#But we get on better because he's not actually my brother you know?

[screamlet]

08x06 fix-it fic: break and be mended

not connected to that excerpt i posted before, just something completely different. 4.5k, read on the ao3

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Another hospital room. Buck takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, letting it out and hoping he gets back to sleep. It doesn't happen, though, because his brain catches up to his eyes:

Maddie, wearing a yellow paper hospital mask, a hand anxiously on her belly, sitting in the chair next to him with that too-familiar oh-thank-god-you're-finally-awake face… and Tommy leaning in the doorway.

He takes another deep breath and opens his eyes again.

"You're okay," Maddie says patiently, slowly, as Buck tries to slam the door shut or set the doorway on fire with his brain. "It's just the turkey flu, it hit you hard."

That breaks Buck's concentration. "Wait, is this a dream? Another coma dream? Turkey flu has to be something I made up."

Maddie raises her eyebrows and looks over her shoulder at Tommy before turning back to Buck. "Another one?"

"No, no, don't look at him," Buck interrupts. "He's not supposed to be here, not when I have turkey flu, not ever. He broke up with me, remember?"

In the doorway, Tommy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He's wearing the dark blue LAFD t-shirt and pleated pants, a special Air Ops patch on his shirt sleeve. They always lurked under his flight suit, under his turnouts when they were on the same scene, but Buck didn't get to see them often. It was for the best, he thinks now, because the shirt fits perfectly across Tommy's chest and shoulders, the pants belted low. His shirt is tucked in better than Buck's ever is. He almost never got to see him like this so it feels like some new Tommy he's seeing, a Tommy that hangs around Harbor long enough to take off his flight suit but doesn't peel the rest of his work self off. He doesn't get off his shift, put the pilot away, shower and go home.

Buck looks away. He's looked too long.

"I'm actually here, you know." Tommy raps his knuckles on the door like that's proof of anything except a very strong poltergeist. "I can hear you."

Buck watches something that he hasn't seen in years sweep across Maddie's face (mostly her eyebrows, because of the mask).

She turns around and snaps, "I let you come within ten feet of my brother and you think bitchy fun Tommy was invited, too? He was not." Tommy looks shocked and abashed; Buck loves her so much.

"Why was he invited at all, Maddie?" Buck asks. "And you're both real, right? Like I'm not hallucinating both of you. Is that a turkey flu symptom? Can I have my phone? I need to look up turkey flu."

"It's a strain of avian flu, you just happened to get it from a turkey farm. Hen said you had a call to one of those last week," Maddie explains. "And you kept giggling when I said the words turkey flu so, you know, why not?"

"It's pretty funny," Buck admits. "Hey, why's he here?"

Maddie turns around and looks at Tommy expectantly. Buck still knows his face, still knows him, and can see the quip that wants to escape past his lips. He can see the work it takes to hold it back and look sincere, really sincere, for them.

"You collapsed at a scene and I flew you over," Tommy says. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Buck stares at him as he presses his lips into a fine line. "I'm okay. Thanks."

Tommy nods, then asks, "Can we talk? Alone?"

It's taken four months, almost as long as they were together, but Buck's finally hearing the words he's wanted to hear since Tommy walked out his door. I'm sorry, I was scared, I love you, yes let's take the next step together, from now on let's take every step together—that was Buck's first choice. Can we talk as a jumping off point for all those other things—that was Buck's second choice. Was.

Buck glances at Maddie and knows his face does something dumb. "I'll be outside," Maddie says. "And I'm not far, if you want me to throw him out." She looks over her shoulder at Tommy. "I'll do it."

Tommy nods. "Wouldn't doubt you for a second."

She squeezes Buck's hand and lingers for a beat, one long look at him like she's waiting for him to say actually, wait, don't, stay, but he doesn't. He hates that he doesn't. He hates that he wants to hear what Tommy has to say.

She and Tommy swap places; he takes the chair next to Buck's bed and she leaves, shutting the door behind her. Tommy doesn't see the way she passes by the window like a shark, watching, but Buck laughs. When Tommy looks back, she's gone.

"Your sister's changed a little," Tommy says casually. "Her sense of humor, I mean."

Buck licks his lips. "Yeah, well, when you were my boyfriend, you were her friend. Now you're neither."

"Yep, got it," Tommy says. He sits back in the chair, but looks so uncomfortable that someone would think he'd never sat in one before.

"Are you okay?" Buck asks. "Why are you here?"

"This chair is so weird."

"Tommy, what do you want to talk about?"

It startles Tommy, and it should. He only got soft and smitten, totally-in-love (even if he couldn't admit it out loud) Evan Buckley, cute and bratty Evan Buckley. He doesn't get that Evan anymore. No one has.

Tommy sits with his feet flat on the floor and his hands folded in his lap. He takes a minute, a long minute, of staring at the floor before he looks up and stares at Buck. "You asked me to move in with you."

Buck blinks. "I did."

"You asked me to move in with you."

"You said that. I mean, I said that, but you—"

"Evan," Tommy interrupts.

"I thought I was Buck now," Buck interrupts.

Bitchiness lurks on Tommy's tongue, but he holds it back. "You asked me to move in with you. Into the loft."

Buck tilts his head. "Yeah?"

Tommy shuts his eyes hard and shakes his head before he looks at Buck again. "Evan, I own a house."

"... okay?"

"Did you ask me to move in with you and expect me to give up my house?"

"What, no—" Buck says, then stops himself. "I don't—I didn't think—"

"Did you even think about that?" Tommy asks. "Like when you talked about moving in together, getting married, the future, all of that—did you even remember that I own a house?"

"You know," Buck interrupts. "Four months ago, you could have said, haha, wow, that's moving pretty fast, also I own a house, maybe when we're ready, we could move into MY HOUSE and make it OUR HOUSE, but you needed to run out the door so why would you say any of that?"

"Yeah! I was freaked out! Because here was this guy I—this guy I really liked, and he asked me, a 40-year-old man, to move into his loft?"

"What's wrong with it? Why do you keep saying it like that?"

"It's downtown! Downtown is loud and filthy and did I mention it's noisy? It was hell sleeping there in the summer because even with your central air, heat rises and it rises right into the bedroom. I saw your electric bill, Evan, it was unforgivable."

Buck wants to throw something at him. "And we could have been at your house, quiet and with better temperature control, but we weren't because…?"

"I'm just saying," Tommy continues. "Yeah, all that's true, but I realized you wanted me, wanted a future with me, and you didn't even remember that when I wasn't working or with you, I was at my house."

"I get that," Buck says. "Now how many times did we hang out at your house?"

Tommy sighs. "It's out of the way, your place was always closer to the 118 and to Harbor, and I kept—I was going to, okay? Like maybe after our anniversary, we'd take a week off together and we'd actually be at my house, or take a trip somewhere—"

"You got me basketball tickets," Buck snipes at him.

Tommy stops completely.

"For our six month anniversary, remember?"

"How the hell am I going to forget that?"

"You got me tickets to see the Lakers. Really good tickets."

Tommy rolls his eyes. "Alright, well, that's the last time I call that guy I know in the press office for anything."

Buck thinks he's getting closer to setting something on fire with his mind. "I hate basketball."

Tommy stares at him. "What the hell are you talking about? We met because of basketball."

Buck sits up so quickly and angrily he starts wheezing and that turns into a coughing fit. Tommy's immediately there, sitting on the edge of his bed with water, getting him to take a small sip as he rubs his back. When Buck realizes what's happening, he covers his mouth with his blanket and shoves Tommy away, coughing even more.

"Sorry, I was just—"

"I have turkey flu!" Buck yells through the blanket covering his mouth.

"The doctor said you're not contagious anymore."

Buck points at a small paper box across the room. Tommy, so put-upon, grabs a pale yellow mask and slips it on before he sits in the chair again. "Sorry."

"It's—" Buck halts because Tommy had grabbed two masks and was holding one out to him expectantly. Tommy motions to it again and Buck can see how he wants to make a bitchy comment about not having this conversation through a hospital blanket, but he doesn't. That's what makes Buck reach out and put the mask on. The icy fist around his heart thinks about melting.

"We didn't meet because of basketball, we met because of Bobby and Athena and the cruise ship," Buck corrects. "I wanted to see you again after that tour at Harbor but I couldn't think of another reason—"

"I gave you the widest of openings," Tommy interrupts. "Hello? Flight lessons? When you finally offered to buy me a beer, I almost dropped to my knees right then and there."

"But you never called me! You're the one who left to hang out with Eddie!"

Tommy throws up his hands. "Ball was in your court! Speaking of basketball."

Buck sighs, exasperated. "We weren't, like, running into each other, I didn't have a reason to call you—don't say the beer—so finally I saw Eddie was going to that pick-up game with you and I dragged Chimney along."

"Right," Tommy says. "And you played basketball with us. We kicked your ass in a way that made me think you were pretending to be bad at it to make me feel good or something? And then there was the whole thing with Eddie's ankle."

"I hate basketball!"

"You brought your own ball!"

"I same-day ordered a basketball so that when I showed up you'd be like, wow, that guy's ready for basketball, what a cool guy!"

"So you're mad that your basketball ruse worked on my dumb ass, and worked so well for six months that I got you Lakers tickets for our anniversary."

Buck's so annoyed that he put it like that. Maybe that's true, but he didn't have to say it. "I don't like basketball! It was a ruse but I didn't hide it after. You watched games with Eddie and I never came along because I don't like basketball."

"You said you wanted us to have our Eddie-Tommy friend time!"

"Why do you make me sound and feel like a five-year-old? Eddie-Tommy friend time? Seriously?"

Tommy folds his hands together like he's in prayer and shuts his eyes. "Okay, listen, I just. I wanted to get the house thing off my chest, alright? Because it's—it's bothered me so much."

Buck could argue about the basketball thing for about another 500 years, except that Tommy has said what he said. "Has it?"

Tommy puts his hands in his lap again, folded politely as he looks at Buck. "I meant what I said. You were so swept away in how new and exciting everything felt, that I felt like you forgot who you were talking to. Like… I'm not a guy who's going to move in with you. I'm a guy who has a house with a home gym and a car lift, and—and the winter was so mild that I put in this little patio space in the backyard. I bought furniture for it. I took this corner of my front lawn, too, and started to plan a pollinator's garden because they sounded really interesting after those three days of bee hell. Evan, I have a house."

"You keep saying that," Buck says. His ears are burning, but he's listening too intently to feel embarrassed about it (much).

"I freaked out, alright? Because I heard: give up your house to live in this downtown loft with a couch that has a faded but GIANT blood and placenta stain on the other side of the cushion, and then the words engaged and married got thrown in there, too? All in the same breath?"

Buck stares flatly, then nods. "Yeah. I get it. Sorry." He clears his throat and grabs his water before Tommy can offer it to him. He takes a sip, looking at Tommy before he nods at the closed door. "Are we done here?"

"And I'm not a gay rights hero," Tommy adds. "You said that, too." Tommy looks away, and looks so miserable. "I'm just a guy, Evan. I've been burned before by younger guys who thought I was everything that their first gay boyfriend should be, and then—and they didn't see who I was. It's always—" Tommy holds out his hands like he's balancing scales. "Not straight enough to fake a life with a woman, not gay enough to have a real life with a man."

Buck hasn't done this in so long that his throat almost aches with it. He sighs, pained and breathless, the word crinkling against the mask: "Tommy." He swallows again and asks, "Did you really think that was me?"

Another long pause. It ends with Tommy saying, "I thought you were too good to be true."

"I'm not, though, I'm—I'm just me," Buck says. "And I did have a lot to figure out, but not about you."

Tommy laughs suddenly. "Really? Because you forgot I was a homeowner and I didn't know you hated basketball. Did you even go to that game?"

Buck coughs. "I gave the tickets to Karen and she took one of her brothers. They're nuts about the Lakers."

"Huh," Tommy says. "Well. I'm not mad about that."

The two of them are quiet until Buck says, "Seems there's a lot of things we don't know about each other."

Tommy glances at him; Buck can see the shape of his smirk beneath the mask, and the very specific way it makes his eyes crinkle. "And just when we thought we knew everything about each other."

"Yeah, I thought that, too, and then you dropped that you were engaged to my first serious girlfriend at our six month anniversary dinner." Buck raises his eyebrows. "Do you land helicopters that smoothly, too?"

"I got you here, didn't I?" Tommy bites back, then catches himself with a laugh. "Okay. Fair point."

It's so easy, it's so easy, it's so easy, it's so easy and Buck hasn't had it easy for months. He hasn't had these quips, this back-and-forth, this person who got him until he didn't, who—Buck rubs at his eyes. Tommy made it easy. He made everything easy. Not perfect, not effortless, but easy. Easier.

"So, uh." Buck fusses with the blanket in his lap. "What have you been doing for the past four months? You, uh…"

"Am I seeing anyone?" Buck nods. "I was, yeah. Didn't last that long."

Buck can't help himself: "Neither did we."

"Ouch." Tommy looks back. "And you?"

"Yeah," Buck says. "I liked them but I broke up with them because it just—it wasn't going anywhere."

"And what's wrong with that? Staying in one place? Isn't that what you wanted for us?"

