#and also thought she was the prettiest ever in clone wars

[stealingpotatoes]

do you think depa billaba and shaak ti would be besties

yes because I really want an excuse to draw them both

(commission info // kofi support!)

[thefairyletters]

Ask me a ship and I'll tell you:

NaruSaku

Who proposed to the other first?

Naruto.

It took several practice sessions with Iruka (because Sasuke refused) pretending to be Sakura for Naruto to master the trick of kneeling and presenting the ring with an air of confidence. But when it mattered, Naruto tipped over his shoelaces (he never worn formal attire ever), accidently knocked over the table (somehow) and bumped straight into Sakura (some ninja he was), and that was how both got kicked out of the very expensive restaurant for causing ruckus.

But when Sakura said she thought "formal proposals were overrated anyway", he took her to Ichiraku, looked her dead in the eye while slurping on ramen, passed her the ring and popped the question illegibly.

Sakura understood anyway and threw a ring she brought for him on his face. She never said 'yes' but she didn't need to.

Who kissed the other first?

Naruto.

It was during a mission. They almost got caught by enemy guards (thanks to Naruto who doesn't know what it means to whisper) while they were following their target. Naruto did the only thing that would have possibly given them an edge. He pulled her to shade and initiated the kiss. Sakura only made sure they looked very convincing. Regardless to say, they got (kicked) out from the location, but without damage.

Later, this kiss inspired many more kisses that they began to steal from each other in the dark.

Who gives a good-morning kiss to other?

Sakura.

Although Naruto is always in bliss whenever Sakura stays night at his place and he is always up early if only to see her wake, it is Sakura who, when she wakes up, sleepily, kisses him first and gets out of the bed to prepare for the day. He always remain in bed until the shower is turned on.

Who likes to play with other's hair?

Naruto.

Between two of them, they both know it is Naruto's hair that is much softer to touch. It wasn't always like that of course.

But Naruto has always found Sakura's hair to be the prettiest thing he's ever seen. The way sunshine would turn it gold, and moonlight silver, has always amazed him. He would give special attention to her hair whenever they'd make love and cuddle. Once Sakura asked if he loved her only for her hair, which he doesn't refute, much to Sakura's chargin and amusement.

Who likes to play footsies?

Sakura.

There was something innately sexy about Sakura's arms and legs. It could be that she's got the best built – one that is lean and strong all the same – out of their peers. Naruto's breath hitch every time those legs brush his and her heels trace an imaginary line on his calves. They know they should focus on the meeting. They know it was inappropriate for a Hokage to be distracted in the middle of the what could be a very important meeting. But they also know his very playful and intelligent wife was adept at takes noting of everything. Everything.

Who is the dominant one?

Kurama.

As much as Sakura loves to be on the top, it becomes hard when a demon houses in your lover's body. More often than not, Kurama who more or less has become a part of their relationship would take over Naruto's body whenever Sakura would cross a particular threshold of dominance tolerated to her. Apparently, it was insulting for an alpha male like Kurama to be taken from above by a mere mortal woman, even if the said woman was his host's wife. Not that it was his body she was making love to in first place.

It's only because Naruto could feel everything even when Kurama takes his body that they put up with his sexism. Besides, Sakura doesn't mind.

Who likes to keep a picture of the other with them all the time?

Both.

They each wear a necklace bearing each other's photo inside, to remind themselves of the times they were missing out on, of their significant other waiting for them at return home, to keep them company for the late nights when they get too busy with their duties.

Who likes to buy the other gifts?

Naruto.

He always send his clones to get Sakura flowers to cheer her up on days he hears about loss in the hospital. He often requests Gaara for new poisons he knows Sakura will enjoy in her lab. He takes her out on dates even after years of marriage – particularly to that very expensive restaurant, where he had planned to propose to her, that had kicked them out. They act deliberately loud in that one, but they don't get kicked out of course. Nobody minds what you do when you have power.

Most days, they don't send gifts for one another not because they couldn't but because those things don't spark joy in the face of the brighter things. Like, when Sakura comes to pick him up from office after her late shift, knowing he would still be cooped up in his office because he lost track of time.

Who takes initiative in making physical contact?

Sakura.

She would hit him whenever he would make a mistake, forget something important, or skip meals. Then, next moment she would be patting him like he were a dog, kiss his woes away and be on her merry way. She would come to his office to check if he had his lunch, and would force feed him if he hadn't (more often than not). She would drag him out of his office if he isn't home by 12 or would stay and help him until the work is done. She wasn't gentle nor romantic by any stretch, but she would always touch him for one reason or other.

Who plans their dates?

Naruto.

