seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Switzerland
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
Baby need smoko
Happy Fixer day I guess
Oh yeah credit to @leafdupe for this mini event yeuay
🍪 Contributor Previews 🍪
Our next batch of contributor previews have been prepared for your sampling pleasure!
🥧@chocomars has baked our second stretch goal - an adorable acrylic charm of Delta Squad. We are very close to reaching this goal - only a few more Full Batch orders, and all Full Batch orders will include this charm!
🍨Pidge has cooked a delightful serving of The Bad Batch
🥨@emperor-palpaminty has mixed together a piece featuring Captain Keeli
Preorders for Batched are open through October 31!
🧁Preorder here!🧁
Okay, so I finally get my shit together (and I'm trying to run away from my actual work) and made some nice progress in my embroidery project.
And here we are!
Can we just give Darman and Corr a 5 minutes silent? They turned out son fucking well! I'm so proud of it.
I'm currently working on At in and I feel kinda weird about him, but I think it will work out well.
It's quite relaxing to do only one colour for a period of time. I thought about making an Exel about how many of the helmets I made and how many of them are work in progress.
If you feel it you can add your own ideas, or oc-s helmet.
Thank you for following this project, I will come back soon.
OC-Tober Day 20: Trapped
Summary:
Shortly after hearing rumors of a new Separatist Malevolence, Patch, Boost, and Sinker are trapped in the Protector's lift, and Patch is fine. He has to be fine, because Sinker is not fine, and he needs to make sure his brothers are alright. He can break down later.
Patch knew they were in trouble when the lights went out.
He’d been walking to the bridge with Boost and Sinker for a briefing with Commander Wolffe, and they’d just entered the lift and pressed the button when the lift shuddered to a screeching halt. Stumbling from the sudden stop, Patch barely had a moment to think before the lift was plunged into darkness, aside from the faint light from the stars in the viewport.
“Everyone alright?” Patch asked, fiddling around in his medkit for the penlight he kept for concussion checks, grateful that he’d been in full gear that day. With a grunt of success, he pulled out his penlight, shining it on the ceiling so he could see the others a little better.
“Fine. You?” Boost responded, sounding a little breathless but otherwise alright, so Patch nodded to the other’s question. Sinker didn’t respond though, and it took Patch a moment to realize that Sinker had dropped to the floor, eyes glued to the view outside the viewport. It took another moment for Patch to realize that Sinker hadn’t breathed since the lights went out.
“Sinker, breathe vod.” Patch dropped to one knee next to Sinker, taking in the panicked look in his eyes. He started rubbing Sinker’s arms– not too hard, but firmly enough to get a response. It wasn’t long before Patch was able to get Sinker to respond with a sharp intake of air, but then he started having the opposite problem, chest heaving as his eyes darted around the cramped lift.
Eyebrows creasing in concern, Patch grimaced, pushing aside his own discomfort at the tight quarters and the faint glow from the viewport and the slowly encroaching feeling of the recycled air turning stale– his vod needed him. He could panic later.
There’d been whispers about the Separatists building a new Malevolence, and the Wolfpack had admittedly been more jumpy than usual as of late, Sinker included. This lift malfunction couldn’t have come at a worse time– and Sinker’s insomnia probably hadn’t been doing him any favors. Patch wasn’t the only one in the Wolfpack with triggers- his were just the most obvious. Their time in that escape pod had left its mark on all of them, but this time it was Sinker who was paying the price.
“Kriff,” Boost hissed, feeling a sharp pang of concern for his brother as he moved to stand between Sinker and the viewport despite the way it made him twitch to have the depths of space yawning behind him.
‘At least Patch seems to be doing okay,’ Boost mentally reassured himself.
So while Patch focused on helping Sinker, Boost tried to contact help, staying back as much as he could to avoid worsening any claustrophobia that Sinker might be feeling.
Meanwhile, Patch had managed to get Sinker into a better sitting position to maximize airflow, his back against the wall of the lift so he could stretch his legs out and feel a little bit less like the walls were closing in. When Sinker’s claustrophobia got the better of him, intense physical contact like a hug was one of the last things he wanted, but small things like checking his pulse or tracing symbols on his palm sometimes helped to bring him back to himself. Patch had started doing the latter, having removed one of his own gloves to trace circles in Sinker’s palm for Sinker to match his breathing to.
It seemed to be helping a little bit, but Sinker didn’t truly start to relax until Patch started humming a quiet tune he’d heard on the holonet the other day. He’d never been a particularly musically talented vod, but he could hold a tune well enough. Sometimes he’d use it to calm his own anxiety, even though he shied away from those thoughts now– he didn’t have time to break down, not when he had no idea how long they’d be stuck there, or how the rest of the ship was doing, or –
Patch pursed his lips together, pushing those thoughts down with more force, instead focusing on the brother in front of him, who’d glanced up when Patch’s humming had faded. At least his eyes were looking a little more focused, Patch noted with relief, giving Sinker an apologetic look before continuing.
