#patch has aviophobia

[clone-medic-patch]

Fic Summary:

Two times Patch hesitated to take off his armor and one time he didn't. A fic on healing and vulnerability for OC-tober, based on the prompt "Warm Sweaters and a Hot Drink."

Cold Hands, Warm Heart:

“Come on, Patch! We’re celebrating! Are you sure you wanna go out dressed in the same thing as always?” Fixer pleaded with his brother. 

The 104th was on a rare shore leave that matched up with Patch’s down-time; rehab training took up a good chunk of his time, so it was rare that he’d get a full day to spend with his visiting vode. 

Patch huffed, shaking his head. “I already let you put that weird civvie product in my hair.” Plus, he’d heard enough horror stories from the Guard that his chest tightened warningly when he thought about being that vulnerable around anyone other than his brothers. 

It was better than it was off-planet; most things were, if Patch was being honest, but he never felt truly safe or settled without his armor. Not after the Malevolence, where that option had been taken from him, along with nearly every one of his brothers. So he shook his head, hoping Fixer wouldn’t push it.

Giving him a look that belayed understanding of his real reasons, Fixer nodded, fixing Patch with a sympathetic smile. “Alright, vod. But if you ever change your mind, I know for a fact that this shade of blue looks great on most vode.”

Patch chuckled, getting up from his bunk with a small groan. “I’ll keep that in mind. Let’s hit the road! Can’t keep the Commander waiting!”

______________________

“Udessir vod���ika! It’s okay– we’re in the barracks… you’re safe.” Patch soothed, speaking calmly to the shiny in the bunk above his. 

Fil, a new addition to the 501st, had joined maybe a month before Umbara and had a pretty rough start even before that, according to Kix and Coric. Patch gritted his teeth in anger; most vode were pretty supportive of differences, but they’d all been raised in the harsh mindsets of Kamino where even small differences could get you, or your squad, noticed in the worst ways, and some troopers never shook that mentality. 

Luckily, Fil had been transferred to the bomb squad before anything too bad could happen, but after Umbara and his run-in with Krell’s lightsaber, the kid’s quiet dreams had taken a turn for the worse. 

“I-I don’t– I saw–” The shiny’s voice shook in a choked-off sob, and Patch’s heart broke for the kid. 

“Shhh… it’s okay, kid. You wanna bunk with me tonight? The barracks are a little chillier than I’m used to.” He offered, lips quirking into a small smile when the vod’ika nodded shakily before scrambling down from his bunk and next to Patch, a little clumsy without the prosthetic on his arm. 

“S-sorry for waking you, Patch, sir.” Fil stuttered as he shuffled his feet, but he was easily settled by a comforting squeeze.

Even that was a good development, and it made Patch’s heart swell as he wrapped his arms around the shiny, happy to see him reaching out. “Just Patch, vod’ika. And I don’t mind.”

Fil shifted around for a little bit, struggling to get comfortable, and Patch realized in a moment of self-recrimination that he hadn’t taken his armor off. “Oh, kriff– Sorry kid, I’ll take these off in just a second.” He said, starting to unclasp his arm-guards and chestplate, ignoring a twinge of anxiety in his chest. 

“Sorry– ” Fil apologized again before cutting himself off. It was something they’d been working on, and even Patch himself was guilty of apologizing more than he needed to. But, to be a good example to the shiny, he pushed down an apology of his own and gave Fil a half-smile even when his shoulders tensed up and his own hands, cold with sweat, shook slightly as he slid back under the blankets without the top half of his armor. 

Running himself through a few breathing exercises, which Fil followed before drifting off again in record time, Patch took a while to settle back in his own skin. He ran a gentle hand through the vod’ika’s short curls until the pull of sleep finally took him once again. 

________________________

T aking a deep breath of the crisp Alderaan air, Patch reveled in the rare quiet morning. He was always more of an early-bird, compared to most of the Wolf-pack, something he’d forgotten during his… hiatus on Coruscant, but he’d shared more than one cup of tea with their general in the early morning light. It was a tradition he was happy to repeat now that he was back with his brothers for good. 

As far as shore-leave locations went, they’d definitely hit the jackpot. Just enough snow for the more adventurous troopers to go hiking or cause some mischief, and the barracks they’d been given were practically a hotel, in Patch’s opinion. The heavy comforter he’d used last night was probably the most extravagant thing he’d ever touched, and he’d fallen asleep within seconds of his head hitting his pillow. 