It's not, but Buck can't articulate it, so he says, "Do you think that's the same?"

A beat, and then Tommy says: "No. No, I don't."

"Tommy," Buck says quietly. "How many people do I have to be with before you decide I've figured it out?"

Tommy's eyes widen. "What? I never said that."

"Tell me what you said, then." Buck swallows painfully, that turkey flu kicking his ass harder than he thought. "Tell me what you meant when you said I didn't know what I wanted. Because I told you what I wanted. I told you I was ready for something and all the things we did together, I thought that you believed me. I guess you didn't, so tell me how many bodies it'll take before you believe me."

Tommy doesn't say anything.

"God, and you know what really sucks?" Buck asks. "That we were together long enough to talk about who we'd been with so we could get tested and be safe. We talked about all that, but I never told you how many times I'd had my heart broken and you never told me yours."

"Three," Tommy eventually says. "Shawn, who was like… all of 25. He was all-in, knowing for sure that the first time was the charm, and I was old enough and steady enough to be That Guy. I believed the hype even though I was barely out of the closet. I shouldn't throw stones at Abby's House of Himbos when I set up my own on the other side of town. And then there was Raúl, my Army buddy who came out to his family and immediately moved to LA to get away from them. Everything felt like a fresh start for him, but… not quite for me."

Buck thinks to ask, but Tommy beats him to it. "Do I need to say the third?" Buck shakes his head. "What about you?"

"Abby, and you." Buck looks at Tommy as he says, "It's not just ending things with someone because it doesn't work. It's heart break. Something's gotta break and be mended."

"I don't think I did that part. You've one-upped me there."

Buck wouldn't have believed that 20 minutes ago, but he believes it now.

"So Bobby's been there, watched me since I was Abby's himbo and helped me to grow into the person who wanted that stuff with you. Once he, kinda, told me that if I care about how people see me, then I haven't learned a damn thing," Buck says. "And that is and isn't true, here. I can't live hoping I meet people's expectations of what they think I should be. I want people—I wanted you—to see me as I am. I thought you did but you didn't, and I didn't either because I didn't see how scared you were. I've made my peace with that. We had something really special and made each other feel really good but, in the end, I guess we were saying all the right things to people we didn't know."

Tommy listens, considers, and nods. "Whole lot of past tense, there."

Buck glances at him and doesn't want to look away, but he does. He doesn't meet Tommy's eyes. He's scared, too. He's done enough today: said a lot of things he's been thinking about for four months and said them very calmly and thoughtfully, but this is gonna hurt. It hurt Buck to realize it and it's gonna hurt Tommy to hear it.

"You got what you wanted, right?" Buck asks. "You got to keep your heart, and I don't feel new and excited anymore." Buck inhales deep; it hurts. "I feel like I did before, like I'm short one piece of being whole. Now the ocean I have to search is so much wider and deeper. So thanks for that, I guess."

"Evan—"

"I let you into my family," Buck interrupts sharply. "Because I cared about you and because you fit. I fit because they're mine and that's my family I made, and you fit there right next to me. With us."

"You're absolutely right."

Buck watches him, tries to see behind the sunshine yellow and white mask on his face, but all he sees are his eyes that, like always, make Buck feel too much, like laser beams disintegrating him.

"Were you really that scared?" Buck can't help the way his voice cracks. "You were that scared of me?"

Tommy looks up again, lasers in place. "I was that in love with you." He shakes his head like he did that last night in the kitchen, and looks up like he'll tip the tears back into his eyes. "And those heartbreaks—you'd leave them light-years behind if I let you. You'd leave me light-years behind."

Buck nods, then says, "Could you leave, please." His wet breathing crinkles grossly in the mask. "Thanks for telling me all this, thanks for the closure, but I don't need to see what someone looks like after they've walked away from me."

"You collapsed at a scene three days ago and I was the closest pilot to medevac you here," Tommy says slowly. "You were delirious and told Shreya, Don't tell Tommy I'm sick, he doesn't care anymore."

Tommy clears his throat. "I do care. I never stopped."

Buck sits back in his hospital bed and pulls the blanket up to his neck, the only comfort he's got right now. "If this is a turkey flu dream, I'm gonna be so pissed at you, real you," Buck says.

Tommy laughs quietly, sadly, then hesitates for a moment. "Can I ask you something? Can I ask you the scariest thing I've ever asked anyone in my entire life?"

Buck doesn't move, doesn't breathe. "What is it?" he finally asks.

"Will you give me a second chance?"

Buck, hearing what he's quietly dreamed of hearing for four months, doesn't feel the euphoria he thought he would. He feels something else, though: a strange kind of wonder that someone wants him again. Again. He swallows hard, feeling the pain right in his turkey-flu-ridden throat. Someone knew him. Someone left him. Someone came back—came back for him.

Tommy left. Tommy came back. Tommy wanted him then. Tommy wants him now. Tommy's wanted him all along.           

Buck asks, "Will you invite me to your place more than once every six months?"

Tommy's half-smile is still wide enough for Buck to see behind the mask. It falls, though, back into something serious. "Will you forgive me when I'm not a paragon of queer virtue?"

"Will you believe me when I tell you I've fucked around and found out enough for a lifetime?"

Tommy raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. "Will you believe me when I tell you I've fucked around and found out enough for a lifetime?"

Buck thinks he smiles a little behind his mask, but it doesn't stay. "Are we gonna break up again?"

"I don't know," Tommy admits. "But maybe next time we can stop each other and hit the brakes. I love romcoms, but maybe we don't do that again: you don't propose fixing a problem with marriage and a baby, and I won't run out the door."

Buck raises his eyebrows, too. "Who said anything about a baby?"

Tommy sputters. "I mean, you were the one raising the stakes before."

Buck laughs. "Right, right."

The quiet stretches out between them. They look at each other and don't look away. The stubborn, proud, cocky side of Buck feels annoyed that this feels like—like he can't get out of this. Like all roads lead back to Tommy, like he doesn't have a choice. Like if he wants to be happy, it's with this person.

A part of him wants to run and throw himself into the hunt again. He wants to thrive in the search for someone who makes him feel that euphoria and fondness and love that he felt with Tommy. He tries to imagine someone else, some vague smoky figure that isn't Tommy's height, Tommy's build, Tommy's arms crossed over his chest and that tilt of his head. The problem is that Buck feels more looking at that furrow and arch of his eyebrows than he's felt for anyone he's met in the past four months, maybe even longer.

Not all roads lead to Tommy—only the ones he wants to take.

"Say it again?" Buck asks.

Tommy nods ever so slightly. "I'm in love with you." He pauses and a smile reaches his eyes. "I love you."

Buck can't help the way his eyes water; neither can Tommy.

"Ask me again," Buck says.

"Will you give me a second chance?"

"Yeah." Buck wonders if his own smile reaches his eyes. He hopes it does. "Yeah. Will you?"

Tommy chokes out a laugh behind his mask. "Yeah, god, of course. Of course. You sure?"

"About you?" Buck asks. "Yeah. I mean, I want to be. Don't make me regret it."

"Don't make me give up my real estate."

"Don't make me go to any sports events."

"Seriously? Not even baseball?"

"God," Buck moans. "The sleepiest one of all."

"Hockey's good."

"You hate the Kings."

Tommy scoffs. "Of course I do. You always hate your local teams—you just hate visiting teams more. Can't let management get comfortable."

Buck attempts to take a deep, exasperated breath, but he forgets that he has the fucking turkey flu. He chokes and starts to cough and wheeze, but Tommy's there again. He freely, lovingly pushes Buck further to the other side of the hospital bed so he can sit and take care of him: water, tissues, hand on his chest to steady him, eyes worried and on him.

"It's not official until you kiss me," Buck says. "I'm not contagious."

"I mean, not with turkey flu," Tommy says. "Your Buckness? That I'm not so sure."

"Don't call me that anymore," Buck says.

Tommy puts his cup of water on the table next to Buck's bed, then shifts so he and Buck are closer, face-to-face, head on looking at each other. "How'd you get even brattier in only four months?"

"How'd you forget I was this bratty?"

"At my age, well, everything's starting to go."

Buck laughs, then coughs and wheezes. "Stop making me laugh."

"How'd you forget I was this funny?"

Buck tilts his head. "I didn't. I didn't forget a thing."

Tommy searches his face, then cups his jaw with one hand. Buck doesn't lean into it, just lets Tommy hold him as he tips Buck's chin up ever so slightly.

Then Tommy kisses his forehead and his birthmark, and wraps his arms around Buck. It's the warmest Buck has felt all winter. It finally feels like spring.

---

read on the ao3

[baphometsss]

On Solas's romantic history

Okay. I know what the consensus is. That he’s way too smooth in Inquisition to be inexperienced but... (and I’m fully prepared to get shat on for this lmao don’t kill me)

When he kisses Lavellan, that doesn’t read to me like he’s super suave and seductive. It reads more like—endeared by them trying to run away after kissing him, then being so surprised by how good the kiss felt, that he grabs Lavellan, kisses them again, pulls back with a surprised look on his face, and then goes in for more. It’s touch-starved, desperate, hungry. It’s not really all that smooth because he’s literally bending them over backwards lmao like Solas can you chill maybe

He is very smooth when flirting with Lavellan, but he's also an absolute gobshite who's spent thousands of years sassing the hell out of wannabe gods so that's not a surprise. He's witty af and enjoys some back and forth.

Solas is a very lonely man. He keeps everyone at arm’s length because he’s seen what getting close to people can do to him. His biggest fear is dying alone, and he almost gives into that because it’s what he believes he deserves for all he’s done. His life has been so stressful for so long that he's almost totally unable to consider anything else but his battles. He even says explicitly that he's tired.

That doesn’t make me think of someone who was out there in Ancient Elvhenan sleeping around all those years. No doubt he considered it, but he likely didn't pursue much with anyone physical; he enjoyed spending as much time as possible in the Fade. (The banter with Blackwall doesn't count to me personally since Solas himself thinks the whole idea is preposterous, which speaks for itself really.) Especially after being a slave/servant to Mythal seems to have voided him of his agency for some time. Then he led a rebellion and fought for thousands of years against brutal tyrants. Any one of the people he was close to could’ve been trying to kill him. Lavellan, however, has no reason to do so, so he can flirt with them freely. In all that time, it seems as though the only people he allowed to get close to the real him were Felassan and Mythal. I don’t think he slept with either, because the relationship was familial. Felassan was also loyal to Mythal, but didn’t burn his vallaslin off. (Is this a right hand/left hand of the Divine parallel again? Two brothers and their mother? Idk, I need to think about that one). For creatures with bodies made from the blood of Titans, they don’t have blood families. They would’ve had to forge their own, which is what Solas did with Mythal and Felassan.

And then there’s his ‘it has been a long time’. Most have taken this to mean that it’s been a long time since he’s been intimate with someone, but given what we know now and that he spent thousands of years in the Fade while his body was in uthenera… I wonder if he’s actually saying-- ‘it has been a long time since I lived in a body’-- ie. ‘it has been a long time since I felt physical drives, a long time since I have felt so physically real’. To me, this makes a lot more sense than the ‘he’s thousands of years old he can’t possibly be a virgin/inexperienced’ take bc like... My friends. It probably didn’t feel like thousands of years to him bc he’s essentially always existed. Time is different for spirits. It’s not like he’s gonna go: ‘well I’m nearly 4000y/o, better lose my v-card’. Time is no object when you are a timeless being. Then, given the path his life took, it wouldn’t make a lot of sense for him to be that experienced given how hard it is for him to trust.

I also personally headcanon him as heavily demisexual/demiromantic too. His true nature is so non-physical that the idea of him being very promiscuous or something just doesn’t fit his character. He needs a mental connection, to feel something, before sharing much of himself, or allowing himself the vulnerability intimacy brings, something he clearly feels with Lavellan based on how shaken up by it he is.

And it’s also canon that Solas has never been in love before meeting Lavellan. So. If he went however many millennia without falling in love, it’s also possible he went without intimacy for a long time too.

To be clear I’m not trying to say that this is the correct conclusion. My opinion has just changed a little since Veilguard (I used to think he was being smooth etc bc he's old af/v experienced, but with confirmation of former spirit Solas it’s changed my perspective somewhat)

Also:

‘Things have always been easier for me in the Fade’

‘I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams’ my man is shooketh guys SHOOKETH

[666writingcafe]

Dear MC

A Letter That NB!Barbatos Gives To MC One Day As They Are Visiting The Castle

If you are reading this, then Barbatos has successfully found your location. Don't worry; I didn't force him to. He was actually fulfilling one of Diavolo's orders. Mainly, he wanted to make sure you were still alive wherever you ended up. I simply convinced Barbatos to take this letter with him on his journey.

There have been many things that have occurred in your absence, the most important one being that Simeon has received his sentence from the Celestial Realm. Shortly after you left, as a matter of fact. Due to his guardianship over Luke--which was deemed excellent by those who judged him--he merely got turned into a human, allowing him to essentially live as his alias for the remainder of his life. The bad news is that shortly after he received his sentence, he's pretty much disappeared. Diavolo offered the manor to Simeon so that he'd have a place to stay, but when Barbatos was sent to check in on him the other day, the place was abandoned. Even Levi's having trouble tracking his location, and he's usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

Speaking of Luke, we haven't heard much from him, either. Last I heard, he's under Raphael's care, and if I know him, he's probably trying to keep him preoccupied so that he doesn't think too much about Simeon. Or the rest of us, for that matter. Mammon misses him terribly.