His clones come in handy. They'd scout the area and report back their findings. Naruto would jot it all down, highlighting their specialities, an habit Shikamaru and Sakura drilled into him, and allows Sakura to make her choice for their next date. Life is simple for them when it comes to making choices. It is when they are together that life becomes exciting.

Who was shy on their first date?

Neither.

Their first date had been no different than any normal meetups they've had before. Except with lingering touches, an innocent kiss turned make up session, and a hug.

Who wakes up the other?

Before marriage: Naruto would wake up first and help Sakura get started on her day – would make her coffee just the way she liked, set her outfit out by the vanity, make sure her bag is set just so she doesn't miss her files, and make bath for them. He would join her on the bed, and wait for her to wake up so he could get his prize for his hardwork.

After marriage: They'd both be too exhausted to find energy in them to wake up. Sakura would be the first to get out of the bed, but only after giving Naruto his customary kiss, and would set bath for them. Her husband would still be lost to the world so she would carry his sleepy ass into bath and prepare him for the day so they could once again be on their way to face the world.

Who was shy in taking their relationship to next level?

Sakura.

When Naruto and Sakura engaged in a kiss that was more passionate than they ever experienced before, Sakura knew what was coming. Her mind was a turmoil of emotions that had nothing to do with the heat that flared inside her body.

Sakura was no stranger to kisses. She liked – no, loved – kissing Naruto senseless. She could think of hundred ways that could make Naruto respond to her with only a kiss, and she loved that he loved kissing her. But, her body was her vulnerability. She could think hard but still would draw blank if it's about telling one positive detail about her body. Naruto always looked at her like she was the only woman in the world – and while the sentiment was flattering, it meant expectations. She was terrified of disappointing him. She didn't want to consider the possibility of him finding her body undesirable. They were dating, not married. He had no ties to her, he was free to find someone who he'd be attracted to, a better life, with someone who'd be a lot, lot better than her. She loved him, and she knew he loved her, but the chances of her messing this up were astronomical and –

Naruto pulled away from the kiss to look at her, to understand why she froze in his arms. He didn't understand the reason behind her anxiety – why she would freeze whenever his hands would inch a little too close to her chest or a little below her hips – so he did what she really wanted him to: stop.

One night, Sakura murmured her fears into his ears and Naruto, who had never seen her look so timid and breakable, gave her what she needed the most: time.

Time until marriage so she wouldn't have a reason to be afraid.

Who hogs up the blankets in their sleep?

Naruto.

When it happened for the nth time, Sakura threatened to kick Naruto out of the bed with only his dear blankets to shelter him from cold. He nodded his consent of course, but it repeated the next day and the day after, too, but Sakura is nothing if not adaptable, so she has thus learnt to keep another blanket on her side of the bed so she doesn't die in her sleep on cold mornings.

Who is easy to get jealous?

Sakura.

You can't help some things from happening when your boyfriend-turned-husband is a war-hero, as Sakura learnt it one week into her dating him. While she isn't bothered per se – being considered quite a hit among men and popular across countries herself – but there is a bold line between people admiring your lover and people feeling up your lover.

It is only because her reputation and her glare which is known to promise suffering that people scurry away from Naruto whenever she is in the vicinity.

No, Sakura is just worried for Naruto. She knows her husband wouldn't try things if he knows what's best for him.

Who cooks in the house?

Naruto.

Sakura can't cook rice to save her life. Period. Everyone in team 7 is well-aware about her inability to be domestic in general. Naruto finds it endearing most of the times– times when she is not attempting to make him her test subject for her culinary experiments.

They don't need chef to make them dinner when they return home, Naruto always makes sure to send a clone to make them dinner. Sakura has more than once told him that she was the luckiest woman in the world to have him as her husband. He makes them fresh bentos through clones. He tries new recipes whenever he gets a day off and surprises Sakura with his skills. Their sundays involve just them and their kitchen.

Sakura still insists on making them dinner whenever she could. She learnt to make a decent ramen after a month long – disastrous – training from Ayame. Although Sakura always adds too much of something, Naruto always licks his bowl clean because to him her ramen is only second to Ichiraku.

Who 'protects' and who 'nurtures'?

Sakura protects him.

Naruto nurtures her.

.

.

.

(Ask me a ship! But not in the comments section lol)

[masterjedilenawrites]

The Sniper and The Medic: Chapter 2

Starring: Crosshair, Original Character “Joan Vo,” probably the rest of the Bad Batch at some point

Summary: Crosshair doesn't exactly like medical personnel. In fact, he hates them. They're always poking and prodding, calling him skinny, telling him he's not good enough. But then he meets the new medical examiner, the smart and kind and oh-so-pretty Joan Vo. And suddenly, he's not only looking forward to his medical check-ups, but he's also starting to question whether he wants to go to war after all....

