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dangraccoon · 1 month ago

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Foolish

Day 22 ~ bleeding through bandages ~ "oh, that's not good" ~

Cody

Word Count: 2418 Content: blood, mild gore, injury, blood loss, coughing up blood, ignoring medical advice, cody is oblivious to obi-wan's very obvious feelings, description of removing shrapnel from one's own wounds

A harsh cough clawed its way through his lungs and up his throat. He covered his mouth with his arm as he hacked. Pulling it away–once he felt as though he could actually breathe again–he saw the little red flecks.

Clone Marshal Commander Cody, Commander of the 7th Sky Corps and the renowned 212th Attack Battalion was not a fool. He wasn’t stupid enough not to notice when he was injured, nor was he unaware of the extent of his injuries. He was a big believer in getting help–especially of the medical variety–when needed.

But that did not stop Cody from having a to-do list that would span from Kamino to Mandalore to get through with relative speed. It did not stop his need to ensure that the medics had enough help and could save the brothers who were worse off.

No, he would seek their medics out soon–the pain in his side would force him onto an exam table whether he liked it or not–but right now there were more pressing things for him to worry about.

“Patch, do you have enough hands for triage?” he asked, tapping away at his datapad.

“Yes, sir,” his chief medical officer nodded. “And we’ve got shinies earning their first aid stripes as we speak.”

“Good. Send the status list as soon as you’ve got it. How are our supplies?”

“They’re holding for now. Probably going to need a restock next run ashore.”

“Understood. Have those shinies keep a running inventory if they’ve got nothing else to do.”

“Are you injured, sir?” Patch said, eyeing the commander.

His CMO knew him a bit too well. “Nothing that can’t wait or I can’t wrap on my own, Patch,” he said with a well-practiced ease.

Patch’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Your personal kit stocked, or did you need an extra roll of bandages?”

“I’ve got my own,” he waved him off, starting to head off to his next task. “You’d need them more anyway.”

After he’d checked in with a few other officers–hiding his grimace behind his helmet–he finally found himself in his office, blessedly alone.

He groaned as he went through the practiced motions of removing his armor, biting the inside of his cheek as he pulled away the soaked fabric of his undersuit. Trying to position himself in a good way to see how those few minuscule fragments worked their way into his skin punched the air out of his lungs. His hand pressed against his side as he fought until his breath returned.

“Kriff,” he hissed as he opened his desk drawer. He found the small jar he’d been looking for, scowling as he opened it. He was running shorter on bacta than he realized.

He angled the lid of the canister to get a better look at his wounds. He would say that most of his good ideas were executed on the battlefield, but he was decently impressed with himself about affixing a small mirror to the bacta container.

He pulled at his aching flesh near the wound. He could just see the sharp, twisted bits of metal that were making themselves at home in the scarred skin of his abdomen.

Leaning back across the desk, he huffed out a quiet “damn it” as he strained to reach into the bottom drawer. His hand finally found purchase on the handle, sliding it open to reveal the contraband he sought.

Half a smirk pulled at his lips as he grabbed the neck of the bottle of ship-made moonshine.

He’d known about the still some of Ghost Company had set up in their quarters and while it was obviously against regulations, Cody couldn’t care less about it. He’d told them as much once they found out he knew. As long as they didn’t report for duty drunk and the still itself didn’t explode, how much harm could it reasonably do?

Right now, however, Cody was grateful for it as he pulled his knife from his belt. Boil and Waxer might’ve given him a share in a fancy bottle they’d swiped from the garbage at 79s, but the stuff still could burn the hair off a loth cat. He twisted off the cap, pouring it over his knife. It was going to sting like a bitch, but he could rationalize not taking up the medics’ time for something he could easily do himself.

He leaned back into the awkward position he needed to access those damned pieces of shrapnel. He pressed his finger against one fragment’s edge, pinching it between his fingernail and the side of his knife.