I have done my best to keep your true whereabouts a secret, just like you told me to. The only one that hasn't bought into the lies I've told, unsurprisingly, is Belphie. The others have come to believe me over time, but not him. He's been so insistent on knowing the truth that I'm contemplating telling him. The problem with that is he's not the best at keeping secrets, especially where you're concerned. He'd run to Satan, who then would tell Asmo, who would then post about it on every social media platform he has access to, and then everyone would be putting together a search party for you. I know it's coming from a good place--and I'm sure you do too--but as you stated in your letter, that would ruin the mission you're currently on, and you've worked so hard to get your sorcerer's license that I don't want it getting revoked due to my brothers' emotions.

Due to my emotions.

I feel so incredibly empty without you, MC. This isn't me saying that you need to drop everything and return without completing your assignment from the Society; I'm simply stating how I feel. My access to portals has been banned for the foreseeable future because I've been caught a few times trying to escape. My days are spent at the House and RAD, and my nights are spent at the castle. I am no longer allowed to be alone. Diavolo has made sure of it. Not that it's a bad thing, necessarily. Being with someone is better than crying myself to sleep after drowning myself with Demonus. You'll be pleased to know that Diavolo and Barbatos are keeping a strict eye on me in that regard as well. I have a reputation to uphold, after all, and I managed to do fine before you were in my life. That's what they keep telling me, anyway. It doesn't help to dull the pain very much.

I love you. Please come home soon.

Your Lucifer

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch, @budbuddnbuddy

[sunniques]

hey gorg, morning<3

Had this thought and I think you can match my freak and maybe add a little to my delulu or like give me a prompt? I am a sucker of how u write, love your blog so much hehe. So, can you picture stepbro Mingyu and stepbro Wonwoo. Both of them bulky af, since the first moment their dad introduced them to you and your mom they’d be picturing and having the nastiest and sluttiest thoughts, corruption kink, size kink. Even breeding kink with the most dirty talk. Like, the most horny and indecent scenes and scenarios, from the first time your mom and their dad let you with them to get to know better, on your parents wedding and almost everytime they have the chance after that, fucking you senseless and teasing you about being caught and fucking you on the most inappropriate moments when you are at a 99% risk of getting caught. And if we get even nastier, Dad (not quite sure who dad could be) caughts them once and ends up joining…

If it’s too much that’s okay though, you don’t need to answer this. I think ���m ovulating 😭

Btw, Can I be anon 🦊? Have a good day!

of course i’m going to match your freak that’s what i’m here for! this concept is to die for and maaan do i have thoughts 👀 that emoji is all yours 🩷

Picturing brothers Mingyu and Wonwoo just sharing a look after they meet you because they know you’re going to be their new little fucktoy. So, Mingyu gets you first because Wonwoo has a soft spot for his little brother, and Mingyu is a little less intimidating than he is. You get so caught up in Mingyu’s charms that you don’t feel guilty when you two share a kiss.

Until Wonwoo catches you two that is.

You get so shy and feel so dirty because that’s what Wonwoo calls you. A dirty girl. It’s sick because that sends a tingle to your pussy. What you don’t expect is for Wonwoo to give you a messy kiss of his own. That night the brothers share you, Wonwoo gets your pussy while Mingyu gets your mouth. Then they switch off, telling you how they’re going to stretch out your tiny little holes and breed them all night.

You love it. So fucking much.

Of course this leads to you fucking even when your parents are in the house. Mingyu always fingers you at the dinner table, and Wonwoo always fucks you in the shower in the bathroom that’s right down the hall from your parents’ bedroom. They’re both so nasty, always fucking you dumb when your parents say they’re on the way home.

“Hurry up and make us cum, sweetheart,” Wonwoo groans as he rams his cock into your ass. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to see you stuffed full of cock do you?”

You’re so corrupted and nasty at this point you moan that you don’t care if they do. Mingyu grins into your neck as you cream all over his cock. You hot cunt is so tight that he spills his cum into you before sloppily fucking it into you.

This is a constant cycle until one day you actually to get caught. Your mom is going on a business trip so your stepdad drives her to the airport. Obviously, minwon sees this as another opportunity to fuck you senseless. This time, they don’t count on their dad to actually make it back on time.

Your stepbrothers don’t stop using their holes once they see their dad standing at the doorway of their shared room. Seungcheol’s cock is hard, watching his cute little stepdaughter getting used like she’s nothing but a filthy cum slut.

“What’s going on?” He asks calmly, cock twitching when his sons finally pull out and your pretty holes leak with cum.

“Want a taste, dad?” Wonwoo grins deviously, knowing the answer.

That’s how you end up bouncing on your stepdad’s cock as your stepbrothers watch. Seungcheol is even rougher than his sons, and as he spears you open on his big cock, you can’t help but think the apples don’t fall far from the tree.

[tired-reader-writer]

Tentatively decided to name the new OC (Shapur's former tutor who now teaches his two kids) Sadiq, meaning “true, sincere, loyal”— derived from the root صدق (ṣadaqa) meaning “to tell the truth”! I have yet to figure out his whole deal but the vague strokes are that he had probably been taught to be ruthless even against family, tangled up in a succession crisis against his brother, only to eventually go “wait, none of this is even remotely worth it” and fucked off— maybe he even tried his hand at serving at court but got disillusioned and left— probably because Gotatzes deteriorated and he witnessed again brother fighting brother and got so Tired of it all. Kinda gave up on the world, only dedicating himself to his... nephew? of a sort? He probably had blood ties to Shapur's father or something to have been able to become his tutor. I get the sense that he's mellowed out quite a bit since his younger years. Actually, why do I keep visualizing this man as Froi Tiedoll from D Gray Man????

?????????????????

I don't know if the mental image will end up sticking or not. We shall see.

(Man I need to reread D Gray Man don't I)

Some other vague stuff about him:

Has lingering regrets over broken familial bonds. Maybe he wishes he'd known better, known to have not feuded against his own brother when he was younger.

Pretty chil???? (Tis the Froi influence I swear)

(but if he's so chill how'd he produce not one but TWO very rigid students?! my dude??)

“The fact that you two (Isfan and Areyan) have never once considered it (competing against each other for the heir seat, or even feuding with Shapur for the family head and lord position) then it means I have taught you two well.”

Eternal Bachelor™

Could he possibly have been peers with Lushan and Munzhir (Zaravant's dad)? Discuss.

His tutelage likely expanded its bounds beyond just Isfan and Areyan after the clan settles in Shapur's lands.

(now that I think of it I still haven't decided why they'd want to settle there, FUCK)

(maybe Sadiq could've helped convince them but with what arguments?)

Easygoing demeanor hides his sharp mind and eyes

Approved of Shapur trying to rescue Golnar and Isfan.

Wanted to see where Shapur would go with Ayunnen, Kashi, and Kazai, though knew that they probably wouldn't have a good time so long as Shapur's father and Jahanara still held power over the castle so he could have advised to wait until after Shapur became lord.

But then they DIED...

Could he have faint knowledge about things to do with magic? He could have been in Gotatzes' court after all— and that means magic and soothsaying and the like were more prominent during his times (and then Andragoras killed all court sorcerers upon attaining the throne, and here we arrive at Pars' current attitude towards magic. at least in the capital and among warriors?)

Like This™ about his students at all times:

Bonus round: two other name candidates that didn't quite end up making the cut!

Mehdi

Means "guided one" in Arabic, a derivative of هدى (hadā) meaning "to lead the right way, to guide".

Firouz/Firuz/Pirouz/Piruz

From Persian پیروز (pīrūz) or فیروز (fīrūz) meaning "victorious". This name was borne by Firuz Shah Tughlaq, a 14th-century sultan of Delhi who did much to build the city's infrastructure.

[onlyathief]

every word was a proper slap in the face. the sharp truth of most of them pressed into his gut like a blade, over and over and over. it wasn't just the words she hissed and spat, either. it was the way she looked doin' it, eyes wild and glassy, cheeks flushed red as poppies, the whole look of her feral in a way that actually made him step backward when she stepped forward.

"i... that's not-" words failed him. his tongue felt like dead weight in his mouth, too thick and turning all his attempts into gibberish. didn't help none that his accent seemed to coat the words too, makin' him practically non-sensical.

"weren't even.. y'aint be knowin'..." his eyes flashed blood-bright, gleamin' like a ruby burstin' with light. he was mad but it wasn't at her, he just couldn't help the anger pulsing through him.

"a'ight you wanna know me?! once i thought i loved her, when i was just a dumb kid who didn't know no better, but we didn't get hitched 'cos i loved her. we got hitched 'cos our guilds forced that shit. didn't matter how i felt then, i was jus' doin my part and i still fucked it all up! i fuck it all up, everythin' i touch jus' goes to shit!"

he was turning now to pace, his fury in revisiting the past makin' his fingers feel hot with the energy beggin' to be released.

"yeah," he stopped sharp and turned to point at rogue. "i sure did make a vow, like a good fuckin' soldier and then her dumb ass brother went an' challenged me in front'a everyone an' y'know why i can't go back to new orleans, huh? 'cos i fuckin' killed him. it was him or me an' i made my choice. all that effort bein' loyal an all it got me was a marriage i didn't want none and blood on my hands in the end. there. you know, judge away!"

which she could do all on her lonesome because he was done. he needed air, he needed to release the pent up rage burning hot in his fingers.

remy turned and left just as scott came in, lookin' a little disgruntled at that.

"what is going on, rogue?"

He pursued rather than turn tail and run from her anger. Meant Remy was braver or dumber than a lot of the people she’d met in her lifetime. Even so, Rogue withdrew, stepped back and away to escape his attempt to touch her. Now it wasn’t just about keeping her crush safe from being harmed. Oh no. Now Rogue felt her skin crawl at the very fact she desperately wanted this man to touch her. Even now. Even knowing what she did.

“Y’think I care about eyes of the law?!” Somehow that was the point Rogue managed to be able to articulate. “I was raised by two women whose love wouldn’t be recognized in the eyes of the law even if they weren’t fugitives on the run!”

All her hurt and anger bubbled inside her gut threatened to erupt. Because even what she had done so far wasn’t damn near what the southern gal l actually could do in a rage. The tears were back, shamefully, but what was the point of wiping them away this time if they were going to keep returning like a bad habit.

“But you vowed to love her right? Honor her cherish her, whatever phrase you picked? ‘Til death do you part?” The traditional sort of thing said at weddings. She had not caught the whole story with brothers dying and running off, but she had been able to infer one thing. “And you didn’t leave her ‘cause you didn’t love her.”

Remy had looked like her hated Belladonna, but somehow that disturbed Rogue more. Indifference to the woman would have been better, because hate? Oh hate was a passionate thing that was just one breath, one touch, one kiss, away from love. Hate meant there had been a powerful affection before. Case in point? How Rogue was feeling towards the Cajun right now.

She advanced a step, chin tilting up so she could glare into Remy’s entrancing eyes with her own acid look. Her voice was lowered now, but no less furious. “Scoundrel? Cruel? How the heck am I supposed to tell the difference? I don’t even know you. Never did I guess.”

[mossistyping]

Kind of rude that the only time my BIL and his gf want to hang out is when I'm in the middle of editing my 16k lestappen fic

[itz-pandora]

Huh. If my life was a quote, it'd be "one of those sad ones with a deceptively happy tune"

[pocketramblr]

I always found it slightly awkward how media makes siblings or people who see each other as siblings call each other brother/sister all the time as in real life you almost never see people do that with their own siblings (maybe someone out there like that)

In the case of Arkham Shadows I see why they did though because Bruce quite literally tells Harvey he loves him and Harvey says it back. Can't have the audience think Batman is in love with the DA.

They had Bruce pay for his college, pay for his campaign, pay for his surgery, pay for his therapy and had Harvey have him as his best man at his wedding. Wow..... Sugar baby Harvey is real.....

The calling sibling title thing is less common in English than in some other languages for sure- me and a couple of my siblings do it on occasion, but it's for a bit then. More common is when I call one of my close family friends "my sister" or "my nephew" when talking about them to someone else because it's faster and easier to say that than to say "my friend who I've known since she was born and lived with for a few years and consider a little sister" or "child of a close family friend who considers me an aunt" to someone who doesn't know them. Which is a lot of words to say that if they wanted to fully sell me on the brothers thing they should have either had a different bit or should have referred to the other as "my brother" when talking to an unrelated character instead.