Rating & Warnings: T/PG-13. Eventual fluff. Light angst. Who knows what else will pop up, but I’ll leave warnings when needed.

Taglist: Let me know if you want to be tagged for this fic.

AO3 Link (In case you like it better over there, it’s okay, no judgement)

< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >

Chapter 2: Doctor’s Orders

She wasn't the first human girl he'd ever seen.

But she sure was the prettiest.

There'd been some contractors and other hired help on the planet, especially in recent years as the demand on the warfront left few bodies to fill the more ancillary tasks. A few had been female. Each time one came in, there was endless chatter among the clones about them. Crosshair had never understood the fascination, nor had his brother Tech. They often wondered if that was just another one of their defects.

Now he got it.

She didn't wear the traditional medical garb, or even the sterile robes the Kaminoans usually gave visitors. Instead, she was in what looked like the clone's standard issue under-armor, "blacks." Slightly different material and stitching, but same concept. It stretched around her figure, highlighting both her obvious female-ness as well as some muscles. Her pinkish-blonde hair was pulled back from her face, which was young, but also weathered. She wasn't another posh politician or edgy mercenary. She was something else entirely.

But her arrival did nothing to help his nerves; in fact, he felt even worse now. This pretty girl would be the one inspecting him. Frowning at all his subpar test results. Reprimanding him for not eating or exercising enough. Judging him.

He watched her with wary eyes as she entered and gave him a small but endearing smile.

"Good morning," she said, her voice a bit raspy, but calm. Soft. "I'm Joan."

She looked at him expectantly. He knew he should give his official designation, but he decided to say the name he'd given himself, in a rebellious attempt to show himself as human.

"Crosshair."

She held her smile, unperturbed by his lack of protocol. In fact, she seemed pleased by it.

"Crosshair," Joan repeated, sending a shiver through him. She had been holding a datapad, undoubtedly containing all the sad details of his medical history. He braced himself for the uncomfortable silence that would happen as she flicked through it. But instead she placed it on a table along the back wall and rolled out a chair to face him.

"Well, Crosshair, tell me about yourself."

He blinked a few times. "Um," he nodded to the back table. "My file should have everything about me."

"Everything?" she asked with an amused smirk. "Like your favorite color? What you think about before falling asleep?"

Her eyes narrowed at him, a challenge, but a playful one. He had no clue how to respond.

Before he could come up with something to say, her face relaxed and she pushed her chair back as she stood, returning to the back table. She grabbed a pad of paper and an exam scope. The datapad remained neglected.

"Crosshair..." she said his name again, causing him to fight to control another pleasant fluttering in his chest. "Does that mean you're really into guns?"

She came in front of him again, resting the primitive writing materials on the table beside his leg as she fiddled with the settings on the scope.

"I'm a sharpshooter," he said. That was something he had an answer for.

"Sharpshooter." She quickly scribbled the word down on the paper. "There's something about you. What else?"

He was silent again, back to being utterly confused. Why didn't she just look in his chart? Was this some sort of test?

A pale light came on the scope and she brought it up to his right eye. She didn't let him sit in confusion for long. "Have you thought about getting a tattoo yet? You could do something really cool with a reticule, or a target. Maybe a bullet?"

She moved the scope across his other eye. He tried to stay still for her, even though he really wanted to furrow his eyebrows at the random change in topic.

"I... haven't thought about it," he muttered.

She set the scope down and held up the pen, holding it slightly behind his head.

"Look straight ahead, let me know when you see it," she said, bringing it slowly forward. He grunted as soon as the pen entered his periphery; he couldn't say anything as Joan was already talking again.

"What do you think is the furthest distance you could make a shot from?" The pen was moved to the other side and the exercise repeated, though she didn't seem too interested in it. "Like an accurate one. A bullseye, dead on."

She sounded like the young clones they'd sometimes bring around to the training rooms on field trips. Wide eyes, reverent voices, in awe of the cadets they'd one day become themselves.

Crosshair allowed himself to frown as he answered her, quite frankly, silly question. "It's not just a matter of my ability, but the capacity of the rifle and range of the blast, as well as a whole list of environmental factors."

Joan brought the scope up to one of his ears, now, peering through it. He could feel her breath against his neck as she spoke. "Okay, so you have the best long-distance rifle in the entire galaxy. Perfect wind and lighting conditions. Nothing else in your way. How far?"

He thought about for a few seconds, and then confidently stated, "Thirty-five hundred meters. Easy."

She was looking in his other ear, but he could still see her smiling, impressed, out of the corner of his eye. It made his cheeks feel warm.