It felt like hours, but couldn’t have been longer than fifteen minutes when they began to hear muffled voices outside the lift.
“We’re in here!” Boost yelled, banging on the doors enthusiastically, causing Patch and Sinker to flinch before exhaling in relief as the lift doors began to groan with the force of being pried open by a couple of maintenance troopers, and Patch was relieved to see one of the on-duty medics approaching. Boost must’ve made a call to medbay too, he realized, having been too preoccupied with Sinker’s wellbeing, and his own spiraling thoughts, to pay much attention beyond that.
It was a little awkward making their way out of the lift when it was stuck halfway between floors, but they made it work. As soon as he was sure that Sinker was in good hands– and Boost too, don’t think Patch hadn’t noticed the other’s shaking hands– Patch wandered away on trembling legs, looking for a quiet place to regain his own composure.
Fixer was the one to find him, because of course he was, discovering Patch curled up in a ball in the nearest supply closet, trembling like a leaf. He'd probably gone looking for him after Boost had contacted Wolffe- Patch had definitely missed their briefing at this point. Eyebrows pinching in concern, Fixer crouched down in front of Patch, reaching out to squeeze the hand that wasn’t gripping his gauntlet for dear life.
“What can I do, Patch?” He asked quietly. Each of his vode were different, when it came to receiving help, and while Patch was usually good with a hug, he wasn’t sure if it would set him off even worse after his recent experience.
“Grounding. H-helps,” Patch managed to say between panting gasps, trying and failing to regulate his own breathing, but it felt like the recycled air of the ship was all escaping out of the airlock, along with his sanity. He didn’t hesitate to hold onto Fixer’s hand with a tight grip, and when Fixer tugged on his arm lightly, pulling him forward just enough for Patch to know what he was offering, Patch immediately accepted the invitation to hug.
Burying himself in his vod’s arms, Patch couldn’t help but relax. The claustrophobia of an escape pod was very different from the warm embrace of his brother’s arms, at least to Patch, and even though he had a small moment of self-recrimination, Patch knew that Fixer always felt better when he could provide some physical assistance to his vode– he was a trooper of action, not of words. And aside from Wolffe– and maybe Fives– he gave the best hugs.
The emergency was over; Patch could let himself feel now.
So he did.
___________________________
AO3 Link:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pretty!
Is... is fixer still okay?
*rolls his eyes good-naturedly, sighing in exasperation* Define okay...
Fixer just got released from the medbay after trying to make modifications to the gunships again, accidentally electrocuting himself and almost causing a shipboard fire. He’s fine, but he needs to learn to stop fixing things that aren’t broken. Di’kut...
Wolf-pup Ch. 11
Chapter Summary:
Dogma had been a part of the 104th for nearly four months by the time their first real shore leave came around. They spent so much time in transit that apparently the powers-that-be considered it less necessary than some other battalions, but all things told, Dogma was looking forward to it.
Final chapter of this fic!!!
Chapter 11: Enough
When General Plo found Wolffe waiting outside his quarters after latemeal the next day, he wasn’t exactly surprised.
“I want to see the reports.” Wolffe stated, standing firm with his hands clasped behind his back. General Plo didn’t have to ask which ones— honestly he’s surprised that Wolffe had managed to wait this long. He gave Wolffe a measured look through his goggles and waited for him to explain.
Wolffe’s expression tightened with concern, skin pinching around his scar. “I don’t— Dogma’s been through enough, and I… I hate seeing him hurting without knowing why. And I hate making it worse.”
He paused for a long moment before continuing. “The kid still hasn’t painted his armor, and I just… want to make sure it’s not anything we’re doing wrong, to make him feel like he doesn’t belong…” Wolffe’s eyes trailed down to the ground, at least until a firm hand on his shoulder prompted him to look up again.
“You are a good Commander, Wolffe, and a good brother.” General Plo rumbled quietly, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. Warmth spread from his hand, and Wolffe knew the General’s eyes were examining his own. “Dogma has made much progress in recent weeks, and I sense that he appreciates the Wolfpack’s care. His hesitations are not on you… rather, the transgressions of the Jedi, I fear.”
Wolffe blinked, confused. “What do you mean, General?”
Plo Koon released a breath through his rebreather, almost a sigh, and his expression tightened in what Wolffe finally recognized as anger, brain stuttering in surprise.
Finally, he gestured inside his quarters, beckoning Wolffe to follow. “Come, my son. We have much to discuss.”
—————————————————
Skin buzzing and feet pounding as he channeled his frustration onto the treadmill, Wolffe nearly roared in anger as he thought of what he’d learned. Already much faster than his usual pace, upped the speed despite the hitch in his side, hoping to drown out the thunderous rage threatening to engulf him.
What the 501st had gone through— what Rex, and even Dogma had been through— he banged a hand on the side of the treadmill before prompting it to go even faster until his breathing felt ragged and all his muscles were burning.
Slamming a hand down on the shut-off pad, he leaned forward until his head made contact with the support bars, hands gripping the sides with a vicelike grip as what he had seen flashed through his head.
