#no more tablets only datapads.

[the-real-list-of-ominous-threats]

I'm going to force you to speak only using star wars terms instead of the normal terms. no more 'fuck you' only 'kriff off'.

[leighsartworks216]

The Raven

Sylus x gn!Reader (more fem coded)

Can be read as a prequel to Lap Dog or as a standalone. (There are inconsistencies when read as a prequel.)

I love them, your honor. I just love the idea of Sylus with a badass partner that he knows can take care of themself. I spent all morning doing nothing but writing this and now my head hurts ;-; worth it

Warnings: violence, injury, implied/reference torture, selectively mute reader, flirting, drinking, alcohol

Word Count: 3,569

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

First Meeting:

A name in whispers spreads around auctions and black market galas. The hush is a silent, fearful reverie for the one who owns it. A prayer to their godhood. It crops up more and more, stoking the flames of curiosity.

The Raven.

Sylus has spent hours trying to dig up scraps of information about this fascinating newcomer, a testament to their ability to stay secret. Usually, he can have everything there is to know about a person in a few minutes or less, down to the second they were born and their favorite places to frequent. It was easy, child’s play. So to come up with mere scraps of speculative guesses at best, it draws him in deeper. The only thing he can find for certain is the protocore purchased by them almost three months ago.

He has an invitation for the next auction before it even becomes announced to other interested parties.

The products on display are boring. He glances at each one, but there’s nothing interesting about them at all. Instead, his attention is focused on the potential buyers who browse each selection like they’re in search of a fine wine. Most of them linger for a second or two, then walk to the next. Others place starting bids. But one person does neither. They stand in front of a red protocore, staring it down like they’re dedicated to studying its every intricacy.

It’s the same kind of protocore the Raven purchased months ago.

He flags down a bid assistant. “Ten million on the red protocore,” he says.

The assistant looks down at her datapad. “I’m sorry, sir. The highest bid on it currently stands at 12 million.”

He smirks. “Double it.”

“Right away, sir.”

He watches the stranger from afar. The assistant nearby cautiously walks to their side. They don’t look up or react at all as he speaks to them. The assistant stops speaking. Sylus holds his breath.

Play the game, won’t you? he thinks.

The stranger’s hand gestures for the datapad. The assistant hands it over. They study the screen, before slowly turning, scanning the crowd. Their eyes land firmly on Sylus. He doesn’t budge or falter, doesn’t react to being “caught”.

They grin slightly as they tap at the screen, then look up. The assistant next to him clears her throat. “Excuse me, sir? The bid has gone up to 120 million.”

They raised the bid by 5 times. They are playing the game.

“Two hundred.”

They look back at the tablet. Press a couple keys and look up. The assistant by them is antsy, but politely stands to the side.

“It’s at 249 million, sir.”

He tilts his head. They smile. “Two-fifty.”

They glance at the screen and hand the tablet back to the assistant. They calmly turn around, looking at the 250 million red protocore. He passes the assistant his black card. She scans it quickly and hands it back with a bow.

He crosses the bidding floor to stand beside the stranger. “How would you like it wrapped?” he asks.

You look up at him, sly and mischievous in the red glow. You tap your earlobe.

He chuckles. “Earrings, then.” He looks at the protocore. Now that he’s up close, he can see for certain that there is nothing unique about it whatsoever. It hasn’t been altered and it’s not especially rare, not when compared to the rest. He wonders what you see in it. “And how should I have them delivered to you, Raven?”

You tilt your head, like you’re surprised to hear him know that name. But you just smile, shake your head, and walk away. He doesn’t follow. He wonders what game you’re stringing him into.

-

Second Meeting:

It’s not an auction he sees you in next, but a gala. You’re dressed in a rich red color, black feathers accentuating your shoulders and drawing in the eyes of other attendees. You pay none of them any mind. You stand on a mezzanine, idly sipping from a glass and watching all the little people below. You spot him first.

He grabs a glass of wine for himself as he joins you. It’s smooth and rich, if not overly floral.

You lean against the railing as he approaches, expectant. He smirks as he pulls a box from his inner coat pocket and passes it over. You set your glass on the railing to open it. Inside the black box is a pair of earrings. Golden wire cradles the protocore fragments delicately, like a hand around a throat threatening to squeeze. You smile.

“I trust they’re to your liking?”

You hold the open box out to him and he holds it in one hand. You pull out one earring and hold it up to the light of the elaborate chandelier above. It shimmers and shines. Red light glimmers on your face. You immediately slide it in place, adjusting by feel until it sits right. You take the other from the box and do the same. They make you look regal.

“Beautiful,” he compliments softly. You smile and take a sip of your drink. He closes the box and tucks it back into his pocket. “Are you here for business?”

You nod and look back down over the banister. He steps closer and joins you, looking over to try seeing what you’re searching for. It’s his fault for letting his guard down when he feels your hand pluck his phone from his pocket. You lean your back against the railing again, screen faced away from him as you type.

He chuckles at your misdirection, crossing his arms as he leans over to see what you’re doing. You’ve unlocked his phone with no issues and scroll calmly through his contacts, reading the numbers carefully as you search. “What are you looking for?” he wonders softly. You smile, but don’t look at him.

You glance over your shoulder to the ground floor, then back to the phone. You open a new message and type in a number he doesn’t recognize. He scans the words as you quickly type them out.

My partner for the evening is interested in the guns you claim to have hidden away here. Care to show them around?

“Is your trade in assassination, Raven?” he muses. You tilt your head. “Or, perhaps, information?”

You grin up at him at that. A response comes in.

Who is this?

You roll your eyes. From the way you searched his contacts earlier, you must have a multitude of numbers and names cataloged in your head; the thought of someone seemingly high profile not knowing whose phone this belongs to must bore you.

Sylus.

Oh, Mr. Sylus, of course! My sincere apologies!

Meet me in the garden. Statue of Venus. 10 minutes.

You pass the phone back over to him. “Already using my name to open doors.”

You smirk. You drain the rest of your glass and push yourself from the railing. He offers you his arm without needing to be asked. You pat his arm when you take it, as though praising him for it. You walk together to the garden, neither leading nor following. Silent equals.

-

Third Meeting:

He received a message a week later from an unknown number.

Deal proposal: you help me negotiate with a client and I’ll give you information on your competitors.

What information do you have that I couldn’t get anywhere else?

I have a crate of their supplies, blueprints detailing their alterations, and their sketches for their next model.

Sylus chuckles.

You must have stolen it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Deal?

He mulls it over for a minute.

Where are we meeting?

-

His motorcycle growls as he weaves it through the N109 Zone to the outskirts of Linkon City. His destination is an old shipyard. From a distance, he can see the worn, forgotten ships that line the docks, rusted and beyond repair. You stand at the land-end of one, staring out at the array of ships as you wait. It’s the first time he’s seen you dressed so casually.

A gun is obviously strapped to your thigh.

He pulls up and kills the engine. You don’t bother watching as he removes his helmet and leaves it on the leather seat. He steps up next to you. “Which one is she in?”

There’s no use pretending you’re still waiting for your prey to show up. You smirk. He follows you down the lineup to an abandoned ferry. Out of date cars line the hold, vintage, soon to be antiques.

You lead him up to one of the passenger floors, where plastic seats have been broken off metal bases or crumpled beyond use. There’s only one that’s occupied.

Your “client” is tied up solidly with a length of steel wire. Power tools nearby point to your methods of tightening the wire around her wrists and ankles. More wire dangles in loose curls around her body, her arms, legs, neck. A cluster of car batteries from several of the models below sits nearby with jumper cables and rubber gloves. Two rubber mats have been neatly laid out; one for him and one for you, just in case.

He chuckles darkly at the sight. The last time he witnessed your methods, they were improvised with the surrounding materials available to you - garden shears being your favored tool for the evening. While these materials have been primarily gathered from here, he can see the planning behind it, the precautions you’ve taken and measures you’ve met to ensure this transaction goes according to plan. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

You don’t react to his words. Your face is neutral, unresponsive. It’s like witnessing a switch being flipped.

You step around the woman, flicking the loose wire around her neck as you do.

It’s going to be a long night.

-

Fourth Meeting:

Masquerade tonight. Join me.

Sylus takes apart and cleans his gun carefully, ritualistically.

His phone has been silent for hours since he sent the message. He has no reason to demand your time or attention, certainly not when you seem to be actively working to retrieve intel from all over the N109 Zone and Linkon City.

He wipes the old oil and gunpowder burns off with a rag, diligently getting in between the nooks and crannies. His brow is pinched, eyes sharp with focus. He turns the piece in the light, searching for any spots of improvement. Then he reapplies fresh gun oil, massaging it into place.

His phone buzzes. He glances at it.

Incentivize me.

He chuckles. He sets the piece down among the array of parts, a puzzle he’s quite familiar with by now. In less than 10 seconds, everything has been put back together. The gun sits weightily in his hand as he flips it around, admiring his work.

He sets it aside like a toy he’s grown tired of and picks up his phone.

I have a deal I want to propose. In person.

You’ve got my interest, but that’s not enough incentive for me to join you. What else will you offer, aside from the deal?

Dinner, and another item of jewelry to match the earrings.

A few minutes pass. He reaches for another gun to take apart and maintain.

I’ll see you there.

-

His mask is perfectly tailored to his face, formed and decorated to resemble a crow. The inky black feathers contrast with his white hair and suit. Wearing white is certainly a branch out from his usual tastes, but it prevents the ensemble from being drowned out.

He scans the crowd of people with a discerning eye. With no idea what outfit or mask you’ll choose to disguise yourself in tonight, he scans everyone with a similar build to you in search of that dangerous aura you exude. He doesn’t have to look hard, when someone enters and everyone gives them a wide berth.

You wear the protocore earrings he gifted you before to match the intricate white and red ensemble you wear. Your mask is also red and gold, white raven feathers fanning out like a crown upon your head. People awe at you as you seamlessly glide into the party proper. He watches as you look around, searching for him amongst the sea of paper faces.

Sylus crosses the marble floor to you. “I don’t think you needed the incentive,” he teases. You look up at him and a secret smile, tilting your head coyly to ask what he means. “It takes longer than a few hours to have an entire outfit tailored.”

Your grin widens. He hit the nail right on the head. You were planning to come all along, but you managed to squeeze a free dinner out of him. He looked forward to it. But for now, he offers his hand and leads you to a quieter area of the party. It’s you who pulls him onto a balcony, shutting the french doors behind you both. You lean against the railing once more, not letting go of his hand until he’s standing in front of you.

He gets a sense of deja vu as he pulls another jewelry box from his coat pocket. The box is thin and narrow. He holds it while you open the lid.

Inside, resting delicately on red velvet, is a black choker. The centerpiece is a red protocore, just as the one used for your earrings. Golden feathers circle the red jewel. You smile and pull out a box as well.

He searches your face for answers he won’t find as he opens the lid with one hand. Inside the small box is a set of studded earrings. Red protocore jewels gleam back at him, held in place with gold detailing. He smiles.

You turn around, glancing at him expectantly over your shoulder. He takes the choker from the box and nimbly lays it across your neck, clasping it in the back. When you turn back around, it rests beautifully against the hollow of your throat. His eyes linger for a moment longer as he takes in the sight.

You tap his chin and his eyes are drawn to yours once more, framed in your fierce raven mask. You grab the collar of his shirt and gently pull him down to your height. Your fingers on his chin turn his face to the side.

He listens to your soft breathing as you gently place one stud into the lobe of his ear. He wonders how long you’ve known that his ears were pierced. He doesn’t frequently wear earrings.

You turn his head again. Your fingers are precise, the sign of a professional. He shoots you a look when you playfully blow against his ear. You smile. Once you’ve finished, he stands back up to his full height.

“You look radiant,” he tells you, voice hushed, like this is a secret only you can know. You touch his chest, conveying the same message to him as you feel the silky fabric. “Would you care to dance with me?”

Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head, questioning him. He chuckles.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about my proposal.” He takes the box from your hand, setting both on the railing. “You can dance and talk business, can’t you?”

You stare at his offered hand for a moment. Then, you take it. He leads you back inside and toward the ballroom, where dozens of guests have taken up partners and move as a unit through a waltz. He leads you toward the center, within a gap. Less prying ears on his business this way.

You rest your hand on his shoulder. His finds your waist easily. He leads you through the dance. You’re only a few steps in when he ducks his head to whisper in your ear.

“Now, for my offer…” He pulls you in closer, keeping you from accidentally bumping into someone as an intoxicated pair stumbles. “Work with me. The information you’ve been interested in revolves around protocores, correct?”

You glance at him.

He grins. “I have an advantage in position; I can help you find the information you seek, and the people that have it. You’ve used my name once already. Imagine how many more doors would open for you.”

You consider his offer as it stands. Your current sources can only get you so far, he’s right about that. And with Onychinus’s position as a dealer in all sorts of trades, you could find information across a wider network.

“Interested?” You tap on his shoulder twice. “Good. I ask for your skills and resources in return. You’ve been able to get past my competitors’ lines easier than I can. So I propose a quid pro quo: You get the information I want, and I get you the information you want. Sound fair?”

You tap him three times. You want more information.

“The deal ends whenever you want it to,” he says, as if he can read your mind. “I won’t throw you away, I promise you that. You’re more valuable to me than you realize.”

You run the offer through your head. Information for information, with an oath not to throw you under the bus. It really is an equal trade, a transaction of loyalty. You grab his collar again, leaning up to whisper into his own ear. “Deal.”

The sound sends electricity down his spine. He stands back up to his full height, both of you smiling at the agreement you’ve just made as you dance. Once the song ends, he takes your hand to lead you to dinner.

You’re almost free from the dance floor when a hand grabs you and tugs you away from Sylus.

A man dressed in a rather mundane tuxedo and mediocre animal mask holds your hips, lower than his hands should be. “Hey, darling. How about sparing a dance for me, huh?”

You pry yourself from his hands, glancing him up and down, studying him with a precision he should be terrified of. He just thinks you’re checking him out. You quickly turn to smile at Sylus. It’s sweet, reassuring, and doesn’t match the fire burning in your eyes. He lets your hand go.

You turn back to the man and hold out your hand to him, silently accepting his offer for a dance. He takes it, and your smile drops.

You grab his fingers in a death grip and push back, hard, forcing his fingers as far back as they’ll willingly go. His arm contorts oddly to compensate, straining his wrist. “Ah! What the fuck are you doing?!”

People back away from you, the man, and Sylus. The music dies on a discordant note.

He tries to grab your wrist and pull you off, but you grab his instead and pull him to the floor, never letting go of his fingers as you twist his arm behind his back. He lands on his hand and knees, gasping in pain as you push his fingers back further. The tendons begin to burn and creak, desperately trying to keep his fingers in place.

“Help! Get them off of me! They’re gonna break my fucking fingers! Do something!”

Sylus chuckles darkly at the display. Your face has remained impassive since your little trick, but your intentions are clear. “You’re making things worse for yourself,” he chides, amusement dripping from every word. He glances at the security that come rushing from the doors. In a second, all of them are wrapped up in black and red tendrils, mouths covered and arms pinned by their sides.

The man screams as a loud crack shocks through the room. The crowd murmurs. Some of them have to leave before they lose their lunch. One person faints.

“YOU CRAZY FUCKER- AHH!”

Another crack.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, EH? MONEY, I GOT MONEY!”

A third. Few people look on with as much grim satisfaction as you and Sylus, even if you didn’t show just how much fun you were having teaching this man a lesson.

“You’ve only got two fingers left. I suggest you make them count,” Sylus chimes in.

The man’s tears stream down his face uncontrollably, saliva and snot dripping from his face onto the polished marble floor. His whole body shudders with agony. His free hand clutches at the ground helplessly, barely able to keep himself from falling face first into his own mess.

His next cry rips from his throat like a child, high pitched and desperate. You only press the next finger back threateningly. “PLEASE! I-I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! PLEASE, STOP! PLE-EA-ASE!”

You hold the tension a second longer, before finally releasing him. He collapses, heaving as he finally bends his arm back to normal. Three of his fingers are red and swollen, hanging limply. One swells around a gold ring until it looks like it’ll pop.

You sigh as you fix your clothes, brushing invisible dust off and adjusting the fabric. You look at Sylus. He waves his hand and the security guards are released. They don’t move, too scared to get anywhere near you.

You step around the man and toward the exit. The crowd parts for you. An unconscious body is dragged by its feet out of your way for fear of upsetting you further. Sylus walks beside you and takes your hand once more in his.

“Where would you like to go for dinner?”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope

[quantumghosts]

omniblades are cool but i cannot stress enough how insane it is that you can only type with one hand on an omnitool

also wtf is with datapads being used like digital sheets of paper, that's so inefficient LOL SO MANY DATAPADS THAT JUST HAVE ONE SENTENCE ON THEM LIKE???? NOBODY HAS A PERSONAL TABLET?????? imagine just having stacks of datapads, literally inventing more problems than it solves

[wthtorke]

(Re)Home

Yautja and Human Smol read with some witcher stuff cause I was into it back then lmao, no warnings! 

-

The Earth had a capacity for life. Only so many people it could house and nurture safely.

Humanity hit that threshold long before you were born.

The peace treaty between species made it possible to live among the stars. Some races were willing to share their planets, while others offered space in their ships.

'It's almost like exchange students, but for life- you'd become one of them.'

You didn't feel at home on Earth. Ever since your first breath, you had no place on that planet.

So up you went. 'Above and beyond,' or whatever they told you. Usually, humans who wanted to leave had forms filled out and uploaded to the exchange system.

If you had to call it anything, you'd describe it as 'adoption'. You, specifically, were adopted by yautjas. The deadliest species in the treaty.

You packed your bags, taking your 'goodbye pack' the government provided you with. Laptop, tablet, and other human things 'so the adaptation wouldn't be so harsh'. That's what the flyer said.

"We wish you luck and success in your new life among the stars. It's an honor to have an earthling as brave as you out there."

That's what the video said.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and pick up the government packs off the floor, walking toward the hangar in your papers. You and some others behind you get in line for admission.

Seeing yautjas wasn't new. There were videos and pictures of them plastered everywhere, just like the other species of the treaty. But still, your eyes widened from their bored expression when you saw your admits standing in front of the ship, datapads in hand.

You're first in line, walking up to them and presenting your registration. They repeat your name and information, and you confirm everything, waiting patiently.

"Welcome to the clan." One of them says, nodding at you. You nod back and make your way inside. The ship is a transport shuttle, spacious and high-tech. This was happening. It takes you a second to choose a seat and strap yourself.

The information speech you're given during the trip feels warmer and more welcoming than anything you've heard on Earth.

'Maybe this was a good decision.' You think.

"From today on, you'll be part of our society, which means no special treatment. No special conditions. No buts and ifs." He keeps talking. "Just life as a yautja in a mothership. That's all."

You appreciated the clarity and honesty they had. You expected it to be hard but weren't afraid of working for it. Whatever challenge presented itself for you, you'd beat it. You had survived this far. This wouldn't be different.

Your group gets taken to the housing levels, where each human gets assigned a room. Your eyebrows rise up when you see two grown yautjas in yours.

"Get up, Fang. Our partner is here."

Fang and Claw. Two youngsters from the clan you got accepted into. Written in bold letters at the end of your papers. "Hey," you say as they approach you at the door. "Good trip?" The other one, Fang, asks.

"Yeah, good trip," you answer. You had no idea they'd be so big. "Are you guys really my age?"

"Are you 124?"

"Oh man."

Despite their scary looks, Fang and Claw are what they are. Young. And a little stupid. You somehow felt at home with them. It was nice to be treated like a person and not a number for once.

You get installed in your bunk bed, pull out your laptop, and test the 'fastest internet connection in the galaxy' they had on the ship. A direct link to Earth, in case you want to talk to anyone.

You just wanted access to the shows.

"What's that necklace?" Claw asks. "What's in it?" You look up from your screen, then down to your chest. "It's a wolf necklace."

"Your previous clan?"

"They don't have clans, just families," Fang replies. Claw frowns in confusion, "So your previous family?"

