#if its anything other than a voluntary label then its just reassigning a new label based on someones agab

[the-pea-and-the-sun]

sry to engage w goofy ass discourse but im kinda tired of seeing the phrase "afab intersex people used as a gotcha" abt ppl who dont like phrases like tma and tme like. i dont think thats whats happening man ur talking like intersex ppl arent actively on the site and talking abt their own experiences we're not using ourselves as a gotcha. like a lot of intersex ppl r talking abt it themselves u dont gotta keep pretending we're a fringe hypothetical case. intersex ppl are just often not included in these types of conversations and applying a label to someone based on their agab is fucked up no matter what its just more obvious when you're an intersex person and you know that sex is not binary and your agab doesnt reveal some intrinsic truth abt ur biology or identity

[purgetrooperfox]

stylus-pushing and other workplace hazards

five times Nocte took care of the Corries, and one time did the same for him

rating: M

pairings: N/A

characters: Sergeant Hound, Clone Medic Nocte, Clone Veterinarian Bo, background clone characters

chapter tags & warnings: 5+1 things, chapter 1 of 6, whump, animal attack, dog bite, blood and injury, somewhat graphic depiction of injury, unbeta'd

1: Hound | 2: Thire ->

In a stroke of cosmic irony, Hound is abysmal at training and wrangling massiffs.

There’s some fundamental disconnect between him and Grizzer that can only stem from some dysfunctional relationship in a past life. To make it worse, he’s one of very few troopers who got a shot at a career they actually care about. He’s always wanted to work with animals, ever since their days as cadets on Kamino. Only someone thoroughly committed would stick with a voluntary program that included training and riding feral aiwhas - which, notably, live primarily underwater - in the neverending storms beyond Tipoca’s walls. Every cadet in the animal handling unit wound up in medical for pneumonia or parasites or near-drowning on multiple occasions.

That’s how Nocte first met Hound, back when they went by 1222 and 3903. Nocte was on the medical track and Hound was blue in the face because his aiwha decided to go for a dive with him on its back. A dozen more similar instances went down before mutual exasperation morphed into begrudging companionship into tight friendship.

Nocte can’t claim to understand what drew Hound to his specialization, but he respects it.

Well. He does understand it, in a roundabout way. It was similar for him before deployment. There was never any question in his mind - he was going to be a medic. Label it a calling or programming, maybe they're the same thing in the end, but he always knew.

There’s something remarkable about watching Hound bang his head against the wall day-in and day-out in pursuit of his dream. He won’t accept reassignment, no matter how many times Fox offers, or Grizzer scratches him hard enough that he needs stitches, or a Senator accuses him of lacking control over his beasts. The line that Nocte draws and Hound completely ignores is at the point of extreme physical injury from said beasts.

It’s not as frequent an occurrence anymore but back in the early days, Nocte swore he got called down to Animal Handling every other day. Hound’s fingers have to be more scar tissue than anything else by now. Truly, it’s a wonder he hasn’t lost any of them to snapping jaws.

Slumped over his desk with his head in his hands, staring down at a datapad detailing the new shinies’ medical history, Nocte realizes that he’s probably jinxed both Hound and himself by daring to consider that possibility. Their luck is poor enough without tempting fate.

He’s all but forgotten that particular train of thought when one of Hound’s troopers crashes into the medbay and nearly trips over a desk in their haste, visibly shaken.

“What happened?”

“It’s Hound,” they pant, doubled over with their hands on their knees. “Grizzer got him - bit him - and it’s bad. We had to pry his mouth open to get him off his leg– I don’t think Hound can walk.”

Nocte shuts his eyes for a beat then blows out a breath and stands. “I’ll need Grizzer’s vaccination record,” he says as he throws an assortment of hypos into a bag. It’s best to cover all the bases, just in case. “If he’s not up to date on his shots, I need to know by the time we get down there.” Disinfectant, bacta, stitches, gauze, painkiller, antibiotic… He glances up at the trooper still staring at him blankly. “Let’s go, vod, are you coming?”

“Do I have to?” their voice wobbles.

Nocte stamps down the urge to fist his hands in his own hair and yank. This kid is clearly affected by what they saw and he’s better than losing his temper when there’s work to be done. It’s not their fault this happened, or that it got to them like this.

“Hey, you can stay here, okay?” he says, getting a small, jerky nod. “I’ll comm the vet. It's Bo, right? You just try to relax. Take a cot and someone will come sit with you. Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” their voice doesn’t break, but it’s a close thing. Scanning their face quickly, Nocte realizes that this is one of the new shinies. They seem to get younger with every batch.