But "oh no we have to make Bruce not look gay" has been a problem DC has struggled with more than once for many decades and it basically never works so I guess at least they didn't try to solve it this time by having Bruce pick a lady love over Harvey or cutting the holding hands thing

Because I saw that scrapbook! I know Harvey has been Bruce's sugar baby since he was ten years old! But we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him the love of his life because ok technically that's Gotham but also because gay. And we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him his best friend because they're not ten anymore and somehow that seems gay also. So brothers it is, I guess. Even if I think my brothers would bite my finger if I ever tried to pay for everything for them on that scale, guess it's different at billionaire levels

[lordofthenerds97]

IM SCREAMING

So I legit thought there was finna be a forehead smooch here omg

First of all

I love Booker, he is amazing and I would love to see Goldie in command of him and his unit all the time

I love her interactions with the clones so much. And how she feels about them. She treats them like people, not objects. It’s so important to her that they know how valued they are…and that lil healing trick, even if it wasn’t the same thing she did for Rex, showed Booker the type of General and Jedi she is

I’m absolutely cackling at Wise(ass) and his bedside manner.

“What, were you hoping for something else? Like a kiss, maybe?”

The absolute sarcasm and Bookers, “That was practically a marriage proposal.” I’m in tears I’m laughing so hard omg

I’m wheezing

This episode truly killed me tho, I sob every time I see 99 😭😭😭😭

The move with the ship tho? Hella smart. You say you hate writing action but damn you’re good at it!

I like how there wasn’t a huge concentration on the battle itself or strategizing; we got to see Goldie in action but we also got a good glimpse inside her head and what was going on up there throughout the fight. This chapter was honestly such a fantastic read and one of my favorites to date, just because of how well everything flows and how flawlessly it all fits together

And Booker’s admission that she actually kinda intimidated them? His reluctance to leave her? Cause he ALREADY knows the girl is trouble. He’s already duty bound to her and I would love to see more of them working together

Let’s talk about Rex, baby

Babygirl

He is babygirl

He was looking for her

Obviously, he would be doing that at some point. But the intensity? That was something else, in a good way, and kinda blew me away. The emotions were so raw and so real, and he totally forgot that his brothers were in the room with him. He barely managed to restrain himself from touching her, which she solved for him, assuring him that she was really there and really alive

She could feel him in the Force, she knew he was okay. Me sticking (as always) with the theory that Rex is Force Sensitive, he wouldn’t know how to channel that…he wouldn’t know how to look for her or what her signature feels like. He needs that tangible proof in front of him that she’s alive and okay. Being the Good Soldier™️ that he is, he held himself back until they were sort of alone, but Goldie immediately recognized that he needed that assurance and needed her to ground him. She didn’t care who saw, she let him know she was there. Amazing. Beautiful. Chefs kiss.

That little episode in the hallway alcove? The hug? The fact he was the one to initiate it? Boy is in D E E P, and there’s no getting out

And he had absolutely every right to need a minute after that battle, and after thinking, even for a moment, that he might’ve lost her

Like I said I was kinda expecting a little forehead smooch BUT HE BROKE REGULATION AND GAVE HER HIS COMM 😭😭😭😭😭😭 that might be even better

AND THE IMMEDIATE MESSAGE STAY SAFE?????

Sobbing

This was phenomenal Roy, I can’t wait for more!!

Event Horizon

Chapter Seventeen: Downpour

Chapter WC: 12,129

Chapter Tags/Warnings: battle stuff, kinda angsty but compared to last chapter this is nothing

A/N: Once again there is a lot going on here. 💀 I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for ages, so I hope you enjoy!

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Kamino, 21 BBY

It's raining. Of course it's raining. 

You can't even remember a time you were on Kamino that it wasn't. It's a strange world, a planet of extremes. Cold, wet, and miserable. And yet, there's a beauty to it. The way the waves crash against the buildings, the roar of the wind, the smell of the salt water.

It's been over a month since the siege of Null, and you haven't been able to rest. Not truly. Your mind has been racing, the memory of finding Yaddle's things haunting your every waking moment.

You haven't slept for longer than an hour or two at a time, and even when you do manage to fall asleep, the nightmares are worse. The severing you felt the moment she died finds you in your sleep, but it's not her death, it's Rex's. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Anakin's. Or Ahsoka's. They're dead, and it's because of you. Because you weren't strong enough, or fast enough, or smart enough.

And the dreams always end the same.

With the severed bond, with the loss, with the anguish.

It's not fair, and you're angry, but more than that, you're frustrated. You can't bring the evidence to the Council's attention without requesting a hearing, and the Council seems content with keeping you away from Coruscant. They've been keeping you too busy, assigning the 212th to a dozen missions, never allowing you to have a moment's peace. 

And, you can't help but wonder if it's because they know. If they know what you have. It's irrational, of course, but the anxiety won't stop gnawing at you, the worry growing by the day.

As a result, you've become increasingly paranoid, and you're constantly checking your belongings, checking the box underneath your bed aboard the Negotiator, making sure everything is where it should be. Obi-Wan's noticed, of course, but he's too occupied with his own inner turmoil over what happened with Duchess Satine to worry too much about yours.

Cody's noticed too, but he's been kind enough not to say anything. You suspect Rex has told him to leave it alone, which you're grateful for. You don't have the energy to explain yourself, not when there's so much else to worry about.

And right now, there is plenty to worry about.

"Sir, look out!"

A trooper in a full white kit grabs your arm and yanks you back just as a stray bolt nearly clips you in the head. You stumble backwards, landing hard on your ass, and you blink, trying to clear the rain from your eyes.

A pair of hands grab you, pulling you to your feet.

"Sorry, sir," the trooper apologizes. His helmet obscures his face, but you can tell he's embarrassed. "Didn't mean to manhandle you."

"It's alright," you assure him. "Better than getting shot in the head."

He nods and returns his attention to the firefight, raising his rifle and squeezing off a round. The droid at the far end of the platform drops, a smoking hole in its chest, and the trooper lets out a satisfied grunt before turning back to you.

"Stay close. I'll cover you," he says, and he moves past you into the chaos. You blink, trying to process what just happened, but then the sound of blaster fire reaches your ears, and you duck, your senses snapping back into focus.

The two of you weave through the melee, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the metallic tang of blaster fire. It's slow going, and the shots are coming fast and thick. More than once, the trooper has to grab you and pull you to the ground, the heat of a bolt singing your ear.

You're starting to feel frustrated, and embarrassed. You should be able to handle yourself better. You've been trained since birth to deal with these situations. And yet, here you are, relying on some poor shiny to drag you around like a baby.

It's shameful.

A blast comes from above, and you throw up a hasty shield, deflecting the energy bolt. The trooper ducks, hissing, and you reach out with the Force, yanking him behind a twisted heap of droid parts at the same time as you shove the sniper off the roof.

"Sorry," you say as you land hard next to him, your knees screaming in protest. "Normally, I'm better at this."

"At what? Being shot at?"

You huff. "Being a Jedi."

The trooper laughs, and then turns and leans around the pile of scrap, firing his rifle. "I don't know, General. Seems like you're doing just fine to me."

"That's...generous of you," you mutter. You lean back, taking a moment to catch your breath. 

It's not easy to focus. Everything is chaos. Screams, explosions, blaster fire. The time you all had to prepare for the siege had not been nearly enough, and the blockade had been brutal. By the time you'd arrived on the planet, the battle was already in full swing. 

You and Cody had only just managed to land before the shuttle had been forced to evacuate, and while he had rushed off to secure the barracks with Rex, you were tasked with defending the training facility with a contingent of newly trained clones. They were an interesting bunch, a little wild and eager, but they knew how to fight, and you'd seen them cut down more droids than their fair share. 

You just hoped that would be enough.

Droids were rising from the ocean like the living dead, and they were everywhere, a sea of metal, their red eyes flashing in the storm. There's little cover on the open platform, and the clones are doing their best to hold their ground, but they're being pushed back, the droids overwhelming them.

"This is fucking insane," the trooper growls, and you glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it," you chuckle. "I've heard worse."

He huffs and shakes his head, and then he raises his blaster and fires off another round at the same time as you pop up and throw your shoto in a wide arc. The yellow streak cuts through the air and collides with a pair of battle droids, severing clean through their torsos, the halves clattering to the ground.

"Nice shot," the trooper grunts. You look over at him and grin as you catch the blade, but it fades when you notice his hand clutching his arm, his armor charred and cracked.

"You're hurt," you gasp, reaching out, but he pulls away.

"It's nothing," he insists, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"Let me see," you press.

He sighs, but he releases his arm, allowing you to examine the wound. The flesh is scorched, but it's not deep. You can't risk applying bacta, not in the middle of a battle, but you can ease the pain, at least.

You place your hand on his arm, and he jerks, his helmet whipping towards you. You meet his gaze and try to smile reassuringly.

"Just relax," you tell him. "It won't hurt."

He hesitates, but then he nods, and he lets out a slow breath. You close your eyes and focus, the Force flowing through you, into him. It's the same technique you used to heal Rex's injury on Null, but the effect is more temporary, the tissue healing slower than usual. You're sure that if Rex knew what you were doing, he'd have a few choice words, but you don't care. These men are under your command, and it's your duty to protect them. Even if that means pushing your own limits.

"Wow," the trooper murmurs. He rolls his arm, flexing his fingers, a note of awe in his voice. "How did you do that?"

You shrug. "I have my ways."

"Very mysterious, sir," he teases, and you roll your eyes. He peers around the pile of scrap, and then turns back to you, his shoulders slumping. "Not gonna lie, this isn't looking good."

"No, it's not," you agree. You take a deep breath, your hands resting on your knees. You feel lightheaded, and a little woozy. Healing him took more out of you than you expected.

"You're not doing so great either," the trooper observes, and you blink, turning to him.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not doing so great," he repeats. He cocks his head, and then adds, "Sir."

You can't help but snort at that, and the two of you share a chuckle. It feels good to laugh, to find a moment of levity in the chaos. The trooper may have been a little awkward and blunt, but you couldn't help but like him. He was refreshingly honest. Or maybe you were just a little delirious.

"Thanks," you mumble. You pause, and then look around, trying to formulate a plan. The platform is surrounded, and the droids are pouring out of the ocean faster than the clones can shoot them down. You've never been great at strategy, but you've survived this long. You're going to have to rely on instinct. And hope.

You raise your blades and stand, a grim determination settling over you.

"Stay close," you say, and the trooper rises to his feet, his blaster at the ready. "We're going to break their ranks."

"Sir, yes, sir."

You nod, and the two of you leap out from behind the pile of scrap, launching yourselves into the fray. For a few moments, everything is a blur. You lose yourself in the movement, the familiar weight of your weapons in your hands. It's a dance, really, the steps as natural as breathing. You duck, dodge, spin, strike, parry, thrust, and repeat. The droids fall before you, their metal limbs scattering across the platform, but it's still not enough.

"We have to fall back," you shout. "Get the wounded into the building and seal the doors. We'll regroup and formulate a plan."

The trooper nods, and he signals the men, repeating your orders. A moment later, they're retreating, falling back to the safety of the training facility. You hold the rear, deflecting shot after shot, the lightning crackling overhead, the wind roaring in your ears. The droids are relentless, and their shots are becoming more accurate. One hits a clone in front of you, and he falls to the ground, his body limp.

"Grab him," you call out. Another bolts grazes your pauldron, and you flinch, nearly tripping over a severed droid arm at your feet. "Hurry!"

The troopers haul their fallen comrade, and they rush back into the training facility, the doors sealing behind them. The one who had saved your life before remains at your side, and together, the two of you hold the line, keeping the droids from breaching the entrance. But, even with your combined efforts, the droids are still advancing, and they're quickly gaining ground.

The rain is coming down hard, and the wind is blowing it sideways, soaking through your clothes and chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth, and continue deflecting shots, the droids' numbers seeming endless. If only Obi-Wan was here. He'd have thought of something clever, something that would have turned the tide in your favor. You, however, have nothing. Nothing but desperation, and anger, and fear.

A particularly well-aimed shot whizzes past your ear, and you feel the heat of it graze your cheek. Another shoots by, and another, and another. They're close, too close, and your arms are starting to tremble, your fingers slipping on the hilts of your sabers.

"Sir, come on!" the trooper urges, grabbing your arm and pulling you back toward the facility. You can barely keep up, your boots sliding on the wet ground. The doors are so close, but they're also so far.

A sudden blast rocks the platform, sending the two of you sprawling. Your sabers go flying, clattering across the duracrete, and you watch the blades deactivate, the metal growing cold and silent. The trooper groans beside you, and then he sits up, shaking his head. You can't blame him for his lack of grace. The world is spinning, and the ringing in your ears is deafening.

"Fuck," you hiss, pushing yourself up. You reach out with the Force and drag a crate to the side, forming a barrier between the two of you and the advancing droids. It's a flimsy shield, but it's better than nothing. You press your back against the crate and close your eyes, gathering your strength.

"I've got an idea," the trooper pants, and his voice sounds like it's coming from a million lightyears away. His helmet tilts your direction, his chest heaving. "But you're not going to like it."

"Try me," you grunt, trying to clear your vision.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, the sound sharp through the modulator. "See that downed trident ship? The one with the hole in the side?"

You turn and look, spotting the wreckage. It's close, no more than a few dozen meters away, behind the hoard of advancing droids. It's a mess of broken metal, the hull twisted and shattered, the observation portals cracked.

"Yeah, I see it," you reply, a hint of suspicion creeping into your voice.