The file the General had shown him– still half-osik after the GAR’s security council was done with it– had painted a stark picture, one with Dogma right in the middle of it. General Plo hadn’t been there in-person when the report had been given, but he’d shared with Wolffe quietly, how Captain Rex, always so steady and sure, hadn’t been able to meet their eyes during the mission debrief. General Plo had cautioned him against watching the helmet vids from when they’d taken the darjetii demagolka down, the besalisk’s limbs easily the size of Dogma’s torso. After watching that, he understood Dogma’s kneejerk reaction to lightsabers all too well.
Wolffe’s only solace was the report of a single blaster bolt burning through Krell’s back with a sense of finality, and even that made his stomach churn with guilt– feeling relieved at Dogma’s expense, grieving for the near-shiny he’d been before everything had been stripped away. Before his whole life had been reduced to the Clone Product who killed a Jedi General. Who would’ve been sentenced to death if not for a last-ditch effort from Captain Rex and the Jedi Council to schedule his sentence with the Coruscant Detention Center’s general prison population. After all, a death sentence could take years to get through their system, and nobody would bat an eye at an untimely death, putting a trooper in general population.
Wolffe couldn’t even imagine what that had been like– that month-long gap between the Umbara campaign and when a new shiny had shown up in the 104th. But he’d seen the scars, and the kid still flinched instinctively at lights out. So many of Dogma’s reactions made sense now, as much as Wolffe grieved for it.
And Wolffe knew grief; on his worst days, it still threatened to swallow him whole, especially after the Malevolence attack, but grief was a familiar companion in death, almost preferable to the bone-aching limbo of continual injustice… injustice that Wolffe tried not to think about, in a battalion with a General as good as theirs.
Dogma had been through so much, much more than anyone should have on their shoulders, and even though Wolffe despaired at what the vod’ika had been put through, he refused to regret the knowing.
Throat raw and legs wobbling, Wolffe’s tired body carried him through the rote movements of showering and returning to his bunk, long after the others had turned in for the night. Mind numb from the thoughts still racing through it, Wolffe knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night, but as his eyes drifted, he focused on the gentle rise and fall of Dogma’s chest, and for now, that was enough.
It had to be.
————————————————
Dogma had been a part of the 104th for nearly four months by the time their first real shore leave came around. They spent so much time in transit that apparently the powers-that-be considered it less necessary than some other battalions, but all things told, Dogma was looking forward to it.
He’d been… a little preoccupied the last time the 501st made port on Coruscant, but Comet and Fixer were bickering about being the one to take him shopping for civvies, and Patch had plans to show them his favorite hole-in-the-wall diner from his time on-planet, and even Commander Wolffe had plans to meet up with his batchmate at some point.
And Tup… the 501st’s leave time would overlap with theirs by about 24 hours, and Dogma’s mind turned in anxious circles any time he thought about seeing Tup again. It helped, though, looking back at Tup’s comm updates. As much as it had shocked him the first few times around, Dogma had been missed, and it was a nice feeling, all things considered. Tup ended every comm saying he missed him, that the 501st was doing okay, K’oyacyi and all that, even when Dogma’s stomach squirmed with awkwardness at the idea of saying it back.
He did miss Tup, but he was also finding his place with the Wolfpack, growing in ways that he hadn’t been able to with the 501st. Getting his first pair of civvies would just be another sign of that.
So when they finally set out on their excursion to the “Best bantha burger this side of Coco Town,” Dogma barely resisted the urge to crane his head up to look at the endless cityscape of Coruscant.
Thankfully, Comet kept an eye on him and managed to prevent him from tripping in a divot in the duracrete. Cheeks flushing without the usual cover of his helmet, he gave Comet a nod of thanks as they finally arrived at their destination.
“Medics first,” Fixer grinned cheekily as he opened the door, holding it behind him and bowing dramatically to let Patch pass.
Patch, in turn, responded with an amused snort, giving Fixer a shove before walking inside with the poise of a Senator. “Joke all you want, vod, but you’ll be singing a different tune after you’ve tried their fried tubers.”
The duo’s dramatics earned a round of chuckles from Boost and Sinker, who mimed an overdramatic bow, shuffling inside before Fixer could slam the door on them. Dogma huffed in amusement, took a moment to appreciate the other’s relaxed teasing, less common on-planet than in the safety of their barracks.
Stepping into the bustling little diner, the Wolfpack was quickly and efficiently shuffled into one of the booths near the back, with Patch, Fixer, Warthog and Boost on one side and Sinker, Comet, Wolffe, and Dogma on the other side, Dogma sitting on the end. They weren’t the only troopers in the diner, which made Dogma smile, just a little, seeing other vode looking comfortable in this place.
“I’d recommend the Trooper Special, unless you see something else you’d like. I’m pretty fond of their Bantha Bite Sub myself, but you can’t go wrong.” Patch suggested, pointing to it on the menu.