He breathed in deeply, then out and pulled, hissing at the slight tearing he inflicted on himself.

He pulled the other three pieces out with relative ease, then slathered the open wounds with bacta and wrapped his abdomen with bandages tight.

He shook his head a little, trying to clear the residual adrenaline from his mind, then went about cleaning up. He dropped his torn undersuit shirt down the recycling chute, put his supplies back in their spots, and pulled open another drawer in his desk to retrieve one of the shirts from the extra sets of blacks he had stashed.

Once he put his armor on and his blacks covered the arching wound, he finally felt as though he could go about his business as usual.

He was only able to check two more tasks from his list before he wandered into the one person he knew he couldn’t fool.

“Ah, there you are, Commander,” General Kenobi smiled warmly. “I’ve traversed half the ship looking for you.”

“Apologies, sir,” he said simply. He may not have been a fool, but Cody knew he was a terrible liar. He couldn’t lie badly if he didn’t say anything about it at all.

Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed the slight shift in the way Kenobi eyed him, but Cody knew better; he saw the minuscule falter in that charming smile, the way the curiosity in his eyes deepened with suspicion.

Cody didn’t drop the polite smile he’d affixed to his face, even as he could feel the nearly imperceptible whisper of his general’s inspection of him through the Force.

“Yes, well,” Kenobi continued. “I believe we have a debrief to go over and a strategy meeting to attend. Shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” Cody nodded, walking side by side with his general.

“Have the medics finished their headcount?” the general asked. Cody knew where he was going with this, but he supposed playing dumb was the only reasonable course of action.

“Yes, sir. Got the report a few minutes ago,” he said, pulling the list up on his datapad, and handing it over to him. “Two men were lost, and most others had minimal injuries. The worst cases have already been taken care of, and that new batch of shinies have patched up practically everyone else.”

“The worst cases have been taken care of,” Kenobi repeated, his countenance was soft and friendly, but made of durasteel. Here came the hit. “I suppose that explains why only the top half of your undersuit is clean, why you reek of bacta and that still Boil and Waxer think I don’t know about, and why you’re so protective of your left side, to the point where you’re walking on my left.”

“Observant as always, General,” Cody hummed.

“Yes, I seem to be getting better at reading your tells, haven’t I?” he deadpanned. “Why didn’t you see Patch?”

Cody almost sighed. “Patch isn’t hurting for patients, and as I said, it’s been taken care of.”

“And you think I’m concerned about our medic keeping busy in the middle of a war?” Kenobi nearly growled. The mask was slipping. “Cody–”

“There is nothing to be concerned about, sir.”

“Oh, I’d beg to differ,” Kenobi snarked with a glare.

“I’m a grown man, General Kenobi, I can take care of myse–”

Before he could finish the sentence, Kenobi grabbed his arm, dragging him behind the closing doors to his side. He pinned Cody between himself and the back wall of a storage closet.

Cody was not a fool, but he could admit where his statements may have been… ill-advised. And given the way Kenobi scowled at him, he was certain he was about to hear a list of all the ways he’d fucked up that conversation.

“I know you can take care of yourself, Cody,” Kenobi scolded. “But I am concerned about you, whether you feel I should be or not. I want to be concerned about you!”

Cody may have been a fool. He struggled to process what his general might actually be admitting to as he continued.

“It makes me crazy when you tend to your own wounds because it means that no one knows how hurt you actually are,” Kenobi huffed in a humorless laugh. “And then you pretend as though nothing even happened? I know you were too close to those grenades, I know you were hit, and I know you forgot to clean your vambrace.”

His vam–…oh. Oh, right. Damn.

“You preach to our men about accepting help when it is needed yet after every battle, the second you can hide away in that office of yours and ‘take care of it’ before anyone can call you on your hypocrisy! Maker, Cody, just– just let someone care about you.”

Cody was definitely a fool.