Looking back at his gear-kit, Patch’s eyes caught on the gift from Blu he’d received last night. The younger medic, although no longer a shiny, still loved working night shift, enjoying the quiet atmosphere and the opportunity to catch-up on flimsiwork, or engage in his hobbies when it wasn’t too busy. Patch still remembered teaching him how to knit, although the vod’ika had far surpassed him by now, as shown by the cable-knit sweater he’d gifted Patch.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to…” Blu had hedged as he handed him the gift. “... I know you’re not much for civvies. But we’ve missed you, and it’s good to have you back, and I heard that Alderaan’s supposed to be cold…” 

A soft smile bloomed on Patch’s face; he was really proud of the competent medic Blu had become in his absence, and it was nice to know he’d been missed. Giving the sweater another considerate look, he noticed a pair of nondescript civvie pants underneath it and huffed in amusement. Apparently Fixer couldn’t leave well-enough alone, and had thought to donate them to Patch’s cause. 

So with a beleaguered sigh, Patch traded in his armored-blacks for soft yarn, not far off from 501st blue, with a bold medic symbol on the front. The weight of the homemade sweater almost reminded him of his weighted blanket, and as he settled in with his cup of tea, Patch breathed a sigh of contentment. 

Deployed or not, it was good to be home.

[tup-ika-5385]

Knockout Chapter 8:

Chapter Summary:

Assessments are done and plans are made, but one thing becomes clear- they have to get off Kamino.

Fic Summary:

Six months after the trials of Umbara, Tup and Dogma are growing into themselves as well-established members of the 501st. Tup's been training more with Fives and Jesse, set on an ARC trooper promotion, and even Dogma has found a place in medical, where his intense focus and organization are both needed and appreciated.

While practicing for his medic exams, Dogma find some worrying abnormalities in Tup's numbers, making some worrying discoveries. As Tup's condition worsens, help comes from unlikely sources as Dogma, Kix, Fives, and Hardcase fight to discover the truth and save their brother.

Chapter 8:

After another hour in the Bad Batch’s barracks, Dogma had almost acclimated to the smell. Wrecker was doing a lot better, and Crosshair had settled in an uneasy truce, still not trusting this many regs in their barracks, but much less likely to be a threat. Dogma guessed that neither of them liked feeling useless when their brothers were in pain. 

Fives had finally briefed Dogma, Hardcase, and Patch on their current situation after Patch had done a few assessments on Tup, and Dogma’s head was still reeling. Technological components– inside his brother’s head?! Suddenly, the Kaminoan’s response was starting to make a lot more sense, except… when did it get there? 

As batchmates, Dogma and Tup had probably never been separated for more than a day, before their deployment, and even then, something like brain surgery would be pretty hard to hide, even if Tup were trying. And it still didn’t explain the other medics’ reactions, so eager to hunt down a brother without explanation– and an injured one, at that.

Dogma shook his head; he’d go crazy trying to figure it out on his own, especially with his current sleep deficit. Fives had already conked out, sprawled out on the ground like he was still in the middle of a campaign. He’d definitely slept in worse, and Tup hadn’t been far behind him, but Dogma knew any efforts to sleep right now would be wasted, so instead he settled in next to patch and Kix, listening to them go through the assessment results. 

“So, after having Tup do a modified version of the WCPA, and a couple physical assessments, I’d say that physically, he’s well on the mend, and will probably be fully recovered in about a week. He might have some residual balance issues and need more sleep than usual, but he’ll be alright. Mentally, there’s a couple things we’ll have to keep a close eye on.”

He paused, looking towards Dogma, “You remember what we talked about with executive functioning, right?”

“Yeah, it’s starting tasks, planning, and follow-through, right?” Dogma confirmed, relieved to know that his training was already coming in handy.

Patch nodded, “That’s right, and it’s something that Tup’s having some trouble with, right now. The assessment I used had him practice scheduling appointments, training, the like. I asked him certain questions about two and five minutes in, which he’s supposed to ignore, according to the instructions at the beginning, and he was told to let me know when seven minutes had passed, according to the chrono I set up. During the assessment, he scheduled everything correctly, just a bit longer than average, which could’ve easily been exhaustion, but was easily distracted when I asked him questions, and forgot the seven-minute marker entirely.”

He paused before continuing. “There were also a few times, outside of the regular assessment where I noticed he’d have more emotional responses than normal. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Tup never struck me as someone with a hair-trigger anger response.” At that, he looked at Dogma, who shrugged sheepishly. 

Tup had overheard one of Crosshair’s more caustic comments, asking, “What kind of a name is Dogma, anyways?” and hadn’t thought twice about jumping to Dogma’s defense almost aggressively, at least until his eyes started tearing up, and he’d flushed in humiliation. No harm had been done; Dogma could handle a blunt question or two, but seeing the distress on his batchmate’s face had worried him more than a little.

