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.”
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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“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.
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“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.
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