Kenobi’s shoulders rose and fell with the short huffs he breathed as he recovered from his outburst. He finally pushed himself upright and out of Cody’s space to turn away from him, and Cody missed the proximity immediately.

Kenobi’s eyes slid shut as he took a deep breath.

“Apologies, Commander,” he said after what felt like a small eternity, his voice still with the edges of his anger. “That was an… inappropriate outburst. Please, see the medics about your injuries before they get any worse. Don’t have me make it an order.”

The general was about to open the door when Cody stepped toward him.

“General, I’m s–” he was interrupted by a harsh cough, worse than the one he’d forgotten to clean up after before, his arm coming up to break the expelled air once more.

“Cody?” Kenobi said, all the previous frustrated tone vanished.

Cody continued to fight his own lungs for the ability to breathe again. Something wasn’t right. His right arm wrapped around his side to put pressure on those jagged little cuts. Hints of the syllables he tried to pronounce came out in gasps. “Ca– can’t–” he stammered. The coughing subsided, but the breathlessness persisted.

As Kenobi began to come to his side to support him, Cody tried to grasp at one of the shelves, his right hand painting it with that rich red that he could feel leaking from his side.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Kenobi hissed, hauling Cody against his side. “You’re going to the medbay, now.”

As they moved, Cody’s feet stumbling below him, Kenobi barked orders into his comm. Patch and another medic met them partway with a gurney, Patch muttering some sarcastic remark about not needing a medic that Cody couldn’t quite parse out as the oxygen mask slipped over his face.

He should be focusing on the steady supply of that precious gas being pushed into his lungs, but all he could seem to notice was Kenobi.

His general moved with them of course, taking in all the information Patch rattled off, offering his own insights when Cody didn’t answer.

“He’s losing a lot of blood,” the other medic called as they arrived in the medbay. Fluke, his brain supplied his name.

Patch had run off for specific supplies as Fluke pulled away the armor in his way, throwing it carelessly behind him. He didn’t hesitate to cut away the flexible midsection of his kit, nor the black undersuit beneath it.

“Kriff,” he hissed as Patch came back with a scanner. “Patch he used bacta, he’s already knitting back up.”

“Damnit,” Patch snarled. “How far’s it gone?”

“Maybe 60, 70 percent.”

“Kriff. Cody, we’ll need to open your chest if this scan shows you missed one of the frags.”

Cody had just enough presence of mind to roll his eyes.

“And I thought 16-year-old Anakin was stubborn,” Kenobi snarked, but his voice held just a slight shake that should have rattled Cody. “He looks like he’s going to pass o–”

“–at’s fine. – have to kno– –yway.”

—

Then Cody opened his eyes. He knew he was in the medbay. He must not have gotten all of that shrapnel like he thought he had. He knew he must’ve been in a tank after they got it out if the way he smelled was any indication. He knew that he’d be berated by Patch–he supposed it was a slight comfort that Fluke was new enough that he didn’t quite have the nerves to growl at stubborn COs, though he was sure he’d find his way soon–and by the General.

“Welcome back,” the General said from his side, nearly startling him.

“General,” he croaked in greeting. He moved to sit up but hissed as his side ached. “Guess I… missed a piece?”

“Two, actually.” Kenobi watched his struggle with a slightly bemused smile. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned any lessons, have you?”

Cody huffed out what could generously be called a chuckle. “Me? Never, sir.”

Despite his exasperation, Kenobi smiled as he shook his head in disbelief. “Before the war, for a decade, I was sure it was raising Anakin that would send me to an early grave.”

“Bit of a handful, sir?”

“Cody, stop trying to talk,” Kenobi smirked. “Your throat’s probably killing you right about now and we don’t need you to make it worse.”

Cody would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of sticking his tongue out in protest.

“I know better now,” the general continued. “No, what’s going to kill me is you. And your crazy brothers.”

The haze of anesthesia and bacta still clouded his mind, so Cody, very smartly said “What?”