Dogma appreciated the suggestion, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices. On a good day, he got to pick between a green ration bar and a red one, and maybe some rehydrated bread on the side. Glancing around the rest of the diner, he could see all kinds of foods he’d never even known existed, and the smells wafting from the kitchen made his mouth water.
A service droid came and took their order not long after, and when prompted, Dogma opted for the meiloorun shake with his meal. Comet, predictably, picked chocolate, and Boost and Sinker took the opportunity to start arguing about whether chocolate or vanilla were better.
“It’s the same ingredients either way, vod, just with an extra heap of syrup. ‘sides, I like it. Vanilla’s more subtle. Don’t need to beat me over the head with sugar to enjoy it.”
“If it’s the same exact ingredients, wouldn’t you wanna have the same ingredients and chocolate? Warthog, back me up here, vod!” Boost nudged the trooper next to him, who made a hand-waving gesture to signal that he was staying out of it.
Soon, their shakes and a healthy serving of fried tubers was delivered to their table, gaining the collective attention of the whole table. Half of them looked like they were barely restraining themselves from diving for the tubers, but once all their drinks had been situated, Dogma hesitantly reached for a fry. Mimicking his vode’s moves as they enthusiastically dipped them in sauce, or in Fixer’s case his shake, Dogma took a bite.
He couldn’t quite stop the noise of pleasure at the combination of salty, savory, and even sweet from the sauce he’d dipped it in, and it wasn’t long before he was reaching for his next fry. The shake was also delicious, and he finished it in record time, earning a pleased look from Patch, who apparently thought he could use the calories.
Caught up in the relaxed environment, suffused with the joking and laughing of his vode, he didn’t notice the scuffle by the door until it got loud, but he picked up more than a few key phrases that made him hunch his shoulders in an attempt to make himself disappear.
A natborn, tall and distinctly slimy-looking was running his mouth to the service droid up front, gesturing emphatically towards the other table of troopers, these ones with purple armor markings. “War-mongering wet droids! A being can’t even get a burger in peace without having to look at their pathetic lot!” He griped, trying to argue his way out of paying for his meal, attracting the attention of every trooper in the diner in the process.
Dogma glanced towards the commander nervously, looking for a cue in case they needed to leave before the door to the kitchens swung open and every thought in Dogma’s head fizzled out as a besalisk stepped out.
Eyes cool in a dangerous way, Dogma barely even registered the shorter, wider appearance of the being now standing in front of the natborn, but he noticed the way two of his four hands drifted towards the blaster tucked into his apron. He may have been shorter than General Krell, but he still managed to tower over the rude natborn whose eyes flashed with a brief look of panic as the cook shared some words, tone quiet but deadly. Practically quaking in his boots, the natborn shakily rifled around for the needed credits (and maybe a couple extra in his haste) before making a break for it.
If Dogma had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the speeder lifting off just outside their window and vacating the premises with all haste. As is, his eyes locked on the besalisk giving the door a satisfied nod, handing the other table of troopers another order of fries before his eyes caught on their table, starting to make his way over.
Dogma could feel his blood rushing in his ears, and the tubers he’d just eaten felt like a brick in the bottom of his stomach, his jaw impossibly tight. He didn’t even register the tray laden with food that the cook had picked up on the way to their table, starting to hand out the assortment of burgers they’d ordered. The vode around him cheered, quickly digging in, but Dogma felt frozen in place as the besalisk started to talk.
“Apologies for the scene, boys. Patch! And Commander… Wolffe, was it? Pleasure to see ya here again! Think I see a couple’a new faces, yeah? My name’s Dex.” The besalisk, Dex, gave them a grin, but in Dogma’s mind’s eye, the image distorted into the cruel glee of the being that still haunted his nightmares, and he knew he couldn’t stay here.
“I-I need to go.” Dogma muttered, standing up abruptly and leaving the diner in a rush, narrowly avoiding bumping into Dex in his haste.
Letting out a noise of confusion, Patch felt himself rising to follow, only to be stopped when Wolffe gave them all a settling motion, standing and gesturing for them to get back to their meals. “I’ve got him, vode. Eat your burgers.” And with a respectful nod to Dex, he was gone. Dex nodded back, having stepped back when Dogma made a break for it, and returned to passing out their meals.
“A-Apologies, sir. I’m not sure what–” Patch started to apologize, eyes drifting to Dogma and Wolffe’s retreating forms, the diner’s door still swinging on its hinges.
Dex waved them off, picking up Dogma’s still untouched plate. “Ah, ‘s fine. A few of the boys in blue— I’ve seen ‘em have the same reaction in recent months. I don’t take it to heart.” His head fins twitched in what Patch had come to recognize as sympathy. Dex still dabbled in information broking, as far as Patch was aware, so it was possible he knew what that was about even more than they did.
“I’ll pack up his portion to-go, the Commander’s too; let ‘em try the bantha burger later, yeah?” He said, an intentional lightness to his deep voice. “Can I trust you boys to get this back to them?”