"What would be a hard shot to make, then?" she asked, coming back around to face him. She motioned to hold his hands out in front of him. As he thought about the new question, she instructed him to fold his thumbs inward and then curl his other fingers into a fist. Her own hands wrapped gently over his; they were cold but soft, and he almost lost track of his thoughts as he watched her guide his wrists to bend up and down.

"Any pain?" she asked, bringing him back. He shook his head.

"Well..." he said thoughtfully, "I suppose it'd have to be shooting blind. You can still get a lay of the land, use your other senses to aim. But if you can't see what you're shooting at...."

Joan hummed in acknowledgement, moving his palms to face upward, and tapping along his wrists. "Any pain?" And he shook his head again.

"I knew a sniper once," she said in a lower voice. "You know what he said were the hardest shots he ever had to make?"

She moved his hands into another formation, where his knuckles touched each other in the middle of his chest with elbows sticking out. He shook his head, answering both questions, the one she'd just asked, and the one he expected would come with this test.

"He said it's the ones you don't want to make." Her light-heartedness was gone and her face now looked old and tired. "He didn't explain further, but I knew he'd been on the Umbara mission."

Crosshair didn't need her to explain further, either. They'd been told about Umbara.

"I would've known," he couldn't help but say. It had been the first thing he thought of when they were debriefed on the tragic mission. He hadn't told anyone, knowing it wouldn't be taken well, but he still believed it. There was no way he wouldn't have been able to tell it was his brothers at the other end of his gun.

She regarded him with a cocked head, and for a moment, the judgement he'd feared receiving in this room flashed across her features. But then it was gone, and her usual squinted eyes and quirked lips fell back into place.

"And what if you hadn't?"

"I would have. I know I would have."

She shook her head. "That's not what I meant. You have to think about the what-if sometimes. Even if they're far-fetched. Just to know what your response would be. Hope for the best, and prepare for the worst."

He didn't know what to say to that.

But Joan didn't wait for him to respond, either. She picked up the pad of paper, which he just now noticed had a lot more scribbles on it. He hadn't realized she'd been taking notes the whole time.

She handed the pad to him.

"Your homework. Write down some things about yourself for next time, okay?"

She took a step back, as if to make room for him to get up and leave.

He frowned at her. "That's it?"

She smiled at him. "For today. I think you're next on the schedule for Thursday. Same time."

He looked between the paper and her. She laughed a little.

"Try starting with your favorite color," she said with a wink, and then turned to clean up the remaining things.

He slowly got off the bed and shuffled out into the hallway, holding the pad of paper like it was a strange object he'd never seen before. He wasn't really reading any of the things she'd put on there, just staring at it to give himself something to focus on. That visit was, by far, the most bizarre medical check-up of his life.

And it was the first that he didn't want to leave.

[detroitbydark]

Title: Play With Fire- Part 2

Characters: Migs Mayfeld/”Pockets” (OC)

Rating: T

Summary: First Impressions

Warning: Blood? but not gore

A/N: So apparently Pockets is now and OC and I have more ideas then I care to admit for this pairing. Thank you to @crimson-dxwn​ for being my beta extraordinaire and listening to my rants and raves. Anything ya'll wanna know about these two crazy kids? let me know and I might explore it. Also, 3 ABY is approximately one year before the battle of Endor and the second Death Star and their reunion ( the first part in this) takes place about 9 ABY sometime after the second season of The Mandalorian.

 3 ABY

Sometimes you made the shot of a lifetime. Sometimes you didn’t.

Sometimes you made that once in millennia shot as Rebel artillery was destroying your nest and you went tumbling ass over blaster down a ravine with half a ton of loose debris and rocks.

You couldn’t win them all.

Migs got this. He understood it like he understood his unfortunate short stature or the hairline that had receded for too early in life. Those were the breaks.

You either lived with it or died with it and he was fully set on living until he was old and shriveled.

Some days it just sucked.

Today was one of those days.

“We got a live one coming through. Clear a table, will ya?”

The voice of his squad mate, Crikes, was too loud on his right as his weight pressed heavily into Smitty on his left. The rough outer rim accent bounced around in his bucket like a stray blaster bolt.

Kriff his head hurt.

Everything hurt actually, from his head to the tips of his toes. The slide hadn’t been that bad. Seven meters? Maybe ten? It was the sharp obsidian stone that had come down with him that had done him in. The razor sharp black stone had bludgeoned and gouged his armor, weaseling its way into the cracks and under the plastoid plating. It cut at his skin with each move he made. If the stims hadn’t helped numb him up he’d probably have passed out when the assault droid had helped yank him from the rubble.  His gauntlets were both cracked and he could feel a cool breeze coming through the cracks in his back plate. He’d liked his armor. Command wasn’t gonna take to kindly with having to replace it.