"No, not my family-"

"That's a wolf- so Wolf clan,"

"Claw-"

"I like it," he continues. You smile at the sheer absurdity of it, "Cool to wear your symbol like that."

You laugh softly, "It's not my symbol- it's from a show, a story- the Witcher. In the story, the Witcher comes from a school whose banner is the wolf. Their symbol is the wolf," You play with the pendant between your fingers, "I don't really have a family."

They both stop to listen to you explain. Claw shakes his head, "But you wear it, so it's your symbol. Wolf human from the Witcher school. A Witcher," the word sounds weird when translated from them, clearly adapted.

"Wolf human," Fang repeats, "Nice title, sounds strong. You should keep it," he says. You huff in amusement. "Sure, I'll keep it,"

They barely return to their own unpacking before you look up again. "We should watch it," they look back at you, "- the Witcher-, we should watch it-, sometime." You clear your throat awkwardly.

"It's a filmed story? Like the ones in the human culture lessons?"

"It's called a 'movie'. Idiot."

"Shut up."

You put your hands up before any growling appears, "It's a series- actually. Short episodes that make up for one long thing. Good to watch in between, ah-, training? Missions? Whatever you guys do?"

Claw nods, "Wolf-human story with the wolf-human, I'm in." You smile and look at Fang. "Is there blood?"

"Lots of it."

"I'm in."

You watch the first season during your first night at the ship, only pausing to retrieve your food and for general discussion between the yautjas about how accurate (or stupid) the fighting scenes in the show were.

You have to plug your laptop into the adapted port on the wall so you can keep binging with your roommates, smiling ear to ear whenever they'd say something positive about it. When you finally close your laptop down, you look at them again. "So, thoughts?"

"Don't fuck with magic," Fang says. Claw nods. "Never fuck with magic."

You laugh as they each settle down in their bunks. Fang shuts the lights off as you lay in the dark for a bit more.

"Sleep well, wolf-human." Claw says. Fang mumbles something in return. You smile again, bidding them goodnight before closing your eyes to sleep.

Home, sweet home. Finally.

---------

Thanks for reading <3 muah muah

more work like this here

[aspentreewrites]

and when all the flowers are rotten and all the cannons shot

Chapter 1

Pairings: Codywan

Tags/Warnings: slow burn(ish), fake dating, only one bed, general angst and pining, AO3 rating is E for future chapters

Link to read on AO3 here!

Description:

The truth of the matter burrows deep into Cody’s skin, settling into the home it’s long-since made for itself there, nestled tightly amongst the other secrets he harbours that are too shameful to ever speak aloud.

He digs his fingers into his temples, breathing in heavy lungfuls of the steam-drenched air as if it might reverse the realisation that now weighs upon his heart like lead.

This is no longer just some passing infatuation.

He’s in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

(or: an account of the relationship between one Marshal Commander and his General from in the midst of a war.)

✷✷✷✷✷

A/N: In my unending quest to name all of my fics after The Amazing Devil songs, this one is taken from Elsa's Song. If you're reading this on Tumblr, you're getting a unique version of this author's note - hello there! I usually just link to my fics on Tumblr, but this time I've decided to post each chapter in full here!

Any and all comments are massively appreciated, and if I can format anything better for posting here please let me know. I'm aiming to have the next chapter up in 2-3 weeks :)

Huge thanks to my wonderful friend @whenyourfavouritedies (link to their AO3 here!) for beta reading.

✷✷✷✷✷

He’d had a good run, Cody thinks to himself as he faces down the adversary in front of him. Perhaps he could avoid the mortal embarrassment of defeat by defenestrating himself from the nearest window - at least then his death could be ruled as a bizarre, impulsive moment of pure lunacy rather than the alternative of being done in entirely by the man in front of him.

… The man in front of him who evidently seems to be expecting a response to his words. 

Cody, the Marshal Commander of the 212th who has spoken in front of the Council multiple times, who’s renowned throughout the GAR for his prowess at quick-thinking and strategy, desperately tries to muster something. Gingerly, he collects the shattered pieces of his brain from the floor, and attempts to produce something coherent with them.

“... Oh,” he manages, trying to not let his words come out as strangled as it feels like they could in this moment. “Right.”

As it turns out, those two words alone are insufficient, at least judging by Obi-Wan’s look of pure bewilderment. The Jedi tilts his head a little, studying the clone before him.

“Is everything alright, Cody?” he asks tentatively, before glancing back to the mission briefing on his datapad. Cody’s eyes remain glued to one word in particular, practically glaring at him from the harshly backlit screen of the tablet. 

He can feel a headache coming on. 

“If it’s too much, Anakin has offered to spare Rex, but to be perfectly honest–” 

Absolutely not. The only thing Cody can think of that would be worse than going on this mission at all would be someone else going in his place.

“-- I’d rather avoid a repeat of what happened on Corellia, if at all possible,” Obi-Wan murmurs, stroking a hand over his beard. He frowns slightly at the memory, and Cody files the subject away to ask about later, though for the moment he has far more pressing matters to address.

“Right,” Cody repeats, before finally remembering that he does, in fact, know how to string words into a sentence. His eyes snap up from the datapad, meeting his General’s gaze. Discomfort claws its way through his body, constricting his throat a little when he tries to gather himself. “Yes, sir. I’m just wondering, about the aliases-”

Obi-Wan huffs, clearly having his own strong opinion on whatever he thinks Cody is about to say. “Yes, well, I appreciate that the backstories aren’t as detailed as they could be. I did mention it, but the Council did what they could on such short notice.”

“Of course. I’m just wondering if we have to be–”

“Really, it’s a miracle that they even had anything planned, knowing them.”

“-- Married?”

Obi-Wan blinks, and a long silence stretches between the two men. He studies Cody’s face again for a moment, before he looks back down at the datapad, his brow furrowed slightly as if he’s only just considering the implications of the mission for the first time. 

Cody stands, steady as ever, though behind his back his fingers twitch anxiously. From the Jedi's telling, it’s going to be a fairly quick undercover stint - a handful of days at most. They’ll be staying at a hotel-slash-resort out in a neutral system, where they’ve been tipped off that a handful of Separatists are meeting for a business deal that could debilitate the Republic if it goes off smoothly.

A tad dramatic, perhaps, but when intel like that is received, the Jedi have to ensure that the call to action is answered. And who better to answer it with than one of their best? 

Unfortunately for Cody, the Jedi’s best has a penchant for dragging him along, too.

This type of mission might be incredibly rote for the General, but for Cody, it’s… An intimidating prospect. He’s a soldier, a strategist - a damned good one at that, there’s a reason he’s been given the position of Commander - if there’s one thing he is decidedly not, however, it's an actor.

It’s likely that the more experienced man hadn’t even given Cody’s involvement a second thought - they’re by each other’s side on most battlefields, after all… This arena, though, is an untrodden one. After some consideration, Obi-Wan quirks a brow and looks back up at his Commander.

“You’re aware that we wouldn’t actually be signing any legal documents for the sake of the mission?” he queries, as if that were at all the issue Cody is having here. Stars, but does this man like to play dense sometimes.

“... That’s not the point, sir.”

“Then what is? Do you not think I would make a fine husband? My dear Commander, you wound me.”

Cody has the quiet suspicion that if anyone had the fortune to wed his General (not that the Jedi were even allowed such things), they would find themselves spending a considerable portion of the rest of their lives having to put up with his unfortunate sense of humour. 

As it happens, Cody is the one who’s taking the burden for that responsibility at current. It’s been slowly driving him up the wall for the better part of the war effort.

“I’m sure you would make a good–” no, that’s not appropriate, “a fine–” he stops short, glowering at the amused smirk that has plastered itself on his General’s face. Obi-Wan seems to be garnering a little too much delight in causing him to stammer like a schoolchild, the victorious glint in his eye evident. Cody shakes his head, persisting despite the flush that he’s sure has appeared on his cheeks. “... You know what I mean.”

Much to Cody’s relief, Obi-Wan takes mercy on him and drops the subject. He glances back down to the datapad with a thoughtful hum, his expression returning to something a little more dignified.

“It was ultimately a logistical choice. We would be sharing a room in the hotel, regardless, and the cover makes it considerably less likely that people would raise questions.” A pause, and then the Jedi’s voice turns a little more gentle. “If it would truly make you uncomfortable, Cody, then we can come up with an alternative.”  

Cody finds himself shaking his head before he even has time to think it through properly. It’s… Fine. He’s fine. The thought of pretending to be Obi-Wan’s… husband, makes something strange curl in his gut, a sense of tightness and discomfort that he can’t quite identify. 

He pushes the feeling away, telling himself that all it is is feeling unsure about going undercover in general - it will be, after all, his first time doing so for more than a few minutes at a time. He’s bluffed to get past guards and to stall enemies, they all have, but he’s practically a shiny in this territory. It makes sense that he’d have some nerves.

“No, I… I’ll take the mission, General. I was just…” he hesitates. He was just what exactly? Cody isn’t entirely certain. “I’ll just need some time to look over the aliases, to prepare. Being undercover is… Not my usual wheelhouse.”

That’s putting it lightly.

“If you’re certain?”

Cody holds the Jedi’s earnest gaze for as long as he can muster with this odd sensation sloshing around in his stomach. He manages a nod, moving to take the datapad from the other man as they prepare to move onto other matters for the morning.

“Yes, sir.”

______________________________

The night before the mission rolls around, Cody finds himself still awake far too late into the night. He’s at his desk, poring over multiple tabs of research, and Stars, there’s still so much to cover before they’re set to leave.

He’s… what is it that an actor would call it? ‘Studying’ the fictional man that is Vidarr Emerin, a wealthy investor who’s gained a frankly ridiculous amount of credits from backing a series of Spice mining projects on Kessel. Vidarr isn’t actually involved in the day to day operations of the creation of the drug directly (and thank the Force for that, because Cody couldn’t realistically describe the process if there was a blaster to his head), though he has his fingers in many metaphorical pies of Kessel’s ‘industry’, if one can call it that. 

Vidarr is ruthlessly efficient, cutthroat, and has more money invested in the black market than Cody has ever seen in his entire life.

His favourite colour, the document notes, is brown.

They’re hoping that, due to the planet they’re travelling to not having seen hide nor hair of the war as of yet, Cody can blend in as a regular human without issue. If he were to be clocked as a clone however, he and Obi-Wan have come up with a story that fits. A benefit of their cover is that if any clone were to defect from the GAR, Kessel would likely be a decent option for them to run to, due to its relative distance from the war and the objective difficulty in getting to the planet. It would be easier if he didn’t have to out himself, but it never hurts to be prepared.

The Commander is about three cafs into his nighttime research, and is showing no sign of slowing, currently skimming through a holonet article about Kessel’s southern equator. He’s trying to take notes on as many details as possible about the habitable section of the planet: the names of local wildlife, parks, various points of interest… It’s unlikely that anyone would want to talk to him about the geography of the local rivers, admittedly, but what if he’s caught out unexpectedly? 

No, Cody reasons to himself, taking another gulp of caf. Not worth the risk. He’ll just have to memorise the relative locations of every tributary and estuary in the local area that Vidarr is from. It’s the only way he can walk into this prepared.

It’s even later when his chrono beeps at him for attention. His eyes have been struggling to focus on the various screens for too long to ignore, and Cody’s attention turns to the empty notepad page to his right. The one that’s been staring him down all evening.

He narrows his eyes at it, sizing the offending object up. One moment passes, then another. The man groans, running a tired hand over his face and silencing his alarm. He may as well get this over with.

He returns his datapad to the page about their aliases, scrolling until he hits the ‘marriage and relationship’ section. Cody pulls the notepad over, reluctantly beginning to scribble down some bullet points. 

Renne Emerin, née Cardall, met Vidarr at a soiree attended by a handful of various small-time investors for the Pyke Syndicate, and the two began courting not long after. Three years into their relationship, they got engaged. A further year, and the two were married. This little trip together is a celebration for their second wedding anniversary.

They have a bonded pair of tookas. They’re considering adopting a child. They’re a regular, normal couple in love.

Cody turns off the datapad, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. 

For the life of him, he doesn’t know why he feels such a mental block in regards to… all of this. Obi-Wan had been incredibly accommodating - between them, they’d laid out expectations, negotiated how they were going to approach this, and the Jedi had promised to not push too hard in the name of making a good cover (though Cody had insisted he not hold back on his account - he’d be damned if his own incompetence compromised a mission).

And yet… The anxious feeling persists. It’s subtler now at least, having spent the last week preparing and researching, but it remains under his skin, simmering away. 

It worsens when he thinks of the marriage they’ll have to upkeep.

His chrono beeps a second time, a harsh, needy trill that tells him he really ought to be getting to bed now. Cody grumbles to himself, turning the blasted alarm off again, before finally flopping down in his bed and flicking off the light to his room.

It’ll be fine, he thinks wearily, forcing himself to take a deep breath and settle his mind. 

If there’s one thing he trusts implicitly in this Galaxy, it’s that Obi-Wan will have his back. Discomfort be damned, they’ll get through this in one piece. Soon enough, this’ll just be a funny story to tell when sufficiently drunk.

Clinging onto that thought like it holds the last vestiges of his sanity, Cody drifts into a fitful but desperately needed sleep. 

______________________________

The Commander wakes early, exactly as he was trained. A fast shower, an efficient shave, and his bed made neatly behind him as he dresses.

At 0600 hours exactly, he leaves his quarters, fully clad in his newly issued armour - shiny, pristine, bright white plastoid that catches in the harsh, fluorescent lighting lining the hallways of the Venator. He is precisely as he should be: the perfect example of what the Kaminoans created.

When he reaches the briefing room, he raps his gloved knuckles against the door once, twice. Cody feels confident as he waits - every single choice he makes matters today, and a good first impression is vital. Yes, he thinks, mulling it over in his mind: a single knock would have been insufficient, and three would be bordering on informal. Two was the right answer, Commander. Good work.

It takes precisely six seconds for the door to slide open, revealing the Jedi he had met briefly before in holocalls, though never face to face. The Jedi he’s going to dedicate his life to. 

Auburn hair catches the light, and clean, cream coloured robes settle tidily about his form. Curious eyes settle on him, inspecting the clone likely as much as the clone is analysing the Jedi. Cody is quietly grateful for his helmet giving him the tactical upper hand in this endeavour.

The blue of the Jedi’s eyes reminds him of the Kaminoan ocean, though he’s unsure whether or not that association is a good or a bad one. The man in front of him looks methodically put together, neat and organised, as a member of the famed Jetii should be… Perhaps a little tired, though, as the faint bags under his eyes might indicate.

Cody decides it doesn’t matter. It’s surely just a sign of his new General’s commitment to his work ethic that he would stay up late to prepare for today. Something they’ll have in common, then.

The Commander’s back is, naturally, ramrod-straight as he salutes sharply, his voice strong and even as he speaks.

“CC-2224, sir. Ready for our briefing.” He knows the Jedi should have remembered his designation number from their fleeting introductions over holocall, but it never hurts to be cautious. The man has a lot to familiarise himself with over the coming days, after all. It wouldn’t be a slight if it took him a while to remember something so small.

General Kenobi pauses at that, before offering a small, if hesitant smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course.” He steps aside, allowing the clone entry into the meeting room. It’s a tidy, organised space, yet something about it is almost eerie in its quietude. Cody’s eyes sweep over neat stacks of datapads and consoles with no fingerprints yet on their keyboards, no dust yet accumulated on the cables filling the room. A tactical space, ready to handle and catalogue so much violence and death - years of it, more. 

And yet it is, at present, still and empty. Lying in eager wait for the blood to start spilling, to see the use it has been designed for. Today, the Commander supposes, is the day. 

The General sweeps through the room, posture so exact that it almost makes him look as if he’s gliding rather than walking. He sets up the holotable at the centre of the room, watching as the agenda for the day flickers into being, a list nearly a mile long. General Kenobi scans over the file with a quiet sigh, before he glances over to meet the other man’s gaze.

“Would you care for a cup of caf? I quite find I struggle to focus so early on in the day.”

The Jedi’s voice is gentle, softened at the edges with tiredness - not at all the tone the soldier is used to from authority. Cody frowns to himself. And he’s… Offering him caf. Not an order or command. An unexpected start to their working relationship.

Part of him can’t help but think it could be a trap. A test of how much he’d be willing to take from him, perhaps. A measure of his discipline?

Kenobi looks progressively more awkward as time presses on. He speaks up again, evidently trying to search for any hint of emotion in the clone’s expressionless helmet and drawing a blank.

“Or… Tea?” he tries, tilting his head a little. “I can make tea instead, if that’s more to your liking.”

The Commander hesitates, trying to figure out the right answer to this puzzle in front of him. Would it offend the General if he said no? Could he say no, if he wanted to? How much of a choice does he get here?

Regardless, he can tell his prolonged silence is unnerving his new General, and the last thing he wants is to make a bad impression.

“Caf… Caf is fine, sir. Thank you.” 

That, at least, seems to placate the Jedi. He smiles, a little more sincerely this time, before disappearing off to the corner of the room and busying himself with making some drinks.

Cody takes the opportunity to get a headstart on the agenda for their first day, looking over the list at the holotable with a critical eye. There’s much to do, and he’s anxious to get to it and prove himself.

“Right,” Kenobi begins as he returns, passing a steaming mug to Cody before sipping at his own. “Let us get started, hm?”

The briefing is quick, and efficient. They move through all the matters of the day - introductory training with the men, preparations to oversee supply requisitioning, and early drafts of strategy for the 212th’s first upcoming mission in the field together.

The caf is nicer than he expected.

“Before we go, Commander,” Kenobi says as the two turn to leave for the first training, his tone thoughtful. He looks to the clone in front of him, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “I was wondering if I could have your name.”

… What? 

“My… Designation number, sir?” He asks, with a little uncertainty. The Jedi’s mouth twitches - not quite a frown, but something close to it. He attempts to disguise it by passing a hand over his beard. Cody tenses instinctively.

“No, you greeted me with that when you first came in,” he reminds him, voice gentle. “I meant your name. Your actual one.”

CC-2224 glitches. 

He’s not sure how long he just stares at the General, but it’s long enough to prompt Kenobi to speak again.

“... If that would be alright?”

No, no it would be decidedly not alright. This is against everything the Commander was expecting, everything he’s spent his whole life preparing for. He’s almost indignant at the impropriety. As he continues to hesitate, a flash of something like worry flashes across Obi-Wan’s face, followed by a sheepishness unbefitting of someone of his station.

He raises his hand, cutting off Cody as he finally opens his mouth to answer.

“No, no, I apologise, Commander,” he says quickly, sounding a little ashamed. “Names are… important to your brothers, aren’t they?”

At Cody’s stupefied nod, he continues on.

“I should not have asked something so personal of you,” the Jedi murmurs, bowing his head briefly in apology. “Forgive me.”

The Commander doesn’t quite know what to do with that. A brief mumble of ‘it’s alright, sir’, and an evening spent puzzling out who, exactly, his new General is, will have to do.

That night, Cody finds himself staring up at the ceiling as he tries to find sleep.

Perhaps the Kaminoans were wrong about the Jetii. About what would be expected of them. But then, if that’s true, then what else were they wrong about? 

It’s an unnerving thought, and it’s one that plagues him for the coming weeks.

______________________________

In the half-light of the ship’s artificial morning, Cody stares down his reflection in the mirror, wrinkling his nose slightly as he tugs a battle-worn comb through his hair, gently teasing the curls apart. He glances back down to the holonet vid he found, the projector balancing precariously on the edge of the sink. Making a swiping gesture in the air with his free hand, he winds back the video yet another time. The helpful, yet slightly too-fast-speaking Kiffar woman in the vid enthusiastically explains how to loosen one’s curl pattern, and Cody repeats the actions she demonstrates, his brow knitting together unconsciously as he focuses. 

The 212th doesn’t exactly have access to the myriad of supplies the vid-blogger eagerly shows the camera, but Cody’s scoured the supply shipments to source some decent enough conditioner - combined with the comb with a handful of missing teeth that he’d uncovered earlier in his room, they’ll have to do. The steam from the shower he’d taken minutes earlier permeates the room, and Cody has to pause in his delicate work every few minutes to wipe down the mirror.