“Yessir.” Their response was firm, if a little quieter than their usual volume. Patch’s growing confusion and concern reflected back at him on his brother’s faces, but Wolffe said he had him, and he’d trust his ori’vod with Dogma for now, so he tried not to worry too much.
Thinking about it, Dogma from even a month ago would’ve sat through the meal, ignoring his limits and working himself halfway into a panic attack before anyone noticed something was wrong. And as abrupt and worrying as it was, Dogma’s willingness to recognize his limits, and his security in knowing they wouldn’t hold it against him, were pretty good signs.
With that in mind, Patch allowed himself to turn back towards his meal, eventually pulled back into light conversation with his vode. Wolffe’s presence was enough for now, and if the others joined him, it’d only end in Dogma berating himself for ruining their time together. The others seemed to think along the same lines, although Patch wasn’t the only one keeping a weather eye on his comms. Just in case.
————————————————
“Hey kid! Dogma, wait up!” Wolffe called out, catching a glimpse of armor disappearing around a corner, leading to a lesser-used set of alleyways. They weren’t quite in the seedy parts of Coruscant, but it was still far down enough that Wolffe sighed in careful relief when he found Dogma. Crouched down and leaning against a wall, a faraway look in his eyes, Dogma’s muted expression made Wolffe want to curse under his breath.
This one, at least, he should’ve seen coming. Between the natborn throwing invectives at well-meaning vode and Dex’s unfortunate resemblance to a particular darjetii, Wolffe didn’t blame Dogma for his timely exit.
Settling next to Dogma for as long as it took for him to come back to himself, Wolffe startled but didn’t protest when the kid leaned slightly into him. Bringing an arm up around Dogma’s shoulder, he could feel the kid’s intentionally deep breaths and the slow but sure slowing of his breaths.
Finally, he asked, “You good now, vod’ika?” He waited a second before adding. “Don’t even think about apologizing for that.”
Dogma froze for a moment, nodding. “Y-Yeah, I’m okay… thanks.” He said instead of an apology.
Silence hung between them for a while longer before Wolffe spoke again. “I read your file, earlier. Don’t blame you for needing to get some space.”
Dogma shrugged, shoulders starting to relax. At this point, he’d told them almost everything, and it was more of a relief than anything that he didn’t have to explain himself, at least not to Commander Wolffe. He grumbled to himself, “Still feel bad though… Dex didn’t do anything wrong.” Far from it, actually— he’d stood up for clones. He even knew Patch and the Commander by name. Most natborns wouldn’t even bother with that much.
Wolffe shrugged, “He’ll get over it. If you’re not ready to go back there yet, that’s alright, kid. Dex is… he’s good to the vode, better than most, and if and when you feel ready, he’ll probably try to slip you extra dessert or something.” He huffed, shaking his head. “Used to do it to Comet all the time back when he was a shiny.”
Dogma scowled, just a little bit, muttering, “I’m not a shiny.” His blank, white armor did nothing to refute that statement, though, so Wolffe shook his head in amusement.
“Dex isn’t gonna know that, kid.” He huffed in amusement at Dogma’s grumpy expression.
He glanced back at Dogma, deciding to broach the question that’d been bugging him for a while. “Can I ask, is there a reason you haven’t painted your armor yet? I can make assumptions, but I don’t always know what’s going on under the bucket.”
Dogma blinked in surprise at the statement before grimacing self-depricatingly, looking down at the bucket in his lap.
“I just… armor paint’s for vode who’ve earned it, and I… haven’t.” Dogma curled into himself a little bit more, voice small and ashamed.
Wolffe shook his head in fierce disagreement, “You’ve earned your paint twice over, vod’ika. I’d be tempted to award you some jaig eyes after taking down that demagolka if it wouldn’t attract so much attention.”
Dogma blinked like he’d been stung, looking up at Wolffe with disbelief and painful hope. “Really?”
“Kriff, if anyone deserves it, kid, it’d be you.” He nodded before giving Dogma a smug look. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Captain Rex got his jaig eyes after biting Fett during training, back when he was still a cadet.”
Dogma snorted in disbelief, “There’s no way that’s true.”
Wolffe shrugged, not proving or disproving the story, but his eyes were shining with mirth. “Believe it or don’t, pup. I’m just saying, you’ve done a lot since joining us, more than enough to earn it. Probably saved my life a couple times over. Even if you hadn’t done any of that, though, you’d still be worth your armor paint. Don’t let that shabuir Krell convince you otherwise.”
Dogma was silent for a long moment, before responding quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
Wolffe’s expression relaxed, not quite a smile but close enough. “That’s all I ask.”
“Come on, kid.” He said finally, pulling Dogma along with him towards the nearest shopping center.
“What?”
“Might as well do some shopping while we wait. What do you say, pup?”
“Uh, sure. It’ll get Comet and Warthog to stop fighting about it, at least.” He replied, a small grin on his face as Wolffe drew him in for a moment before releasing him, dragging him towards the largest civvie shopping center Dogma had ever seen.