“He’s always been protective of me, but… his restraint is usually a little better, and the tears are unusual.” Dogma commented quietly, eyes trailing down to find his batchmate still fast asleep, taking comfort in watching his chest rise and fall. Sure, Tup used to cry a lot as a cadet, but Dogma hadn’t seen this many tears in a while– not since they were still in their cadet blues, rather than the reds given out to older cadets.

Patch nodded in understanding, rubbing his face tiredly as he talked. “With the brain, there’s a lot of stuff we just don’t know, but it’s likely that he’ll keep having difficulties.”

“For how long?” Dogma asked before he could stop himself.

“Could be a week, could be a month… could be a lot longer than that. It is something we can help with– there’s lots of mindfulness strategies and coping strategies he can learn to use, to give him a little more time to process his emotions. And for the other stuff, he’ll probably need reminders, check-ins, probably not too different from what you’ve already got set up for a couple other vode in the 501st.” 

Patch smiled, looking back to where Hardcase and Wrecker had settled after wearing themselves out. Even before Umbara, Rex and the other commanding officers had already made a habit of sending short written mission briefings to a couple vode mid-mission, Hardcase included, for those who needed a little more help remembering the specifics, and it wouldn’t be too hard to add Tup to that list. 

“He’s got a good support system, and I’ll always be available over comm to make suggestions about what might help, but it’ll be a while ‘till we know more about what he needs.”

Glancing back at Kix, Patch asked, “Do you still have that, uh, tumor? I didn’t get a good look at it earlier.”

Kix nodded, reaching into his utility belt and handing it over with a grimace. “Still can’t believe this was inside of him– makes you wonder what the Kaminoans had planned for it, after Dogma’s unplanned adventure in medbay.”

At that, the group sat in still silence, at least until they were interrupted by Tech. “Is that an inhibitor chip?”

Kix’s eyes widened, “What?”

“An inhibitor chip– they’re utilized by the Kaminoans for behavioral modification. We all have one.” Tech replied, looking bored. “Or, at least, I assume we all have one, but given our deviant nature–”

“That must be why the other medics were acting strange!” Dogma exclaimed before glancing back at Tup to make sure he didn’t wake him. “Nothing else would make sense– medic’s don’t just–”

“Perhaps not in your experience, but I would hesitate to insist that these troopers were not just… following orders.” Tech responded, all-too-familiar with regs responding less-than-kindly to those deemed different; a descriptor that now included Tup, apparently.

His words stirred another memory of Tup, half-conscious and mumbling, “good soldiers follow orders,” prompting another question. “Exactly what behaviors do these chips modify, then?” ‘And why didn’t it work on me?’ Dogma wondered to himself.

“Yeah, I’d like to know that too,” Fives chimed in, having woken up from his lothcat-nap, carefully sliding out from under Tup. “Cuz when I looked for information on this so-called ‘inhibitor chip,’ I got nothing– not even a mention or a scanned image, ‘cept the one we pulled from Tup.”

Tech frowned, rocking a bit as he thought. “I am not sure. I did not pursue that line of thought when I first learned of the chip, but I believe I have the data saved somewhere.” He said, before beginning to search through his mountain of datachits and detritus for the second time that night. Hunter looked like he was about to argue for a moment– he was probably the only reason there was a walkable path in their barracks at all– before relenting, just as curious as the rest of them.

“Here it is!” Tech called, pulling out a datachit that looked identical to the others, but with the numbers 02-157 written on the side; it wasn’t an organizational scheme Dogma recognized.

“The file itself was encrypted, which is why I didn’t choose to open it before– doing so would likely alert the Kaminoans, and it’s possible that it would display the datapad’s location as well, so I would wait until you were off-planet to do so.” He cautioned them with a warning look before handing the file over to Fives. 

“We’ll keep that in mind, thanks vod.” Fives gave him a grateful nod, glad to be doing something. 

“That brings us back to our current predicament, though. We can’t stay here, as grateful as we are for your hospitality,” Fives paused, addressing Hunter, who nodded. “But with Tup’s current condition, stealth’s definitely the better option. Even if we get to a hangar, I’d be shocked if they hadn’t already locked down everything with hyperspace capabilities.” He put a hand on his chin, thinking.

“Actually, we might not need one– a ship with hyperspace, I mean.” Patch offered with a grin. “The 104th should still be in-orbit… it wouldn’t be hard to rendezvous with them and get a different ship– maybe even learn more about this chip while we’re at it.”

“Good plan,” Fives grinned in return. “Speaking of which, I should check back with AZ– last I heard, he was looking into potential insertion dates for the, uh, chips.”

With that, he got out his comm and called the droid. “AZ! What’s the status on those scans you were taking?”

“Oh, hello ARC Trooper Five-s!” A cheery metallic voice called, and Crosshair rolled his eyes from where he’d been listening in. “I have been ordered to report to the maintenance bay for a system wipe, but I shall transmit the data to you at once. One moment please.”