“It’ll be okay, alright? Hound’s made of tough, stubborn stuff. I’d bet anything that he’ll have Grizzer wrapped around his finger before the year’s out.” Still staring into middle distance, they just nod again.

Kriff it all. Nocte wraps a shock blanket around them and puts a comm through to his next ranked officer. “Buzz, I need you in medbay three until I get back from A.H.. I’ve got a shiny in shock, they saw Hound take a nasty bite.”

“There in five,” Buzz says, straight to the point, and cuts the call.

“Someone’s coming, kid. I have to go check on Hound, understand?”

“Yeah,” they rasp with a shudder that makes Nocte feel inordinately guilty. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

The hell they are. Unfortunately, there’s no real time to argue.

He comms the vet while he jogs through the halls and nearly physically runs into Buzz, which at least means that shiny won’t be alone for long. Bo's a surly sort, but he's good at what he does and his records are almost meticulous enough to counterbalance Hound’s.

"CT-4080," comes across the line as soon as it connects.

"Bo, it's Nocte. I need Grizzer’s vax history."

"Shit," Bo says. Nocte's inclined to agree. "He should be up to date, but I'll double check."

The change in temperature as he shuffles down the stairs is tangible. Animal Handling is a level below the rest of the Guard headquarters and there's so little cross-traffic between floors that it almost qualifies as a separate facility. They deliberately keep it cold, something about massiffs' body temperature regulation.

"You still there?" Bo asks after a short pause.

"Yeah."

"Grizzer's got all of his shots. Who'd he bite?"

He scoffs quietly. "Who do you think?"

"Well, it was probably inevitable. Anything I can do?"

"I've got it," Nocte assures him, "thanks though."

"Sure. Good luck."

The call drops just before Nocte punches in the override code to access the tightly locked massiff training room. With Grizzer fully vaxxed and significant disease transmission off the table, infection should be the greatest risk. He mentally runs back through the supplies in his bag, trying to predict what he’ll be able to do before hauling Hound upstairs for a full evaluation, while the door slides open with a loud protest.

His assessment is proven wrong when he finally lays eyes on the scene.

Hound is laid out on his back, grey in the face, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut. His left leg has been stripped of armor from his hip down, exposing the tattered remnants of his undersuit. One of his troops is knelt between his legs with his ankle propped on his shoulder, doing his best to elevate the injury. There’s a makeshift tourniquet cinched around his thigh, just above his knee to slow flow of blood from his calf.

Only when Nocte gets closer and drops down at Hound’s side can he make out more of the damage through the mess of bodily fluids and remnants of fabric. A small pool of blood is slowly growing under his hips. Grizzer must have gotten him from behind, but his skin is torn nearly to the ridge of his shin.

“Hey, Sarge,” he murmurs to Hound, trying not to startle him. Once he gets a forced nod, he turns to the other ashen-faced trooper. “How’re we doing? How long has he been bleeding?”

“Ten minutes, maybe a little longer.”

“And you had to force Grizzer off him?”

“We thought he was going to– we didn’t know what to do, Grizzer wouldn’t let go of him.”

There’s not much else they realistically could’ve done. Grizz is a uniquely difficult combination of ornery and strong. He can’t see yet, but there’s probably torn muscle.

“Switch places with me,” he says and shifts to take Hound’s ankle. “Hold his hand, talk to him, distract him if you can. I’m going to try to get a look at the bite and it’s not going to feel good.”

The trooper nods sharply and hands off the job of elevating Hound’s leg, then takes his hand in both of his own.

Once Nocte can see the actual wound, it’s immediately clear that surgery will be necessary. Hound’s entire calf is already discolored with dark purple bruising. Grizzer managed to rip away from the initial bite, leaving deep, jagged-edged tears. He can’t see bone, but gently prodding around the site shifts the skin enough that muscle and fat are visible.

Sometimes forewarning only makes things worse, so Nocte silently apologizes and tilts Hound’s leg until it’s perpendicular with the floor and upends disinfectant over the bite.

And Hound chokes on his breath. His entire body jerks, trying to get away from the fire burning away dirt and cloth and bacteria. Then he screams - hoarse and agonized and trapped behind his teeth.

It’s all Nocte can do to swallow a swell of empathetic guilt. He stabs an antibiotic hypo into Hound’s thigh, then a painkiller, then carefully lowers his leg. Hound tries and fails to strangle a sob as fresh tears mingle with the sheen of sweat on his face, twisted with redoubled pain. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

He’ll probably pass out before long.