He continues working methodically from the ends of the strands up to his scalp, becoming progressively less clumsy with the action as he goes. It’s strangely meditative, though it helps that his attention on this is effectively holding off the nervousness that the mission ahead of him today brings. 

By the time he finishes up, the Commander just… stares at himself for a long moment, noting the unfamiliar sensation of his still-damp hair falling a short way across his face. It’ll need to be slicked back, certainly, but it looks… Fine. Not like him, though. Not at all. 

It’s a funny thing, that sensation that other sentients would refer to as not recognising yourself in the mirror. When your face is the same as millions of others, it’s more like seeing another one of the vode. One with that same scar across the temple and with considerably less sternness about adhering to the GAR’s hair-length regs, clearly.

Cody sighs, gesturing to power down the holoprojector, finishing towelling himself off and finally heading out of the ‘fresher to get ready for the day. Regardless of his feelings on the subject, it’ll help him blend in better as a deserter, so longer hair it is.

Longer hair and an almost merc-like uniform, according to the tailored cloak and boots that wait for him in his room. Cody grimaces.

He just hopes that if Waxer or Boil see him, they’ll keep their mouths shut.

By some mercy of the fates, he’s able to steal through the Venator and make it up to the docking bays without catching the eye of any of his men (mostly, at least; he’d brushed past Helix outside the medbay but the medic hadn’t even looked up from his work). 

He jogs up the ramp to the ship to join his Jedi - already waiting for him and re-reading today’s mission details with a mug in hand, of course.

Cody spots the second mug of caf that Obi-Wan had prepared sitting over on one of the consoles and beelines for it, already knowing he’ll be needing all the stimulants he can get his hands on to feel at all ready for today.

“Ah, Commander, I was wondering when you were going to–” Obi-Wan starts, but the comment dies on his tongue. Cody glances over to see his normally so eloquent General taking a moment before finishing his sentence, his friend’s gaze flicking briefly over his appearance. The Commander raises a questioning brow, and Obi-Wan clears his throat quietly, before offering Cody a slightly short nod.

“... When you were going to arrive.” His eyes linger for a moment, uncharacteristically unsure of himself, before he turns away, busying himself by inputting the coordinates into the console. “The hair suits you, by the way.”

Cody feels strangely warm at the compliment, self-consciously reaching up to push back some of the strands.

“I’ve written up some of the boys for shorter,” he comments dryly, stepping up alongside the Jedi and taking a sip of his caf. Obi-Wan snorts in quiet amusement, giving him a sidelong glance.

“I’m sure.”

A calm silence briefly blankets them as the ship’s autopilot gets them away from the Venator and into the familiar black ocean of space, and Cody feels some of his tension ease. Of course it feels normal. He was a fool to think that this would feel any different to their usual missions. 

His eyes idly track the various indicators that display the wellbeing of the ship as he exhales slowly, lips curling up into something more reminiscent of a grimace than a smile - but nonetheless, he tries.

“You feeling ready for this?” he asks, feeling selfishly a little comforted by the thoughtful hum he gets in response. That’s a ‘not quite’ from the Jedi, and it at least means they’ll be walking into this together with some uncertainty. Cody hates feeling like he’s on the back foot.

“You can never be too ready for an undercover mission,” Obi-Wan says evenly, staring out ahead of them as the ship prepares to enter hyperspace. His fingers tap idly against his mug. “It always comes down to improvisation. A slip of the tongue here, an unexpected question there,” he murmurs. Catching Cody’s eye, the ghost of a smirk flits across his features. “... Not to worry you, of course.”

“Mm, right. You’d never do anything to cause me worry,” Cody quips, settling down into the pilot chair and buckling himself in. Obi-Wan follows suit, nodding serenely.

“It definitely hasn’t happened before, no.”

The trip through hyperspace is largely uneventful, the two falling into a companionable silence. As his thoughts stray to the mission ahead a little way into the flight, Cody realises his mind must feel a little frayed through the Force, because Obi-Wan turns to give him the look.

‘The Look’ is something scrutinising that happens whenever the Commander hasn’t quite managed to maintain his mental shields enough to conceal his emotions in a time of stress - the Jedi Order had, en masse, taught the vode how to do it in the early days of their partnership, in the interest of maintaining privacy for the troops, and as a gesture of goodwill. Cody does it well, for the most part, though it’s harder for him with Obi-Wan than with others, he finds. The man always seems to be able to see right through him.

“You’re still anxious.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and Cody wishes, not for the first time, that the General wouldn’t draw attention to his vulnerability like this. He levels Obi-Wan with a frustrated look of his own, brows knitting into a frown.

“It’s fine,” he insists. Obi-Wan looks at him flatly. Cody relents immediately, knowing that it’s useless trying to lie to any Jedi, but especially this one in particular.

He course corrects.

“It’ll be fine once we’re actually in the thick of it. It’s…” he grimaces, shaking his head slightly. “It’s the unknown of it all. At least if it’s a firefight, you can face down the enemy with a rifle.”

Obi-Wan reaches out to gently squeeze his Commander’s shoulder. The action soothes, the familiar warmth of his hand providing an anchor point of calm. “You’ll be wonderful. If I didn’t have full faith in you, I wouldn’t have asked you to join me,” he says, sincerely.

“Besides,” Obi-Wan adds, a playful glint in his eye, “if it all goes sideways, then you can happily be in your comfort zone while we blast our way out.”

A huff of amusement escapes Cody as he rolls his eyes, reaching up to cover the hand that remains on his shoulder.

“My comfort zone of keeping you from getting yourself impaled or shot? Yes, I’m unfortunately very familiar,” he mutters, exasperated yet fond.

Obi-Wan tips his head back and laughs.

______________________________

The first time he hears Obi-Wan laugh - properly laugh, not that wry chuckle he occasionally hears during briefings - it’s also the first time they’ve stayed up late together to finish up on  paperwork in his quarters. Cody has been regaling him with a tale from his youth on Kamino, relating to a particularly memorable incident involving Wooley, Boil, and a few mouse droids, and Obi-Wan laughs, eyes creasing at the corners and shoulders shaking with mirth.

At this time, it’s been about six weeks since the battalion’s first deployment in the war. The group is beginning to feel less like a random selection of soldiers and more like many parts of a functioning whole. Most notably, a handful of the men have recently started on their armour decoration. After much debate back and forth about the colour they should choose to accurately represent the battalion, Crys organised a (debatably) official vote in the mess hall with swatches of the strongest contenders.

The General had politely abstained over lunch, telling the vode that it wasn’t his place to influence their choices on such matters. Waxer indignantly declared such a position as ‘fence-sitting’, and Cody had sharply warned the young trooper that if he were to accuse High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi of centrist tendencies again, it would be KP duty for a month.

The vote had come out strongly in favour of a colour they’d henceforth started referring to as ‘212th gold’ - a handsome shade that glowed like the sun when caught by natural light. As his duty dictates him to show the way for his men, the Commander was among the first to adopt it, beginning with the sunburst on his chestplate. It felt right, even with those first brushstrokes, to be able to claim something as truly theirs. Cody hopes that one day, 212th gold will represent a spark of hope across the Galaxy. A mark made entirely in their name.

A little romantic of a thought, perhaps, but it brings him a spark of pride whenever he sees the newest shinies brought in, eager to earn the paint stripes they see displayed by those in command.  

In these last six weeks, a considerable amount has changed for the men, and it’s been a lot of adjustment. Both Obi-Wan and the vode serving under him have had to figure out how to adapt, to work alongside each other effectively. The General is kinder, more human than the Kaminoans had warned he’d be - he watches out for them on battlefields, mourns alongside them when their brothers are lost… in turn, the vode are beginning to slowly open up, too, starting to share parts of their culture with the Jedi.

He’s even been learning to speak Mando’a, though Cody is privately grateful that he’s been able to warn the boys ahead of time to watch their tongues when the General is floating around. They mean well, but he knows what they can be like if they think no one can understand them… The last thing he wants is to have to deal with writing up half of his troops for discussing too liberally what happened during their most recent trip to 79’s.

Once Obi-Wan gathers himself again, he looks over at Cody with a thoughtful glance, his expression softened with a grin. 

“It doesn’t sound altogether too dissimilar to the way we were raised in the temple, you know,” he says, “... mischief and all.” 

Cody watches him from his position sat on the edge of his bed. He thinks the relaxed, genuine smile suits the other man greatly. He privately hopes he’ll get to see it again after tonight. 

The Jedi hums to himself, before adopting a fond, faraway look. “All younglings can be particularly trying in large numbers, regardless of origin,” he continues, “I do not envy the crechèmasters for the duty they have to perform.”

Cody’s interest is piqued at that. The datapad in his hand is ignored for a moment, attention turned fully to the man sitting at his desk.

“You were raised communally?”

Obi-Wan nods, pausing briefly to make an amendment to the report in front of him, slender fingers moving quickly across the screen. Stars, Cody thinks to himself with a little annoyance, the man can even make paperwork look elegant.

“Yes. Well, from a certain age at least. I was brought to the Temple around age 4,” he explains. His eyes are still a little distant, lost in the memory of a happier time. “I still have a deep fondness for my crèchemates, despite… Differing opinions with a handful of them.”

Cody nods slowly, studying the Jedi for a beat.

“I get that, General,” he says, returning his attention to his datapad. “I’m the same with my batchmates. I just… Might have had more of them than you.” 

“An understatement I’m sure, Commander,” Obi-Wan chuckles, before his tone turns softer, more sincere. He glances over at Cody, choosing his next words carefully. 

“It seems like… A wonderful thing, the family you and the rest of the vode share.” He gives Cody a small smile, though there’s something else to it, a heaviness that settles behind his expression. “... It’s a shame that such a thing was created for the unworthy purpose of war. I can only hope that once the fighting is done, you’ll be able to thrive as all other sentients do.”

The two lapse into silence for a little while, the only sound filling the room the soft tapping of keys. Obi-Wan has spoken a little about his feelings on the war over the last handful of weeks, and to be truthful, it’s not a subject that Cody trusts himself to speak about. Neither the 212th, nor Cody himself for that matter, have been deployed for very long, and the clone doesn’t quite understand all of the weight behind his General’s words. Perhaps he will come to, in time… for better or worse.

Cody has reckoned with his own adjustments in the past few weeks. He’s found himself relaxing considerably around Obi-Wan, no longer feeling the burning need to watch himself as if his General is considering decommissioning him if he puts a foot wrong. He didn’t particularly know her, but from what the other vode say, Shaak Ti was similar back on Kamino.

It took a week and one mission in the field before Cody decided that the Jetii were not the dictators they’d expected. A further week and he was convinced they had no choice in this whole matter either, and were evidently suffering for it. Like a good Commander, he'd kept those observations to himself.

As soon as he’d allowed himself to be… Well, human, around the Jedi, he and Obi-Wan had started to become closer. Cody isn’t particularly adept at it yet, but if he finds himself arriving early to their morning briefings, he’s started making the General his tea in the way he likes it. It’s something small, but judging by the way Obi-Wan’s eyes had widened the first time he’d done it, a pleased smile crossing his face, it’s something that seemed to mean a lot to him.

They’ve become… Friends, or something approaching that, at least. It’s a thought that has him steeling himself to speak now, clearing his throat in the quiet space.

“... Cody,” he says, forcing the word to come out casually. Obi-Wan glances up again with a raised brow, a questioning look in his eyes. Cody finds it in himself to meet his General’s gaze, offering an affirmative nod. “You, uh… asked me for my chosen name, when we first met,” he explains quietly, ignoring the way his stomach wants to twist as he holds out this olive branch of trust, “it’s Cody.”

Obi-Wan’s expression goes from confusion, to surprise, to something incredibly warm.

“Cody,” he repeats softly, as if testing out the sound of it on his tongue, before giving an approving nod. A smile remains on his face even as he returns to his work. “Thank you, Cody,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the datapad at his desk. The Commander is grateful for it - he feels as if the vulnerability of further eye contact might make him combust right now.  “It’s a fine name. I’m honoured to know it.”

If Cody feels his heart react to the softness of his Jedi’s tone in that moment, he doesn’t mention it.

______________________________

“Mister and Mister Emerin?”

Obi-Wan and Cody share a glance at the call across the docking bays. They’ve barely been parked for a minute, and they’re already out of time. 

“I suppose that’s us,” Cody says with a heavy sigh, rolling his shoulders slightly. He looks at Obi-Wan, tilting his head with a silent question of ‘ready?’ and the Jedi nods, bringing the last of the bags with him down the gangway of the ship.

A tall, pale Nautolan woman with a checklist in hand approaches, teeth flashing a perfect, artificially white smile as Obi-Wan steps forwards to shake her hand. 

“Charmed,” he drawls in a smooth, Outer Rim accent, his voice low with lazily drawn out syllables - a stark contrast to the sharp, crisp Coruscanti voice that Cody’s used to hearing. Beside the Jedi, he forces on a smile.

“You’re here to check us in?” he says, hoping that his voice comes across not nearly as unsure and out of place as he feels. The Nautolan nods, making a scribble on the flimsi paper she’s carrying, pocketing it and taking the bags from the two of them without asking.

“Here, I’ll get these for you and show you to the main building. Is this your first time staying with us?”

The woman chatters away to them as they make the walk from the docking bays to the resort itself. Obi-Wan is as content to make conversation as Cody is to let him. The clone hangs back a little, taking in the planet around him. Brilliant light beams down on the building ahead, even as it nears the start of sundown, making him squint a little. It’s…

Excessive is the primary word that comes to mind.

The docking bays themselves are massive, on an elevated platform above a calm looking ocean of tropical blue. The bridge they’re now on connects to a few perfectly sculpted beaches that are teeming with people even at this hour, and more pressingly, a building the size of the damn Senate. Cody’s far from an expert on architecture, but it’s clearly a recent build - large windows and extravagant relief work carved into the stone of the imposing structure, of various people or mythological beings that Cody imagines he probably should recognise but doesn’t.

It all seems to be purpose-built with the intention of making the space feel welcoming to those in a certain tax bracket. 

Cody is undeniably not part of that tax bracket.

This area of the planet itself has almost definitely gone through some extensive terraforming by the looks of things, and he feels a little dizzy as he imagines the cost - coming from a corporation, no less. Part of the background provided for this mission detailed that Miphena, the planet they’re standing on, is essentially owned by the resort managers with no government to speak of. To call it ‘bleak’ would be underselling it.

They’re ushered inside by the woman with the increasingly grating customer service voice, brought through a pristine foyer tiled with marble underfoot. Cody is sure to make a mental note of that - that’s very slippery when covered in blood, so if they’re having to fight their way out, they should find another point of exit than this one.

He continues to sweep the rest of the room with an analytical eye. The main desk could be used as cover in a pinch, though it’s not in a particularly tactical location - the presence of stairs, an elevator, and double-doors through to the main events hall makes this an undesirable position to have to defend with too many points of ambush.

… Granted, it’s exceedingly unlikely they’ll be forced to stage a firefight here, but it can’t hurt to be prepared.

The receptionist leads them up to the seventh floor (with a lot of small-talk in the elevator that feels entirely unnecessary), hands them their keys for the room, drops their bags off and thanks the two profusely for their custom before leaving them alone once more. Obi-Wan and Cody share a glance, and the former smirks. 

“After you, darling husband,” Obi-Wan says easily with a flourishing bow, still holding onto the accent despite the fact it’s just the two of them. The amused gleam in the Jedi’s eye only gets stronger as Cody rolls his eyes, pushing past him to enter into the room. 

Much like the exterior of the hotel, it’s certainly extravagant. A large bed takes up most of the space, crisp white sheets with elaborate gold embroidery detailing the edges, and a plush red carpet beneath it. Every surface has some form of decoration, a vase of fake flowers here, a small metal sculpture there. A fairly incomprehensible piece of abstract art hangs above the bed, though what it’s intended to represent is entirely lost on Cody.

The two share another glance, silently communicating with one another, and get to work searching the room for any listening devices. 

Cody heads directly for the mirror, carefully unhooking it from the wall to see if the garish item is the result of the need to obscure a bug of some kind, or if it’s just the result of terrible taste.

Hm. Terrible taste it is.

Once they both signal the all-clear, Obi-Wan relaxes a little, setting both of their bags down on the bed.

“Well,” he says mildly, glancing around with a disapproving gaze. “It’s certainly expensive.”

Cody snorts, following his eyeline. “Just how much did the Republic spend to send us here?”

Obi-Wan peers closely at the strange painting, letting out a soft hum. “I shudder to think.” He pauses as Cody wanders over to check out the balcony. “This surely can’t be an original work,” he mutters to himself, passing a hand over his beard and frowning in thought. 

Cody can’t help but glance back with a raised brow. 

“... Sir,” he says, and the Jedi interrupts him with a wave of his hand, still narrowing his eyes at the artwork.

“It’s Obi-Wan when we’re alone, Cody, you know that.”

“Obi-Wan,” he starts again, amused. “Please tell me you’re not critiquing the art–”

“If it’s there, it should be there with purpose. This is soulless. It’s nothing-”

“In a resort, Obi-Wan.”

The Jedi lets out a rather contemptuous scoff, before drawing back to meet Cody’s gaze. He folds his arms, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “If you’re not the type to appreciate a critique of art, my dear, then whyever did I marry you in the first place?”

Cody lets out a long suffering sigh, not missing a beat. “I ask myself the same thing every day, darling, believe me.”

That draws a laugh from his Jedi. Cody steps out to the balcony proper as Obi-Wan begins to unpack his bag. 

The sun is drawing lower on the horizon now, painting the sky in picturesque golds and oranges as people slowly move in from the beach - a steady stream of holiday-goers and families making their way back to the hotel for the evening. Cody idly watches them, leaning out over the railing as he takes in the myriad of species, genders, and ages of the people who’ve come here for an escape. One thing seems to bind them all together despite the differences - that distinct aura of wealth that seems to permeate the very air here.

He can’t really put his finger on what it is. The way they carry themselves, maybe? The sea of perfect skin and hair, the precision in which they choose to dress… It’s all fairly alien to the Commander. None of it really feels real in the way that people tend to be. Give him the flawed mess of the Lower Levels any day.

“I’m going to go for a little wander,” Obi-Wan calls through from the bedroom. “Get the lay of the land, so to speak.” 

Cody turns, stepping back into the lavish room and stretching slightly. He sighs as he feels a pleasant ache in his muscles.

“I’ll probably stay in,” he yawns, “get an early night. Didn’t sleep well last rotation, and I’d prefer to feel rested for tomorrow.”

Even though he technically hasn’t been awake for all that long, Cody figures it’d be best to get started on adjusting to local time as quickly as possible. They’ll need to be up at dawn, regardless of if they’re ready for it. The Jedi hums in response, slipping on his cloak and heading to the door.

“That sounds wise. I’ll try not to return too late - if you’re already asleep, I shall endeavour to join you as quietly as possible.” His gaze falls to where Cody stands, offering a small smile. “Feel free to claim either side of the bed. Comms are on, I’ll see you in a little while.”

With that, he’s disappeared off into the night, leaving Cody with the question of whether or not he should take the floor tonight dying on his tongue. 

He blinks, a little stupidly, after the now closed door. It’s as if there wasn’t even a question of whether they would be sharing the bed in the Jedi’s mind. Which… Cody supposes there shouldn’t be, really. 

He and Obi-Wan have shared tents before in the field countless times, slept closely on the ground when there hasn’t been space in various quarters they’ve been given. Hells, during a mission on Mygeeto two months ago, he’d had no qualms with combining their bedrolls together for warmth.

A real bed just… feels different. Cody isn’t quite sure why.

He gives a wary sidelong glance to the offending furniture, as if expecting it to bite him. The bed, for its part, stares back at him unblinkingly, its exorbitant number of pillows providing more fuel for Cody’s growing resentment of the damn thing.

The Commander shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous. With a sigh and a mental slap upside the head, he unpacks his own bag, glancing out every now and again to the progressing sunset as he changes into his sleepclothes.