“What?!”

“It appears that the Kaminoans do not recognize the social-emotional benefits of doctor-patient confidentiality, and took offense when I did not share the identity of Patient Tup.”

Fives sighed, “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. I don’t get how you can be so chipper about it– if I was being reconned, I’d be furious.” After all, it was nearly the same thing, and the little med-droid had started to grow on Fives, like some kind of invasive fungus.

AZ-3 hummed. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have human emotions– but I do not!” He replied cheerily before something beeped. “The data is now transmitted.”

Kix’s datapad buzzed, and the medic nodded that the data had been received. “It confirms what we knew; that all troopers past tubies have one of these chips. But I still wanna know who has control of them. Nala Se, obviously, but who else?”

“Can’t be anyone good, if they’re trying this hard to keep them a secret. This is starting to smell like a Separatist plot to me.” Fives frowned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Sure, call him paranoid, but since Umbara, it didn’t take much to make him doubt other’s motives, and he’d never trusted the Kaminoans much in the first place.

Turning to Tech, he asked, “Tech, could you– is there any way to change AZ’s–”

Tech hummed an affirmative, tapping away at his datapad. “Already done. The system will register the droid as already having been wiped– assuming its number is the same one registered to that comm device, and it should be free to return to its duties.” He said, adjusting his goggles. Hunter might not like it when he intervened, worrying he’d get in trouble with the Kaminoans, but Tech found great satisfaction in disrupting the Kaminoan’s plans, even just a little.

“Hear that, AZ? You should be good to go. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Care is not required, as I am a droid. Goodbye!” AZ-3 replied, cutting off the comm channel abruptly, earning a weary chuckle from Fives. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

He turned towards Hunter and the rest of the Bad Batch, who had already done so much to help clones who were practically strangers to them. “I know I have no right to ask this of you– you’ve already done so much to help us, to help Tup, and we couldn’t be more grateful. I know us ‘regs’ haven’t treated you well in the past, but you and your squad have treated us with kindness we haven’t earned. If you ever need anything, you are welcome with the 501st anytime.” 

He drew himself up into a firm salute, which was mirrored by the other conscious troopers– Hardcase and Tup were still fast asleep. Hunter nodded his head in acceptance, giving them a rare smile. “I’ve gotta say, it’s been nice spending time with regs who aren’t about to throw down with one of my brothers.” 

He glanced at Crosshair for approval, knowing if he didn’t, he’d be hearing about it for the next month. Thankfully Crosshair shrugged, glancing at the regs as if to say, ‘Whatever gets out of my space soonest,’ so Hunter turned back to Fives.

Despite a few bumps in the road, this was probably the most peaceful interaction his squad had ever had with the regs– and these ones actually saw them as vode, which was parsecs above what he could say for most of the shinies still on Kamino. “Now, what did you say you need?” Unfortunately, the Marauder was still undergoing repairs after their latest mission, so they couldn’t just give them a ride.

Fives grinned. “We could use a distraction…”

___________________

Turns out, the Bad Batch had a plan for exactly that, and within ten minutes, their squad was heading towards the nearest hangar completely unobstructed. With the combination of Tech’s computer skills, Crosshair’s pinpoint accuracy when it came to identifying and shutting down cameras, and of course, Wrecker’s ability to draw attention wherever he went, it wasn’t long before they were in possession of a small ship that wouldn’t be missed for 24 hours. 

They were home free– assuming they didn’t crash along the way.

“I thought you said you knew how to fly!” Patch yelped, his face a ghastly shade of green as he tried to keep his breaths even as he resolutely refused to look out the viewscreen. His aviophobia had gotten a lot better since his posting with the 501st, but this– he cursed as Hardcase made another loop and a muffled “Oops,” could be heard in the cockpit– was not flying.

“I’ve flown before!” Hardcase shouted back, dodging the last of the sensor arrays as they made their way up into the atmosphere. He twisted the ship around a few more times for good measure, hoping to keep the Kaminoans off their scent, and Patch’s heart stuttered with every jerking movement.

“Umbara categorically does not count!” Dogma griped, inclined to agree with Patch. The sooner they were back on firm ground, the better.

“I mean I’ve practiced some with the General, he’s been helping me to–”

“Watch the controls!!!” Kix cried in despair as Hardcase pulled up on the brakes and they definitely left a mark on the 104th’s hangar floor.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” Hardcase called as the ship came to a full and complete stop, probably smoking a little bit, but otherwise in one piece. “There!”

Kix let out a relieved sigh, clutching his chest. “Remind me to never fly with you again, vod.” He said before walking out the exit ramp, giving a hand to Patch when his legs shook, still looking more than a little green.