——————————————
“Commander Wolffe, sir?” A hesitant voice called Wolffe out of his musings. He’d been halfheartedly looking at some supply shipments on his datapad, but nothing he couldn’t do later, as he turned to look at Dogma. The kid was standing in their leave barracks, still fully kitted out in his too-white armor, looking unsure.
“What is it, vod’ika?” Wolffe asked gently, sitting up in his bunk as the not-shiny seemed to draw himself up, taking a deep breath, eyes blinking open again with a glint of determination before he spoke again.
“Do we have any armor paint on-planet?” Dogma asked, and that question struck like a bolt of lightning to the entire room.
“Do we ever!” Fixer cheered, scrambling for his gear kit as Sinker and Boost joined in, practically in tears as their eyes shone with pride. Comet started chattering excitedly about armor designs, causing Warthog to start sharing his own armor’s stories. In the middle of everything, Dogma smiled, hesitantly at first but practically beaming by the time they’d sat around him in a loose circle, making the first few strokes of paint on his armor.
Looking back now, he still wasn’t sure if he deserved it– deserved having paint, having vode again. But he was starting to learn who he was; not who the Kaminoans– or even his vode wanted him to be… and maybe for now, in this place and time, Dogma was enough.
————————————————
“I don’t see him.” Dogma grumbled, worried despite himself as he stood on the landing platform in his freshly painted armor, waiting for the familiar sight of 501st blue.
“He’ll be here, vod.” Comet reassured him, earning a snort from Dogma.
“I know. He’s been sending me a comm message every ten minutes since they got within view of Coruscant.” Dogma chuckled, calmed by the reminder of his batchmate’s enthusiasm.
Finally, in a shuffle of movement, he sees him. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Fives, Tup’s grown into himself since Dogma saw him last. Armor weathered by months of experience on the front lines, his familiar bucket under one arm, it took a moment for Tup’s eyes to lock onto Dogma, still recognizable despite the new armor design.
He’d kept it pretty similar to his old design, more paint than white armor now, but his telltale V was larger, larger than the space available on his bucket, and between the two peaks there was another jagged edge, just off-center, almost reminiscent of a mountain, or maybe a scar. It reminded him of Comet’s helmet design and Wolffe’s, but the chevron was still 100% Dogma, and apparently it was enough to assure his batchmate, who raced across the landing pad before colliding with him with enough force that it might’ve bowled him over, back at the beginning of his time with the 104th.
He didn’t even care when his helmet clattered to the ground, letting himself be pulled into a fierce keldabe, treasuring his batchmate’s familiar presence. And when he returned Tup’s vice-like grip, whispering, “I’m alright, Tup,” he actually meant it.
————————————
AO3 Link:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Wolf-pup Ch. 7
Chapter Summary:
Dogma's secrets are like an onion, and they need to be peeled back a layer at a time.
Chapter 7: Bother
Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Dogma hadn’t felt this comfortable in a long time. Sure, his head was foggy from sleep and his muscles were a little sore, but curled up with his batchmate, he felt almost… normal. Of course, Tup had to ruin it by shifting around, stealing the blankets and getting his hair in Dogma’s face.
Spluttering as some of Tup’s hair got uncomfortably close to his mouth, Dogma forced himself awake with a groan. “Tup…” he complained, rolling over to get away from his batchmate’s hair. He didn’t remember the other trooper joining him in his bunk last night, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d–
“Who’s Tup?” Comet asked, and all at once, reality snapped back into place. Dogma flinched, going stiff in Comet’s– not Tup’s– arms. Dogma closed his eyes again and let out a long sigh, but Tup was still gone, and he missed his brother like a limb.
The illusion had dissipated, but at least he’d slept through the night. He hadn’t done that in a long time.
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again and looked back at Comet, a little surprised that the other had stayed with him all night. He couldn’t have been too comfortable, overheating next to a feverish Dogma under a mountain of blankets. But the other simply gave him a grin before sitting up with a stretch.
“Sleep well, Dogma?” Comet asked, smiling at the name, still exciting in its newness.
Dogma cleared his throat, nodding. Surprisingly, he felt much better than the day before. A good night’s sleep really worked wonders.
“Good!” Comet continued. “The others already left for firstmeal, but they’re bringing something back for us. We’ve got the next day or two off while you and Wolffe recover, so I think the others were going to try and play some sabaac, if you feel up to joining.”
Biting his lip, Dogma felt a pool of guilt rise in his stomach. They’d been taken off the mission schedule… for him? If he hadn’t been so close to the cliff’s edge, Commander Wolffe might not have gotten hurt, and–
“And the Commander?” He asked hesitantly, which Comet took careful note of even as he continued stretching.
“Oh yeah, Wolffe’ll be fine. He’s got a hard head; he came back to the barracks last night, not long after you fell asleep. He’s got orders to stay away from screens for the next 72 hours– would be longer without bacta, but he’s mostly in the clear. Last I checked, he was more worried about you.”
At that, Comet gave Dogma a searching look. “You look a lot better than you did yesterday, at least.”