Kenobi chuckled. “It won’t be the war that kills me, my dear,” he hummed. “It’ll be the stress of worrying over you, you foolish man.”

Cody felt his face and neck heat.

“I care for you, Cody,” the general whispered, gently taking Cody’s hand in his. “Quite deeply.”

Cody blinked as he struggled to put the words together. “You… about me?”

Kenobi smiled, warming Cody’s face even more. “Perhaps we’ll reopen this discussion once you’re not on pain meds.”

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 10 months ago

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I Have No Mother, Only A Brother

Warnings and Information: Not a new story, just a more masterlist-friendly format since I'm unable to make the edits I want to the original written last year so things fit a little more in-line with the rest of the series visually speaking. Reference/allusion to canon-typical violence, injury, death and loss. Bad health conditions for civilians as a result of a Separatist blockade. Clone OC backstories and how they died. Several characters are not explicitly named as of this installment, just like in NTMY,B. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. No Mando'a here. Use of Star Wars and real-world swearing. Canvas doesn't like the Kaminoans, he's rather scared of them.

Word-count: 3,027

"Isn't it a little sad?" the nat-born child who's been asking so many questions starts up again after five minutes, the allotted break time as asked. The little one's parents sigh wearily. Here we go. There's beckoning hands, straining arms.

"Is what sad, little mite?" The trooper only resituated their hold on the child with a twisted ankle they'd been carrying for several klics now. They still had a long way to go before they reached the Republic camp where these starving people on a far-flung planet had been subjected to horrid war crimes by the Separatists. No; let me hold them a little longer, it's fine. They weigh far less than a supply crate, this is easy for me.

"Well… is it true that you don't have a mommy like people say?" This little one was born just before or near the very start of the Clone Wars, supposedly, and part of a humanoid species, so they're different from human nat-born children and develop differently… but the level of intellect and insight is still surprising.

"It is," the trooper starts, mentally shaking away the thought that he'd have to dumb this down for the toddler who was meeting Clones in the flesh for the first time now. "We don't have any mothers, except for Kamino. That's where we come from." Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks; think of your brothers!

"So isn't it sad?" they ask again, cuddling sweetly against the stiff and impossibly firm surface of plastoid that encircles the trooper's body with a great pout on their face. That can't be comfortable for the kid. The trooper wishes he could take off the helmet so the little one can see the sympathetic smile, touched by the concern and sadness a nat-born child has for a man without a mother. But he's offered to carry this child until they get to the camp and the hospital tent where a medic-brother can splint the bad foot. There's not a great way to carry his own helmet should he remove it; other hands are busy with helping men, women and children too emaciated and weak to make this trek unsupported, or are leading the livestock with firm hands, or like the little mite's mother, carrying even littler children. An infant.

There are so many infants. The General has cut their cloak into long strips so the brothers who have volunteered themselves to carry a suffering family's baby have something to buffer and soften the swaddling arms in plastoid armor. The three brothers who carry the five orphans of the village are quiet. They move so gingerly and are so tender to allow these little ones to sleep as long as they can; the best sleep these little ones have had since losing their mothers.

"I guess many would see it that way. But it's hard to be sad about it when I have so many brothers to keep me company." The little one looks up at the trooper in awe and excitement. Brothers. They had something in common! The baby swaddled to the woman's chest with a meager blanket is a little boy, apparently. Born just before the Separatist's blockade and occupation.

"How many brothers? Hundreds?" That'd been the popular guess when he and his brothers showed up with several Generals to offer aid and support to one of these many villages clustered near one another in this sector of the planet.

"More than that."

"A thousand?"

"Haha. More than that, little one."

"Ah… a million? O-or the one that's bigger than that! That many brothers?"

"That'd be "billion". A billion is bigger than a million."

"You have a billion brothers?!"

"Probably. Even I don't know. There's not enough time to meet all of them when we're helping people like you, ya little mite." Some he'd never get to because they were already gone. Some were already lost to this war well before he stepped off Kamino. Some shortly after.