“You good, vod?”

Patch let out a slow breath, only just managing to hold down his rations while he nodded. He wasn’t usually one prone to space-sickness, but at least he had an excuse for not noticing their audience until he nearly ran into Commander Wolffe. “Easy there, Patch.” 

“Wolffe!” Patch brightened immediately, leaning in to clasp his brother’s wrist, receiving a hearty thump on the back.

“It’s good to see you, vod. Welcome home.” Wolffe rumbled softly, drawing him in.

Patch choked up a little bit, responding just as quietly. “It’s good to be home.”

It’s been more than a year since he was back with the 104th, and even with everything else going on, it meant so much to be here– and to be with his brothers again, so he took a moment to settle in Wolffe's firm grip before pulling away. 

He glanced around, noticing their little welcoming party included most of the Wolfpack, as well as General Koon.

“Thanks for letting us crash here, General.” Hardcase joked, watching as the landing crew gave the ship one last spray with a fire-extinguisher. “We’ve heard a lot of good things about you, sir.”

“You are most welcome, young Hardcase. It is an honor to meet Patch's brothers from the 501st.” General Plo offered, smiling under his mask as he greeted the group. “Come, I hear we have much to discuss.” He said, beckoning them forward so they could share what they learned.

____________

AO3 Link:

[musingsby-night]

Aviophobia

Summary: Aviophobia (the fear of flying in an aeroplane) had plagued you for as long as you could remember. Then one day on a flight from Las Vegas to Washington, you end up seated next to Dr Spencer Reid, and suddenly air travel doesn’t seem so bad anymore. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: none!! Just our favourite federal agent being a big sweetheart.

Check out some of my other work over at my Masterlist !

Aeroplanes were by far the worst thing that had ever been invented, in your opinion. 

Sure, they had their perks. Long-distance travel was now relatively easy and accessible when it hadn’t been for a very long time. Planes allowed one to travel between two far away points in a short period of time, which was undeniably pretty handy. 

You tried to tell yourself that planes really weren’t so bad, and you almost managed to convince yourself of this fact until you once again found yourself seated in one of the cramped metal death traps, and then the only thing you could focus on was how much you utterly loathed them. Which was the predicament you now found yourself in.

As the plane let out a loud revving noise and begun to move slowly down the runway, you let out a quiet groan and clutched the armrests in a deathly tight grip. 

Just think of something else, you told yourself, beginning to mentally make your way through your Mothers overly complex custard pie recipe to try and keep focused on something else. 

It didn’t work. It never worked. 

The next few moments were utter hell on earth, as far as you was concerned. Taking off and landing were your least favourite parts of flying- although you didn’t enjoy being in the air in any capacity, the experience at the very beginning and the very end always managed to shoot your anxiety through the roof. 

Shifting your mind from your Mothers recipe, you instead tried to envision that you were somewhere- anywhere- else, perhaps a nice beach or something of the like. 

If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed the brief, worried glances that the man sitting beside you had been continuously throwing your way since the plane begun to move. As it was, the only thing that you could focus on was how clammy you felt in response to the anxiety pulling at your stomach.

“Nervous flier?”

It took a moment to realise that these words had been directed at you. When you eventually understood, you blinked open your eyes and turned to the source of the words- the man sitting beside you.

You’d been one of the first to board the flight and had kept your eyes tightly closed ever since you’d sat down; your preoccupation with your own anxiety had prevented you from noticing that anybody had actually taken the seat next to you. The man was tall and lanky, with a frame that was clearly too large to find comfort in the small, cramped plane seats. He had scruffy brown hair and thick glasses covering his hazel eyes, which were trained intently on you. A friendly smile was on his lips, which you attempted to return (but it likely turned out more of an anxious grimace). 

Swallowing nervously, you jerked your head in a nod of affirmation.

“It’s really very common; you’re not alone,” the man said. “In fact, about 1 in 5 people have a fear of flying, or aviophobia.”

You blinked, a bit thrown by the suddenness of his statement. “Really?” you asked, your voice hoarse from the dryness in your throat.

His smile widened at hearing your voice for the first time. “Yeah! The most common phobia on the planet is arachnophobia- fear of spiders. Almost 48% of all women suffer from it, but it’s less common among men.”

Turning your head to properly face him, you continued to blink at him in confusion. “Oh wow- that’s interesting.”

“Ophidiophobia, the fear of snakes, is the second most common, and acrophobia, the fear of heights, is the third most common. Pretty much every single person alive has some sort of irrational, strong fear,” the man rattled off the string of facts. “In fact, fear of flying is the ninth most common phobia worldwide.”

“It’s kind of nice to know that I’m not alone,” you said. “It doesn’t make the anxiety go away, though.”