"Can you use the Force to move it?" He pulls a grenade from his belt. "If you can bring it close enough, I can toss a popper into the hole and detonate the fuel reserves."

You stare at him, the implications dawning on you. You're not a demolitions expert, but even you know that blowing up a downed ship in the middle of a battle is a risky move. The explosion would likely cause significant damage, and the fallout could be deadly.

"Do you think you can do it?" he asks, his voice laced with urgency.

"I can do it," you reply, and the trooper gives a short nod.

"Then, let's do this," he says.

"On my mark," you say, and he nods again.

You rise and extend your hand, calling upon the Force. The moment you connect, a wave of power rushes through you, and you can feel the weight of the ship heavy in your grasp. You take a deep breath, and you start to pull, using all your strength. 

The ship groans, the metal creaking and screeching. It's heavier than you thought, and it's hard to focus with the blaster fire coming at you. You grit your teeth, and you throw every ounce of energy into the task. Slowly, the ship begins to move, its metal body scraping against the deck until it lifts into the air.

The droids don't seem to notice the trident floating above their heads, and they continue their advance, their red eyes gleaming in the storm. It's almost comical, how the metal behemoth hangs there twists in the air behind them, its tentacle-like limbs dangling beneath.

The rain is pouring now, the water streaming down your face, and your entire body is trembling, exhaustion threatening to overtake you. It's getting harder and harder to maintain control, and the ship is wavering, the hull swinging back and forth.

"I can't hold it much longer," you shout, your voice straining.

"Almost there," the trooper shouts back. His hand grips the grenade, his finger hovering over the trigger. "Just a little longer!"

You let out a cry and pull with all your might, and the ship responds, jerking forward, the tentacles swinging wildly. He presses the activator, hurling the grenade towards the hull just as it falls from your grasp. It arcs through the air, hitting the edge of the hole and bouncing inside. 

"Get down!"

The trooper grabs you and tackles you to the ground, shielding your body with his. A second later, the trident explodes, a blinding flash of light filling the sky. The shockwave is deafening, the pressure slamming into you, the heat from it hot on your skin. 

Debris rains down, the deck trembles beneath you, and the ground shifts. For a moment, you think it's about to collapse, and the two of you are going to tumble into the ocean below. But, then, everything goes still and silent.

You lay there, stunned. Your ears are ringing, and your body is aching, the pain pulsing through you. You're alive, though. And, surprisingly, uninjured.

You turn your head and glance at the trooper, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He's alive. He's alive.

The two of you are silent for a moment, and then, a chuckle escapes your lips. You can't help it, the adrenaline surging through you. He lets out a weak laugh, and you start to laugh harder, the hysteria gripping you. It's insane, all of it, and the two of you laugh until you're crying, your ribs aching, the tears mixing with the rain.

After what feels like an eternity, you manage to regain control, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks, a giddy sense of relief washing over you. The trooper pushes himself up and offers his hand, pulling you to your feet. Once you're steady, you clasp his shoulder, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"That was insane. Absolutely insane." You can't help but laugh again, the adrenaline still pumping through you. "And, I have to admit, pretty damn clever."

He chuckles and shrugs, brushing aside the compliment. "Thanks, sir. But, I can't take the credit. That was all you."

"Well, whatever. It was a team effort." You look around, the smoke from the explosion clearing, revealing the aftermath. The droids are scattered in pieces across the deck, their limbs bent and twisted. You know more will come, but for now, the platform is secure.

"You have a name, trooper?" you ask.

"CC-8411, sir," he replies. He holsters his rifle and straightens his back, a sense of pride in his stance. "Though my brothers call me Booker."

"A commander, huh?" You tilt your head, studying him. "I should have known. You have quite the aim, Booker. Thank you for watching my back."

"Of course, sir." He shifts nervously on his feet, glancing down at the ground and back up. "And I, uh, I'm not a commander yet, sir, but I'm working on it."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Booker says. He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. "Just finished my ARC training. I'm pretty good at shooting, and my scores are high. My CO's seem to think I'm ready, it's just, well, I can't get promoted unless I've had experience leading a unit."

You raise an eyebrow, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "You don't say."

Booker clears his throat and stands at attention, his gaze straight ahead. "I'm just...I'm looking for the right opportunity, sir."

"Hm," you hum, studying him. You call your lightsabers back into your hands, and you point at him with the hilt of one. "That could be arranged."

His helmet snaps in your direction as you holster them. "Sir?"

"You said it yourself. You have the skills," you point out. "And, if your superiors think you're ready, I see no reason why we can't put you to the test. Come on."

You turn and gesture for him to follow, and the two of you make your way back into the facility, the doors opening with a hiss. The rest of the men are waiting inside, their bodies slumped against the wall, the injured being treated. When they catch sight of you, a cheer rises, and the air fills with applause.

You can't help but smirk, and you glance at Booker, giving him a wink.

"Looks like you're already popular," you tease.

"Well, what can I say?" he laughs. "I have a way with people."

"Yeah, I can see that." You stop in the center of the room and take a deep breath. "Status report."

One of the troopers steps forward, and he salutes, his helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes are wide, a mixture of awe and terror, and he swallows, trying to gather himself.

"All troopers accounted for, sir," he reports. "One casualty, but all other injuries are non-life threatening. I've sent word to the barracks, but I don't know if anyone's heard us." He looks around the room, his expression grim. "I think we're on our own, sir."

You nod. You'd expected as much. Still, it's not the news you wanted to hear.

"Very well," you say, sighing. You reach out, placing your hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. "Stay calm. What's your name?"

"Snap, sir," he answers.

"Well, Snap, let's do this one step at a time, okay?" You pat his arm and take a step back, taking a deep breath. "First things first. How many able men are here?"

"About forty, sir."

You bite your lip, calculating the numbers. It's not enough. Not by a long shot. But, it'll have to do.

"Alright, listen up," you declare, and the room goes silent. "We need to start clearing buildings. If we can create a clear path to the barracks, we can get our brothers the reinforcements they need. Now, the enemy is numerous, and they're well-armed, but they're also spread out. So, we're going to take advantage of that."

You pause and look at each trooper, their faces serious. Then, you turn back to Booker, giving him a nod.

"We're going to split into teams and work our way through the city, building by building, until we reach the barracks. Our goal is to clear as much ground as possible and take out as many droids as we can along the way. Commander Booker will be leading a team. I'll be taking the rest."

Booker stiffens, and he glances at you. "Sir?"

"Time to prove yourself, Commander," you tell him, and the room breaks into a flurry of excited murmurs. "I want you to lead a team through the east wing. You're a good shot. Take out as many droids as you can."

He's quiet for a moment, and then he nods, squaring his shoulders.

"You heard the General," he says as he turns back to the men, his voice firm and commanding. There's no trace of the nervousness he displayed only moments before. "Form up."

The troopers begin gathering their gear, the room filled with a newfound sense of purpose. You can't help but smile, and a wave of pride swells inside you. They may not be the most skilled fighters, but these men are brave, and they're determined. And, if the past few hours have shown you anything, it's that they're smart. They'll be fine.

Booker steps closer to you as the men move into formation, and he hesitates before pulling his helmet off, revealing a face you've seen a thousand times and a crooked smile that's all his own. His hair is dangerously close to being out of regulation for a shiny, and his eyes are bright and full of life.

"I won't let you down, sir," he vows.

"I know," you assure him, and his smile widens. "I'll see you on the other side, Commander."

He gives a final nod, and he jams his helmet back on, turning to the troopers who have assembled beside him. He barks a command, and the group disappears into the hallway. The remaining troopers turn to you, waiting for their orders.

You take a deep breath and steel yourself, feeling the weight of the battle heavy on your shoulders. You wave your hand, and the men follow you down the opposite corridor, their footsteps echoing behind you. 

The halls are quiet, the only sound the hiss of the doors opening and closing as the men file out and the rain pattering against the glass above, the droplets running down the window.

It's dark, the lights flickering, and the building feels abandoned, a shell of its former glory. There are no signs of life, no indication that anyone is left behind, and the silence is unnerving. It's almost like a ghost town. Or a tomb. But, the droids are here, lurking somewhere, and you know that the fight is far from over.

You pass through the training facility, the space littered with broken equipment and shattered glass, the droid corpses scattered throughout. There are blast marks on the walls, scorch marks on the floor, the metal dented and twisted. 

Somewhere, you know Obi-Wan is fighting General Grievous, and you pray to the Force that he succeeds. You'd never say it aloud, but you're glad it's him and not you. Not this time. He's faced the cyborg more than once before, and he's still standing. You can't say the same after your last encounter, and while the idea of having a rematch is tempting, the idea of facing that monster again terrifies you.

It's a selfish thought, and one that Obi-Wan would be disappointed in, but it's true. You're afraid. Afraid of the pain, of the horror, of the nightmares that plague you still. And, if you're honest, afraid of the darkness within yourself, the one that lingers, whispering in your ear. The one that you've barely kept at bay, but knows no bounds. You'd tempted fate once, and you'd nearly paid the price.

No, you're better off where you are, facing droids instead of demons.

"Sir," a voice interrupts, and you blink, realizing you've stopped walking. You feel a flicker of embarrassment as you look at the trooper who spoke, his helmet tilted, and you give a quick nod to speak. "We've cleared the building. No signs of life. No droids, either."

You let out a sigh, relief washing over you.

"Thank you," you say, giving him a smile. "Good work."

"Where to next?"

You consider his words, and you weigh the options. You know the barracks are in the north, and you're currently in the south. To reach them, you'll have to fight your way through the city, which is crawling with droids, and there's no telling what they have planned. They could have already taken the barracks, and you'd have no way of knowing until it was too late.

You look at the trooper, and he shifts under your gaze. "What's your name?"

"CT-4398, sir," he answers, his voice wavering slightly. "I mean, um, Dash. Sir."

You give him a small smile, trying to ease his nerves. He's young, barely out of his teens, and it's clear he's never been in the field before. "Well, Dash, what do you think?"

"Me?" he stammers. "I don't... I'm not sure..."

"It's okay," you reassure him. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

"Well, sir, I was just thinking...maybe we should check the control room," he says, gesturing down the hall. "It's just around the corner. We might be able to find out where the droids are coming from, and get some information on the barracks."

"Sounds like a plan," you say, smiling. You clap him on the shoulder. "I need you to man the control room with..." You blink, turning to the trooper next to him. "What's your name?"

"Screwball, sir," the trooper says. You try to disguise the laughter, but Screwball is already shaking his head. "Don't ask."

"Right," you drawl, and you turn back to Dash. "With Screwball. Monitor the communications. Try to raise the barracks."

Dash stares at you, and it’s only when Screwball slaps him on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward does he finally snap out of his stupor.

"Y-yes, sir," he replies. "Understood, sir."

“I’ll watch him, sir,” Screwball adds confidently.

"Good," you say. You nod to the remaining troopers. "Let's move out."

As you continue down the corridor, you can't help but wonder if you're doing the right thing. If there's even a right thing. There's so much about this war that feels wrong, but it's still the clones, and their treatment, that trouble you the most.

They were created, not born. Taught, not raised. Molded, not nurtured. Their entire lives, they were engineered to serve, bred to fight. And, yet, there's so much more to them.

They're men, flesh and blood, and you can't help but feel responsible for their lives. These clones in particular, still so young, still so new. They've barely begun to live. To die now, here on Kamino, would be a waste. A tragic end to bright lives cut too short.

You can't allow that.

You won't.

Ahead, the corridor splits, the left leading to the control room, the right continuing on to the rest of the building. Dash and Screwball peel off, and the group continues. You're not sure what awaits you outside, but you're determined to face it. The odds are stacked against you, but so far, you've overcome the worst, and you've survived. You can do this. You can save them.

As the door slides open, and the rain batters against your face, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the battle ahead.

Booker and his squad are waiting when you finally meet up hours later, their armor drenched, their weapons hanging at their sides. You can tell they've been through the wringer, but the sight of them is a welcome relief. In fact, every single trooper on his squad is accounted for and then some — a score of fifteen men you haven’t seen before.

"I see you picked up some friends," you tease, giving him a tired smile.

Booker chuckles, and he shakes his head, his armor dripping. "A few stragglers, but I'm not complaining. Thought they might be useful."

"You thought right." You reach out and pat his shoulder, your fingers squeezing his plastoid. "Good work, Commander. I'm glad you're okay."

"I told you I wouldn't let you down," he reminds you. "Besides, it's not over yet."

He's right. You're still not even halfway through the city, and the storm is only getting worse, the waves crashing against the buildings, the wind howling.

You've cleared five buildings so far, and each one has been an ordeal. The droids are everywhere, and they're relentless. Your troops have had to fight their way through blockades, shoot down trident ships, and fend off swarms of B2s. It's been a brutal slog, and your body is exhausted, the adrenaline from the first few hours waning.

The good news is, there doesn't seem to be an endless supply of droids. The bad news is, there's still enough to pose a serious threat.

Your men have been hit hard, and more than a few have been wounded. Some are unconscious, and some are worse. Some were too injured to move, and you've done what you can to stabilize them, but the truth is, there's not much you can do. There's not enough bacta to go around, and there's no way to safely transport them.

