An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fic Summary:
Two times Patch hesitated to take off his armor and one time he didn't. A fic on healing and vulnerability for OC-tober, based on the prompt "Warm Sweaters and a Hot Drink."
Cold Hands, Warm Heart:
“Come on, Patch! We’re celebrating! Are you sure you wanna go out dressed in the same thing as always?” Fixer pleaded with his brother.
The 104th was on a rare shore leave that matched up with Patch’s down-time; rehab training took up a good chunk of his time, so it was rare that he’d get a full day to spend with his visiting vode.
Patch huffed, shaking his head. “I already let you put that weird civvie product in my hair.” Plus, he’d heard enough horror stories from the Guard that his chest tightened warningly when he thought about being that vulnerable around anyone other than his brothers.
It was better than it was off-planet; most things were, if Patch was being honest, but he never felt truly safe or settled without his armor. Not after the Malevolence, where that option had been taken from him, along with nearly every one of his brothers. So he shook his head, hoping Fixer wouldn’t push it.
Giving him a look that belayed understanding of his real reasons, Fixer nodded, fixing Patch with a sympathetic smile. “Alright, vod. But if you ever change your mind, I know for a fact that this shade of blue looks great on most vode.”
Patch chuckled, getting up from his bunk with a small groan. “I’ll keep that in mind. Let’s hit the road! Can’t keep the Commander waiting!”
______________________
“Udessir vod’ika! It’s okay– we’re in the barracks… you’re safe.” Patch soothed, speaking calmly to the shiny in the bunk above his.
Fil, a new addition to the 501st, had joined maybe a month before Umbara and had a pretty rough start even before that, according to Kix and Coric. Patch gritted his teeth in anger; most vode were pretty supportive of differences, but they’d all been raised in the harsh mindsets of Kamino where even small differences could get you, or your squad, noticed in the worst ways, and some troopers never shook that mentality.
Luckily, Fil had been transferred to the bomb squad before anything too bad could happen, but after Umbara and his run-in with Krell’s lightsaber, the kid’s quiet dreams had taken a turn for the worse.
“I-I don’t– I saw–” The shiny’s voice shook in a choked-off sob, and Patch’s heart broke for the kid.
“Shhh… it’s okay, kid. You wanna bunk with me tonight? The barracks are a little chillier than I’m used to.” He offered, lips quirking into a small smile when the vod’ika nodded shakily before scrambling down from his bunk and next to Patch, a little clumsy without the prosthetic on his arm.
“S-sorry for waking you, Patch, sir.” Fil stuttered as he shuffled his feet, but he was easily settled by a comforting squeeze.
Even that was a good development, and it made Patch’s heart swell as he wrapped his arms around the shiny, happy to see him reaching out. “Just Patch, vod’ika. And I don’t mind.”
Fil shifted around for a little bit, struggling to get comfortable, and Patch realized in a moment of self-recrimination that he hadn’t taken his armor off. “Oh, kriff– Sorry kid, I’ll take these off in just a second.” He said, starting to unclasp his arm-guards and chestplate, ignoring a twinge of anxiety in his chest.
“Sorry– ” Fil apologized again before cutting himself off. It was something they’d been working on, and even Patch himself was guilty of apologizing more than he needed to. But, to be a good example to the shiny, he pushed down an apology of his own and gave Fil a half-smile even when his shoulders tensed up and his own hands, cold with sweat, shook slightly as he slid back under the blankets without the top half of his armor.
Running himself through a few breathing exercises, which Fil followed before drifting off again in record time, Patch took a while to settle back in his own skin. He ran a gentle hand through the vod’ika’s short curls until the pull of sleep finally took him once again.
________________________
T aking a deep breath of the crisp Alderaan air, Patch reveled in the rare quiet morning. He was always more of an early-bird, compared to most of the Wolf-pack, something he’d forgotten during his… hiatus on Coruscant, but he’d shared more than one cup of tea with their general in the early morning light. It was a tradition he was happy to repeat now that he was back with his brothers for good.
As far as shore-leave locations went, they’d definitely hit the jackpot. Just enough snow for the more adventurous troopers to go hiking or cause some mischief, and the barracks they’d been given were practically a hotel, in Patch’s opinion. The heavy comforter he’d used last night was probably the most extravagant thing he’d ever touched, and he’d fallen asleep within seconds of his head hitting his pillow.
Looking back at his gear-kit, Patch’s eyes caught on the gift from Blu he’d received last night. The younger medic, although no longer a shiny, still loved working night shift, enjoying the quiet atmosphere and the opportunity to catch-up on flimsiwork, or engage in his hobbies when it wasn’t too busy. Patch still remembered teaching him how to knit, although the vod’ika had far surpassed him by now, as shown by the cable-knit sweater he’d gifted Patch.
“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to…” Blu had hedged as he handed him the gift. “... I know you’re not much for civvies. But we’ve missed you, and it’s good to have you back, and I heard that Alderaan’s supposed to be cold…”
A soft smile bloomed on Patch’s face; he was really proud of the competent medic Blu had become in his absence, and it was nice to know he’d been missed. Giving the sweater another considerate look, he noticed a pair of nondescript civvie pants underneath it and huffed in amusement. Apparently Fixer couldn’t leave well-enough alone, and had thought to donate them to Patch’s cause.
So with a beleaguered sigh, Patch traded in his armored-blacks for soft yarn, not far off from 501st blue, with a bold medic symbol on the front. The weight of the homemade sweater almost reminded him of his weighted blanket, and as he settled in with his cup of tea, Patch breathed a sigh of contentment.
Deployed or not, it was good to be home.