“What is it specifically about planes that you’re frightened of?” he questioned curiously, tilting his body to better face you.

Bringing your hand up to nervously rub your forehead, you replied “Just the entire thing is really unpleasant, isn’t it? I hate the idea of being so high up off the ground in this fragile little metal object, hurtling at unnatural speeds through the air.”

“That’s understandable; it’s not exactly natural for human beings to be this far off the ground,” the man said. “Flying is very common though; over 2 million passengers board over 30,000 flights every day in the United States. Do you travel very much?”

“Oh, that’s so many,” you said, slightly surprised. “I really do try and avoid it whenever possible, but unfortunately I do end up travelling a lot more than I’d like to. My family are in Michigan and I hate not seeing them, so I try and suck it up so I can visit them.”

Taking a moment to observe him, you noted that apart from the fact that his body was too large to comfortably fit in the small seat provided, he seemed otherwise completely at ease.

“You seem really relaxed,” you observed aloud. “You’re not bothered by planes?”

“I fly a lot for work,” he replied easily. “It bugged me at first, but it worked as a kind of systematic desensitisation. Now I’m just about as comfortable in the air as I am on the ground.”

“I don’t envy you,” you said with a shudder. “I think I’d have to quit my job if it required regular air travel. What exactly is it that you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind,” he answered cheerily. “I’m an Agent for the Behavioural Analysis Unit with the FBI.”

“Oh, wow!” you replied, a bit thrown. “That’s amazing! You must do some really fascinating work then.”

He ducked his head a bit nervously, shrugging slightly. “Yeah, it’s certainly never dull,” he replied. “What do you do?”

You told him your job title, and he smiled widely. “That’s awesome!” he replied excitedly, but you waved off his words.

“Oh, it’s absolutely nothing compared to what you do, Mr. FBI agent,” you laughed, and he flushed. He was about to speak again when the plane suddenly gave a quick lurch as it hit a patch of turbulence. Your fingernails scraped against the leather chair as your entire body tensed up, eyes snapping closed as you focused on fixing your suddenly irregular breathing.

The man shifted in his seat to be a bit closer to you, before he said softly “Turbulence is unpleasant but it’s just the plane moving through an air current. It’s completely normal.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “I know that it’s nothing to worry about but I can’t help but think every time that it means somethings wrong with the plane and we’re going to crash.”

“The risk of being killed in a plane crash for the average American is about 1 in 11 million,” the man said, and you blinked your eyes back open to meet his hazel gaze. What you found there was surprising; this complete stranger wasn’t just being polite, but reflected in his gaze appeared to be a genuine care for your wellbeing. You found yourself feeling touched, and a new fondness for this stranger spread through you. 

Taking your surprised silence for fear, he continued to ramble on “the risk of being killed in a car accident, on the other hand, is about 1 in 5,000. You’re significantly more likely to die in a car crash than a plane crash; you’re really safer up here than you are on the ground.”

“I didn’t know that,” you said softly, and the man nodded.

“On the off chance that we were to crash, though, 95.7% of all people involved in plane crashes ultimately survive.”

“I didn’t know that either,” you murmured. “I suppose that that’s actually quite comforting, in an odd sort of way.”

The man glanced down at his fingers, which you just now realised were clutching a new-looking novel. You was about to speak up when he beat you to the punch.

“I’m really sorry,” he apologised, and your brows furrowed in confusion. The man ducked his head nervously, his eyes remaining downcast. “I shouldn’t have overstepped my boundaries and bothered you. I just-”

“Oh, honey, you didn’t overstep anything,” you was quick to reassure him, smiling when his gaze shot back up to meet yours. “Honestly, please don’t apologise. You didn’t overstep anything. Actually, I should be thanking you. I’ve barely thought about how nervous being on a plane makes me the entire time that we’ve been talking, and it’s usually the only thing I can focus on. And believe me, I’ve tried pretty much everything to make flying easier. My last trick was to play music really loudly to drown out the sounds of the plane so I could forget where I was, but that stopped working when I started thinking that if something did go wrong, I wouldn’t be able to hear it, so that made my anxiety worse.”

He laughed slightly. “Well, I’m really glad that I could help you,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to do.”

“You really did; it looks like you’re the solution to my phobia. Guess I’m just gonna have to bring you along every time I fly from now on,” you said with a joking wink, and he laughed, ducking his head again.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he joked. “Let me know if it gets too much though, I know that my rambling can be annoying-”

“You’re not annoying,” you interrupted him, your tone surprised at the idea that this seemingly incredible man would ever think that he was in any way irritating. You smiled when his gaze shot back up to meet your own. “Honestly, please don’t apologise. I’m really enjoying talking to you, actually.”