It's a grim reality, and it's one that haunts you. Not long ago you'd felt the loss of every death, the pain and suffering washing over you. It had nearly driven you mad. Now, the feeling has faded, becoming nothing more than a dull ache. A reminder.

It's not right. None of this is right.

Your thoughts drift to Rex, and the image of his face is clear in your mind. He's alive, you can sense it. And if anyone can survive a battle, it's him, but that doesn't stop the fear from taking hold. It's irrational, and you know it, but you can't shake the dread that gnaws at you. He's the best fighter you've ever known, and he's faced death a hundred times before, and still, a part of you is terrified that this time, it'll be the last. That the nightmares you've dismissed as just that will become real again.

"You alright?" Booker asks, and you realize he's been staring at you.

You shake yourself free of the thought and look at him, a tight smile pulling at your mouth. 

"I'm fine," you mutter. You run your hand through your hair, pushing the strands away from your face, and you turn to look over the rest of the troopers. “Tell the men to rest for a moment, and then we'll make a run on the barracks. I want a headcount, and we'll need to re-evaluate the plan. I'll brief you in a moment."

"Yes, sir." Booker gives you a lingering glance before he moves away, gathering the rest of the group. As the clones begin to settle down, taking advantage of the reprieve, you find yourself wandering away from them. 

You walk away toward the edge of the platform, and your eyes scan the horizon. The lightning is still dancing across the darkened sky, a beautiful, terrifying sight. It's a reminder of the power you hold, of the power you're capable of wielding, and of the danger that lurks in the shadows.

It's also a reminder of how small you are. How insignificant.

You lift your communicator up and press the button, praying to the Force that Dash and Screwball were able to get the communications back online. When static fills your ears, followed by the voice of the young trooper, relief floods you.

"General, is that you?"

"It is," you say, leaning against the railing, the rain dripping down your face. "Status report."

"Well, uh, we haven't had any success reaching the barracks," he says, his voice shaky. "But, we did manage to restore the cameras."

"That's something, at least." You let out a sigh, and you close your eyes, trying to calm yourself. "How are we looking?"

There's a pause, and then a crackle of static. "Not great, sir."

"Define not great," you urge.

"The droids are surrounding the building, and they've got heavy artillery. Our brothers are holding them off, but the numbers are against them. At this rate, they're not going to last long."

"Shit." You open your eyes and stare into the distance, your mind racing. Dash quickly reads out the position of Obi-Wan and Anakin, both engaged in their own duels with Grievous and Ventress, and it's clear from the strain in his voice that he's barely holding it together. You need to get moving. But, the question is, where?

"Anything else?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

"The storm has caused a lot of damage," he replies, the words coming faster, almost tumbling over each other. "Several buildings have collapsed, and the waves are getting worse. The ocean is rising."

"Great," you groan, letting out a huff. "Just what we needed."

"Yeah," Dash sighs, and there's a hint of desperation in his voice. "We're running out of time."

"Stay calm," you tell him, though the words are meant for yourself. "Just keep monitoring the situation. Let me know if anything changes."

"Yes, sir," he replies.

"And, Dash? Watch out for Screwball. Don't let him do anything stupid."

"Too late," the other trooper shouts in the background.

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Yeah, okay. Never mind."

"I'll keep him safe, sir," Dash says with a weak laugh. "Good luck."

You close the connection, and you press the communicator against your forehead, taking a deep breath. The wind whips around you, the rain pelting your body, and the thunder roars above, a cacophony of noise. It's a fitting backdrop for the moment, a reflection of the chaos inside your head. You feel the darkness stirring within, its tendrils snaking their way around your heart, and you squeeze the railing tighter, trying to resist. Trying to fight.

You've never been a good strategist, but even you can tell this is a losing battle. Even if you were to somehow manage to make it to the barracks, there's no guarantee that you'll be able to turn the tide. You'll be walking straight into a firing line, and the odds are stacked against you. Still, you have to try.

After a few more minutes of trying to hail Cody, Obi-Wan, Anakin, anyone, it becomes clear the storm is causing the communications to fail. No amount of trying is getting you through, and you're fighting a losing battle against the frustration. If only you could use the Force, but the sheer amount of energy and concentration to reach out is not something you have the strength for, not after the battles.

With a frustrated growl, you slam your commlink down, the metal casing creaking. It's a pointless action, but it does make you feel better. For a moment, at least.

"Having trouble?" a voice calls out, and you spin around, the hilt of your saber already in your hand. Booker is standing behind you, his arms folded, a smirk on his lips. "Whoa, easy. I come in peace."

You lower your lightsaber, and you shake your head, a wry smile on your lips. "Sorry. Force of habit."

"You don't have to apologize, General." He steps closer and leans against the railing, his helmet tucked under his arm. The storm is picking up, and the wind is blowing his hair in all directions, but he seems unbothered, the rain trickling down his face. He turns to look at you, and he tilts his head. "I'll admit, I didn't think you'd be like this."

"Like what?" you ask, a note of caution in your voice.

"Well, like this." He waves his hand in a vague gesture, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't know. I guess I just thought you'd be a little more...serious."

"I am serious," you insist, and he snorts, his gaze drifting to the sky.

"No, I know that," he chuckles. "But you've got to admit, you've got quite the reputation."

You sigh. "So I've heard."

"Don't take this the wrong way, sir," Booker says, his eyes shifting back to you. "But a lot of us were a little scared of you. Well, more like intimidated. We'd heard the stories, and we'd seen the footage, and well...you seemed pretty intense."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? What changed your mind?"

"You saved my life. Twice. And you gave me a chance to lead." He shrugs, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the railing. "You didn't have to do that, sir, but you did. I won't forget that."

"I'm glad," you say, and you give him a small smile. 

"Plus, the fact that you're a general who cares enough about us to save our asses is pretty nice." He pauses and glances at you, and then he looks away, his gaze distant. "Most generals would have left us to fend for ourselves."

You don't respond, not sure what to say. The truth is, there's no doubt in your mind that some of the other Jedi would have done exactly what Booker suggested. They would have seen the clone as sacrifices that had to be made, and they would have moved on. After all, it's not their job to protect them, or to train them. Their duty is to the Republic, not the individual. To the greater good, not the lesser evil.

It's a lesson you're not sure you'll ever be able to learn, not completely. Maybe that makes you naive, or soft, or too emotional. But, you don't care.

"I won't abandon my men," you declare, your voice firm and determined.

"Good." Booker nods, and then he pushes himself away from the railing, his expression grim. "Because we've got a battle to win, and we could use your help."

"Sir," a trooper calls, waving you over. "We're ready."

You turn back to Booker, your hands gripping the hilts of your sabers.

“Let’s move.”

It's early morning by the time the battle is won, and the sun is just beginning to rise. You're exhausted, and Grievous and Ventress have escaped yet again, but you're still standing, and Kamino is once again under Republic control. It's a small victory, but one that's earned.

Your clothes are soaked, your body is bruised, and your limbs are aching, but it's a sweet kind of pain, the kind that comes with survival. And, despite the loss of many, the clones have never looked more alive.

The storm is finally receding, the rain now nothing more than a drizzle, and the sky is streaked with vibrant hues of gold and pink through the transparisteel windows. You've never seen a sunrise like it.

The view is beautiful, and it fills you with hope, a sense of peace that seems impossible in the wake of the devastation. The sun is rising on a new day, and you know the ones you care about have made it through the night.

You've already spoken to Obi-Wan and Cody, and you can't help the relief that's washing over you. Both are alright, though a bit worse for wear, and the two men are leading the cleanup efforts, trying to restore order and repair the damage that has been done. Anakin is a little roughed up, but he's still in good spirits, and he's taken over coordinating the search and rescue effort, which is much appreciated.

You haven't spoken to Rex, though. Not yet. You haven't even had a chance to breathe, let alone try to locate him. But you can feel his presence through the Force, and you know he's alive, and for now, that's enough.

You’ve dismissed your contingent from your command, but that hasn’t stopped them from approaching you as you walk with Booker toward the medbay. He’s escorting you for your safety. Or at least, that’s what he says.

You can tell he’s lying, and you can tell he’s worried about you. He hasn’t stopped hovering since the battle ended, and he keeps a watchful eye on your surroundings, his hand never far from his blaster. It's an amusing gesture, but you appreciate the sentiment, even if you find it irritating.

He's a good man, and you can't help but feel proud of him. He's young, and he has a lot to learn, but he's also smart, observant, and he knows how to read people. That, combined with his skill with a blaster, makes him an ideal candidate. He'll be a great commander.

But, first, he needs some time. Time to recover from his injuries, time to process everything that happened, time to get used to being a leader.

“Almost there, sir,” Booker says, tugging you along when you stop to shake Snap’s hand. He gives the clone a wink, and then nudges you again, forcing you to keep walking.

You laugh as you wave your hand at him. "I can manage, Booker. I'm not that bad."

"Yes, sir," he chuckles. He glances down at you, and you can see his expression shift from amusement to concern, his eyes narrowed. You realize he’s staring at the scar stretched across your palm, the one that has long since healed, and you quickly fold both your hands behind your back. You'd forgotten.

"Sorry, sir," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," you assure him quietly. "I know it looks strange. But, it's an old injury. From before the war."

Booker nods, but he doesn't look convinced. You can't blame him. The scars are strange, jagged lines that stretch across the palms of your hand, the skin raised and pale. You've never really gotten used to the sight of them, preferring to ignore their existence completely. But now that you know for sure that Dooku is responsible, you've caught yourself tracing the lines more than once in recent weeks.

Booker clears his throat, and he gestures toward the entrance to the medbay. "After you, sir."

You give him a look as you walk past him and step through the doors, the smell of antiseptic and bacta filling your nose. The room is large, and the white walls and floor reflect the fluorescent lighting, making it feel even bigger. There are rows of beds lined up against the wall, and medical droids moving between the patients. The place is crowded, and the air is filled with the sounds of moans and whimpers.

A Kaminoan lingers in the back of the room, watching with an unblinking focus that unnerves you, and you do your best to avoid her gaze. You’ve had enough of the Kaminoans and their superiority for one day.

“Wise!” Booker calls out as he pushes you gently to sit on an open cot. “Got a fresh one for you.”

A bald trooper currently arguing with a medical droid freezes and turns, his expression sour. 

“Can’t you see I’m busy—" He stops short when he sees you, and the furious glare tempers slightly. "Apologies, sir, I didn't realize. I'll be with you in a minute, okay? Just—shit, put that down!”

"Um, no problem," you mutter. "Take your time." 

You can't help but smirk as he smacks the droid with the back of his hand and turns back to it, berating it for its incompetence. You turn and raise an eyebrow at Booker. "Wise?"

"Short for wiseass," Booker explains, snickering. "But, don't tell him I told you."

You chuckle, and you settle onto the bed, pulling your legs up and crossing them. You're exhausted. Your muscles ache, and your head is pounding, but you know you'll have to wait a bit before you can rest. There are still things to do, and reports to write.

You look around the room, trying to distract yourself. The medbay is filled with clones, all sporting various injuries, some worse than others. You see a few you recognize, men who have fought at your side, and a few that were part of the original group you'd saved. Their injuries are mostly superficial, though one has a broken arm. He waves when he catches you staring, and you give him a nod.

“Alright, what can I do for you, sir?” Wise asks, stepping in front of you. He glances down at the carbon scoring on your armor and the gash on your cheek, and he raises a brow. "You don't look too bad, to be honest. Nothing a few bacta patches can't fix."

"Trust me, I've had worse," you laugh, shaking your head.

"I'm sure." He sighs, and he leans against the bed, a grimace on his face. "Listen, I've been working nonstop for the past six hours, and I'm dead tired. I just want to go to sleep and forget today ever happened. So can you just let me take a quick scan and say it's all good, please?"

"Sounds good to me," you say, nodding.

He gives a grunt, and he pulls a small scanner from his pocket, waving it over your body. A beam of light sweeps over you, the data scrolling across the screen, and Wise hums to himself, checking the readings.

You sit there patiently, trying not to fidget. You've never liked the medscanner. You always feel like it's judging you, somehow. And, while you know it's just a machine, the sensation of the beam running over your body is still uncomfortable, the feeling akin to that of someone staring at you.

"Well, the good news is, there's no internal bleeding," Wise declares, looking up. He puts the scanner down, his expression serious. "The bad news is, you have a mild concussion, you're dehydrated, your blood pressure is low, and your heart rate is elevated."

"So, normal," you quip.

"She has jokes." Wise sighs and turns, rummaging through the medkit. He pulls out a bottle of pills and a bottle of water. "Take these, drink this, and rest. You can have a bacta patch for that cut, and then you can get out of my medbay."

"That's it?" you ask, frowning. You're so used to Kix's fussing, the fact that Wise isn't nagging you about everything is a bit of a shock.

"That's it," Wise confirms. He presses the items into your hands, his eyes narrowing. "What, were you hoping for something else? Like a kiss, maybe?

You choke, the water dribbling down your chin, and Booker snorts.

"Don't push it, vod," Booker warns, but his words are laced with humor. "She could take your head off."