It was nice to pretend his biggest concern was getting a new set of plastoid requisitioned. 

“Hey medic!” Crikes’ voice cuts through his thoughts, “I said we need a hand over here!”

“Maker… do you have to yell so fragging loud? I mean-“

“What are you going on about?” Looking back he’s never sure what it was that he noticed first, but he likes to think it was her voice. Like an holomodel fantasy out of a good spice trip, she shuts that Hutt humping Crikes up, marching over with her hands on her hips and scowl on her face.

“We got an Imperial war hero here.” Crikes sounds chastened, but Migs doesn’t bother to look over to see if his face matches what he’s hearing because he’s in the presence of a fragging angel.

“Yeah? Look around. Got a lot of heroes here.” Sarcasm flows from her pretty pouty lips like water from a fountain. She sweeps her arm toward the other beds and the piles of bloodied plastoid littering the small field hospital. “This one ain’t any better or worse.”

Migs frowns under cover of his helmet. For a while he’s been wondering if he might have some bleeding going on somewhere. He feels a bit woozy when he turns his head too quickly to follow the angel as she grabs a datapad off a nearby cart. He was better then a majority of the scum around him. He was a sharpshooter, best of the best, and the bastard who single-handedly brought down the pair of x-Wings decimating their ground troops.

He tries to tell her as such but the words don’t come out of his mouth in any coherent thought. Angel freezes, looking up from the datapad she barks to his squad mate and Migs suddenly feels his bucket being pulled from his head.

“Designation number trooper.”

It’s an order not a question. He didn’t like orders, even from his own superiors but she’s damn pretty and his head hurts…

“Trooper? A number?” Angel looks up from the datapad. There’s concern on her face. She’s scanning his injuries. The ones she can see. Were they that bad? Migs reaches up and feels something warm and sticky against his temple.

“FO-593” Smitty offers for him.

“593… got it…” she takes a step closer, setting the datapad down and pulling gloves from her pocket. She’s got the prettiest hazel eyes, long lashes. Migs wonders if she’s seeing anyone. It’s probably one of those civvie doctors that signed on…

“593-“

“Mayfeld. It’s Migs Mayfeld.” He clarifies, ‘cause a pretty girl like her should be saying his name.

“Alright, Mayfeld, what happened?”

“He saved our asses is what he did!”

Crikes again. Maker, if the bastard kept stealing his glory he was going to deck him. Once the room stopped spinning.

“You know what?” The Angel looks about as amused with Crikes as

Migs felt. “I think it’s high time you two go get some rations in you and leave Mayfeld and I to our own devices.”

Smitty elbows Crikes, the plastoid of armor clattering as he tips his head toward the entrance.

“I’m good boys,” Migs offers the other two field operatives, “Let me get some alone time with the pretty girl.”

He ignores the raised brow directed his way and the crossed arms that follow. Nausea rolls through him as his buddies wander back the way they came.

“Frag… I think I’m gonna be sick.”

She does well. Manages to miss the first splash of vomit. The second retch hits her shoe.

“Son of a bitch… Maker fragging-“ 

The angel has a mouth on her. He could get used to that. Migs uses the sleeve of his under armor, exposed by the shattered plastoid to wipe his mouth.

“Sorry about that, Sweetness.” 

Her eyes narrow as she reaches behind him. “My name is not Sweetness. I am FM-111 to you trooper. Specialist Coronette if you're lucky.”

The words slip out, some verbal diarrhea to go along with what he was starting to think was a concussion. “I am lucky and you’re beautiful.”

“That’s it-“

“Pockets? Have we got an issue?”

Wait- was that a-

“No Coric, I’m good.”

The older man looks at Migs and Migs looks right back. No shit. A clone. You didn’t see that everyday. Guy’s got a head of close cropped salt and pepper hair, looks real dignified. He’s also… glaring? Ok yeah, that wasn’t good.

“If he’s giving you trouble I can-“

Angel’s…. Specialist Coronette’s face softens as she looks at the clone. Migs feels a little jealousy percolate deep down - accompanied by the occasional flip of his stomach. She pats the other man’s cheek fondly and he gives her a soft look.

Some guys had all the luck.

Migs closes his eyes as the world takes a big spin. He doesn’t mean to groan but the axis has tilted and the poles have just flipped and… Fek… he really is starting to not feel good.

“Hey… Mayfeld?” The voice is soft and Migs focuses on the sweet, silvery words. Slowly he opens his eyes and notes that Coronette, is at his side looking more concerned then she has the entire time he’s been in the damn med bay. Over her shoulder the clone medic gives his own appraising look.

“You got this Pockets?”

Migs sees irritation flash in sharp green eyes, not just green but, like, Endor. So bright and alive there wasn’t any way he could think to describe them other than the greenest Kriffing place he’d ever seen in his life.