Cocky nerf-herder though he was, brave Gunnar… he'd been the first. Selfless. He wasn't immediately fond of the Force-wielders. The Jedi. Not like the other Shinies.

"We're their canon fodder, they don't care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don't so much as mourn us!"

It changed when their General was cradling the body of a badly-injured brother while they were waiting for the team medic to find their position. Their General held the dying trooper and promised the medic-brother was on their way, "just hold on, son. Yes, he's coming. H-he's going to take care of you. You were very brave out there trying to keep your brothers safe."

When the battlefield medic trooper had finally reached their position and could take over for the General in taking care of this brother, he'd succumbed to his injuries only seconds later. Their General got up and left, stoic and unspeaking, and Gunnar had enough and wanted to give the General a damn tongue-lashing. But when Gunnar found the General, back pressed into the dark trunk of those towering trees and weeping silently, he suddenly realized he had their first General all wrong.

"I think I had 'em all wrong… guess some of those Jedi really do give a banthashit about us. Found the General mourning that brother who died as soon as the medic got here. They're imperfect, brother. These… peacekeepers aren't sure how to be warriors. Not all of 'em. They're tryin'."

Cryfar had been the second to perish. Oh sweet, well-meaning Cryfar.

To their batch, it was an in-joke that it was a miracle this son of Kamino had made it as far as he had. Either one too many blows to the head during a session of hand-sparring in one of the training centers, or something went awry with his jar, but the kid could not get his left-and-right or his phrasings sorted out when he got overexcited.

Which was often.

"Hahaha! Just wait til I send those Seppies runnin'! This war'll be a cryfar from-" The entire batch groaned, Gunnar the loudest before taking a breath to explain why the other, older brothers were laughing at the excitable Shiny with a glowering look over his shoulder. The seasoned troops stopped, recognizing the look.

"It's "a far cry from", brother. It's okay. They don't mean to be mean to ya, I'm sure… You just get excitable. Not your fault. Remember to be careful, right?"

"R-right! I'll be careful!"

"Watch out for the pits, too."

"Sure thing!"

Faro had been third. Pushed the other two brothers out of the way of danger time and time again. They'd lost Gunnar, and they'd lost Cryfar. Faro was not going to lose these brothers too.

He was gruff and stoic much in the same way like Gunnar without the impulsive streak, but about just as much patience as Gunnar had. ("You were going to kriffing lecture the General? No of course this Jedi cares about the Clones if you just paid attention to them for five min- That's the stupidest- If you would stop being so gun-ho about certain things for five minutes the COs would finally let you in the gunner's mount like you've been asking and- What's that look for!?")

Every time he'd saved their skins he'd simply sigh sharply at them before asking if these two bucket-heads really expected him to save them every time. So that last time… he looked at those yet-unnamed brothers and fondly murmured he'd do it each and every time in a heartbeat, staring up into the great and endless starfield above him with the remnants of a BX-series droid commando scattered around him.

"It's just gonna be the two of you now, brothers. I-I don't think I can watch out for you anymore. Clanker bastard got me real good with that fluke shot… but I'd do it all again in… a d-damn… heartbeat."

Fluke took the name from Faro's dying words as a way to remember him. Maybe he shouldn't have. The word became a curse, an omen. It seemed to seal his fate. He shouldn't have survived that droid commando encounter, it was just a lucky chance that Faro accidentally strayed a little too far from his post and found his brothers getting attacked when he did.

He was thrown from a speeder-bike after getting shot and narrowly avoided plunging into a deep chasm. Two sets of ration packs fell out of the supply crate and were exposed to direct sunlight for several hours before anyone noticed and put those back in with the others. He and another brother both felt a little sick after dinner and each said he'd be turning in early to try to sleep it off.

"Guess it's just not agreeing with me, or something. I'm sure it's nothing… I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Love ya, brother."