"And I'd enjoy every second," you add, popping the pills into your mouth and downing the rest of the water. You wipe your lips, a smirk tugging at the corner as the medic rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Just let me take a look at that gash."

Wise moves closer, and his hand rests lightly against your face, his fingers tilting your chin up. He's surprisingly gentle for someone so brash and grumpy, his touch careful, his gaze focused. He hums, dabbing the disinfectant on the wound. You barely feel it.

"Looks like you'll live," he says. He holds his hand out, and a medical droid places a bacta patch in his palm. As Wise applies the bacta patch, Booker moves to stand next to him, his hands clasped behind his back. 

"How are things looking, Wise?" he asks, his voice casual. You know he's checking on the men, but there's a note of concern in his tone, a worry that he's trying to mask.

Wise doesn't bother hiding it. He huffs and turns his gaze to Booker, his scowl deepening. "They're holding on, but not much more." He pauses and glances at you, his expression darkening. "Some of the boys have had it rougher than others, but, well, that's war."

Booker nods, and he glances around the room, his gaze moving over the wounded men. You can't see his expression, but you can feel the shift in his emotions. It’s the first time he’s lost a man, and it won't be the last.

"It'll be alright, Booker," you reassure him.

He's silent, but he gives a small nod.

"If you need anything, I'll be in the back," Wise mutters. He pats Booker's arm, the gesture friendly, and then turns away, walking toward the next patient.

"Thanks," you call. He doesn't respond, and you let out a sigh. "I don't think he likes me."

Booker laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His earlier mood seems to have lightened, and he clasps your shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"Are you kidding me? He loves you. I can tell," he insists. "That was practically a marriage proposal."

You roll your eyes. "Right. And I suppose you'll be my bridesmaid."

Booker opens his mouth to retort, but his gaze flickers, his attention caught by something. The medbay doors slide open, and a trooper in familiar blue and white armor steps through, his posture stiff, his helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex.

The room goes quiet, every clone in the room turning their head to follow his path as he walks. Rex doesn't seem to notice. He moves with purpose, his eyes scanning the rows of beds, searching.

He looks tired, his armor dented and scorched, his hair damp from the rain. There's a scratch on his cheek, a cut across his brow, and his bottom lip is swollen, split at the corner. But, he's alive. He's here, and he's standing.

And, he's looking for you.

You can feel the moment Rex sees you. His eyes widen, and he freezes, his jaw going slack. The wave of relief that washes over him is strong, so strong it's almost tangible. He lets out a shuddering breath, and his gaze moves over your face, taking you in. You do the same. And, for a moment, the two of you just stare.

Then, the world shifts back into motion.

Rex starts to move, his steps slow at first, almost hesitant, as if he's not sure he's seeing you. Then the hesitation disappears, and he's suddenly striding towards you, his gase locked on yours.

“Is that…” Booker straightens, his eyes wide, and he takes a reflexive step back. He gives a sharp nod to Rex as he approaches, and his hands fall to his sides, his fingers flexing. “Captain Rex, sir.”

Rex doesn't even acknowledge him. He stops in front of you, his chest rising and falling, his expression pained. His eyes roam over you, taking in the state of your armor, the gash on your cheek, and then, he finally meets your gaze.

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe.

"We have to stop meeting like this," you say, trying to break the tension.

It doesn't work.

Rex doesn't say anything, but the pain in his eyes only intensifies, and the look is so raw, so visceral, that it takes your breath away. His mouth trembles, his lips parting, and his hand lifts, hovering for a second before falling to his side.

"General," he says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm fine, Rex," you assure him. You reach out and place a hand on his arm, giving him a reassuring smile. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting the air out slowly. When he opens his eyes, the pain is gone, replaced by something softer, and he gives you a small nod, a silent thank you.

“You okay?” you ask, and he gives a tight nod, his fingers flexing at his side.

"Yeah," Rex breathes. "You?"

"Never better."

He snorts, his lips twitching into a smile. "Liar."

"Maybe."

Rex shakes his head, and then, he finally seems to notice the man standing beside you. You glance at Booker, and you realize the clone has gone completely still, his back straight, his shoulders stiff, his expression one of awe and disbelief.

You bite your lip, trying to hide your amusement. You know the feeling. Rex is intimidating when he wants to be, and it's clear Booker is not immune to the Captain's commanding presence, or his reputation.

"Who's your friend, General?" Rex asks, his voice low. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing, and the corner of his mouth curves into a half-smile. You can feel his amusement, and it's a relief.

"Commander Booker, sir," Booker responds. He hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. "I...was assigned to the general. To protect her."

"Oh?" Rex's eyes shift, and he looks at you, his expression softening. "And, did you?"

"I did, sir." Booker sounds almost defensive, and his gaze darts to you, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "I mean, not that she needs my help. She's a Jedi. She can handle herself. But, I was...there."

Rex hums, his lips pressed together, and his gaze moves over the trooper, assessing him. You can't help but roll your eyes. Rex is being difficult, and you know it. But, he can't seem to help himself, and he's enjoying the discomfort on Booker's face far too much.

"He saved my life," you add, and Booker lets out a relieved sigh. "Twice, actually."

"Twice, huh?" Rex's eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at the clone again, a new respect shining in his eyes. "Good work, Commander."

"Thank you, sir," Booker says. His posture relaxes slightly, and he lets out a small breath, his shoulders slumping. "It was an honor to serve with the General. She's a good leader."

"That she is," Rex agrees. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a moment with the General."

"Oh, yes, of course," Booker stammers, and he takes a step back. He turns to you, a questioning look on his face. "General?"

"You're dismissed," you say. "Go get some rest, Booker. You've earned it."

He hesitates, his gaze lingering on Rex, and you can tell he wants to argue. But, he's smart, and he knows when to retreat.

"Yes, sir." He snaps a salute, his helmet tucked under his arm. "Goodbye, General. It was a pleasure serving with you."

You smile. "Goodbye, Commander. I'll see you around."

He nods and moves away, joining the group of clones who are standing near the doors. They exchange quiet words, their voices hushed, and then, they disappear.

"I like him," you announce as the door slides shut behind them, and Rex lets out a soft snort.

"I'm sure you do," he says, shaking his head. "He seems...eager."

"Be nice." You roll your eyes and nudge him playfully with your arm. "He fought well today. I’m putting my recommendation in to have him promoted officially. I think he'd make a good leader."

“If he’s got your approval, he'll do just fine," Rex says, his voice quiet.

"You're probably right." You pause, and then, you tilt your head, looking at him. "Why aren't you with the other men?"

"I was, but..." He trails off, his jaw working. Rex takes a step closer and glances at Wise, who's hovering nearby, doing a poor job of pretending not to listen, and he clears his throat. “Is the General clear to go? We have a briefing to get to.”

Wise gives a curt nod, and he waves a hand toward the exit. "All clear, Captain. You can take her."

"Good." Rex looks back at you. "Ready, General?"

You sigh. The last thing you want to do is attend another pointless briefing, but you know it's important. So, you nod.

"Ready."

He holds out a hand, and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. You sway slightly, and his other hand settles at the small of your back, steadying you. He holds you like that for a moment, and then he releases you, his hands falling to his sides.

"Come on," he mutters, his eyes dark.

The two of you leave the medbay, the silence heavy between you. There's a tension in his posture, a strain in his voice, and a tightness to his jaw that tells you something's bothering him. And it's not just the eyes on the two of you.

"Is everything alright?" you ask.

"Everything's fine."

You study his face, trying to read his expression, but his mask is firmly in place, his thoughts hidden. It's easier to sense his emotions. Anger, frustration, pain, exhaustion, fear. All of it's there, swirling beneath the surface, but the reasons behind them are unclear.

Rex is one of the most self-contained people you've ever met, but you've gotten better at reading him over the months together. The slightest twitch, the faintest tremor, the briefest flicker. There's a whole language in those little things, and you're starting to learn it. And, right now, he's struggling.

You glance around the hallway, noting the curious eyes that linger, the whispers that follow, the stares that bore into your back. But the further you walk, the less people there are, and the quieter it becomes. Soon, the only sound is the steady thud of Rex's boots and the hum of the ventilation system.

“So, where’s the briefing?” you ask, trying to fill the silence. Your arms extend above your head in a stretch, and a yawn escapes your mouth, making you feel even more tired. You can't wait to sleep.

“There isn’t one,” Rex admits.

Your arms drop, your brow furrowing.

“Then why did you…”

Rex stops and turns to face you. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's standing tall, his shoulders squared, his head held high. He looks every inch the soldier. A perfect example of discipline, restraint, and control.

But, his eyes betray him.

He's afraid.

You blink, surprised, and you open your mouth to speak, but Rex shakes his head. He reaches out and grabs your arm, tugging you into a nearby alcove, and you stumble after him. His grip is gentle, but there's a firmness to it that warns you not to fight him.

Once the two of you are alone, Rex releases your arm and takes a step back, and his hands ball into fists at his side. He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring.

"Rex," you say, trying to catch his attention. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He doesn't answer. He's staring at the floor, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a firm line. His jaw clenches, and his lips part, as if he's about to speak, but no words come. 

You watch as his hands flex, the fingers curling and uncurling, and he runs a palm over his face.

"No, I'm not okay," he finally says, a rough exhale escaping him. His voice is strained, his words coming out in a low rasp. "I thought...I thought...for a minute, I..."

The realization hits you, and you close your eyes, taking a shaky breath.

He'd thought you were dead.

He'd thought he'd lost you.

And, judging by the look on his face, the pain he's clearly trying to mask, it's shaken him more than he'll ever admit.

"Rex," you breathe, your heart sinking.

You'd felt his emotions when the battle started, the worry and fear that had radiated from him, but you'd assumed it was because he knew what was coming, and because he was worried about the other men. You never thought it was because of you. Because he was scared for you.

You'd been so focused on your own feelings, on the dread and anxiety that had plagued you, that you'd never considered the possibility that Rex might feel the same way. That his thoughts might drift to you. That he might wonder if you'd made it through the storm.

The realization is painful, and it brings a lump to your throat. You feel guilty, and ashamed.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to worry you."

His gaze drops, and he shakes his head. "No, it's not your fault. I'm the one who's sorry. I should have...I shouldn't have let it get to me. I know better than to lose my focus like that. I just...when I heard the explosion, I..."

He stops and lets out a ragged breath, and his body sags, the fight draining out of him. You step closer, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. His skin is warm, and his stubble scratches against your palm. Rex leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and his head tilts to the side, his nose brushing against your wrist.

"It's okay. You're allowed to be upset." You offer a small smile. "You're only human."

Rex doesn't say anything. He just sighs and covers your hand with his, pressing it closer to his skin. You can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath your fingertips, and his grip tightens, as if he's afraid to let go.

"You're going to make me cry," you joke weakly, but the truth is, his pain is almost unbearable. It's too close, too real. You can feel it echoing inside you, and the weight of it is almost crushing. You hate seeing him like this. You hate knowing that you're the cause of it.

"Please don't," he mutters. His voice is rough, and there's a raw edge to it that makes your stomach twist.

"Why not?"

"Because I'll probably start crying, too," he confesses, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he opens his eyes. "I've had a rough day."

You let out a weak laugh, trying to fight the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You blink, and a single tear rolls down your cheek.

Rex's eyes widen, and his face falls.

"Now you've done it," he grumbles, but there's a tenderness to his words that makes your heart swell.

His hands move to your shoulders, and he gently pulls you close, wrapping his arms around your body. Your face buries in his neck, and his chin rests on the top of your head.

"I'm glad you're alive," he whispers. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into the back of your robes. "When I didn't see you after the battle...I didn't know what to think. I couldn't find you. I didn't know where you were, or if you were even..."

You squeeze him harder, letting him know you're here, and he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You can feel his body trembling beneath your touch, and his hand reaches up, cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"I'm not going anywhere," you murmur, your voice muffled as you bury your face further into the crook of his neck.

Rex lets out a shaky breath. "Good."

You stand like that for a long moment, the two of you clinging to each other, neither of you willing to let go. You can feel his heartbeat slowing, his muscles relaxing, and his breathing evens out. His grip loosens, and his fingers trail through your hair, his nails scratching lightly against your scalp.

He needs this. He needs you. And, for once, he's letting himself have it

You know the feeling.

The war has taken its toll on both of you, and the weight of it has been a burden that you've borne separately and together. The endless battles, the constant stress, the loss of life. It's all wearing you down. You want to comfort him, to give him the support he so desperately needs, but you're not sure how. Not when your own emotions are so tangled. Nothing seems right, nothing seems enough. And, the words that come out are inadequate.

"We made it," you say, and the words sound hollow, even to you. "That's all that matters."

Rex makes a small noise, almost a laugh, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing along the base of your skull.

"Yeah," he breathes. “Yeah, we did."

"We're okay," you remind him, pulling back to look him in the eye. You give him a smile, and he returns it, his eyes crinkling. "I promise."

Rex studies you for a long moment, his gaze moving over your face, as if trying to memorize every detail. His expression softens, and his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over the bacta patch.

"I'm going to hold you to that,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, his tone serious, but the corner of his mouth curves into a half-smile.