Dogma nodded, relieved to be feeling more like himself. “I can actually breathe now, which is an improvement, and my headache’s gone. I don’t know if I still have a fever, but I feel better.” He suspected that after a shower, he’d feel almost brand-new.
At the good news, Comet grinned. “Glad to hear it. Was starting to get worried you’d never stop shivering, vod’ika.”
Rolling his eyes, Dogma responded even while his ears flushed pink. “It wasn’t that bad…”
“Yeah, and you weren’t using the General’s cloak like a blanket either. Right, vod?” Comet asked, sounding smug.
Dogma cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure vod, sure.”
Dogma’s next words were interrupted by a sneeze, and when Comet started laughing, he gave the other a sullen glare before promptly shoving him off the bed.
_______________________
"Hmm… never have I ever… dyed my hair!” Warthog shared, the pilot grinning as Sinker, Boost, and even Comet let out groans of defeat, losing a point in their game.
The Wolfpack had played a few rounds of sabaac until Fixer had suggested a game of “Never Have I Ever,” and Dogma was enjoying getting to know a little bit more about the rest of the Wolfpack. They each started with ten points, taking turns saying something they had never done, and those who had done that activity lost a point. It was actually pretty illunimating.
For example, Fixer apparently went through several different names before arriving at his current one, and Patch had never gotten a tattoo. Boost had the dubious honor of passing out in a very embarrassing position once, and Comet was double-jointed. Currently, Wolffe and Dogma were winning, with about seven points remaining from their original ten. Boost and Sinker were tied for lowest at three.
“Who’s next?” Comet asked, smiling in enthusiasm.
“I am,” Sinker leaned forward with a smirk. “Never have I ever… grown out my hair.” His face lit up with maniacal glee as nearly half the group put a finger down, including Warthog, Dogma, Comet, and even Boost, who was quick to protest that, “It was a phase, okay?!” with his face flushing a bright red.
Apparently he’d kept the red-striped pattern much longer as cadets, and it had been quite the look, according to Sinker.
“You too, Pup?” Fixer asked with a grin, using the nickname out of habit more than anything else. He’d been just as happy as the rest of them when Dogma finally shared his name with the rest of the squad.
Dogma grimaced but nodded. During his time after Umbara, he didn’t exactly have access to hair-clippers, so his usual hairstyle had gotten more than a little disheveled before he’d managed to fix it, which technically counted in his book. Couldn’t go around cheating or making excuses for himself, even if he was the only one to know.
“Still nothing, Commander? Come on, live a little!” Sinker complained; he’d been hoping to get Wolffe to admit to at least one embarrassing choice he’d made in the past.
Commander Wolffe smirked but otherwise refused to respond, taking a measured sip of his kaff.
“I know one that can get him,” Boost started with a grin. “Never have I ever won a fight with a Jedi!”
A long silence followed before Wolffe reluctantly lowered a finger, indicating that he’d lost a point, and Boost gave a victorious cheer.
Wolffe’s voice took on a warning tone. “You know, targeting your superior officers can–” The others interrupted, chuckling and teasing the Commander, but Dogma sat in frozen silence, an empty pit of dread welling up in his stomach as his face went cold.
What he did to Krell could never count as winning, not truly– not after all the lives that had been taken, the blood that had been spilled. No, that blaster bolt had been justice; a desperate attempt at triage that came far too late… Dogma may have killed Krell, but some nights, it still felt like Krell had won that fight…
“ –gma? Kid, it’s your turn.” Snapping back to the present with a shudder, Dogma shrank back at the realization that he had the attention of the room.
“You feeling alright, Dogma?” Patch asked, going into medic mode as he took note of his pale complexion and shaking hands. “Not pushing yourself too soon?”
Dogma swallowed around the tightness in his throat, giving the medic a nod. “No, I-I’m fine.”
Fixer raised an eyebrow. “If this is fine, kid, I’m a little worried what your definition of ‘not fine’ is. Did something happen? Or is it about something else?”
Dogma tried again. “I-I don’t–” “Don’t want to talk about it?” Fixer interrupted, not unkindly. “I figured, but… not talking about it isn’t helping you, vod.”
“Fixer,” Patch whispered warningly. They’d agreed not to push Dogma for his secrets, and yeah, Patch was worried too, but the kid got so skittish sometimes, and he worried that they’d scare him away for good.
“What? It’s not! The kid’s pale as a sheet, obviously freaking out about something, and we’re just supposed to ignore it?” Fixer fired back, worried.
Meanwhile, Dogma flinched, rubbing anxiously at his wrists. This was it– They’d realize that he was too rigid, too damaged– too much Dogma, b-but he couldn’t– couldn’t be what they wanted, and–
“ –ey, deep breaths, Dogma. Come on kid, nice and slow.” Surprisingly, it was Boost this time who’d crouched in front of him, gently grasping his wrists so he’d stop scratching at them.