He’s almost loath to admit it, but the view is gorgeous. The twin moons slowly rise into the sky, basking the ocean in an ethereal glow. If it weren’t for the fact that he can still hear tourists partying outside, he could be tricked into actually enjoying this.

Cody sets aside the outfits he’ll need for tomorrow - something casual for the day, and something more formal for a party that’ll be occurring in the evening - before putting his suitcase down on top of Obi-Wan’s, near the door.

Sinking down into bed, he’s further frustrated to find out how comfortable it feels, reluctantly admitting to himself that perhaps the richest of the rich in the galaxy do get some things right every now and again. Rarely.

He lets out a deep exhale, pleased to find that his mind feels considerably more settled now that they’re actually here at the mission location, a little more peaceful.

It’s a relief, to be certain - Cody doesn’t really know who he is if not for the calm, collected strategist that always has an answer. His lack of certainty as of late has been… Disquieting, to say the least.

He grasps the feeling of quietude with both hands, allowing it to pull him into the alluring drift of near-sleep.

He stirs a little when he hears Obi-Wan return, the door clicking closed ever so gently. The Jedi seems to be true to his word in keeping his movements as soundless as possible- 

Well, that is at least until he takes a step further into the dark room and walks directly into the suitcases in front of him, letting out a hiss of pain. 

Cody can’t quite conceal his ensuing huff of amusement. Obi-Wan seems decidedly less pleased, grumbling something under his breath. 

The other man pads over to the other side of the bed, and Cody hears the distinctive rustle of clothes being removed. He lets out a slow breath, ensuring to stay stock still, facing the other way. Not that he could really see what was going on even if he did roll over, but…

“Sorry. I tried.” Obi-Wan’s whisper cuts through the darkness, genuine regret in his tone. 

“You’re fine. Is your foot alright?”

The Jedi huffs. “Mortally wounded, I’m afraid. Amputation likely.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

The bed dips gently behind him as Obi-Wan gets in. Cody is suddenly very grateful that everything in this hotel is oversized - it at least means they can do this without threat of the two being close enough to touch. For one long moment, he’s hyper-aware of every shift, every slight movement from his Jedi, before he forces his eyes to close.

It all falls quiet after that, apart from the gentle sound of even breaths behind him. Cody unconsciously finds himself matching them, slow inhales and exhales that serve to soothe his suddenly racing heart. He tries not to think too hard about why his heart might be racing.

Cody swallows. Thank the stars he knows how to shield, because he has no idea what Obi-Wan would say if he could sense this… Whatever it is that’s gotten into him.

With a long exhale, he uses what his General had once taught him of meditation technique to forcibly quieten his mind. He’s not allowing himself to do this. Not again.

To his immense gratitude, with a little effort (and time spent visualising the movement of the ocean outside), the calm of earlier finds its way to him once again, soothing his mind and slowing his breaths to match that of the lapping water.

As he finds himself on the precipice of sleep once more, he hears a quiet murmur from the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight, Cody.”

Cody pulls the covers up a little tighter to himself, yawning as he does so. It takes him a moment to find his voice, and when he does, it’s uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Sleep well, Obi-Wan.”

[maldaptivedreamer]

Treats and Reassurances

Part 2

Navarro needs help on the ship and you talk about the argument with Bjorn.

content: Not proofread, not entirely accurate to alien universe, maybe ooc characters, drugs/smoking, use of gwanja (ik it’s wrong), no bjorn just friends comforting reader after argument w/ bjorn, honestly almost a "filler"

wc: ~ 1.9k

a/n:  This isn't my favorite thing ever. For some reason, when I was writing this I was in a weird headspace and the dialogue feels a bit stiff. Since I've been dragging my feet posting this, the next part is almost done. Expect it soontm. Also the next part will have a reader who makes out/flirts with a woman. Sorry not sorry to all the straights lol

Main Masterlist      Next Part

The Corbelan IV looms over you. Patches of rust and scratches cover its surface. The Weyland-Yutani logo is big and obtrusive on the side of the dull gray ship. 

The lower payload area's entry ramp is extended open, its muted orange color standing out against the monotone colors of the surrounding metal.

Slightly paranoid, you scrutinize your surroundings. Looking for any sign of Bjorn. You hope he's not around, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of being right.

Maintaining the ship with Navarro and Bjorn had become routine for you, a monthly chore. It's something you didn't plan on, but now you find yourself enjoying it, using it as an excuse to hang out together. It’s the one time where he’s actually civil, but you doubt that he’ll be capable of any of that after having his ego bruised.

With a deep breath to steady your nerves, you cautiously step onto the ramp. The shifting dirt beneath your feet feels like quicksand, threatening to pull you down with each heavy step. Your heart beats in your ears as you approach the ladder, reaching out with anxious fingers to grip each rung.

With a grunt of effort, you hoist yourself up into the ship. The aged metal creaks and groans under your weight. The familiar scent of rust and engine oil fills your nostrils as you make your way inside.

Swallowing, you call out. “Navarro?” The silence that follows only adds to the tension building inside you.

Making your way up to the control room, your footsteps echo in the empty corridor. The ship feels different - almost eerie. You try to shake off the feeling, wiping your clammy hands on your jeans.

As you climb into the cockpit, you knock on the frame of the entrance. Navarro is sitting on a bench, hunched over a datapad. Glancing around, her brown eyes catch yours. “Hey. I’m glad you came.” Lowering the tablet, she continues. “Bjorn was a dick yesterday, more so than usual, so wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

Climbing into the room, you release a breathy snort of amusement through your nose at her blunt words and you can feel the stiffness in your body begin to recede. It’s okay, everything’s okay. She’s not upset.

She offers you the datapad, before moving to a pile of scrap. You look over the maintenance checklist, scanning each item with a critical eye.

Turning to face you, her face brightens with remembrance. "Oh, uhh, I forgot to mention...Bjorn won't be here. Told him that he'd just get in the way." You can sense a hint of annoyance in her voice as she mentions him.

You half absorb the checklist as you examine her in the corner of your eye. “Oh and how’d he take that?”

Smiling sarcastically, she sighs and runs a hand across the back of her head. “Very well.”

Sending her a grateful smile, you hand her the datapad. "Thank you. Fixing this piece of shit takes all of my brain power and I don't want to waste any dealing with him."

As she stands up, Navarro's eyes narrow in amusement and she runs a hand along the rough metal wall of the ship. Her tone carries a tinge of playful annoyance. "Hey now, this is my ship and I don't appreciate you calling it a piece of shit."

A playful chuckle escapes your lips as you scoff, "Oh please, you know it's true." Sucking your teeth in mock disappointment, you give Navarro a frown. "You know there’s one downside to not having Bjorn here. He always had the gwanja."

Navarro responds with a light tsk before breaking into a mischievous grin. “That’s very irresponsible and dangerous of you. Operating dangerous machinery under the influence. How dare you.”

As she finishes her sentence, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sleek case. Sliding it open, she presents four neatly rolled joints.

With a mischievous smirk and shrug, she gestures for you to take one, “He owes you. He offered every joint he had on him. So… take your pick.”

Lifting a brow, you grin at her. Reaching into the case, your voice is sarcastic, “Mhmm. Is that right? He just… offered?” Placing a joint between your lips, you give her a knowing smirk, “Bet he said he was real sorry too.”

She nods sarcastically before lighting her own joint. As you both blow out smoke, her expression shifts, “What he said wasn’t true. You know that right?”

You gulp, shifting your weight and shrugging. Taking a drag, you avoid her gaze.

Navarro calls your name in a stern tone, drawing your eyes to hers, "Sometimes you’re in your head, but we understand. Whether it's mentally or physically, you need time alone. We all get it. We love you. What he said about you being selfish was wrong and we ripped him a new one for it. We should’ve said something sooner."

You take a long drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. The familiar buzz starts to settle in, easing some of the tension in your shoulders.

"I know," you say softly, leaning against the wall. Biting your lip, you dig a toe into the metal floor, "It's just... sometimes I worry that I'm not there enough. That I'm not expressing how much you all mean to me.” 

Shrugging, you shake your head emphatically. “And I don’t want you guys to feel guilty for not getting in the middle. You shouldn’t have to and us fighting was bound to happen eventually."

Navarro moves closer, her expression softening. "Hey, look at me," she says, waiting until you meet her gaze. "You're family and we wouldn't be the same without you. Bjorn was just talking out of his ass, like usual."

You can't help but chuckle at that. "Yeah, he does have a talent for it."

"Exactly," Navarro grins.

Clearing your throat, your fingers twist the silver band around your thumb. Scrunching your face, a hollow feeling expands in your chest. Bjorn gave you this ring. Told you it was some old one he didn’t wear anymore. You didn’t even realize, you’d still been wearing it... or that you still put it on every morning.

Dropping your hands, you glance at Navarro with a lump in your throat. “I said some really mean stuff too. Stuff that he… might… probably… didn’t deserve, no matter how big of an asshole he was.”

Slowly rocking her head side to side, she shrugs. “Maybe. But he started it. Said some awful things to you and you reacted. If you’re sorry about what you said, you can apologize later. Or don’t.”

Taking another hit, she gestures to the ship. "Now, are you gonna help me fix this thing or what?"

You laugh, feeling the tension dissipate. "Yes ma’am."

The familiar routine of maintenance settles over you. As you tinker with the ship's systems, conversation flows easily between you two, punctuated by the occasional curse when something doesn't cooperate.

The quiet hum of machinery and occasional clink of tools is interrupted as light footsteps reverberate through the ship.

Groaning, you flex your aching fingers and glance at Navarro. She ignores your questioning eyes and hunches over, wiping her hands with a grease covered rag.

Watching the ladder, you see Kay's head peeking over the edge, her curled hair spilling around her face.

Releasing a breath of relief, you give her a smile. Your voice holds a pleasant surprise, “Hey, what yah doin’ here?”

A grin spreads on her face and she joins you in the pilot room, giving you both a hug. “I came to hang out. Missed you and wanted to check in on you after yesterday.” You don't miss the silent look they share and you feel your chest warm at their concern.

With a thankful smile, you nudge her and wipe your hands on your pants. “Thank you. I’m fine. I had time to calm down and I talked a bit with Navarro.” You send Navarro an appreciative glance.

Kay nods, her eyes softening. "I'm glad. We were all worried about you… Just in case you were feeling weird or anything about what he said, I want you to know that I love you. We all do."

She pauses, looking around the room. "So, what are you two up to in here?"

"Just the usual maintenance stuff," you reply, gesturing to the various tools and parts scattered around. "Trying to keep this shitbox from falling apart mid-flight."

Navarro snorts, "I thought we agreed to stop insulting my ship."

"Sorry," you grin, not looking sorry at all. 

Kay laughs, settling into one of the pilot chairs. "Well, don't let me interrupt. I'll just sit here and provide moral support."

"Ah, I see. You came here to slow us down then," Navarro says, tossing a rag at Kay.

Kay laughs, catching the rag effortlessly. "Hey now, I'll have you know my moral support is top-notch. I even brought treats." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small cube shape wrapped in tinfoil. Slowly unwrapping it, she presents squares of chocolate to you. Smiling, she carefully waves it around, “Ta-da. Your favorite.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. Your chest tightens at the care of your friends.  “Thank you. Really. I love you guys.” Your serious tone indicates that your thankful for more than just the chocolate and weed.

Navarro rolls her eyes with a smirk, “Yeah, yeah, we love you too. Don’t cry, if you cry, Kay’ll cry."

Huffing out a laugh, you blink away the wetness in your eyes.

As you all silently eat your respective chocoates, Kay suddenly stops and sniffs the air. Raising her head with a confused expression, she scrunches her nose. “It smells… Were you guys smoking?”

You and Navarro quickly glance at each other. She covers a laugh by coughing into her hand and you shake your head with an exaggerated frown. You look down at the half eaten square in your hands. “No, no of course not. That would be dangerous and irresponsible. Both of which, we are not.”

Narrowing her eyes at you, Kay teases. “Uh-huh. Look at me.”

You reluctantly lift your gaze to meet Kay's, trying your best to keep a straight face. But as soon as your red eyes lock with hers, you can't help but burst into laughter.

"Oh my god, you fucking were!" Kay exclaims, a mix of amusement and mock outrage in her voice. "I thought you were fixing the ship. Crying and upset. I wanted to be a good friend, you know, come cheer you up."

Navarro snorts, giving up the pretense. “In our defense, Bjorn gave us his stash as apology.”

Kay scoffs, rolling her eyes with a grin. “Right and I won a one-way ticket to Yvaga.” Kay shakes her head, but there's a hint of amusement in her eyes. "You two are impossible."

Navarro shrugs, taking another bite of chocolate. "Hey, can you blame us?"

You lean back against the wall, feeling more relaxed than you have in days.

As you all eat your respective treats, the conversation flows easily. Kay fills you in on the latest colony gossip, her animated storytelling bringing laughter to the stuffy room. You find yourself relaxing more with each passing minute. The tension from yesterday's argument with Bjorn feels distant.

Next Part

[varpusvaras]

Continuing on the Fox and other posts. There was this one post somewhere (maybe on reddit?) about someone having a cold and deciding to just pop in a nyquil/dayquil and go to their uni lesson, while drinking a can of redbul or something (please don't do this) and ending up completely blacking out for the rest of the day and just going through the motions while having no idea what's going on.

Fox wakes up one day at 4 am (because he has so much work he has started to wake up an hour early so he can get an early start), his head is pounding, he's tired and achy and sore and cold. He doesn't have the time (or privilege) to stay in bed so he goes and takes the cold medicine he has stashed in his office for days like these. He's still tired after that, and he doesn't have the energy to go get a cup of caf, even if a hot drink sounds good, so he just decides to also pop in a stim (his CMO has banned energy drinks after the mixing episode that gave Fox a resting heart rate of over a hundred) just to get the day started.

Except. Fox sits down on his desk, opens up a datapad, and the next thing he knows is that his lying on a bed in the medbay and there is an absolute chaos around him. He's feeling sore and achy again and he really needs to sneeze, so he tugs a junior medic that was passing by at the sleeve and asks for a tissue.

This just causes more chaos, because now he's awake and that is somehow a huge deal. His CMO comes to him running and asks what drugs Fox has taken. Fox doesn't understand the question. His CMO is losing his mind. He says that it's almost 8 pm and this is the first time Fox has said anything during the whole day and now Fox is losing his mind as well. He was just at his office, ready to start his day, what do you mean it's 8 pm already?

Little by little, Fox gets the story. He had, apparently, been found at the Senate Dome in the late afternoon (Fox has absolutely no memory of this) by a very kind Senator (Fox doesn't even need to ask who it was, he knows and he knows he will be hearing about this later), and that he was absolutely unresponsive, even though he was walking around. The very kind Senator had flagged down the other Commanders (Fox is definitely going to be hearing about this later), who had brought him back to the HQ. Fox had, apparently, looked absolutely high out of his mind under his helmet, and had just been lying in the bed after being pushed down on it while the medics had tried to figure out what the fuck he had got in his system.

Fox is just about to explain that all that was in him was one (1) cold medicine and one (1) stim tablet, when some poor trooper comes running in, gasping for breath, and barely gets out that the Chancellor has been found dead. In his office. Estimated time of death somewhere late afternoon that day.

The medbay falls silent. His CMO turns slowly to look at Fox. Fox stares back. Fox gets a feeling. That feeling that only blackout drunks, or people who have blacked out for estimated fifteen hours recently for others reasons, can get.

His CMO slowly pulls a blanket over Fox, turns to others and says that it's a good thing that the Commander has been here the whole day because he has a cold and couldn't risk the Chancellor's health, since, as you know, the older you get, the frailer your immune system becomes. Everyone nods. Fox kinda wants to argue about it but his CMO glares at him, and, Fox is achy and sore and tired and his head hurts, so he decides that it's maybe for the best if he just goes back to sleep. After all, this is the first time no one is going to tell him to go back to work while sick, because, well. There isn't anyone to do that anymore, is there.

(He's never really sure what happened or if it even was him, but he can't really complain. And no one else does, either, after they find some really interesting things in the Chancellor's office while investigating the crime scene)

[agentmarymargaretskitz]

@wwheeljack asked: A cuddle pile/some comfort for the original four after a mission during the TCW era, perhaps? Maybe Cross was injured and Tech supports him? Need some gen with the original four badly.

(CW for injuries. Also I’m writing this on my tablet as I am in the middle of moving. Yay. However, this was a lot of fun to write on a break)

“Crosshair, get to the ship!” Hunter ordered over the comm channel.

Τhe sniper ignored his older brother’s command and realigned his next shot up in he tree. Another droid’s head sailed off while the body hit the dirt. B1s were almost too easy at this point for him to pick off, even though Clone Force 99 had received combat clearance five months ago. It had hit the point where he and Wrecker created a competition to see who could take out the most in a standard week. Loser scrubbed down the can.

Crosshair had no intention of losing this week.

Two more shots. Two more heads.

“Get down now, Crosshair!”

“You’re not clear yet,” he argued back, peering up from the scope to see them running for him. “Hold on.”

Tech’s voice now came onto the channel. “You have done sufficient damage. Now please get down from there.”

“Ugh, you-“

Shots came firing at him now. Crosshair pulled his scope back up to see a wave of B2s flanking a tank. He positioned the barrel to get a shot right through the barrel of the tank. One shot, and then-

The tank fired first and splinters erupted below him. Crosshair tore his helmet away as the branch he was seated on suddenly gave way.

“Crosshair!” Wrecker screeched.

He must have been twenty five feet high above the fast-approaching ground. Someone was screaming. Instinctively, Crosshair closed before he hit the ground. His whole body jolted by the impact when something harder than dirt struck his side. For a moment, breathing was a forgotten bodily function.

“Crosshair!”

His mouth opened to suck in a deep breath. Instantly, pain crackled around his rib cage. Crosshair blinked his eyes open to see Hunter sprinting towards him, yelling something he didn’t comprehend.

He closed his eyes again.

~!~

“Crosshair.”

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

“Crosshair, you must respond.”

“Go,” he whined, but his chest ached when he inhaled and opened his eyes.

The first thing that struck the sniper was the interior of the Marauder, followed by the realization of laying flat upon his bunk. Hanging off the edge of the rack was his twin brother, typing rapid fire onto his datapad. Tech paused for a moment and looked back at him before reaching into one of his multiple pouches.

“There’s not rocks in there again, are there?” Crosshair attempted to joke until he saw a tube of bacta come out of the pouch.

Tech fixed him with an unimpressed expression. “Had I known those sedimentary deposits I collected for geological examination would take up so much space, I would have left most of the samples behind. That incident also occurred four months ago. Now, how are you feeling?”

“Like I went a couple rounds with that trainer who had the lip ring,” he sighed.

Tech leaned down and pulled up their well-used medical kit to take out a gauze package. “I suppose falling from such a height could be compared to combat training against Lees Bardeux. Fortunately, you only broke two ribs, cracked three others, and suffered a moderate abrasion to your temple.”

“Which you’re lucky for.”

Crosshair now realized Hunter stood right behind him, arms crossed. His face seemed to be trying to scowl, except his eyes were somewhat shiny. Seeing that was enough to make the sniper feel crappier while Tech applied the bacta and gauze to his head wound. Hunter always internalized every failure like Crosshair did, although Hunter did it with things that weren’t even his fault.

“I’m alive,” Crosshair quipped, hoping to squash Hunter’s guilt with ill humor.

Unfortunately, the scowl dropped and Hunter looked frustrated instead. “For once, can you just listen to orders?”

A reply of how that went against what their squad did was on the tip of Crosshair’s tongue. However, he found the words difficult to say out loud. Sure, he was a cold-hearted piece of shit. Hurting his brother drowning in guilt though…that would be taking it too far.

“Next time, I’ll listen the first time,” Crosshair promised, hoping it would appease his brother.

The sergeant seemed satisfied with that. Tech gave Hunter a somewhat smug look before Wrecker appeared around the corner. “You didn’t tell me he was awake!”

“Good news, Crosshair is awake,” Tech said bluntly.

Crosshair chuckled before his ribs protested again. “Kriff.”