“Oh,” he replied, seeming to be thrown by your words. “Really?”

Your smile widened. “Yeah, of course,” you said. “You’re fascinating; how do you know all these random facts? Your brain seems like an encyclopedia and it’s actually pretty awesome.”

“I read a lot,” he said with an embarrassed sort of shrug. “I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187.”

Surprisingly, his words weren’t spoken in the bragging tone a statement like that felt like it warranted. He was just stating facts about himself, as though these things were no big deal.

“Well, okay, wow,” you replied, “so you’re a genius too. You’re quite impressive, do you know that?”

He flushed pink, and you couldn’t help but smile at how adorable it was. You were about to speak again when something suddenly struck you.

“What’s your name?” you asked, and he blinked in surprise.

“Oh, I forgot that part,” he mumbled, sticking his hand out to shake your own. “I’m Spencer Reid.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Spencer,” you said sincerely, shaking his hand as much as the cramped space would allow. “I’m Y/F/N.”

“That’s really pretty,” he blurted out, before he seemed to realise what he’d said and flushed pink again.

“Thank you,” you replied, smiling at his sweetness. You nodded down to the book he still held clutched in his hands. “I should probably be the one apologising for bothering you; you probably wanted to get some reading done instead of taking care of some random girl.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’m enjoying taking care of you very much,” he said eagerly. “I can read anytime. And honestly, the book really isn’t that good anyway.”

“What is it?” you asked, and he held up the novel so you could get a better look. The front cover featured a very muscly looking man holding a machine gun and staring menacingly off to the side, an extremely attractive and busty woman cowering behind him. You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the tacky looking novel. “It looks… interesting…”

“Please don’t judge me,” he begged, his tone embarrassed. “My friend Derek is making me read it, it’s his favourite book. He says I need to branch out a bit from my usual interests.”

You laughed again at his confession. “Well then, Spencer, what exactly are you interested in?”

The total in-air flight time from Las Vegas, Nevada, to Washington, DC, was just over four hours in duration. It took you approximately a quarter of that time to become utterly smitten with Dr Spencer Reid.

Conversation flowed easily with the sweet man. He spoke so quickly that his words tended to merge together, and rambled off on tangents about things which he was passionate about, and you thought he may have been the loveliest person you’d ever met. He asked you questions about yourself and intently listened to your responses, turning excited when the two of you found yet another factor which you had in common. 

You’d almost managed to forget entirely that you were aboard a plane, Spencer making your aviophobia disappear entirely. Even when the Captain announced over the loud speaker that the plane would begin its descent momentarily, you completely forgot to be nervous.

It wasn’t until the aeroplane made a sudden downward turn to head closer to the ground that your anxiety returned almost full-force, your stomach dropping to the floor and your hand shooting out to tightly clutch the armrest for stability. 

Spencer begun rattling off an amusing little story about his friends Derek and Penelope in an attempt to pull your mind away from the fear rolling through your entire body. You pushed yourself to focus on Spencer’s voice and nothing else, slowly managing to push your fear away.

It took a few moments longer for you to realise that the thing you were clutching in your hand wasn’t the smooth leather of the armrest. Glancing down, you realised that when your hand had shot out, you’d subconsciously grabbed onto Spencer’s hand. He hadn’t pulled away, but merely threaded his fingers through yours and clutched your hand back, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in an attempt to help soothe you, a motion which he continued for the rest of the flight. 

For the first time in your life, you found yourself dreading the plane landing and the flight ending.

You and Spencer lingered in your seats whilst everybody else rushed to exit the plane, making you the very last to descend the stairs and set foot back on solid ground. Although you made the trek from the tarmac to the arrivals zone in the airport at a slow, leisurely pace, time felt as though it was suddenly moving at twice the usual pace until the moment finally arrived when you knew that you couldn’t drag this out any longer. It was time to say goodbye. 

“So, um, thank you,” you said sincerely. “I had a really nice flight, which is something I’ve never actually said before.”

He smiled widely.

“I’m really glad I could help, Y/N,” Spencer said eagerly. “I- I really, really enjoyed talking to you.”

“So did I, Spence.” 

You held eye contact for a long moment, whilst Spencer seemed to want to say something- you allowed yourself to dream for a moment that perhaps he’d ask for your phone number, that he’d say he wanted to see you again-

But he didn’t.

Instead, Spencer dropped your gaze and begun fidgeting with his bag, and you began to think that maybe you’d been reading his interested signals wrong the whole time. 

Either way, you knew that if you stood here for any longer then things would look strange, so you built up all your resolve and said weakly, “well, bye, Spencer.”

His suddenly downtrodden gaze shot back up to meet your own and he replied quietly “Bye, Y/N.”