Dogma nodded, attempting to obey even while his thoughts continued to spiral. He coughed a little as he regained his breath, and was surprised when one of the others offered him a hydropac. After a moment, he’d managed to regulate his breathing a little. He took a few quick gulps before trying to apologize. “S-Sorry…”
Boost sat back on his heels, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “Kriff, kid, you don’t need to apologize… Fixer’s not the only one who’s worried though. Took a few years off my life when you and Wolffe went over that cliff.”
Dogma opened his mouth to apologize again before thinking better of it, eyes locked on his hands in his lap, clenched into fists. He jumped a little when a small, round object was pressed into them by another hand before looking up and realizing that Patch had handed him one of the stress-balls he kept in his kit.
He heard a brief scuffle around him, and a quiet “ow” before Fixer spoke again. “Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dogma. Sorry for pushing.”
“I-It’s not your fault…. I didn’t mean to be a bother...” Dogma curled in on himself again, wishing they’d just move on, but to his surprise, quiet footsteps approached before the Commander was sitting next to him.
Wolffe put a supportive hand on his shoulder before drawing him in a little. “You, Dogma, are not a bother.” His heart ached for Dogma and his prying need to go unnoticed; he’d seen it, the little half-flinch every time someone called him ‘vod,’ and the times he’d just shrink into himself. Just what had happened, to make Dogma think he was no longer deserving of brotherly affection?
Sinker interjected, “Please, be a bother! It’s better than bottling everything up– you don’t have to deal with everything alone, vod. Not here.”
Dogma’s ears were a bright red now, squirming under the weight of the Wolfpacks’s protective instincts, but he also felt oddly comforted. Almost… safe.
He looked up, seeing Sinker’s earnest worry, Patch’s quiet concern, and feeling Wolffe’s presence beside him, steady and supporting, and he struggled to understand it.
“Why?” The word left him before he could stop himself.
“Why what, Dogma?” Comet asked quietly.
A million questions raced through Dogma’s head. Why did they care? Why weren’t they annoyed? Why do they want me?
But those questions were too vulnerable, too dangerous to share, so instead he directed his quiet question towards Sinker, asking, “Why do you want to know?”
Sinker gave him a small, almost sad, smile, seeming to pick up on the questions Dogma was afraid to ask. “Because we care about you, Dogma. You’re one of us now, our vod, and it hurts to see you hurting.”
Dogma’s breath caught in his throat, but Sinker’s words did little to assuage the clawing guilt. They had to know– they deserved to know. They’d given him so much trust and affection, and it felt like a lie to keep it from them any longer.
“There’s… I-I– some stuff, I can’t talk about. Not allowed to, without the proper clearance, a-and some I’m not ready to talk about…” and likely never would be, but…
“G-General Plo wasn’t my first commanding officer,” he started, finally confirming what they already knew; Dogma was not a shiny.
“B-But my last one… he didn’t like clones very much.” Wolffe’s hand on his shoulder tightened for half a second before the Commander reined himself in, but Dogma felt almost bolstered by his defensiveness.
“He used us as meat-shields in battle strategies that were, b-beyond jareor– He called us by our numbers, threatened us with firing squads if we debated his orders… a-and when my brothers stood against him, I… didn’t.” Dogma’s voice cracked at the last bit, still ashamed of his naivety and ignorance.
“A lot more happened, a-and that CO’s actions became a danger to the Republic, but even then, I didn’t believe it until he was spitting treason in my face.” He shuddered, Krell’s words echoing in the back of his head.
“And you, Dogma, were the biggest fool of them all!”
A lone tear slid down his face. “I-I don’t deserve to be called a brother.”
His breath hitched, and his grip on his wrist tightened.
Dogma didn’t expect it when the Commander drew him into a tight hug, almost flinching at the sudden pressure before melting into it. “Let us decide that for ourselves, vod’ika.” Wolffe almost growled in righteous anger, but instead of tensing up, Dogma only felt more safe.
And as the rest of the Wolfpack joined in, first making sure that he wasn’t overwhelmed, Dogma let his head rest on Wolffe’s shoulder, the ever-present shame and guilt starting to fade, no longer a tight knot in his stomach.
“You’re not getting rid of us that easily, Dogma.” Comet said, voice muffled by the others’ blacks. A round of agreements followed.
They stayed like that for a little while, until Dogma started to shift, reaching the end of his tolerance for physical touch, so the others settled back in their original spots, if a little closer than before.
“Do we wanna continue the game?” Fixer asked, looking around at the group.
Dogma nodded along with the others, huffing a small laugh as Boost needled Sinker for trying to claim more points than he actually had left.
“Your turn, pup.” Wolffe said,
“Never have I ever owned civilian clothing.” He offered at last, a shadow of a smile crossing his face as everyone else lost a point.
“That’s something we’ll have to change, vod’ika.” Boost sighed, shaking his head wearily.
They kept playing for a while, and eventually Wolffe was the winner. It was a relief, finally, to understand even a sliver of what was going on in Dogma’s head, and with the Wolfpack invested in him, there was no way they’d let him struggle alone.