“You should be feeling better in a few days,” his twin explained, returning his gaze to the datapad. “Unfortunately, you will need to rest and use cold packs, as well as sleep upright and perform a few breathing exercises. Fortunately, none of your vital organs have been perforated.”

“Goodie.”

“We flew outta no man’s land into that Republic-occupied area while you were out,” Wrecker explained as he started pulling the blankets from the other bunks. “Also, we ‘lost’ the comm signal after General Windu kept asking Hunter what happened.”

“Droids get it?” Crosshair asked.

“Chewed wires,” Tech corrected, a gleam in his eye. “Such a surprise for a vessel such as ours, but these things happen.”

Hunter nodded. “They scraped away enough coating before cutting them that even I can’t tell the difference.”

The sniper laughed again before remembering it hurt. “Ow.”

Hunter dropped down and brought their heads together, ruffling Crosshair’s hair. “Still, thanks for covering our asses.”

“Who else are you going to get to do the job?” Crosshair quipped back

[angel-of-the-moons]

Blood Moon

Marc Spector/Moon Knight x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Mentions of murder, spouse death, child death, betrayal, blood, violence, guilt, depression, manhunt

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Yeah remember what I said about trying to finish this before Halloween? Yeah I'm a fucking liar don't ever take me for my word I am a monster.

This is where I decided to merge a tiny bit of lore from comics/MCU Moon Knight here in regards to his powers.

But anyways... Have this little tidbit into Marc's backstory! Marc and Randall are only about two years apart in age. So that means Marc is 36 at the time of this story. Forgive a few discrepancies here and there as I better establish a timeline.

Taglist: @badbishsblog

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Pt. 5

Living with Marc was certainly a hell of an experience. But, at the same time, you two were becoming a well-oiled machine. Barring the awkward slip-ups that had you two avoiding each other like the plague for hours, anyways.

It was nice, you found, to not be alone in your house anymore. You never realized it before, but you were always so... gray. Lifeless almost when you were alone. You didn't like to be left alone with your thoughts of yourself, of your inadequacies you'd never voice with anyone except your therapist.

But having Marc around eased that loneliness you actually hadn't realized you'd been feeling. Hell, it wasn't until he moved in and you got used to having another body in your house that you realized you were lonely in the first place.

Despite this, you'd realized that while yes, you had read his file and learned about his background, you'd yet to actually ask him about his past.

You haven't heard it directly from the horse's mouth, as it were.

But you decided not to broach the subject, yet. You still felt that it was too soon for that after your fight and make-up as a team to risk being at the throat of your new roommate.

Because, you realized, it was nice having one again. You hadn't had a roommate since you had been in foster care.

And you weren't ready to lose that just yet.

Marc had odd habits, to say the least. More often than not, you'd catch him actually sleeping in the basement on the old plush couch you kept down there, instead of his bedroom.

His bedroom was always kept immaculate, but the basement was his workspace and god, was it a mess.

Papers and tech strewn about, gear scattered on worktables as he took them apart to fix them or run maintenance; plus the cases containing your hero gear as well.

It looked like a college student crammed for their exam two hours before their finals almost every time you went down there...

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Tonight, you'd found Marc fast asleep, snoring softly as he sprawled out on the worn, suede couch, his body sinking into the ridiculously squishy cushions as he dreamt.

He had one arm draped over his face, one knee raised, and the other arm hanging off the edge of the cushions, a datapad clutched tightly in his hand.

It was almost cute.

You pulled out a quilt you nabbed at a yard sale, once and carefully draped it over him, as the basement could get rather chilly at times and poor Marc was passed out in nothing but his sweats and a t-shirt.

You put your hands on your hips and looked at the mess scattered on the surface of the coffee table in front of him, plus the few on the floor. A few SHIELD-issue tablets, and some paper files (yeesh, who even used those anymore?).

You chewed your bottom lip hesitantly, sparing the unconscious Marc a small glance before you felt a nagging in your gut. Curiosity was always one of your less... qualities at times.

How did that story about curiosity and the cat go, again?

Anyways...

You simply couldn't help yourself. What exactly was Marc always researching all the time?

You had to know. Even if it was just a tiny nugget of knowledge.

You sat in a squat next to Marc, looking at him as he breathed softly, showing no signs of stirring.

You slowly and as gently as possible, pulled the tablet in Marc's hand free of his calloused fingers, and stepped away from him to turn it on, so the light wouldn't stir him.

And you were glad you did, it almost blinded you when you hit the power button.

How the fuck did Marc see with shit this bright?

You had to fumble until you turned the brightness down, and let your eyes re-adjust.

The thing that immediately struck you was one line.

A name.

It made your blood chill, turning into icy sludge as it crawled through your veins; you felt your mouth go dry.

Randall Spector.

Age: 34

Race: Caucasian

Last known confirmed location: Paris, France.

The rest of the page had a list of crimes he was the main suspect of. Murder, theft, espionage, assassination...

You looked up, dumbfounded at Marc's sleeping body.

There was no way they could be related. It had to be common name, right?

You looked back down and scrolled to another page.

And your hopes that it was a common last name were dashed.

The picture of the man was this Randall, younger obviously, he looked to be in his early 20s in his Illinois ID.

But the resemblance to Marc was sickeningly uncanny. Randall had messy curly hair that was slicked back as best he could, and a charming smile that could no doubt put a heart attack at ease, his brown eyes glowing with humor in their depths as he grinned for the camera.

You swallowed hard at the lump in your throat and continued scrolling. The file contained grainy and blurry security footage of possible sightings over the years in various places across the globe.

The most shocking picture at the end, however... Was a picture of Marc with a group of people, Randall included.

They were, judging by the looks of it, in a desert of some kind. Randall hung on Marc, appearing to be laughing as the photo had been taken, meanwhile Marc stood, unusually clean-shaven and stoic, his arms crossed over his chest as he gave a small, ghost of a smile.

A young woman stood to Marc's left, holding onto his forearm as she smiled widely, her dark black, curly hair pulled back into a tight braid, her thick-rimmed glasses perched all the way up her nose.

Marc and that woman wore matching bands on their left ring fingers.

You brought your hand to your mouth in revulsion at the revelation, feeling your stomach roil in protest. It was either guilt, or horror because you knew... Marc had no family. You knew about his daughter being dead. But not her mother. Nothing about a brother.

You were in too deep now, and you just couldn't stop yourself.

You scrolled to a new page, detailing a small bit of information on that woman.

Erica Spector.

Age (deceased): 26

Race: Hispanic.

Cause of death: Vehicular Accident (Attributed to brake failure)

The picture of her ID broke your heart. She beamed at the camera, her slightly crooked teeth showing as she smiled proudly, a slight glare in her glasses as the flash hit the lenses.

The next photo, was her and Marc. At their wedding. She wore a gorgeous mermaid gown with a floral lace neckline, her sleeves ending in almost a bell-shape. Her hair hung down in gorgeous waves with violets pinned to the strands, framing her face and sun-kissed skin illuminated with highlighter as she smiled at the camera. Marc had been looking at the ground for whatever reason as they both stood at the altar, his arm around her waist and his hand adjusting the waistline of his dress pants.

But he was smiling. And it was such a gorgeous smile, teeth out, dimples in his cheeks and his eyes practically closed from how wide his lips were stretched.

The next photo broke your heart.

It appeared to be a maybe a year or so later (at most) after the photo of them in the desert.

Erica was pregnant, her belly sticking out far in the baby blue sundress she wore, holding up a cute pink onesie in her hands that simply read "Daddy's Princess" on the front in purple cursive font.

The photo after that one was of them in the hospital, Marc standing by the window of the hospital room, holding his newborn daughter in his arms, a soft, glowing smile on his face as her tiny fingers gripped his hand.

You felt your chest burn as you felt the gravity start to kick in, but you turned another page in the file.

Diatrice Spector

Age (deceased): 5

Race: Hispanic-Caucasian

Cause of death: Homicide (Found to be caused by gunshot wounds to the chest.)

You felt like your heart would give out at that word.

Homicide.

You assumed Marc lost his daughter in some horrible, tragic accident, like you'd lost your family.

But no. Three years ago, someone murdered his baby. And her babysitter.

The photos of the crime scene unfolded next, bloody boot prints everywhere, the babysitter's head partially caved in from a beating, and Diatrice--

"What the hell are you doing?!"

You jumped and almost dropped the tablet in your fright, spinning on your heels to see Marc staring at you from the couch, the quilt hastily tossed off of him.

You expected him to be angry, to look absolutely pissed at you.

Instead he looked... Terrified. Scared.

Heartbroken.

His gorgeous brown eyes were big, heavy dark circles hanging like curtains over his cheeks as he stared at you, mouth agape.

"I... I... I'm sorry, I... I didn't--" You stammer, swallowing hard, clutching the tablet against your chest.

"I was just..."

God, there was no excuse for this. You were curious. Curious and nosey, and you didn't have the guts to ask him anything about his past to his face yet, afraid for the repercussions that might cause; of the ripples it would trigger in the glass-like surface of the water of teamwork you two strove for.

Marc looks at you, your eyes locked in a tense, silent stare.

Then, he runs his hand through his air as he lets out a slow exhale, shoulders dropping.

He looks away and waves you over to sit next to him, and he scoots to the side.

The moment you sat down, you immediately thrust the tablet into his lap, your palms spreading over your knees as you bounced your feet.

"L-Look, I was just--"

"Stop." Marc sighed, setting the tablet on the coffee table. His voice was still heavy with sleep, that slightly gravelly tone you may or may not have fantasized about once or twice.

He looked at you, his lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke.

"How far did you get?"

Your nails dug into the fabric of your pajama pants as your legs bounced aimlessly, trying to alleviate the embarrassment, guilt, and shame of you snooping through his things.

"I..." You say, chewing the inside of your cheek.

God, you felt terrible.

Your body stopped cold when his heavy hand slid over your knee, stopping your movements in their place.

You felt his fingers squeeze you softly, before his palm rubbed the bones he could feel beneath your skin and muscle in a soothing gesture.

"I guess it's only fair I tell you about me, huh?" Marc sighed dejectedly, taking his hand off of you and wiping his face, as if that gesture alone could erase his fatigue.

"To answer the first few questions I know you have bouncing around in your head..." He added, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared at the paperwork and tablets on the table in front of you two.

"Yes. Randall is my brother. My little brother. And yes. I'm looking for him." Marc looked at you.

You were sitting patiently, your brows pinched and your expression pensive.

"Nobody would listen to me, but I know he caused the accident that killed Erica." You saw his throat bob hard as his expression darkened. "The investigation said she veered off the road due to bad conditions. But I'm not stupid. I looked into it myself, and bribed someone to let me look at the wreckage. The brake lines weren't torn during the crash, they were cut before the crash. Nobody would listen to me and I almost got arrested for interfering with an investigation. Yeah, right."

He snorted, a humorless and cold sound.

"They closed the case as an accident, wouldn't listen to me. Said I was "too hung up on the loss of my wife"." He made finger quotes. "So I investigated myself. God, fuck, I knew it was Randall... If they'd just listened to me... He..."

His voice broke up as he clenched his eyes shut.

"Diatrice wouldn't have been... I would still have her."

"Marc...." You say, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Why... why would Randall do this?"

He sighs deeply, a heavy sound coming from him like the air was just vacuumed out of his lungs.

"It... Fuck. Randall is the one who introduced me to Erica. I had just gotten out of the Marines. It just... They weren't a good fit for me, so I returned to Chicago. Home." Marc leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. "Randall had gotten a job in some security firm for archeological digs, which is where he met Erica. It was good money, he told me. They were friends. She just got her degree and was trying to get the spot on a dig site somewhere. We... hit it off fast. Within a year, we got married, Randall got me a job in his firm. A year after that, we went to Egypt with Erica on a dig."

"Your file said you got your powers on a dig in Egypt..." You say softly.

"Yeah. That same dig. It was a pain in the ass, we still don't know what exactly happened. I touched something, a statue, and... Poof. Powers." Marc lets out a slow hiss of air, his eyes closing, dark lashes touching his cheeks. "We finished the dig, everyone swore into secrecy. SHIELD found out about it anyways, and offered me a position. It's where I built my ankh and my tech."

"But... Peter said you got your powers from the ankh." You say, brows knit together in confusion.

"He's wrong. My file was put down incorrectly, but it's been fixed since I noticed the discrepancy after Peter mentioned that when he wanted my help during the Symbiote Invasion." Marc looked at you, his eyes tired and strained.

"But still. Something pissed Randall off. Randall and I weren't ever really friends, even as siblings. We tolerated each other. When I got those powers and he didn't? He just... he fucking snapped. After we returned from the dig, members of the team started turning up dead. Then, we found out we were expecting our first child. It turns out that Erica either got pregnant during the dig or shortly after."

You couldn't help but smile softly, your expression a bit pained. "During the dig? Marc..."

"Let's just say we were happy I wasn't dead after touching that statue." Marc said, closing his eyes with a nostalgic, yet sad smile.

"But anyways... with our baby on the way, we focused on that instead. When Diatrice was born, it was the happiest day of my life. She was a happy, bubbly little thing."

You sensed the shift from affectionate pride as he spoke about his daughter, to the grief you knew was coming as he spoke:

"Two years later, Erica had her "accident". Three years after that... Randall murdered Dee and Sandra. God. That poor girl. She was still so young. She tried so hard to keep him from hurting Dee."

He gritted his teeth and rested his arm over his face, most likely to hide the tears that wanted to roll free from the dam of his eyelids. Marc's voice was a weak tremble.

"After that, I started hunting, I moved my base of ops to the sewers. I went digging after he vanished. He became a hitman, a no-good killer for hire. Then I went to ground six months before the Symbiotes invaded. After that is when Peter found me, or well, I found him."

"And here we are, a year later..." You said softly.

"Yeah." He croaked out weakly.

You both sat in a long, pregnant silence. You weren't even sure how long it was, all you could hear was the sound of the water heater making noises now and again, and the buzzing fluorescent lights illuminating your basement.

"Marc?" You finally asked.

"Yeah?" He answered.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and lean back and over, until your head rested on Marc's shoulder.

You could feel him hold his breath and tense, and you waited until he breathed again to speak.

"...I'm sorry for snooping." You apologized.

"You were curious about me. It's not like I've been forthcoming about this shit." Marc sighed softly, his body softening slightly.

"But still. It was wrong." You say to him, closing your eyes as you take a deep breath.

The smokey, pine scent of his choice of cologne and body wash filled your nose, filtering around in your lungs as you take in the essence that is Marc Spector.

"Marc."

"Still here."

"Thank you... for telling me all of this." You whisper.

"It was about time I get it all out. I guess it just took the right battering ram to knock the door down."

You can't help but chuckle, and Marc joins in with you.

It was good to hear him laugh.

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Pt. 6: Link

[eomereadig]

Snippet: Carefree

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Captain Rex

Rating: M

Tags: crack treated seriously, Obi-Wan cares very little for his own health, fluff, wrestling, making out, dry humping

Full fic now avaliable here

Rex could have sworn he’d taken that very datapad away less than an hour ago, but he wouldn’t have put it past Obi-Wan to have a spare on his person at all times. Or perhaps he’d just stolen it back and Rex was getting complacent. 

He huffed at the smug expression on Obi-Wan’s face. Getting rid of that seemed almost as important as looking after Obi-Wan’s health. 

“Give me that!” 

Rex went to snatch it away but, as quick as a flash, Obi-Wan lent back, arm outstretched to keep the datapad out of his reach. His legs were spread wide, too, to keep his balance and probably to demonstrate just how at ease he was with the situation, confident he could keep the datapad from Rex’s grasp. It was a good look, Rex thought. At any other point, he might have found himself dropping to his knees right then and there, but for the time being Obi-Wan’s wellbeing took priority. 

Rex raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘do you really want to test me?’ The quick rise and fall of the Jedi’s own was answer enough. 

‘Try me.’

The wrestling match that followed was an undignified and highly embarrassing affair for both parties. The two of them laughed and giggled far too much to take the other, or the grappling contest, seriously. It wasn’t the first time that this had happened and with any luck, it wouldn’t be the last. 

While both Jedi and clones were trained rigorously in hand-to-hand combat, neither of them chose to employ that skill set then. It was far more fun to be silly and ineffective without having to worry about doing the other any real damage. Really, it wasn’t about getting the datapad back at all. With Obi-Wan still sitting in his desk chair, Rex knew he could have ended the fight at several points but was enjoying it far too much to do so. 

Sue him if he wanted to hear Obi-Wan giggling for a little while longer. 

Trying to create some distance, Obi-Wan used his feet (and likely the force, too) to propel the chair backwards on its wheels, away from Rex. With the datapad so far out of reach, Rex was forced to choose a new target - Obi-Wan himself. 

He seized the Jedi’s ankle when he began to kick and flail about and grinned wolfishly as he dragged Obi-Wan back into his space once again. Like this, he was able to loom over the Jedi, their knees knocking together. Still, Obi-Wan’s expression was defiant. Rex couldn’t have that. 

When Obi-Wan’s hands darted to the seat of the chair, Rex knew he was going to bolt. He did the only thing that came to mind and sat on Obi-Wan with his full weight, straddling the other man in full armour. 

If the disgruntled ‘oof’ noise from below was any indication, the new position was highly uncomfortable, but Rex couldn’t bring himself to care as long as it got the job done. 

Obi-Wan squirmed but was unable to dislodge Rex’s considerable weight. He was by no means fat, but being tall and muscled certainly meant he weighed more than Obi-Wan who was slender and a few inches shorter. By the Jedi’s expression, Rex knew the plates of his armour were digging in uncomfortably, but the thickness of Obi-Wan’s usual robes meant that Rex wasn’t too concerned about pinching his skin.

Obi-Wan gave him a shove to the chest, more for show now than actually trying to dislodge him. 

It was then that the both of them simultaneously remembered the tablet still clutched between Obi-Wan’s fingers. 

Rex made a grab for it at the same moment Obi-Wan lent backwards again, flinging his arm out and away from Rex’s hands. The chair groaned at their combined weight and tipped precariously beneath them, forcing Rex to abandon his target and slam a hand down on the desk to stop them tumbling to the ground. Shifting one’s focus was a real talent Obi-Wan had, Rex observed grimly. 

Still, somehow, Rex did eventually manage to snatch back the datapad, fighting his way past long arms before tossing it out of Obi-Wan’s reach for good. 

“Ha ha, General.” Rex said triumphantly as he lent forwards, forcing Obi-Wan back against the chair. The Jedi hardly seemed to mind the loss. He laughed, seemingly unbothered, and gazed up at Rex happily through his lashes. 

“Oh will you just shut up and kiss me?”

Full fic now avaliable here

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Sorry, Wrong Comms! : Hunter x Medic!Reader [Chapter 6]

Warnings and Information: Intended audience is 13+ (18 if you squint). Tech's never beating the space!Tablet Kid allegations for this chapter lmao. A couple of lines here and there get suggestive: CF99'S favorite medic friend is deep in thought about the shortest man of all the Batchers today. ;) Should know the drill on my usage of italics, Mando'a and headcanons by now for the series. Passing reference to a little Twi'lek kid being injured in an upsetting/unsettling way (accidental burns from a fusion cutter), but he's okay! We cry like men in this house because we've learned (slightly) better coping mechanisms almost a year after Order 66 in this AU!! Mentions of medical stitches, prescription medication and paraphernalia. Some fluff. Some angst. Mutual pining if you squint. Mostly Star Wars but also real-world swearing. Occasionally jumping character-focus. Observed mentions (by Tech) of Hunter's avoidant behaviors near the end of the chapter with Tech lying to Medic!Reader so he doesn't ruin Hunter's plan.

Word-count: 7,718

Tech was hurrying out the door and down the short stoop as [____] approached, head buried in his datapad like a distracted kid. "Good morning, Tech! Where are you off to in such a hurry?" she tried, amused to see him already so busy with something. Most of the long-term residents of this spaceport would still be sleeping, but here Tech was, already looking like he'd been awake for hours. Well, with exception of Omega, getting up early was still by and large habitual for this band of brothers, she reminded herself. (A war didn't stop just because you got a little sleepy…)

There was no stopping the bespectacled Clone, he hardly broke his stride as he stepped away from his front door but made sure to greet her over his shoulder to avoid offense. "Shipyards. Docking fee day. Have to hurry before there's a line. Good morning, [____]." 