"Love ya too, Fluke. Goodnight.

"G'morning Fluke, you feelin' any better? Want me to get the medic to… Fluke, c'mon brother, this isn't funny; talk to me. You really feeling that bad? Y-you're cold! Wh-why are you so… FLUKE!!"

"Do you get along with all of your brothers?" The Clone unit escorting this village's survivors were getting closer to the refugee camp, so it was time to squeeze in some last questions and they'd been quiet for a while now. Canvas just chuckled. He'd been carrying this little one for a while now, watching as they turned one of his most precious possessions in their hands over and over again. The whittled nest of endangered birds from his first campaign. They'd taken great care not to drop it. Carver would've appreciated hearing that such a crude replication still held up to approval; he'd gotten so much better and thought all his old stuff was junk (save for the General's Mudhorn and this nest-set owned by Canvas).

"Some better than others, but I get along with most of them, yes. All siblings have their squabbles; even us Clones. Maybe one day you'll drive your parents crazy by arguing with your little brother once he's big enough." The toddler grinned brightly up at the dusty helmet peering down at him and once again smoothed their hand over Fluke's scuff. Then Faro's. Cryfar's after that. Lastly, Gunnar's. Canvas's brothers all within easy reach, surrounding the scuff mark across the chest plate this little nat-born child was leaning against. Surrounded by the memory of his brothers, those who never judged him for not yet having a Name and respected his wishes not to Be Named yet.

"Nuh-uh. I love my little brother! I never wanna argue with him when he's big enough." The little one's parents just smiled quietly in the lengthening shadows as the sun sunk behind the hills. They knew it wouldn't end up staying that way, but the sentiment was too sweet to correct. One day the screaming matches would come, and the accusations that they weren't sharing toys would rattle their eardrums, and a million other things. A welcome future to look forward to because the Republic answered their desperate plea for help and promised the inhabitants necessary aid.

"He'll tell you how lucky he feels one day that you love him so much." Canvas replied sagely, eyes staring ahead into that middle-ground where the light of the camp crept over the last ridge. That red splatter he was looking for was flying high over the center of the camp. Good. They'd gotten the medical tent set up.

"One last question for the nice trooper before your father carries you to the medical tent, little one. Better make it count before he has to return to his commanding officers." the child's mother warned in a sweet voice. Oh he hated the way the little one frowned, Maker help him. His hold firmed up one last time.

"I can carry the little one to the tent. It's no trouble."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am. It's no trouble." Canvas nodded affirmingly.

"Thank you… ah, I don't believe we ever asked you your name, I am sorry."

"Canvas. My brothers named me." he says with pride. How one came to Be Named by a brother happened in a variety of ways. Sometimes it was mockery. Sometimes it came from a joke. Even done completely unintentionally. But often it was done with love as they helped one another find an identity. More than a string of two letters and four numbers, brother.

No mothers to name us, only brothers.

"Your brothers named you?" the talkative toddler inquires, brightening up as Canvas continues to carry them through the camp. There was time for more questions after all.

"They sure did."

"And do you like your name?"

"I love my name." That name was a gift from his brothers. All of them. Its poetic origin meant too much to do anything but love it.

"Which brother gave you your name? Was it one of them?" The little freckled fingers touched each scuff mark reverentially. (Maker, to think his own fingers were ever that little for a short time.)

"One of my commanding officers." They pass by a commanding officer with these words, entirely a funny little coincidence. But it's not Canvas's, this officer bears a different color.

"Umm… Who has the funniest name? A-are there any?"

"I have a brother named Scruffy." It's safe to make fun of Scruffy's name. Scruffy makes fun of his own name all the time because he knows the circumstances behind Being Named (accidentally) were silly.

"Whoops, hair's gotten an inch past the standard cut… Think I'm starting to look a little-"

"Ahem."

"A-a little, uh, unkempt! I was gonna say unkempt!"

"Sure-sure…"

Just three tents away from medical.