“I’ve got it, Sir.” Her tone is sharp but the clone, her superior, doesn’t seem to take offense to it. She must not just be blowing smoke. At this point he doesn’t give a wamp rat’s ass. He really just wants to call it a day, catch a cycle worth of sleep and lay in bed til the gut-rending nausea goes the fek away.

“Uh-uh,” she tuts, irritation melted away, “can’t fall asleep on me just yet. You haven’t even shown me a good time yet.” She teases and Migs wills his eyes wide open.

“You’re flirting.”

“Maybe… or maybe I’m trying to keep you awake because you’ve got a concussion. You’ll never know.”

Specialist Coronette pokes and prods, shuffling him toward the edge of the gurney. “Wanna go somewhere more private?”

“Trying to get me all alone, beautiful?”

She huffs. It sounds half amused. He can work with that.

“I’m trying,” she grunts, looping his arm around her shoulder and manhandling him into standing, “to get you in a private room so I can assess your wounds without the whole battalion seeing you stripped down.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His head spins at the sudden change in momentum. “I’m not that kind of man. You gotta wine me and dine me before-“

She twists under his arm and sharp pain shoots through his side cutting off his words more effectively then any shushing ever could. 

“Easy Mayfeld.” He hears a familiar voice but can’t place which slimy barve he knew it came from. “You can’t handle that one.”

A pair of voices, masculine and feminine, grunt in agreement as he and his medic slowly hobble past and to a clean, empty ‘room’.

It’s a room about as much as a room as a troop transport is a luxury yacht. Four ceiling to floor curtained walls block it off from the other rooms and the larger, open floor of the hospital. He manages to collapse onto the exam table as the world takes another vicious whip around. This time he manages to spew in the bucket shoved under his nose.

He apologizes after he finishes. “Thanks. You know, you keep showing me basic human decency like this and you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

Coronette is pulling clean gloves on and hunting in a shallow drawer. She arches a pretty brow in his direction as she finds a pair of shears. “I have to clean up whatever mess you make. Don’t confuse decency with laziness on my part.”

“Whatever you say, Pockets.”

Her shoulders tense for a moment and then she takes a deep breath and lets the bait he’s laying out go to waste.

“I’m getting this armor off you. ‘Fraid it ain’t doing you any good anymore.”

Migs glances down at the cracked plastoid. His pauldron is long gone and both pairs of vambrace and gauntlets are thrashed. There’s so much under armor and skin showing, Migs isn’t really sure how they're still even on him. Pockets manages to get them off without much to it and little input from the guy wearing them. She begins on his cuirass and Migs thinks of half a dozen smart ass remarks about getting his clothes off, but there’s something going on under the armor and each time she begins working at the cracked and twisted chest piece it steals the air from his lungs.

“Karking hells,” he curses lowly. 

“I’ve almost got it…” 

Migs takes a deep breath and holds as still as he can. It kriffing hurts, burns hotter than two suns over Tatooine. Just when he’s sure he can’t handle a second more of it, the plastoid falls away in two pieces. It’s like a pressure he hadn’t realized was on his chest has finally been removed and he can breathe-

“Son of a mudscuffer-“

Migs doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. He can feel it. Warmth spreading and staining the under armor across the left side of his chest. 

“Karking thing was putting pressure on-“ she trails off again as she retrieves the shears from her pocket. She’s efficient and wastes no time slicing up the front of his under armor. The black fabric falls away from one side and clings to blood staining his other. Coronette doesn’t stop moving, flowing from one spot to the next. She doesn’t stop talking either.

“Fek. Fek. That’s not gonna fekking come out in the wash-“ 

He could laugh but she’s pulling the clinging fabric away from his chest and pressing bacta soaked gauze into the laceration. If that didn’t burn like the wrong end of a burner’s incinerator he didn’t know what did. 

“Damn it! Is your kriffing processor pickled?! Warn a guy!” He's all bark and no bite at the mercy of the medic who continues to press hard on the wound.

“Shut it 593.” It’s grunted out as she continues to press with one hand and reach across him with the other for Palps only knew what. Sharp words fizzle on his tongue as he catches a glimpse of pale flesh down the top of her scrubs. Fek. He really loved a pretty pair of tits and judging by the rounded tops he can see and the slight jiggle as they move, Coronette’s were perfect. It’s better then any painkiller he could imagine… until she’s leaning back and catches the cast of his eyes.

“So are so kriffing lucky. You slimy little nerfherder- if I had two free hands.”

He should feel bad about being caught but Migs has had a day and he really can’t find it in him.

“Not my fault, maker gave you a gorgeous rack and Imperial uniforms don’t hide it.”