Heh. Catch you another time, then, she thought with a laugh. The shipyards didn't open for another few minutes, according to her wrist device, but Tech and his love of optimization and efficiency didn't care much for waiting in line. As she watched his retreating figure walk down the street, she could have sworn one of his arms was moving very gingerly, and his gait looked a little stiff. Weird night of sleep and woke up in some uncomfortable position, perhaps? Wouldn't be the first time, given he's been reported to sleep in the pilot's seat of the Marauder when her friends were off traveling, much to the worry of his family. Or maybe he fell asleep at his desk again, tinkering with another project. 

Perhaps, and stars she hoped not, there'd been some concerns with Hunter last night. Wonder how Hunter slept… How was he? Was he awake now, and would she have time to bid him good morning, see for herself that the man she dreamed about last night was, hopefully, okay? 

Mercifully, her dream was not of what had transpired only yesterday. Instead she'd dreamed about that night she must have fallen asleep on the couch rather suddenly when Hunter had taken care of her injuries, and kindly offered to knead knotted muscle and tissue for her in further apologies for rudely rousing her from sleep. Had she and Hunter not been startled awake because of Omega, perhaps [____] would have been able to first apologize for dozing off on him, quite literally, but also thank Hunter for being a good sport about it. If she knew then what was made a little more evident to her just yesterday, she was nearly positive that that night probably brought up a lot of strong feelings for him. Feelings, and certain actions, Wrecker had told her their family's marksman had made innuendo of.

Crosshair. He was always meeting her at the door just before she would have to use the buzzer. She hadn't even reached the short stoop this time. "Hey doc." Two cups of caf in his hands, his in a mug, her's the disposable thermos so she could finish it when she got to her clinic and opened for the day. That was sweet of him. "Mornin', Cross." Good as ever, and not quite so hot this time. (Galaxy and all her stars, he remembered that offhand comment? Oh, Cross…)

"Mmm… thanks. How'd-" Crosshair shook his head slowly, laying a slender and dexterous finger to his bottom lip before he nursed his caf, climbing down a few steps before he sat himself on one side. Understanding she was expected, invited to join him, she took the other half of the step and had another sip. While she wasn't sure why he'd stopped her, she figured he just might be waking up still. Understandable enough: he looked pretty tired. Long night taking care of Hunter or staying awake just in case he was needed, probably. 

He was a little like Hunter, in that way; sacrificing precious sleep when someone was unwell to make sure they were taken care of. A watchman, a presence of comfort and care. I've got your six covered, brother. Habits from the war they had adapted in slightly healthier ways since. Habits she'd seen in Hunter when he stopped by the clinic with one of his brothers whenever they'd gotten hurt, or sick. 

I don't want him to feel alone. While… we think we trust you, it's just a promise I made to them on Kamino. 

She'd asked him what promise, regarding the then closed-off leader with a curious look. It was only a follow-up at the time to make sure Crosshair was still on-track after recovering from the parasite, so the fact Hunter had come in with him had her puzzled nearly a year ago. But [____] knew the answer now. That he'd always watch out for his brothers in the Kaminoan labs; it was a promise he still intended to keep even with Kamino lost to them forever. He felt so responsible for the safety of his brothers and sister. He just recognized he couldn't do it alone, sometimes.

She pulled her hard-frame medbag closer, unlatching the lock to the top to reach inside and extract the borrowed firearm. Carefully lowering her voice as someone walked by and regarded the trampled gate laying in the street with confusion, [____] gave her friend a brief nudge with her elbow and passed him the pistol along with a pack of gauze and slim box of toothpicks underneath. "Oughta complete the hostage exchange," she joked, "cause nice as this is - having caf with a friend - I can't sit here all morning… Clinic won't run itself with poor little P4TCH still out of commission…" She really had to get her medi-droid serviced for his broken arms. Eventually… those blasted pirates.

"So get Tech to look at him." Cross grumbled around the lip of the mug, biting back a yawn. 

"It'd break the warranty to go to a third-party for servicing, otherwise I would in a kriffing heartbeat, Cross. Even though I know Tech is good, very damn good, I need to keep that warranty." She admitted regrettably, though sorely tempted; the wait-list for servicing was moving at a moon-slug's pace. The marksman looked like he wanted to say something, watching her from the corner of his eye with a guarded expression. "Spit it out. It's alright." [____] promised, taking another swig of her own caf. She could tell that, for whatever reason, this was upsetting Crosshair. "Tell me how you really feel."

"To hell with the karking warranty!" he barked under his breath, quickly looking as equally startled as the medic. "S-sorry…" Cross offered meagerly, face dropping into the palm of his free hand with a heavy sigh. She knew that sigh. 

Oh, Cross…

"Hey, it's okay. Don't beat yourself up for losing your temper, it happens. But Maker, I thought you were gonna go with "people break warranty all the time, kid: they don't advertise it and nobody finds out." or maybe even "Tech's too good for them to tell any difference." or something. I know most of the Batch isn't terribly fond of rules…" She set down her caf with a light sigh and gave him a leveled look, briefly laying a hand on his knee to give him some gesture of comfort, "How much sleep did you get last night, Cross?" 

"Not enough." Hadn't gotten any, as a matter of fact. Tech had managed to extract himself from Hunter's hold and found the sniper and ARC conspiring in the common room about an hour ago. All parties filled one another in on the events of the night, Crosshair and Echo sharing the plans they'd tried coming up with after Cross had woken him. Tech had filled them in on how he had "tricked" Hunter into falling asleep; how there was a letter, Cross hadn't imagined it, and for some reason not yet clear to the marksman it apparently mentioned him. (Hunter you karking sap… They'd have to be very careful not to mention this stuff to [____] yet, now.)

"Something happen with Hunter?" she needled delicately. "Or… just couldn't sleep without dreaming about what happened?" 

Partly dodging the question, the marksman offered a lazy head shake before taking a long draught of his caf. "Hunter actually slept fine. Echo and I lost track of time working on something..." Crosshair allowed himself to trail off before the word “important” slipped out; let the doc use her imagination and make her own guess that he could easily confirm or use as a false lead.

Crosshair mirrored the relieved smile that played across her face. "Oh, good. Good, glad to hear that... You guys have another intergalactic mission coming up when you say you lost track of time on something?" Were they really planning on working with this Captain Rex figure already? After what had happened to Hunter? She thought they would have been less trusting of this mysterious and unknown "captain" after an incident like that, cut ties altogether; they'd done it before in the stories they'd carefully divulged to the medic to explain why Crosshair was covered in Mon Calamari or Quarren blood and Tech had a concussion, in one instance. 

We're not working with them anymore because they got Tech hurt. So Crosshair lost his temper and repaid the favor. Thanks for letting Omega stay with you at your clinic today… and for taking care of Tech on short notice. Feel bad for bothering you after-hours again, [____]; not sure how to thank you, but-

It's no problem at all, Hunter. You know I'm always happy to help you guys. I can take a look at Crosshair's hand before you go, too; looks like he broke the skin across the knuckles when he punched that deserving nerf-herder in the mouth.

"We're probably not going intergalactic shit for a while after… No. It's something closer to home: one of us has to stop by your clinic around lunch. If that's okay." Cross added quietly, gingerly shaking [____]'s hand free from his knee, spotting something up the street before speaking up to explain why. "Might be certain medical supplies Tech will want to get our hands on that we can't find in a standard shop… Tech, I wrote two bottles for a reason, not three!" 

Grocery sack hoisted in his arms, Tech, power walking, came closer to the stoop so he wasn't shouting back to his sleep-deprived brother. Back from one of the early morning shops already? She hadn't even been there on the stoop with Crosshair for very long, and the shop was in the complete opposite direction of the shipyards. "There was a sale, Crosshair! Plus it's what sounded good to Hunter according to an urgent message from Echo while I was out, so one of these will be his alone. And I see that you're still here, [____]... Are you… not opening your clinic today?" 

Oh, so Hunter was awake? She probably didn't have the time to ask to go see him by now, looking at the time device on her wrist, but it was surprising that Hunter was already up and about if he'd had the sleeping aid last night. Again… probably metabolized it differently. "Well, I-"

"Just break the warranty on the medi-droid, kid…" 

Tech scolded him for interrupting [____], stepping between them to pass the produce and health paraphernalia to Echo who appeared at the door, obscuring all opportunities to take a peek inside by opening the door only part way and standing smack in the middle of the opening. "K'uur, let her talk, Crosshair." 

"Mornin', kid."

"Morning Echo- As I was saying, I will be opening my clinic today, maybe just a little late. So I should get going if I don't want to make it very late. Tell the others I said good morning, thanks for the caf and the borrowed firearm Cross; and yes it's okay to send someone to come bother me during lunch to pick up those supplies. Just send me a list, please." She popped off the stoop and dusted off the seat of her pants before collecting all her belongings to set off down the street in the direction of her clinic from their housing. "Catch you all later."

"Use the shortcut!" 

Right… the Wrecker-made shortcut created just yesterday would shave off travel time. Almost forgot about that one.

"Thanks, Tech!"

[____] made a face at her most initially frightening patient of the day as she fastened off the last of the bandage. There was a small giggle in response to the exaggerated expression of concentration. "Oh boy, this is tricky! Think I almooost…" There. Last of the bandage secured, she could strip off the gloves with a sharp snap and add a giant smiley face to the gauze keeping the healthy layer of bacta gel in place for the still-sniffling youngster. When she put the cap back on the fabric marker and looked at her patient, there was the smile she was hoping for at last.

"Okay little guy, you did a good job! You were so darn brave! All done! How about we be careful around our daddy's tools in the shipyards like he asks from now on, hm?" The little Twi'lek boy hopped off the examination chair carefully and excitedly embraced the medic's leg, giggling. It was like the mild burn injuries from his father's fusion cutter had hardly even happened, the boy's spirits were so bright and perky once again. Nothing like the pained wails when he was first carried into the clinic that made [____]'s stomach sink into her boots. "Thanks Miss Medic! A-and I will, I promise!" 

As she led the Twi'lek father-son duo back to the front to settle the payment, she could hear the door chime merrily as it opened up, and a burst of street chatter before it hissed shut after whoever had walked in. Another emergency client? So much for shutting shop just for lunch and helping one of the Batc-

"Hiya misters! Are you here to see Miss Medic too?" The little Twi'lek toddler raced ahead of his father as [____] took them up to the counter to get them signed out, grinning wickedly at these perfect strangers. Wrecker, who'd been grinning stupidly at the tiny size of the chairs for pediatric patients (not for the first time) while Tech stood stiffly in a corner with a supply crate at his feet and neck bent over the datapad rattling away in his hands, greeted the youngster with the same enthusiasm. "Oh yeah, we sure did; we're friends with her! We came here to give Miss Medic some lunch from home since we accidentally made too much!" 

She'd be called that for a long time now, she knew. 

"That's nice of you, misters! You're lucky, Miss Medic. You have nice friends." The boy stated matter-of-factly as she took the exchanged credits from his father and deposited them into a lockbox. [____] laughed sweetly at the boy before she officially dismissed her patients. "That is very nice of them indeed. They're very nice friends; I sure am lucky." She turned to the boy's father, who'd been watching his little one with a soft expression of relief since his son's injury had been tended to. "Okay, sir, you're all good to go. Thanks for bringing him by. You take care now; if you have any questions, you know where to find me." 

The left lekku twitched just slightly with the father's sincere smile, head dipping with a shallow nod. "Thank you for helping my son. I am grateful." Discharge instructions in hand, he bid the medic farewell and left the clinic, asking the toddler where they should go for lunch as they stepped out into the street.

She'd scarcely gotten the door panel to lock and flipped her cheerfully-lit "It's lunch time! Be back soon!" sign on before Wrecker swept her in a playful hug. Her legs dangled and swung in the air wildly for just a moment with the force of the lift-off. "Hey, ad'ika!" 

"Hahaha, hey Wreck, good to see you too! You guys really brought me lunch?" 

The boyish giant offered a sheepish grin, but his laugh was no less than boisterous. "Yeah! Hunter's gettin' his appetite back and I made waaaay too much for just us, he-heh… So I thought I'd tag along with Tech while he came to pick up our supplies he ordered from ya!"

"That," his brother finally started with a breezy tone, clipping away his pad momentarily, "and I wanted to confirm something regarding yesterday - since I was piloting your ship - that Wrecker had told you."

Without thinking, she blurted out the first possibility that came to mind. "What, that he calls you Techie?" Too late, she remembered that oops, she probably wasn't supposed to say anything about that. "I-I'm so sorry, I uh…" Where on earth could she start with an apology for that?

But Tech wasn't the least bit phased. Quite the opposite of "bothered" if the surprisingly warm laugh was anything to go by. "No matter, Miss Medic. Now: Wrecker told you about our beliefs regarding Hunter's feelings for you, correct?" Maker, how could [____] possibly forget that? The broody, guarded Sergeant of Clone Force 99 likely loved her? 

Broody and guarded, but… often, she found, surprisingly gentle and… hm. 

Rugged good looks came to mind. And hadn't there been an occasion or two where she'd seen him working on the hull of their ship without a shirt on before yesterday or the time they were hosing it down? That awed feeling as she watched the display of strength in each rippling and well defined, healthy muscle… that'd been a delicious sight to see. One she was sorely tempted to keep admiring, but feared the semi-jeering remarks of one of his brothers, or worse, Hunter himself catching her looking longer than was polite.

"Yeah. Wrecker let it slip." She admitted after a beat of silence, Wrecker carefully lowered her to the floor to let her talk to Tech and allow himself to find the food for her he's tucked somewhere in the crate they brought. Something warm and delicious, by the smell of it. "Why do you ask, Tech?" 

There was a plethora to learn by asking her. He wanted to study her micro-expressions, her inflection, tone and vocal pitch for any irregularities, perhaps her gestures as she spoke; and were he his vod he probably could have smelled hormonal and chemical reactions. She'd have to forgive him for theorizing whether or not she would begin transitioning to a state of arousal at the thought of Hunter if he had the means to swap experimental enhancements. 

"I… was disappointed to have missed the moment the Loth-cat was out of the bag." Half a truth. He was not one for engaging in gossip, but a small part of him loved overhearing it. Those out of context phrases were puzzles to solve and oftentimes proved too tantalizing for his exceptional mind to ignore. Made him something of a menace on Kamino as a cadet. Sith's hells, not just as a cadet, in truth. Commander Cody of the 212th Battalion had quickly learned that if he was going to have a private strategy meeting with General Kenobi, and the information discussed was privileged and confidential, his best bet was dunking a damaged helm on Tech's head like he was a disobedient Shiny so he couldn't hear the orange-painted Marshal Commander.

"Oh, I-I see…" the medic murmured, clasping her unsteady hands together to keep them from shaking. Nerves? Was she showing signs of returned attraction for his pining brother? "Ah kriff, I think my blood sugar is really low, not enough breakfast… Might have to eat and pack your order at the same time if that's okay, guys. Only had half a nutrient shake before I knocked it off my desk, like a right klutz, when I got in this morning." 

"We can wait." Tech assured her. "Have lunch first, [____]. Can't have our medic feeling 'off' when she's meant to be helping those who are in a worse way, now can we?" He gave Wrecker a firm and conspiratorial look as a means of reminder. If they stalled her, the longer the rest of their siblings had to convince Hunter of a few things the better. 

"Here, kid! Got some nuna stew, it's a new recipe I wanted to try. Hope you like it!" Cracking open the thermos, Wrecker carefully tipped it into a bowl they'd brought along and passed it along to [____], who took the serving of stew with a gracious and touched smile. 

Tech also hoped that whoever was helping Hunter with his romantic confession was not changing a single thing previously-written until he had gotten back per his very specific instructions, or they'd be in for some real shit.

He hoped it was Crosshair who got roped into Omega's bubbly, giddy desires to find supplies to throw the medic a party for the day she was born. 

Tomorrow. 

Hunter was determined to have the confessional letter ready, just in case. He didn't want to avoid it any longer. He wanted to have control of the situation, if he could. But great flying Aiwhas was it hard to think…

"No-no-no-no-n- That's not the word you want." Returning with another snap-activated cold pack for Hunter's left shoulder, Echo was wagging his head at the sight of the word he'd just finished typing. "While we're being honest with our feelings, I'm not sure it's a good idea to be telling someone that they're a crutch. Not like that, make it sound more poetic!" Hunter could see the flash of a pout from his sister as Crosshair ushered her out the door, the clawing fingers in the fat of her thigh. She had been the only sibling who did not get to read her brother's words. It made her so frustrated. Angry. Left out. 

Why couldn't she read it too?! She wouldn't tell! She was mature enough! She was technically older than them, don't you dare tell her she was too young! It was nothing she probably hadn't heard before in Tipoca City or one of those Holofilms! Just let her read it!

"We'll be back," came the marksman's drawl, "with probably every last party supply they have in the kid's favorite color/s. Good luck." 

"You guys too." Echo returned cheerfully before the door was shut, and the scuffle of feet down the stoop started. "... especially you, Cross." Omega would cheer up over the course of time of the errand, he hoped. But for the time being, Hunter was not comfortable with the idea of letting Omega look at the nature of the letter. Maybe, maybe when it was finished. He'd already been reluctant to show it to Cross and Echo, and especially Wrecker. 

But Wrecker had treated what was written so far almost reverently, handling it like it was holy text laid away in a house of worship. No giggles. No laughter. Not even a smile or wicked smirk like one of Cross's when he read it. How it'd worried him…

Is it that bad?

N-no! It's good, it's good; I think she'd like it! I just didn't want to look like I was makin' fun of you like a real piece'a osik… honest. You're… writing this cause'a me, after all.

It's okay, vod… I'd be… finding some way to tell her, eventually, anyways.

"... -nter? Hey- Hunter?" 

He realized Echo was trying to get his attention. "Wha'?" 

Echo collected the datapad from Hunter's slackened hands, setting it aside before it would fall and clatter across the floor a second time since Hunter had woken up from the nap he'd taken after a light breakfast. "You're spacing out again, Hunter. You need a break?" 

"M'fine, Echo. Just thinking." What he really needed was the next dose of the painkillers, soon. The twinge in his left shoulder as the bacta-gel and stitching accelerated the healing process was starting to get stronger than the ice could soothe. "Hard to squeeze out the right words right now. The pain…" 

"Take a break," Echo encouraged gently, a look of sympathy washing over the paler, chiseled face. Evidence of perhaps years of a lack of sunlight and food and activity in that damn Techno Union chamber. It was taking its sweet time, but the handsome, healthy warmth of his skin was returning. He wasn't the same sickly, melanin-bleached brother he'd rescued with Captain Rex and General Skywalker compared to a… what, year ago? More? The passage of time was a tricky thing to measure with galactic zone changes taken into account even in the best health… "We'll work on it in a bit once you're able to take that next dose. Want anything more before I put the leftovers from lunch Wrecker made in the cold unit?"

Echo nodded nonchalantly when Hunter wagged his head once, laying his head back. "Figured I'd offer. Maybe a nutrient paste tube instead?" That sounded good. Safe. "Sure. Grab one for you in a second, Hunter." Hunter just wondered how Tech and Wrecker's little run for ordered medical supplies was going… How the medic's day at the clinic was going. Uneventful, hopefully. Maybe [____] had a lot of pediatric patients today, or was one of those rare "Q-Days". He remembered the medics of the 501st and 212th and the staff of Kamino were paranoid about the q-word. 

Saying the q-word was thought to invite trouble, believed to cast a spell of mal-intention and ridiculous causes of injury. Healers working under the insignia of the shattered cross were often the sort made of sterner stuff to handle the grisly work and trust in the sciences, but, sometimes, they have some of the strangest superstitions when you knew where to look. 