"Who made you the bird nest again?" Canvas takes the whittled treasure back, tucking it away in his utility belt alongside the wooden worry stone.

"My brother Carver." he reminds the toddler. Two more tents. Something's cooking nearby. It smells good. Really good. The families making their way to the camp will have their first good meal in a long time tonight. There's neatly stacked crates in front of the medical tent. That has to be Cairn's doing, but Canvas doesn't see any sign of the brother in the flesh.

"So if he made you the bird nest, are birds your favorite animal?"

"One of 'em, yeah." Canvas chuckles, nodding down at the child and then back up at the brother with the shattered cross painted on his plastoid. "Kid's in need of a splint, think you can help the little one out, brother?"

"Sure can, Canvas. Set up on the second cot for me, and grab yourselves a hydro pack each. You marched a long way in if you came from the southwest. No one's getting dehydrated on my watch."

"Thank you, brother." Canvas nodded gratefully as he nabbed two foil pouches of filtered, treated water from a crate. He opened one and gave it to the child after gingerly lowering them to the second cot as indicated, and finally shucked the dusty helmet, hearing that familiar hiss as the vacuum broke. Much better. Was getting stuffy in there. "Hope you're ready for a talker."

"Always." the medic laughs. It's promising. "I like the talkers now and then. You sit down and rest your feet."

"But I should really go report in to the Cap-"

"Medic's orders, brother." Oh very well. Canvas just concedes; it'll be easier than trying to sweet-talk a brother who takes the mantra of "brother looks out for brother" so deeply to heart that he makes it a specified pathway beyond just his creation as a soldier. (Don't think of the long-necks… think of your brothers.) You're a fool to make these brothers upset with you. He takes a seat on an upturned crate put out for visitors to the med-tent, balancing his bucket on his knees as he cracks open his hydro pack and takes a deep swallow of water. He regrets it, but he'll be scolded for spitting it out.

Ugh. These are not the chemicals he's used to in Kamino's filtration and emergency desalinification systems. What planet treated this water? Coruscant? It's so bitter and heavy on his tongue… There's no touch of sweetness in the water like that of a bolster of emergency supplies from Naboo that had been sent by Senator Amidala. It's sour and tangy in such an unpleasant way.

But that's not worth fussing about when he gets to listen to the little one start peppering the medic-brother with questions now as he prepared to set the bad foot in a splint so it will heal correctly and quickly with proper support.

"Do Clones have a favorite brother?" Woof, what a loaded question to ask a medic.

"Hah, get a load'a this kid, asking the tricky questions. Some do! Some brothers grow very close together, practically joined at the hip and I have to let the other brother stay so I can take care of the sick or injured one. Then there's Clones, like me, who love all their brothers equally. No favorites. Too many brothers to love and take care of for me personally to have favorites. But I know of a few who are someone's favorite brother."

The medic-brother looked at Canvas over his shoulder briefly to first make sure he hadn't slunk off before he was properly rested AMA, but even in that quick look, Canvas knew there was another meaning in those warm, smiling eyes. Seasoned troopers tended to hear if a fresh-faced brother needed some extra support and became a favorite; whether that was for life, or until the Shiny found their feet under themselves.

Canvas knew that applied to him in each sense; he was so grateful for it now. Grateful for those brothers who took care of him because they had a rather… unique mother. (Forget the long-necks.)

If Kamino was their mother, and all her sons were brothers, then they should take good care of one another.

We have no traditional mothers. Just a billion brothers.

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#frostfics #I Have No Mother Only A Brother #*cleaned up version #star wars #tcw headcanons #tcw fanfiction #tcw ocs #clone oc: canvas #clone oc: gunnar/faro/cryfar/fluke #clone oc: scruffy #clone oc: carver #clone oc: cairn #clone oc: commander juke #clone oc: captain law #clone oc: medic riddance #jedi oc: caelen #*visual additions/changes plus formatting

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