"Good. You should.”

"You know, if you keep saying things like that, I'm going to start thinking you actually care," he teases, his fingers trailing along your cheekbone.

You roll your eyes, and your hands move to his chest, pushing him away. He chuckles and pulls back, releasing his hold on you.

"You know what I meant," you say, wiping away the wetness from your cheeks. "And, for the record, I do care."

"I know," he replies softly, his eyes flickering. He clears his throat and glances away, his cheeks flushing, and you can't help but smile.

"I was worried, too," you confess. Rex's eyes snap back to yours, and his eyebrows rise. "About you, I mean. About all of you. I thought...well, I thought a lot of things. And, I'm glad none of them came true."

"Me too," he agrees. "I don't know what I would have done if..." He trails off, his voice fading, and his lips press into a firm line. He swallows and takes a deep breath, his hand moving to the back of his neck, rubbing at the tense muscles. "Sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into an empty hallway just to have a breakdown. I just..."

"You needed a minute," you finish, and he nods, his shoulders slumping.

"Something like that."

"You have nothing to apologize for," you tell him, giving his arm a squeeze. "It's been a rough day for all of us. And, you're not the only one who's a little shaken."

"You're right," he concedes, letting out a long exhale.

You pat his arm and offer him a smile, trying to lift his mood. “Besides, if we're keeping track of emotional breakdowns, I'm still way ahead of you. You're gonna have to try a lot harder if you want to catch up."

Rex huffs and shakes his head, his lips twitching.

"Well, I don’t think this war is ending anytime soon," he quips. "I'll have plenty of opportunities."

"True."

You give a sigh and lean against the wall, resting your head back. You can feel the exhaustion starting to catch up with you, and your body is heavy, the weight of the past few hours weighing down on you. You close your eyes and let out a groan, wishing you could just crawl into a bed and sleep for the next ten years.

Rex moves to stand beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours. The heat radiating from his body is comforting, and you lean into him, savoring his closeness. He turns his head, his eyes searching your face, and you meet his gaze, a faint smile on your lips.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "For letting me have a minute."

"Any time," you tell him, and you mean it. He's done so much for you. He's given so much of himself. You'd give anything to ease his pain, and if a minute is what he needs, you'll give him that. It’s the least you can do.

His lips part, as if he's going to say something, but no words come out. His eyes drop to your mouth, and his jaw tenses, his throat bobbing. Then, he shakes his head and lets out a soft chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, and his gaze lifts, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You're just...you're a good friend, General."

The word friend stings more than you expect, and you bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to grimace. You can't blame him for saying it. Not when it's the truth. You are his friend. But a small part of you had hoped...well, it doesn't matter.

"Right," you say, your smile a little strained. "So are you."

Rex gives a nod and turns his gaze away, looking down the hallway. He seems lost in thought, his brow furrowed, his lips twisted, and you watch as he looks left and right, checking to see if the coast is clear. There's a moment of hesitation, and then, he sighs and turns back to you, his expression softening. He looks almost shy.

"I..." He stops and takes a deep breath, as if he's steeling himself for what's to come. "Here."

He pulls up his vambrace, and you watch, confused, as he taps a few buttons. His finger hovers over one of the controls, and then he presses it. 

A second later, your commlink begins to chime. Your eyes widen, and you quickly pull it out to silence it, staring at the display that pops up. You glance up at Rex, and his cheeks flush, his hand rising to the back of his neck as his eyes avoid yours. He's nervous. He should be. He’s breaking about a dozen regulations by giving you his private frequency, and you know it. He knows it. 

And, yet, here he is, giving it to you anyway.

It's dangerous, risky, and foolish, but neither of you seem to care. The war is already hard enough, and the idea of keeping each other at a distance, especially now, is an unnecessary cruelty. So, you don't argue. You save the contact, and you tuck your commlink away, giving him a smile.

"Just in case," he mutters, his gaze finally meeting yours.

"In case what?"

"In case you need me," he says. His voice is quiet, but there's a strength to it, a resolve. "Or, in case I need you."

You stare at him, unable to speak. The look in his eyes is so tender, so earnest, that it takes your breath away. There's something else there, too, something deeper, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You have to look away.

"Got it," you manage.

Rex gives a small nod, and he pushes himself off the wall, moving to stand in front of you. His hands settle on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing circles against the fabric of your tunic.

"We'll see each other soon," he promises. "Just...let me know when you get back to the Temple. Okay?"

"I will," you agree.

"Good."

Rex gives you one last smile, and then he releases you. You watch as he walks away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, before he disappears around the corner, leaving you alone.

You take a deep breath and try to compose yourself, smoothing the front of your robes. Your hands are trembling, and your heart is racing, but you ignore the feelings, burying them. It's just stress, you tell yourself. It's been a long day. You're just tired.

Your eyes trace the panels along the walls, and you stare up at the ceiling, the white lights overhead. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, clearing your mind. When you open them, you feel calm, the momentary panic fading.

There's a sudden ping from your commlink, and you jump, startled. Your fingers fumble with the device, and you quickly bring it up, tapping the display.

Stay safe.

The words make your heart skip a beat, and you type out a response without hesitation.

Always.

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[starpros-sunshine]

You know. I'm part of the fraction "to each their own and let people handle their lives however they see best fit". But I do feel the need to say that I have seldom seen such an idiotic assumption as that breaking up with someone four days before someone's birthday when you also want that someone to do something for their birthday even though you know you and your soon-to-be-ex will both have to be there won't end with that person just not doing anything with anyone for their birthday. Partially because nobody wants that kind of awkwardness after a fresh breakup and also because the soon-to-be-ex has the lovely habit of wallowing in self pity and making everything about how they have it so bad. You know I just think in such cases you should've waited a week with the breakup. I don't care how much you want to fuck that other guy but I really think you should've waited a week.

[officiallycake-blog]

Am I an unreasonable and self-centered pc? Or are my brothers argumentative for no good reason?

[notmoreflippingelves]

So I know, I know, we all hate it when people add comments and especially lengthy ones to posts that are no openly encouraging them. Nevertheless, I'm gonna do so in this particular case because the novel that I was writing in the tags just got too too long and I was frighteningly close to the tag limit.

The things that would fix Esteban Flores are (in roughly this order)

A found family (preferably one totally divorced from connections to his bio family) and/or a small child to take care of.

A heartfelt apology from his biological family (definitely Luisa, probably Elena, and maybe Francisco as well).

A hug x1000

Being shaken

Enough sleep

But most especially the first two.

Esteban's issues stem from being made to feel like an afterthought and/or an obligation to his family of origin. In his mind, he was not chosen or wanted. He was liked, loved even--but he was loved because he was familia--not because he was Esteban. He was not enough in and of himself, especially not when compared to Elena.

Do you know why he continued to tend the cacao trees during the Dark Times? Yes, it was out of love for his family, but I think there's a bit more to it than that. His abuela shared something private and meaningful (i.e. how to take care of the cacao trees) with him that she didn't also share with Elena. He was welcomed into Luisa's world--if only for a moment. This was his, the rare thing that he didn't have to sacrifice to or share with Elena. No one could take this away from him--the moment of feeling seen and chosen. Not even the fact that this moment was very very much an anomaly and the rest of his youth (and his adulthood) consisted of him being shoved into the corner of some family portraits and left out of others entirely---and no one noticing this for years.

In "Something I Would Never Do," Esteban outright states "Years ago/ I did not know/Just how much they cared for me." He's just now realizing after 40+ years that his family just might love him (50+ years if you go back to when Esteban moved into palace); he's genuinely surprised about it and terrified that he's going to fuck it all up. Yes, Esteban has atrocious self-esteem, but these impressions did not come from nothing. Even now, his family keeps him largely at arm's length. He doesn't appear (or isn't even mentioned) in the two family vacation episodes, suggesting he was left behind. His Navidad plans (the ones he has been dreaming of , all alone for 41 years!) are rejected outright by Luisa, and no one even bothers to ask what the Dark Times were like or how he is coping. Everything has changed and yet nothing has changed. He's there, sometimes he is shown attention and affection, but he's still made to feel that he's not really a part of the family in the same way the others were.

All this is pretty bad in and of itself, but it's made worse by the fact that he's not getting his emotional needs fulfilled from outside the family any more than he is within it. As far as we can tell, Esteban's only real friends as a child were Elena and Victor. (Maybe Felicia as well, but she was far more Elena's friend than his). And neither Victor nor Elena could give Esteban what he needed: the feeling of being liked and chosen for himself and that alone.

Elena is family--the same family has made Esteban feel like an afterthought and obligation, merely liked at best and tolerated at worst. But that's oversimplifying things. Elena is also the impossible gold standard that Esteban will always be measuring himself against. (And it's especially galling that she was 1-2 years younger than him, and he was still nowhere near her level). She's the favorite (and Luisa is not subtle about hiding that fact), the priority, the important one. She's the one who has always been and will always be secure in power and confidence and their familia's love--the exact opposite of Esteban.

Victor, meanwhile, was a horrible influence on Esteban, and not just where Shuriki was concerned. His selfishness rubbed off on his amigo, and his competitiveness and callousness brought out every one of Esteban's insecurities and worst tendencies. It's also very strongly implied that their friendship (at least on Victor's side) was rooted in how 'useful' Esteban was. Through El Segundo, Victor got closer to power/the crown and also found someone that he could feel "superior" to. Someone that Victor could consistently beat at races, so that he could feel like a winner. Someone who wouldn't tell Victor to go to hell if he subjected unflattering nicknames upon.

So yeah, Esteban's childhood primary source of affection/attention outside his family were two people who exacerbated Esteban's already huge inferiority complex. One of whom was part of said family that enabled said inferiority complex in the first place, and the other of whom is wrapped up in the event that caused Esteban to lose his family as well.

And then, Elena was trapped in the amulet and Victor was banished from Avalor, and Esteban was without anyone at all for 41 years. His primary source of attention and affection during this time was the woman who conquered his kingdom and took away his family. Someone who had preyed upon his vulnerabilities from the very start and who kept him alive only so long as he remains obedient and "useful" to her. There's nothing even remotely close to equal or mutual about this dynamic, and Shuriki did even more damage on Esteban's already battered psyche than all of the others combined and multiplied by ten.

Even after Shuriki is gone, Esteban still doesn't have anyone in his life that voluntarily chose to be in his life. His entire social circle is comprised of people that he knows through his family and/or his role as chancellor (and later his magical abilities). There's Naomi, except there isn't, because their dynamic is rooted exclusively in their shared devotion to Elena and their roles on the Grand Council (which is also directly tied to Elena).

Similarly, Doña Paloma interacts with Esteban almost exclusively in reference to his role as Chancellor. Would she give him the time of day if he had no political power or influence?. Doubtful, especially as she seems to really dislike him most of the time. There's a bit more potential for a genuine friendship to develop with Julio or Professor Mendoza, but again, these connections were formed through Esteban's job and we don't really see any interactions that aren't in service to that.

Higgins is explicitly Esteban's employee and given how insensitive he can be to Esteban, it seems unlikely that he has any real non-professional loyalty or affection to him. Same with Armando, except things do seem to a bit more cordial between them.

Esteban seems to have a good rapport with Avalor's allies, especially Toshi and Shoji, but these are unlikely to be anything more than friendly diplomatic connections and ones separated by distance.

So yeah, my boy literally does not interact with a single character on the show without at least one of them doing so out of obligation/duty/job requirement and/or ulterior motive. Fifty years later and almost nothing has changed, Esteban still has nothing and no one to call his own.

[girlthativealwaysbeen]

dni.

[parasolids]

i am having a genuine core memory type of bad day today like serious SERIOUS things are going down and i missed a flight because genuine life changing events are happening and got put on standby for another which got delayed multiple times til i would’ve missed my connecting flight home and anyways it was overbooked so i didn’t make it on, and then now five hours after they left me at the airport im finally heading home and i was like “well at least i can eat the fries i bought that i didn’t get to eat yesterday” but my useless cousin who has not only been completely useless through this weeks long ordeal but has also been making things worse stepped in and ate the whole giant box of fries cause he “thought we were leaving” even though my mom clearly left half her stuff behind at the house and told him we did not make our flight so she was going to stay in town and try and get me home and also this whole situation (except for the fries) is straight up my fault cause i didn’t wanna get out of bed for 20 minutes when we woke up and like normally this would be fine especially since i went to bed at 2 am packing suitcases and then had to wake up at 7 and also slept super poorly anyways but i still have no self discipline and everything has gone wrong because of that

[crossbackpoke-check]

Fixed point (mathematics) // The History of Perspective // "Point of Disappearance", Dennis Held // How the Hughes hockey family stays grounded // Fixed Point Photography-- // "Portrait of A.", Tung-Hui Hu // Mic'd Up | Hughes NHL 25 cover shoot // "Burnt Norton", T.S. Eliot // "Circuitry", Janine Joseph // Bruce Bennett // Nick Wass // from obedience [maybe one day, during a point in time], kari edwards // Bill Rapai // "Errand Upon Which We Came", Stephanie Strickland // Benchmark (surveying)

art kid luke hughes