"Been a real qui-" [____] squeaked in panic, dropping a shrink-wrapped roll of heavy duty gauze. Wrecker had momentarily forgotten she was careful about that word in her clinic without specific context. "Oops. Sorry, burc'ya. Been a real, uh… uneventful day?" She was stacking the last of the Batch's order in the medical crate, swallowing down the jump in her heart rate as Tech picked up the item dropped. "Thank you Tech. Uneventful, yes Wrecker. Thank the Maker." 

"That's good! Not-a-lot-of-patients eventful or just nothin'… uh… stressful? Think that's the word I'm lookin' for." 

The medic pushed a little section of her hair back in place with her free hand, shoulders squeezing up to her ears in an easy movement. "Lots of patients, but a pretty tame day. Most eventful treatment was the pediatric patient who came in before you guys. Just lots of coughs, sniffles and fevers otherwise." It was the typical cold and flu season for this particular travel-hub, so lots of little ones would be coming in and out of her clinic like in years past, she remarked, closing the latch to their supply crate with the last of their order stocked for them. "Nose always burns a bit with all the antiseptic I'm using by the end of the day but I am not spending the rest of the weekend being sick. Taking tomorrow and the next day off." She was going to kriffing enjoy a birthday without being sick for once since moving to this planet.

"Awh yeah, good plan!" Wrecker rumbled warmly, both he and Tech relieved to hear that she planned on being away from her clinic tomorrow without even asking. "Gonna do anything special for tomorrow?" [____] looked at Wrecker with a puzzling expression, but the warmth in her eyes never faded for a second. Tech sighed carefully, re-perching his goggles on the sweet spot of the bridge of his nose. "Wrecker's asking if you've got plans for your birth-day."

"O-oh, well shit, besides take the day off and enjoy my birthday? Not really." she admitted, lazily fixing little flyaways of her hair from her face once again. "I never really have had the chance in past years to make big plans… either had to work here at the clinic or was too sick to enjoy the day. Wanted to change that this year." Take the day off. Sleep in. Relax. No emergency clients, no antiseptic, no obligations and no one to take care of other than herself. 

Aside from Hunter, if he really needed her; hell, maybe even just wanted her to. Or did… she want him to want her? 

"Oh, by the way," [____] started after a long pause, shaking herself free of the last particular thought, "How'd Hunter sleep last night? How's he doing today?" 

"Echo…" Hunter grumbled, clutching his upper arm. The pain in his left shoulder felt white-hot and he couldn't focus on tearing open the blister-packaging all the way once he'd gotten the appropriate dose from the canister. "Need some help." Echo called from the kitchenette over the roar of the faucet. "Hang on, brother. Getting you some water!" He was quick to bring in the water and finish breaking the seal around the capsules for Hunter, cybernetic knees dipping into the seat of the couch on his left side. "Deep breath, brother. You're okay. You'll be okay once the medicine kicks in; the waiting is the hard part." 

Maker, was it ever.

One, two, pearlescent blue. Funny what a small bit of medicine could do. 

Sheath that sharp blade of pain as his body knit itself back together with every second skin of bacta-gel he was applying in lieu of going to the much larger medical center that could offer a bacta tank treatment. It was too far from their housing. It was too much risk to run into Imperial forces or their sympathizers because it could not afford to turn away those clientele without Imperial COs catching wind and making life hell for the medical board of directors there. 

It wasn't her clinic. She'd been trying, applying for a tank for several planetary revolutions, but she was repeatedly turned down approval. Tech… he could forge the approval for her, right? It wouldn't be any different than the times he'd pulled medical forgeries so convincing that the Marshal Commander of the 212th had to (pretend to) scold Tech in front of some of the nastier scientists who threatened to take the perceived "treason" of this act of disobedience to the Prime Minister on a return assignment to Kamino just to save his skin. 

If Tech could just work a little clever forgery… the medical boards in this system that serviced independent clinics could get her that bacta tank. It was certainly a nice thought to distract himself with, if nothing else. Mercifully he could feel the first ebb of relief washing over him. It looked like Echo could see the relief, too. "Feeling better?"

"Much… Gotta hand it to [____]: she knows what works." 

"Thank the Maker. We'll give it a few more minutes and then I'll give you back the datapad." 

"I should be fine," Hunter offered a woozy smile, trying to disarm the usual tripwires of worry Echo was always tangled up in, "honest. Don't worry quite so much. What trouble could I possibly get up to while I recover?" He'd overdone the slightly drunken charm, and whatever uncoiling the smile had done was immediately taut once more. 

Plenty of trouble. The ARC trooper, better than anyone, would know it was possible to get "up to" plenty of trouble while feeling less than his best. If he had felt anything at all when he had been weaponized and used against his own brothers as some kind of mere counterintelligence program and turned him into a brother-killer rather than his own individual personality and the quirks that dubbed him Echo by the fallen Domino Squad… 

Maker, now he felt like he was going to cry again.

Echo only gave the briefest sigh before he sat himself by Hunter's side on the sofa and slowly reeled him in for a tender embrace, mindful of the stitching and gauze. "Are we sure these prescriptions are safe for you to take, sarge?" It was a sheltered attempt at humor. Caution and curiosity. "Sure it helps with the pain, and we want that, but these seem to make you a little weepy. First Tech. Now me. Wrecker next on the rota? Or is Crosshair ahead of him?" 

Echo was dangerously close to making him laugh in a way that wouldn't feel nice on his stitches in efforts to cheer his spirits. He was kind enough and failed to mention the "angry water" incident when Hunter had gotten to the cold unit before one of his vode and started rooting through it for some blue milk and blindly found a bottle of sparkling water he'd tried, hated, and meant to throw away. The mouthful of bubbles and muted, artificial flavor was not what Hunter had wanted and it was spat out into the sink with force, tears in his eyes. He kriffing hated the stuff and it scared him this morning; of course he cried in his half-awake state on a fresh dose of oral pain meds. "Sh-shut up!" 

The arm snaking around his back gave his shoulder blade a carefully placed, ginger double-pat. "Yeah-yeah. I'll get riiiiight on that, Sergeant." Echo gave a mock-salute with his scomp component to go along with the heavy coat of sarcasm in his voice, understanding Hunter wasn't being serious about his order. He picked up the datapad from the low table and put it in Hunter's hands. "Now get back to work. Give Tech a surprise by making some decent headway on that letter." 

Hunter could do that, bolstered by the encouragement once he'd settled his nerves again, and the pain in his shoulder had become dormant. Sentences were written and rewritten, some erased entirely (understanding Tech was likely to check the change-log when he got back) as he tried formulating these thoughts with a clearing head as the prescription kicked in and silenced the pain enveloping his body and nervous system as he healed. 

Even better, by the time Omega and Crosshair had trudged home with large supply bags of party decorations and gifts for [____] from everyone, he'd finished his last sentence and signed off on the letter as someone rapped their knuckles on the door. "Echo, Hunter! We're home!"

"Wrecker and Tech still out?" Crosshair looked weary as Echo opened the door to them, half-lidded eyes sweeping the room instinctually before flicking to the time display in the central area of the house. "Tech's going to keep the kid busy past her lunch hour if he's not careful…" 

"Ah, Tech probably wants to see every last bit of her equipment in her back office this time or something. You know him. Wrecker will drag him home if we just ask." 

"Yeah…" Cross yawned, draining half of a concentrated caf-shot from a travel cup he had tucked in the crook of his arm. "We got the decorations." 

"I can see that." Echo chuckled. He wouldn't tease Crosshair for being uncharacteristically tired, but he would mess with him a little as he saw Omega timidly approach Hunter. She was probably hoping again to successfully get a look this time. Might as well keep the sleep-deprived brother occupied while their sister gave it another shot. Hunter did say he'd think about letting her look, after all. 

Hunter sat up carefully as Omega nervously crept closer, looking at her with that brotherly warmth that always made her feel so safe. Secure. He seemed relaxed, more relaxed than the pain relievers typically made people. She wondered, but didn't look at the datapad yet… The smokey purr of her brother's voice as he made the efforts to clearly focus bode well, for the moment. "Hey, Omega… Have a nice outing getting everything with Cross?"  

She sat down on the seat beside him and curled into his most uninjured side best she could. "Mhm." The weight and warmth of his arm was a welcome presence around the small of her back, and with a brief pull, she took his invitation to snuggle in a little closer so he could better tease his fingers through her hair from root to tip. 

He chuckled softly at the first involuntary shiver he could sometimes coax out of her when he played with her hair. It was always such a treat when one of Omega's tells that she felt relaxed, safe, and loved came out and made themselves known. "Find anything interesting?" 

"I guess so. Hopefully she'll like the presents we got… I still need to find one for [____]." She had spent a long time puzzling out what she thought their medic friend might like, but she hadn't found anything fitting yet, and she felt bad about keeping Crosshair so long when he was clearly pretty tired so she had suggested they go home. Hunter smoothed out Omega's hair soothingly now, a low hum in his chest as he did his best to cheer her up. It always warmed her heart at the very least when he tried. "Don't worry, Omega… I'm sure you can talk Wrecker into going somewhere to find your gift to her after dinner. There's time, yeah?" 

"I guess so…" she shrugged, maneuvering carefully to nestle into his lap when Hunter offered. He looked like he felt better, and was acting like he felt better as well if he was a little less ginger and timid in his movements than this morning as he held her lovingly as ever. "Don't worry, ad'ika. Until then…" Here he picked up the datapad, and sure that he was about to put it away, she was astounded that Hunter offered it to her. "In the meantime, you can see what I've been up to. I gave what you said a little thought; you probably have heard similar stuff on Kamino, and those Holofilms before, so it's probably alright that you see what I've written to [____]." 

"Really?"

"Wellll-" Hunter said quickly, carefully painting his words in a teasing tone, half-heartedly twitching the datapad away from her, "on second thou-"

She swiped it from her brother's hands and whooped with laughter once as a result of his playful tickling, and soon both were stifling their giggles together on the couch as Echo and Crosshair observed from the little dinner table in the breakfast nook with warm smiles. "N-no!! You said-!" Omega forced out through giggles and gasps as Hunter targeted where she was most ticklish. 

Echo watched the marksman as he swiped someone's datapad, probably Wrecker's (given it was left at the table opened to what looked like a recipe when the screen came to life), and aimed it at Omega and Hunter with the capture feature active on the HUD.

 klic!

"What're you doing?" Echo wondered, watching Crosshair now opening the message function and tagging through Wrecker's contacts for something. 

"They're going to want to see this." Crosshair hummed, a little hint of an answer. "Big guy and the nerd should probably come home about now, lunch is nearly over; but if they're still visiting the kid, she's probably asked how Hunter's doing." Proper contact selected ("smarty-pants" in all capitals, another hint of the demolition expert's larger-than-life personality), Crosshair sent off the message.

Just before they bid [____] good-bye and a wish for an uneventful (not explicitly using "quiet") rest of her shift for the fifth time, Tech's datapad trilled with a special little message tone reserved just for communications from his brothers. "Why in the stars did you send me a message, Wrecker? I'm right here." 

Wrecker gingerly patted down each of the large pockets and pouches that were part of his pants in confusion. "Huh? I didn't send anythin'. I… don't even have my datapad on me. Uh-oh. Did I accidentally leave it somewhere; do y'see it, ad'ika?" She shook her head, frowning. As the medic began to look around the front-end of her clinic for her friend's datapad with Wrecker, Tech broke the bubble around the unopened message and skimmed through it. 

"... Ah! It's a message from Crosshair." Must mean that Wrecker never had his datapad on him to begin with, since Crosshair had a tendency to ignore proper use of case-formatting whenever he was not speaking to a superior and only used lowercase and punctuation. "He's reminding us we should be on our way home if we aren't already. But, if we're still at the clinic, he'd like us to show you something." 

"Oh," [____] mused, "show me what?" Tech tapped the little icon to open the image file attachment, and the new expression settling into her face that morphed from the initial curiosity confirmed to Tech what the brothers were hoping for. When discussing with Echo and Crosshair whether they thought the medic had any similar feelings, they were discussing the potential clues they'd seen in the past and had done their best to suss out what had been habits of her profession, and what had been aspects of her interest in Hunter if there were any. Grateful as ever for the impressive attention to detail the sharpshooter boasted, Tech could see something Crosshair had noticed. 

Something he had not stopped thinking of since: [____]'s cryptic marksmen see everything was rather astute.

Just a little color rising to the apple of her cheeks, the little involuntary burst of microexpressions made when she looked at Hunter. They were all there. "Awh, how cute. He looks like he's feeling a little better… good. Looks like they're watching some holo-media together, too!" Wrecker laughed softly in agreement, nodding at the medic. For all they knew that's what Hunter and Omega were doing, the way both were focused on the blue-white glow of the screen they couldn't see from the angle of the camera. 

A faint, shy smile as her eyes habitually glanced over the bits of gauze visible under the loose clothing Hunter wore, lingering longest over his face and the warm, loving smile he wore directed at Omega. "He hasn't smiled like that in a while, I think…" [____] observed mostly to herself, falsely. 

Crosshair had told him the morning she had been over for breakfast and had been listening to Tech ramble on about that intergalactic band, he'd seen Hunter break into that same smile with every laugh she made. The self soothing adjustments when she tidied up a wrinkle in the sleeve of her medical coat as a distraction, either for herself or for anyone watching her. A second, when she tucked away hair that wasn't necessarily out of place. The soft, lingering look when she stole another glance at the image of Hunter with an arm wrapped around Omega's back as she curled up with him, one of his cheeks planted softly on the crown of her head.  

"No, I suppose not," Tech lied plainly, playing into her observation for the sake of Hunter's plan. "It's rather nice to see him smiling again." She had no way of knowing how stressed out and high-strung Hunter had been before Clone Force 99 embarked on the raiding of a prisoner transport ship; how he hadn't been speaking to Echo for a few days after Echo had let Captain Rex know they were finally decided and they would be joining the endeavor, doing the right thing, to rescue their brothers who wanted to desert the Empire. 

The risk-

-is worth it, Hunter! 

Hunter didn't disagree with that or the unspoken we should be helping our brothers who are being held against their will! But he didn't mention that it scared him either. The fear of what would become of them if the Empire learned they made it out of the bombing of Tipoca City. The fear of what might happen to Omega. What might happen to [____] if they never came back. He hadn't been sleeping well; he'd been obsessively polishing, oiling and sharpening his weaponry in lieu of making sure he was properly rested the night before. His food intake was subpar. He kept staring at the comlink device with her communication frequency dialed in, just a button away from spinning a web of lies to request an emergency neuro-suppressor for short-term anxiety. 

He was even avoiding taking his first dosage of the prescription medication after his discharge from her clinic because it hurt to swallow after what he'd been given aboard the Havoc Marauder wore off.

Hunter hadn't been smiling, and meaning it, until Omega punched into the communication line to the independent clinic's medic for assistance and [____] showed up at their house - so clearly tired and fighting the adrenaline crash, but concerned for his well-being - and he realized that she was suddenly there and talking to him. 

He hated feeling like he was lying to her when he could so easily tell her the likely truth of what might be on that screen when she asked him to ask Hunter and report back to her what he was watching with Omega. But that would make the emotional work he was helping Hunter with obsolete, and he didn't want to betray a brother like that. While he could be forgiving, with enough time, with the right people, Hunter may take a long time to forgive Tech for something like letting anything slip too early before, thus far, deciding to stick to the accidental overlap of Echo's deadline falling on her birthday. 

"Sure," Tech agreed happily, grateful that Wrecker was here to mirror the appropriate social cues he should follow, "I can ask. And I'll make sure he takes the medicine to help him sleep tonight." he added with a polite smile. 

She smiled fondly at the memory of the careful story that Tech shared with her and Wrecker how he'd gone to check on Hunter last night and spent some time comforting him, omitting why exactly he was comforting Hunter. He'd tell Wrecker the truth on the way home. 

And hopefully, if Hunter truly felt tomorrow was the right time, or soon after instead, [____] would know the truth too. 

Tech couldn't think of a more deserving person than [____] after all she's done to help, even save, them. 

Taglist: @dragonrider9905 @ladytano420

If you would like to be added to the taglist that is currently just specific for Sorry, Wrong Comms!, (I may start a taglist for all Star Wars related fanfiction projects that will be marked accordingly with #frostfics in the near future if there is interest) don't hesitate to shoot me an ask or a comment loves. 🩷

[MASTERLIST] [PREVIOUS] [NEXT]

[valkblue]

✨ YCH Commissions — Valentine's Day Special 💝

Hi, everyone!

The oracles have spoken — we entered the month of heart-shaped chocolate boxes. So here is my humble contribution to your celebration: two comfy, cosy, tender poses for your OCs to finally get the rest and cuddles they deserve! 🙃

So, if you want to gift one of these to yourself or to your beloved mutuals, I'd be thrilled to help you make all of you happy. Like before, you can choose one or more, and each portrait is 40€ for the same simple, not painted/roughly shaded sketch style.

All fandom or original characters are okay with me✌️Just be prepared for my dumb questions if I'm not part of your fandom.

J - this pose can be tweaked a little for a sweet forehead kiss, or a tender smooch…

K - you may request something else than a book in the hand of the character, like a tablet/datapad, a controller, a mug... you name it!

These can work for male and female characters, human or not, of course.

Also, because I'm stupidly busy these days IRL, I'm opening only 6 slots! But, should you really want one of them, just hit me up, I'll see what I can do, and when.

➡️ Search for “YCH Commission” in the list on ko-fi:

Thank you, and much love to you all 💞

[h2o-my-gods]

Kylo Ren x Reader (Wip)

a/n: I'd like it noted that it has been almost 9 years since the force awakens came out and I am still utterly obsessed with this man. I jotted this down a couple of months ago and suddenly remembered it so might as well put it out there. I prefer to write my stories with a gender neutral reader for future references, so sorry if this isnt your cup of tea but please enjoy :)

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            Watching them move on was the hardest thing that Kylo had done.

It stabbed his heart with a thousand needles prickling with heat, an everlasting reminder that throughout everything that had transpired, he still had a heart. The very thing he tried so hard to destroy, to forget about even. The very thing they had tried so deeply to convince him that he had, that having didn’t negate all the work that he’d done. He had tried so hard to box it up under lock and key, compliments from Snoke’s training. He needed to be heartless to rule a galaxy and he preferred it that way. No contact, no feelings, no weaknesses. He’d kill any potential weakness that tried to worm into his life, or even ones that were already there. He’d already taken care of his father.

Others had tried to get close to him, foolish officers and even more idiotic flyways, the people it was easy to not care about. He saw their own emotions, their own weaknesses plain as day on their faces. The annoying tilt of the head those female officers would do, that glint in their eyes that they wanted him to see. It infuriated him. But just as easy as it was to see their obnoxious infatuation with him, it was easy to see how to hurt them, and he did. He relished in the fear on their faces as they realized just how heartless he was, how heartless he tried to be. But he saw them.

He noticed their looks towards him, not the terrified glances from those who feared him, closer to the looks that the female officers would give him, and yet they never did anything about it. They never approached him, never sent him ridiculous chocolates, or brought him reports that didn’t concern him just to get a chance to talk to him. They did nothing about it and that was what caught his eye.

It slipped his mind at first because if they were to do nothing then why should he concern himself with it. Soon, it seemed to become the norm, he grew used to their idle stare, an ever-present sensation that was different than the fearful aura he was used to. He didn’t even realize he was growing slightly fond of it. Too late did he finally realize, the feeling rising exponentially the week he noticed their absence from their workstation. It only got worse from there.

With every day of their absence that passed, he felt himself growing more and more irate, a simmering rage that bubbled in his stomach, constantly threatening to boil over at even the most minute annoyances. The fear that surrounded him was stifling suddenly, it encompassed him in a thick haze that made him want, no, need to get away. It didn’t help that Hux seemed to sense his craze too, a permanent disapproving scowl pointed towards Kylo that just made his rage worse. He wanted to wrap his hands around Hux’s throat, no Force needed, just him and his gloves, leather against skin and the feeling of Hux’s windpipe slowly closing under his grip until-

They took Hux’s gaze from him as they approached, silently offering a datapad to him without sparing Kylo a glance. Though neither Kylo nor Hux had been talking before, the silence seemed thicker after their approach, save for the soles of their boots thumping against the polished floor. Hux’s scowl diminished to its normal aversion, taking the tablet and scanning it’s interface quickly before signing its contents and handing it back. They took it swiftly and turned on their heel towards their workstation and though his mask hid his almost greedy eyes on their figure, it didn’t hide his head following their path, an action that Hux noted. He also noted the slight sag of Kylo’s shoulders, the beasts rage simmering faster than it had started this morning. Hux was a perceptive man, he prided himself on it, he knew when officers were slacking, he knew when Kylo was angry, and he knew that Kylo was infatuated with his star officer.