He winces as she yanks the bacta soaked gauze away, blood beginning to well up again immediately. She doesn’t warn him before pressing the gun into the open wound and squeezing the trigger. Bacta foam fills in the area as he hisses, sealing the laceration. She doesn’t stop to make sure he’s ok before she’s spinning and grabbing more supplies. A bacta patch gets slapped over the quick dry foam.

“Weasly stormtrooper scum…” she continues under her breath.

“Aww come on now, I’m sorry.” He tries to offer a weak smile but her back is turned as she furiously enters data onto a pad. “I really am. When’s the end of your shift. I’ll buy you a drink?”

The anger that flashes in those forest eyes when she whips back is the sexiest thing he’s seen in a standard cycle. If the stims weren’t beginning to wear off and his body beginning to hurt to Malachor and back, he’d be getting stiff in what was left of his armor.

“You think I’d have a drink with you?”

“Come on sweets, what really matters is if you think you’d have a drink with me.”

Her eyebrows skim her hairline. “Are you kidding me? Give up already. Karking little-”

“Not the size of the aak in the fight but the fight in the aak, Sweetheart.”

“Not in your life, Buckethead.”

Her ass looks almost as good in her scrubs as her tits but she doesn’t give him a chance to say so before she storms out.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

ghosts

Here are some post-Civil War team feelings and a bit of whump. Thanks to @whumphoarder for beta reading ❤

__________________________

Sometimes, Tony remembers.

Tonight he lies awake in his bed after Rhodey forced him out of the workshop at 3am, away from the prototype for his leg braces. Tony didn’t put up a fight because the guilt was still fresh and sharp and seeing his best friend navigate his wheelchair through the messy workshop was making him pliant, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be able to rest. 

Sleep evades him, but the memories are there. Pepper, every night, making his heart ache in rhythm with his fractured sternum. His parents, dead in the car with smoke still rising from the broken engine. Siberia and the wormhole and Rhodey dropping out of the sky, falling and falling and falling until Tony’s body hits the mattress and he opens his eyes with a gasp. 

And then there’s the team. Sometimes, the ghosts come back to keep him company.

*

The plan was for Natasha to infiltrate an NSA division suspected to be running an undercover espionage programme with illegally obtained citizens’ data. She was supposed to go in, disguised with a photostatic veil as the lead technology officer, copy the evidence, and leave after the shift was over. Tony and Steve would be waiting outside with her ride home, ready to interfere in case something went wrong. 

Which it did, because, unbeknownst to their intel and definitely against the rules of the department she worked for, said technology officer was having an affair with one of her colleagues, who’d realised something was off when she tried to slide her hand into Nat’s pants in a storage room and in turn got punched in the face.

Nat was held, drugged, and interrogated. She didn’t spill, of course. Her cover didn’t get blown until half a day later, when Tony and Steve burst through the door to rescue her. She even managed to transfer enough of the evidence to Tony’s servers to build a solid case against the NSA division before she got blasted, so from that perspective, the mission was a success.

A success that came with a price, however, Tony thought as he leaned back in the pilot seat, having just maneuvered them out of the danger zone. The adrenaline was fading away to leave behind exhaustion and a pulsing pain in his hand. 

“Not again...” he muttered as he carefully removed the armour on his right arm to reveal a swollen, possibly broken wrist. He’d had to retract his gauntlet to open the digitally coded lock to the facility and he’d paid the price for forgetting to put it back on five minutes later when an overzealous security guard kicked him in the arm. He should really look into cloning again—an extra arm would definitely come in handy.

Behind him, Nat was throwing up into a basin, so quietly and efficiently that it almost looked like she was in control of what was happening. She was pale and sweaty, the stuff they’d drugged her with clearly not agreeing with her system. But the real sign she was still a bit out of it was that she didn’t protest at all when Steve sat close beside her and placed a hand on her back while she heaved.

“Don’t redecorate my quinjet, Romanov,” Tony said flippantly, swiverling his chair around. “I just finally got the blood out of the upholstery from your run-in with the Frankfurt cartel.” 

Still retching into the bowl, Nat flipped him off without even looking up. Tony noticed she was trembling slightly.

He got up and moved over to the lockers, limping a bit―(when did that happen?)―as he went, and fetched the threadbare blanket Bruce used to wrap around himself after de-hulking. Steve bit his lip when Tony draped the tattered thing over Nat’s shoulders and he knew they were all thinking the same thing.

The absence of Bruce and Clint was almost tangible. Steve tended to be the one to get their spirits up before the missions, and Tony would chatter continuously during the fight, but afterwards it had usually been Clint who’d take care of them all in his own, inscrutable way. He was especially good at building the team up again after things went wrong, taking the blame off each of their individual shoulders and distributing it evenly across all of them. 

