shrugged his shoulders, like this was a known occurrence. “Reassignment and potential decommissioning.”
This was not listed in your reassignment, and the outgoing doctor didn’t let on either. She had explained it as ‘yearly physicals’, that’s it. You were here to make sure all clones in a leadership position were healthy to continue fighting another day in the name of the Galactic Republic.
Your chest was tight thinking about the other clones you had treated that week, especially the men with tests that had triggered ‘follow-ups’ with the Kaminoan staff. “That’s horrible!”
The captain moved to the receptacle and threw away the remnants of his sucker. “Save your compassion, doc. The longnecks will ship you back to where you came from if they see any emotional weakness in their medical staff. It’s a luxury neither of us can afford.”
Your heart was pounding in your chest. You grip the front of your lab coat, trying to get your emotional response under control, but the first tear is already trailing down your cheek thinking about the defeated faces of the men you had sent for follow-up. The captain’s eyes soften as he approaches you when the scanner gave its final sequence of beeps, signaling the end of the test. You couldn’t bring the data pad back up to look at the results. Your mind was still filled with his words. This went against everything you were raised to believe. Hope for the future, excitement for what the new year would bring. Not a potential death sentence.
“You not going to check that?”
Your eyes raise to his, noticing his outstretched hand reaching for the data pad. Suddenly, the door to the clinic slid open, and another large soldier stepped inside. Your eyes caught on his armor, similar to the captain’s, but edged in blue instead of red.
His rich voice filled the space with urgency. “You good in here?”
“Was about to find out.”
Both men are staring at you. Your hand is shaking. Bile is lurching in your throat. The data pad is gently removed from your grasp. You’re fighting to take a breath when his rough palm slides against your jaw, drawing your attention to his warm brown eyes. You watch the captain as his eyes scan his results.
“Yeah, I’m good here. Be out in a minute.”
You don't notice when the other soldier walks away. Your heart is still racing as he sets the data pad down. You can see the green checks on the screen, marking the captain as genetically cleared to return to the field.
“So, where’s your partner?”
The question catches you off guard, thankfully breaking your thought spiral. “My what?”
“It’s New Year’s, where’s your partner?”
More tears are falling, and his thumb gently swipes them from your cheek. He pulls his gloves back on and grabs his helmet before turning to follow the other soldier.
You manage to find your words. “What’s your name, Captain?”
He stops at the door as he tucks the bucket under his arm. “Fordo.”
You nod as you reach for a tissue on your desk. Fordo sighs and drops the helmet back on his head. “Look doc, don’t stay here alone. That’s a shitty way to ring in a new year.”
Your eyes drop to the floor as you felt your sadness start to turn into fury. “Says the man that just found out he gets to live for another year?”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed in that modulated voice as he turned to you again. “I could die on the field tomorrow, but I still get to have today.”
Fordo walked back into the clinic, not stopping until he could reach out that large hand to squeeze your arm. The calming effect was instant, and as you looked to his helmet, you tried to imagine his eyes inside.
“Now, this man will be back in a couple of rotations if you’d like to continue this conversation. I know a quiet spot next dome over. I’ll bring the ration bars if you can smuggle in the nerf milk.”
The shift in mood was a blessing, and you could only answer with a nod as you tried to contain your sniffles. Looking up, Fordo mirrored your response, then let you go. The spot on your arm was still warm as the door slide open and he offered you a final wave.
“Happy new year, doc.”
The door slid shut before you could respond. Sitting back against your desk, you whisper to the empty space, “Happy new year, Fordo.”
Arms tucked across her dampened jacket, the young woman reclined back against the pockmarked wall, barely sheltered from the steadily pattering rain. Cast off from every heavy drop plopping onto the unpaved street, dirt splattered across the dark leather of her well worn boots. A chill was slowly snaking its way into her garments, invited by the wet and her lack of action. Yet still, she waited.
Hazel gaze carefully scanned the unmaintained street, a typical small city on a typical outer rim planet, remaining in the painstaking balance between appearing too watchful and failing to completely observe. Jaina not only searched for her contact, but also the faces of those that she knew might be in the vicinity who she would hate to meet here and now. Boredom plucked at the corners of her mind, but she couldn’t give into it, not yet.
Unusual armor slipped into the corner of her eyes, drawing her attention instantly. A mercenary, his posture and gait gave it as much away as his signature and attire. He nearly appeared… Mandalorian. Not quite, but nearly there, a rarity to be sure. Stepping off the wall, she knew she needed to assess. ❝ Hey there, ❞ her tone took on a cheery, welcoming tone, ❝ Any chance you’re looking for a job? ❞
The smaller lithe form, armored to the teeth in scorched durasteel, backs away on heavy heel. Heart pounds in her chest, memories flooding so painfully back to the surface as the crackling red blade of her saber springs to life. In defense of some non-existent sleight.
@arc-77
“I thought it fitting to commemorate, if only briefly, your nine years of command service. Congratulations, Sir! And please excuse the holo-fetti, I wasn't permitted to bring the real thing on board."