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I'd love to hear any and all feedback too, feel free to leave whatever you'd like :)

[starqueensthings]

The Only Exception:

Foreword, Basics, and References

Basics: 3rd POV, primarily following the main character (OC) with occasional shifts to other perspectives (separated by chapter). 

Pairing: Captain Howzer x fem!OC; then Jesse x fem!OC; then maybe something else… maybe something of the same… TEEHEE

Characters: more clone OC’s than I can count, tons of human OC’s, Twi-lek OC’s, many of our favourite TCW characters like Fives, Echo, Jesse, Kix, and Rex playing large parts of the story. Tup, Hardcase, Dogma, Cody, Keeli, and others also make appearances. 

Rating: will shift chapter by chapter between 16+ for mature themes, and 18+ for explicit themes. 

Posting Schedule: will not be consistent. The undulation of ADHD means there are days to weeks where my brain can’t translate a single sentence from thought to written word, so I’m hesitant to commit to a structured, weekly schedule but will do my best.

Things that probably don’t need to be noted, but because I’m both anxious and uncontrollably long-winded, I feel the need to explain: 

This work was written novel style, and not necessarily the traditional 2nd POV, x reader fanfiction style that we all know and love. These characters have names, histories, appearances that are both eluded to and mildly described, as well as personality traits that may not be desirable to some. For example: the main character, June, harbors some resentment toward men because of some lingering trauma from her past, and unfortunately lets it influence many of her decisions. There are times, particularly in the beginning of the story, where she can be highly sensitive to what some would consider harmless, off-the-cuff remarks, and becomes combative and irrational as a result. Her reactions are particularly placed to emphasize aspects of her character, so that we can witness her growth and/or regressions throughout the story. 

In that same token, this story will hover around + touch on some uncomfortable  topics, particularly toward the end. Whump/angst/hurt+comfort/fluff/smut will all be present themes, and I WILL be tagging each chapter very clearly and very thoroughly. SA and parental trauma will be eluded to throughout the entirety of the story and recollected/explained toward the end. Additionally, smut scenes will be segregated into their own chapters and will be written as not to affect the flow of the story, so if you choose to skip those, you don’t miss out on anything plot wise. All of that being said, this is largely a light hearted story about growth and unexpected love as it presents itself in several forms. 

Additionally (and very importantly) June is highly intelligent and medically proficient. I am neither of those things. Not even close. I tried to research as much medical terminology as possible prior to/during writing, but probably 75% of it will make no sense to someone who’s very familiar with medical things/conditions/procedures. Lastly, I tried to keep this story as canon compliant as possible, but the Clone Wars timeline is challenging to navigate. Creative liberty was taken in some spots where canon is murky, but otherwise I tried to remain as true to the Star Wars events as we know them. Language will fluctuate mildly between in-universe and modern day. I kept it as Star Wars as possible, but absolutely refuse to use “transparisteel” in place of glass, “flimsi” makes me cringe, and will always prefer shower over “sonic” lol 

Common Star Wars words are below:

Holo Computer: Desktop Computer

Holopad: kinda like a cellphone

Datapad: kinda like an iPad/tablet

Durasteel: metal

Duraplas: plastic

Massiff: a dog-ish creature that kinda looks like an alligator lol

“Kriff”: “Fuck” or “Shit” (a swear word, not the noun of a fuck or a shit lol)

“Kriffing”: “Fucking” (adjective, not the action of fucking)

Chrono: watch/clock

Hoverbed: like a gurney or hospital bed that floats 

Air Speeder: floating car with side-by-side seats

Speeder bike: floating motorcycle

Fresher: washroom/bathroom/loo

Di’kut: Idiot

Mesh’la: beautiful (noun)

Cyare: darling (noun)

Caf: coffee

“Maker” or “Gods” or “Stars”: “God” or “Lord” (frustrated; not religious lol)

Camtono: a cooler/portable freezer

Flimsi: paper

a bajillion more listed in this fantastic post.

Terms I made up because canon was lacking (list is on-going):

NBA or Nociceptor Blocking Agent: the pain injection we see them jab into peoples necks

USI or Universal Serum Injector: the injection tool itself (serum vial is loaded per dose)

Defibrillator “defib” Pods: small, high tech, portable defibrillator

Cleanser Tube: essentially a washing machine recessed into the hall. Very similar to a front loading washing machine where only the door is visible. 

Sanitation Station: a weird contraption that cleans/disinfects someone’s hands before coating them in nitrile (instead of pulling on surgical gloves). 

“Maker have mercy”: “for the love of God” (frustrated; not religious lol) 

Blue wine: white wine

Purple wine: red wine

Cauterizing Pen/Electromagnetic Stapler: used in the place of stitches

MedScanner: I did not conceptualize the scanner itself, but did make up all the settings and uses lol

“Flimsi Flinger”: “Paper Pusher”

“Double-barrelled Blaster”: a double edged sword

[soka-writes-things]

Two Hearts Beat as One

hunter x soka

word count: 1.9k

summary: times are rough and a mission gone wrong seems to be the breaking point for hunter and soka. apart from each other, they struggle to regain peace, but together it seems like the galaxy may have gone to sleep just for them. their beating hearts remind them of their humanity and that sometimes, sometimes it’s necessary to cry.

warnings: mentions of ptsd, panic attack, sensory overload

authors note: ✮⋆˙ this lil snippet is apart of a bigger story that focuses on soka (my personal character) and her adventures with the bad batch throughout the three seasons of TBB. the current working title is "A Senator with a Spark", so if you're interested in following soka's story, just make sure to keep an eye out in the fairytale library <3

p.s happy valentines day! (though im two days late to the party lol)

They had finished the mission successfully. 

Good. 

Great.

...not so great. They had gotten their pay and had eaten some Mantell mix as a reward, but something was still nagging Soka. After the close run in, everything started to seem too much. Everything was so loud, so strong, so deafening to her. She could smell every scent, feel the slightest of tremors, hear everything and even her own breathing was starting to bug her.

She gulped to try and force air down her throat but the sound was so loud to her ears that she had to forcibly restrain her hands from clawing at her throat.

She stood up from her seat in the cantina, the Batch around her barely acknowledging her movements. Tech and Echo were whispering about something over a tablet, Hunter was sat at the barstools and leaning over his datapad, Wrecker and Omega were laughing loudly as they chewed obnoxiously on their Mantell Mix and the sound of the beeping console as they tried to beat each other at d'jarik and everything was just so loud.

Soka passed by Wrecker and Omega, swiping a small amount of Mantell Mix and forced it down her throat, trying to prevent herself from closing the hole with her own hands.

She made her way over to the Marauder and clambered up the opened steps, not bothering to make sure that it closed behind her. Soka slipped into the cockpit and sunk down into the corner closest to the door, breathing in the dark smells of metal and oil. As disgustingly terrible as the smells could be sometimes, she found it to be very soothing at that moment.

She let herself crumble into the wall as she calmed herself, the noises from the engine now seeming to be lulling and the overwhelming darkness at the edge of her mind had calmed into a soft grey.

Everything was finally at peace and Soka mentally scolded herself for making such a big deal about a sensory overload to the point where she had to leave everyone. She usually could get over it in the presence of others without alerting them, so she didn't know why she felt the need to seclude herself in the cockpit.

The soft thrum of the engine, the smell of metal and oil and a bit of dirt from their missions, the faint dust that lingered in the air, the sound of her own breathing and the dark sky outside. Beautiful, slow and quiet... just for her.

Soka stayed in her place on the floor as she stared outside at the planets and stars that littered the sky. She was so immersed by the multitude of colors, she didn't notice the sound of the ramp opening and someone stumbling inside.

The door to the cockpit opened, making Soka tense and snap her head up at the intruder. She slumped once more when she realized it was Hunter, only to find that he seemed to be so shaken by something, he barely noticed her presence.

He stumbled over to the pilot's chair and pushed himself into it, curling on himself and holding his legs with his hands.

Soka's eyes widened as she watched Hunter's breathing become faster and faster and faster and- her eyes snapped to his hands, watching as they shook intensely.

His whole body was shaking actually, and his eyes were flicking back and forth between some of the buttons on the board. Soka frowned as she watched him, before realizing that he was having a panic attack.

ᯓ★

Hunter slouched over his datapad at the bar, his finger tapping against the table in a fast motion. Everything was so loud and it made his head pound in protest.

The edges of his vision were rimmed in shadows, the darkness threatening to swallow him whole. He could hear every heartbeat, every breath, every movement, smell every drink, every food, everything.

The electromagnetic waves from the datapad and holograms and holotables just kept his headache pounding and pounding as if it was trying to escape.

He couldn't handle it. It was too much, but why was it too much? Was it the mission? He could tell it had also bothered the others but why was he so particularly affected by it?

Hunter heard someone rustle behind him, sounding like they grabbed some Mantell Mix and he listened as their footsteps retreated from the cantina.

A dash of teal hair caught his vision and Hunter stared at the door Soka had just left out of.

Too much. Too much. Too loud. Too noisy. Too smelly. Strong. Super strong smells. Why, why was it affecting him so much today?

Hunter's finger picked up the pace on the counter, drilling a dent into the metal as he continued to tap at an annoyingly fast pace. The usually enjoyable environment felt sour today, as if everyone's eyes were watching his every move as he continued to panic from everything.

Hunter abruptly stood up, making his batch mates briefly look over at him at the random movement. Hunter stared back at them, trying to make sure that they couldn't see how much he was panicking. Upon realizing he was okay, everyone turned back to what they were doing.

A shaky breath escaped him and he left the cantina as fast as he could without looking suspicious.

He practically ran to the Marauder, every step he took sounded so loud to his ears, making him feel dizzy and sick at the sound.

A small part of him was relieved that he remembered his way to the Marauder in his state of distress, and once he got close enough, the ramp moved down to open for him.

Hunter raced up the steps and practically burst into the cockpit in his panic. He noticed a shadow jump in the corner of his vision, but ignored it as he stumbled over to the pilot chair.

He sat down roughly in the seat, dragging his legs up to his chest and clutching them like it was his lifeline. He felt silly like this, like a child who was scared of the imaginary rancor under their bed.

Hunter's fingers pinched into his legs, trying to make him feel anything to distract him from everything. His heartbeat thudded in his chest and he leaned his head back and tried to force some air down his throat but it only made him want to vomit.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop!

Hunter's fingers raked across his legs, tugging and itching at the armour. His vision dimmed and he struggled to get a proper breath in. Too much. Too much.

Hunter's eyes flicked back and forth between random buttons that blinked innocently at him. His breathing became faster and faster till he wasn't even breathing, he was trying to rid the air of his system.

A hand landed softly on his shoulder, making him jump in his seat and swat at the hand in self defense.

The hand moved and a shadowy figure kneeled in front of him, a murky voice speaking to him, "...nter. Hunter."

Hunter's eyes focused, the darkness retreating to the edge of his vision again and he recognized that Soka was kneeling in front of him.

Hunter swallowed thickly, his eyes bouncing between her irises, taking in her every feature. "..yeah?"

His voice cracked as he spoke, struggling to get the word out. The air continued to sprint through his throat and his fingers didn't stop twitching and scratching and itching, but his gaze remained on her.

"Hunter, I think you are having a panic attack, most likely started by a sensory overload."

Hunter didn't answer but continued to stare at Soka, his body shaking.

"Hunter, I'm going to need you to try to breathe while I walk you through your panic attack, okay? Just squeeze my hand to respond." Soka put out her hand, letting Hunter's shaky hand grasp it and squeeze it tightly.

"I'm going to need you to do something that might trigger your senses again, but it's going to help with your panic attack." Hunter squeezed Soka's hand again.

"Okay, I'm going to need you to name three things you see." Soka nodded encouragingly at Hunter.

A raspy voice replaced Hunter's usual strong, deep one as he mumbled, "You... the buttons... the chairs."

Soka smiled warmly, squeezing his hand lightly. "Good. Now name three sounds you hear."

Hunter squeezed Soka's hand tightly as his eyes widened slightly, panicking that his senses would go overload again. Soka swiftly moved her available hand to Hunter's chest, right above his heart. "Listen to my heart, and tune it with yours."

Hunter took in a shaky breath, regaining a slight control of his breathing, and tuned into the steady beat of Soka's heart.

"I hear your heart." He muttered, the soft thudding calming him almost immediately. Soka smiled, a breathy chuckle escaping her. "Good."

"I hear your voice and your laughter." He continued before peering up at Soka through his lashes like a bashful child. At times like this, is when Soka remembered that mentally, all the clones were super young compared to their physical features.

"Finally, I'm going to need to you move three parts of your body." Soka said, making Hunter squeeze in response.

Hunter shifted his leg, moved his arm that was holding Soka's hand, and breathed in deeply as he rolled his head.

Soka softly nodded her head, moving to get up but Hunter tugged at her hand lightly.

"It still smells so strong." He whispered, eyes dropping to stare at her nose in embarrassment. Soka leaned back down again, before placing her hand gently over his nose, releasing the calming pheromones that Zeltron's use to soothe others.

Hunter's breath tickled her hand as he breathed in lightly, his tense body relaxing as he leaned into the chair.

After a few moments, Hunter moved his head away from Soka's hand. "Sorry." He muttered, looking down at his hands.

Soka shook her head gently as she tilted Hunter's face to look at her. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You had a sensory overload which formed a panic attack and I suspect you might've regressed in your time of panic. Counting the PTSD and anxiety issues I've noticed from the Batch, you have all the more reasons to need time to collect yourself, or need someone to help calm you down."

Hunter breathed in deeply, and let out the breath. He slowly nodded, squeezing Soka's hand in a thank you manner. "Would you like for me to stay?" She asked, her warm hand continuing to be a comfort.

Hunter nodded after a moment, and shifted in the small cockpit chair to allow Soka to sit with him. Even with his sensory issues, Soka and her warm hands were very calming and Hunter didn't mind her presence.

They sat together in silence as they stared at the stars in the galaxy out of the cockpit window. Soka's eyes were drooping and her head lolled, dropping forward as a breathy sigh came from her. Hunter glanced over at Soka, noticing her slumped position that threatened to pull her from the chair.

Hunter brought his hand to the back of Soka's head and gently guided it to his shoulder, her hair and breath ticking his neck. He placed his own head on hers, listening to her slow heartbeat, and it lulled him into a sleep as well.

[another-corpo-rat]

Dress For The Job You Want

A discussion with the lovely @merge-conflict put this idea in my head, and learning that their dear Valentine is a gremlin at heart was something I absolutely had to subject Victoria to (she deserves it tbh)

Incredibly minor Adam Smasher/OC at the end Summary: Victoria chooses fashion, Valentine chooses violence. (Valentine ofc belongs to @merge-conflict, ty for trusting me with your gremlin and helping me think of a way to end this!)

.

There’s a time for delicate words, when nerves are frayed and tempers are rising, fingers on triggers and daemons primed to bite – knowing what to say and when to say it was an important skill in the life of a suit. It could mean the difference between life and death. But this? This was not one of those times.

This was an insult against any higher power that might bear witness. It was certainly scalding the back of her own eyes, threatening to blind her. It would be a mercy if it succeeded.

“What,” she starts, tongue heavy with sincerity, “the actual fuck are you wearing?” Her tone has their attending salesman take a small step back, cowering somewhat as they hunch their shoulders and try to seem occupied as they scroll through the datapad of everything else they have in stock. There’s a tremble to their fingers, notable as they move quickly across the screen. And Valentine, the target of her ire, the individual currently dressed like a sentient traffic cone, grins brightly as she outstretches her arms and does a little spin – without needing prompted this time.

As if she was proud of the abomination she had conjured and its too many shades of orange and- dear God. Was that a sequin belt?

“I quite like it.” The other states, that grin taking on a distinct shit-eating quality as she regards herself in the full-body mirror. It gets wider when she meets Victoria’s dour expression, catching the none too subtle twitch of her left eye and the disgusted curl of painted lips.

“It’s…it’s certainly bold—” Any attempt of praise from the sales-jockey, desperate as it was to find something vaguely positive, is stopped by a sharp gesture of Victoria’s hand, fingers making a soft ting as they snap against the metal of her palm.

“There’s a thick line between boldness and stupidity. And you have...” Another cast of her golden gaze, eyes clawing through Valentine’s attire for the smallest thing that could perhaps be savoured. She found none. “soundly pole-vaulted across it, my dear. Next.”

Her glare is focused steadily, line-of-sight broken only when the curtain of the changing room is pulled across. A glimpse of the glint in Valentine’s eye promising to turn a mild headache into a migraine. Ugh, another self-chosen outfit then.

Curtain closed, her gaze and ire turn to the man standing beside the rail of clothing they had requested. A majority of it were her own picks, fashionable enough pieces that quietly demanded attention through the mere act of stepping into a room, but now that she’s looking she can spot more atrocious colours and materials that were most certainly not her choice.

She absolutely should not have handed Valentine the tablet to pick out a few for herself, it was the other’s lack of basic knowledge that convinced her this trip was necessary in the first place. “We need to have a thorough discussion about what you offer your clients.”

“I am currently removing the pieces that they were…kind enough to model for us.” Ah, that explains the hurry to his actions. He clicks through a few more things on the tablet, brow furrowing at what she guesses was an infestation of terrible stock choices. “Last spring’s obsession with orange was a mistake, to put it lightly.”

“A blessedly short-lived one.” A disaster she had the sense to side-step. She’ll stick to her whites and golds, thank you very much.

A sharp laugh comes from behind the curtain, the loud ‘Ha!’ has Victoria pre-emptively pinching the bridge of her nose even before Valentine throws the heavy fabric to the side with a gusto she certainly didn’t have for the earlier outfits. She closes her eyes against the sight that is certain to be blindingly horrific. The sharp intake of the man assures her it was the correct decision.

“I don’t even want to look at you.”

“Why not? I think this one really compliments my complexion.”

“So would coating you in tar and feathers.” Rubbing at her temple, she chances a look up and— “It suits you.” She admits begrudgingly and apparently to Valentine’s surprise, that smug grin loses a little bit of tooth.

“What?” She can see the other’s shoulders lowering, a little edge of disappointment seeping in from the lack of violent disgust. Valentine considers herself in the mirror, hands on hips as she evaluates her choice of mixing a spotted yellow-green shirt with pink-blue striped slacks. She meets Victoria’s narrowed stare through the reflection as she presses, “Really?”

“Yes, you absolute clown.”

And the terrible grin comes back in full, dragging a headache along with it.

God help her, she booked them for an entire afternoon of private fittings.

.

It wasn’t often that Victoria allowed herself to look so openly defeated; curled loosely into the corner of the settee with hazy eyes, half sunken into its shitty cushions with the mere act of lifting the cigarette to her lips seeming tiresome, heavy in an effort she was extending out of habit than any true want.

“Victoria.” She blinks at the low tone of her name, looking up to the behemoth of a ‘borg towering over her. “You look like shit.” She knows she does; she can’t even argue for the sake of being contrarian, so she sighs and quietly accepts his astute observations as she turns to press herself deeper into the horrid cushion she had claimed.

At that, Adam’s tone becomes sharper, demanding; “What the fuck happened?”

“Valentine happened.”

“Ah.” And that’s all he offers on the topic of her, or at least all he does for now – his own rants about Hanako’s new little pet were a dime a dozen when he was in a mood himself. The settee dips and groans dramatically under his weight. “I’ll be sure to think of you when I kill her.”

She manages the slightest twitch of her lips at the easy promise, neither of them bringing up his failure to do so in Mikoshi. “Thank you, love.”