“We have to operate,” Nocte tells the trooper kneeling beside Hound’s shoulder, who looks up at him with wide eyes. Somewhat incredulous, he has to wonder how there are so many goddamn shinies hiding out in Animal Handling. “Can you carry him?”

“I don’t think so,” he squeaks, “not on my own.”

For the second time, Nocte narrowly manages not to grimace.

“Okay, go up to the medbay and tell someone that I need an operating room prepped. Now."

At least the kid’s quick to scramble to his feet and take off at a near-sprint.

Nocte blows out a breath. Hound did end up passed out, which is a small mercy, because this would be horribly unpleasant for him otherwise. Careful as he can be not to jostle his bad leg, Nocte hauls him up over his shoulder, wobbles slightly, and makes for the medbay.

In the end, there’s really only so much that can be done for animal bites. Nocte could cut away blood-soaked fabric and dead skin, disinfect what he can, stab him with more antibiotics, check for fractures, and stitch some of the more severe punctures. Beyond that, they would just have to monitor for signs of infection. They only had enough bacta for one infusion, which isn’t ideal, but is what it is.

Hours later, a rattling crash snaps Nocte awake with a jolt. He cracks his eyes open and squints at the screen of his computer for a long moment, contemplating how exactly he got to this point, asleep at his desk instead of in his bunk for the third time this week. For all that he gets on the commanders’ asses about the importance of proper rest if they want to be functional, he has to admit to himself that he’s no better.

There’s always some reason or another to shelf personal health for the sake of the job. Sometimes, it’s an influx of injured brothers after the war makes its way all the way to the Core, or after a team gets sent on an off-world assignment, or when local gang activity spikes. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a virus tearing through the Guard. Tonight, it’s a veritable mountain of documentation that’s due by the end of the week.

When he drags himself out of his office, Hound is sitting bolt upright in bed and trying to rip the saline drip out of his arm. It’s fortunate that there aren’t many other patients in this bay, or they would all be up and probably doing the same as Hound.

“Watch it,” Nocte says and pushes him back down onto his pillows. “How are you feeling? That was a nasty bite.”

Hound grimaces, but he doesn’t try to sit back up. “It was Grizzer, the big bastard. He just doesn’t know his own strength.”

It’s clearly more than that, but this isn’t the time or place to argue about it. “How’s your pain?”

“Painful.”

Nocte contemplates walking away. “Cute. I think we got a bacta treatment done early enough to prevent any nerve damage, but you’ll have some scarring. Your next few shifts are covered so no need to worry about that. Now, one to ten, how’s your pain? Do you need a painkiller?”

Under the blanket, Hound flexes his calf like an utter fool and flinches like he’s surprised that it hurts. “Eight when I move it, four otherwise. I don’t need any more drugs.”

For all that he’s stubborn and exhausting, Hound isn’t one to over- or under-exaggerate; he’s honest almost to a fault about nearly everything, including his health. It's a refreshing contrast to their less transparent siblings.

Nocte heaves a sigh and folds into the seat at his bedside. “Something’s gotta give with these mutts, vod.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure something out. Grizzer’s stubborn, he just needs a different approach than the others.” There’s pained resignation etched into his face.

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Nocte says, just to provoke a reaction.

“Ass.” He groans dramatically. “The crew will tear me a new one for this.”

Nocte shrugs. That’s probably true.

“Ass,” Hound reiterates, then narrows his eyes in an alarming imitation of Fox’s You’re-On-Thin-Ice expression. “How long have you been here? Shouldn’t there have been a shift change?”

Hells.

“Err.”

That’s the wrong answer. Hound groans just this side of too loudly. “Come on, I’ll get brownie points if I make you sleep. Come on.” He shuffles until there’s about half the space required to fit another grown man on his cot.

“I have datawork to finish,” Nocte whines. He doesn’t mean to whine, but he is tired and it’s a tempting offer, but he shouldn’t.

“Nocte. For me.”

“I can’t.”

He can’t.

“Please?”

The Guard should figure out a way to weaponize Hound’s blasted tooka eyes. Not even Dooku would be able to resist.

Nocte groans dramatically and goes about stacking his armor on the floor beside the cot, ignoring Hound’s victorious smirk. It’s a tight fit for the two of them, but they get situated with Nocte wrapped around Hound’s back and their legs tangled together, which is almost certainly what the bastard wanted all along. The position draws memories of Kamino back to his mind – long nights spent cramped into too-small bunks to weather violent storms. It seems fitting.