“Not your fault, Cap. Can’t save ‘em all,” he’d remind the soldier after a particularly rough mission. Or he’d thrust a jammed weapon into Tony’s hands and tell him to stop brooding and make himself useful. “Don’t give me that emo look,” he’d tell Nat whenever she was sulking. “We talked about this.” And nobody would ever know what it was that the two had talked about, but a bit of tension would fall off her shoulders.

Tony wonders, sometimes, whether they’d instinctively known that Bruce’s departure and Clint’s retirement would mark the beginning of the end of the Avengers. Whether somewhere deep inside, all of them were counting the days they had left.

“What happened to your wrist?” Steve broke the silence.

“He frac’ured it again,” Nat said hoarsely, slurring her words just a little. “Will never learn to put that glove back on.”

Tony laughed.

*

Their first stop was at the compound’s medical bay where they were told that Nat couldn’t do anything more than sleep off the effects of the drug and make sure to stay hydrated. Tony’s wrist, to everyone’s surprise, was only badly sprained this time, and they let him go after bandaging it. 

He was starting to feel the effects of the fight by then, the beginning soreness of his muscles and annoying pain from all his bruises. Exhaustion was clinging heavily to his limbs; he hadn’t slept the previous night, busy going through the intel and testing the comms to make sure the mission would be successful before leaving at daybreak.

Nat also looked like she could use a bed, unsteady on her feet and even less talkative than usual, but there was a silent understanding between Steve and Tony not to leave her alone in a dark room while the drugs were still messing with her mind. They all had their own ghosts, and even if she didn’t talk about them, they weren’t about to let Nat fight hers on her own.

They gathered in the common room where JARVIS had already ordered Thai and pizza, as well as ginger lemonade to combat the nausea. Bruce would have made a fresh jug himself if he were here, Tony caught himself thinking, and quickly shook his head to get rid of the melancholic feelings that threatened to overtake him.

He helped himself to rice and curry and sat down heavily in the armchair, switching on the TV and flipping through the channels as he ate. Nat held her head tipped back against the sofa, still pale, eyes half-closed. She was alternating between taking small bites from a piece of Margherita and sipping on her lemonade. Next to her, Steve was devouring the pizza like his life depended on it, but Tony was long past joking about the man’s increased need for calories.

“Who wants a drink?” Tony asked over the background noise of a news anchor announcing breaking news on the NSA data leak.

“Daiquiri,” Nat ordered, and it was a testimony to what they’d all been through together that no one questioned her ability to stomach rum a mere hour and a half after puking her guts up into a plastic bowl.

Tony pushed himself up from the chair and made it about two seconds on his feet before the headrush made him stumble blindly into the table. 

"Whoa..." he breathed out at the same moment that Steve said "Steady" and jumped up to help. 

“Think I really need that drink,” Tony commented, leaning on the larger man for support and rubbing his eyes with a groan until the haze cleared. 

“I think you really need to sleep,” Steve scolded in his best worried-dad voice. Tony snorted and gazed up at the other man until he sighed and gave in. “Okay, I’ll get them. Sit down before you fall over.” 

Tony gave him the prettiest smile he could muster. “That’s what I like to hear. Scotch for me, please.”

And so it ended. Nat had fallen asleep against Steve’s shoulder (or, having allowed herself to fall, to be precise; they all knew it was a gesture of trust and nothing that happened accidentally. Tony was stretched out in the armchair, idly swirling the ice in his scotch glass. Pink Floyd was playing in the background, and Steve was subconsciously tapping his foot along with the rhythm while finishing off the Thai leftovers.

The two men shared a smile across the coffee table—briefly, casually—and then Steve gently shifted Nat to lie down on the couch where she immediately curled up like a cat between the pillows, her dark red curls falling loosely over her face. He covered her with a blanket and threw another one over to Tony, who set down his glass just in time to catch it. 

Steve left for a bit and returned with a novel and a cup of tea. Tony turned up the music a few notches and slowly let his eyes slip shut. He already knew that they’d all still be there come morning. 

*

Tony isn’t sure why it’s this mission that comes back to him that night. It’s nothing special, nothing even particularly successful—just a bunch of injuries and comfort food, typical for how they used to operate. 

He wonders whether Steve knew, back then. Whether Nat had already picked her side.

If anyone were to ask him now, he’d say he’s angry—furious, even—because that’s easier to deal with than the sadness that comes along with betrayal. And what he’d never say is that he misses them. 

He doesn’t. 

He really doesn’t.

(He’s always been such a good liar.)

Tony blinks into the darkness and their faces disappear. The memories might fade by morning, but the ghosts are here to stay.