Giving him one final smile, you spun on your heel and begun to walk away from him. Your mind was racing, running over the past few hours- the connection the two of you had made, the conversation which had flowed freely, the comfort he’d brought you... and the fact that you desperately didn’t want to leave that airport knowing that you’d never see him again. 

Oh, fuck it, you’ve got nothing to lose, you thought. You were just about to spin back around and tell Spencer that you wanted to see him again, when his now familiar voice called out your name.

You turned back around to find that he hadn’t moved from the spot that he’d been standing in when you left him, his eyes still intently trained on you. “Y/N, do you want to go out with me sometime?” he asked, his tone of voice indicating how nervous he was.

A bright smile stretched out over your face, and in a second his nervousness had disappeared, replaced with an eager grin.

“Spencer, I would absolutely love to.”

[clone-medic-patch]

Patch Fic Snippet!

This is a snippet from my fic, “A Series of Hard Knocks” featuring my OC Patch.

Warnings for panic attacks, PTSD and mild self-injurious behavior.

For context: Patch was stationed with the 501st on a temp basis after Umbara, but still has a lot of trauma from the Malevolence attack, which is the main focus of this fic snippet. Also, Dogma was semi-pardoned for killing Krell in this fic, and has been doing community service in medbay since then.

Enjoy!

Patch always heard klaxons in his dreams. Wailing sirens, flashing lights, and shuddering ships were familiar to his subconscious mind. Maybe that’s why he didn’t wake up to the Resolute’s evacuation drill until Tup was shaking his shoulder, shouting, “Come on, Patch. We’ve gotta go!” 

Reality crashed into Patch like a tidal wave, threatening to pull him under. Before his mind could process his surroundings, he was already standing, following the other troopers as they exited the barracks. Brain jolting in horror, his breath caught in his throat, and he could feel himself tremble with every blaring siren.

The flashing lights in the hallway were what brought him to a stuttering halt. Letting out a choked whimper, he leaned against a wall. His knees gave out underneath him, breaths coming in quick and shallow. Patch squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his empty forearms hard enough to hurt, entire body shaking. 

Part of him knew he needed to get moving, that he couldn’t get left behind, but his armor was back in the barracks, along with every one of his favorite coping strategies, and his shaking limbs refused to support his weight. Hyperventilating, he could practically hear the escape pod groaning as the life-support systems broke down.

Meanwhile, Dogma was passing through the hallway near the barracks. It was his first week back in his own bunk, and it still felt wrong to be safely nestled above Tup, listening to the quiet snores of his brothers, so he’d been wandering the halls waiting for sleep to come when the drill started. Rounding the corner, he nearly tripped over Patch before he caught himself.

“What the– Patch?”

Shaking his head frantically, Patch sat crumpled on the hallway floor, lost in a flashback and muttering to himself, “No no no no no–!” 

Dogma gave the medic a look of confusion, closely followed by a jolt of alarm, remembering his quiet admissions during group sessions about destroyed Venators and dying escape pods. Even now, he could see the older trooper hyperventilating, nails digging into his forearms hard enough to draw blood.

“H-Hey, don’t do that.” He exclaimed, trying to get Patch to stop gripping his arms so tightly, but Patch didn’t even acknowledge his existence, still shuddering in panic.

Dogma shook his head, trying to think of a new approach. At this rate, Patch’s tight grip was definitely going to leave a mark. “Stop that– uh, here!” 

With a grunt of realization, he crouched next to the medic, unclipping his own bracers before starting to attach them to Patch’s arms to give him at least a little bit of protection. Thankfully, this seemed to jolt Patch back to reality, just a little, and he loosened his grip just long enough for Dogma to finish. 

For a moment, this seemed to help, and Patch’s breathing slowed a little bit as he ran a hand along the armor pieces. But then, to Dogma’s alarm, his breath hitched and a few tears started to fall.

“Hey, d-don’t cry!” Dogma’s hands froze as he watched, but this only made him cry harder, just barely audible over the warning klaxons. Dogma’s breath caught in his throat; he was incredibly out of his depth. 

Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed his comlink from his belt and tried to comm Tup. Tup would know what to do. He listened to it beep a few times, but the call refused to connect. ‘He must’ve left his comm in the barracks,’ Dogma thought with dismay. 

But Patch was still shaking, eyes filled with unshed tears, so he tried again, this time calling Hardcase. Hopefully medbay hadn’t been dragged into the evacuation drill. When the comlink chirped, Dogma gave an audible sigh of relief.

“What is it, Dogma? It’s 0200.” Hardcase groaned, still sounding half-asleep.

“Patch is crying.” Dogma’s voice was tense with nerves as he watched the medic. 

“What?! What happened?”

“I don’t know! Probably something to do with the evac drill. How— W-What do I do?”

“He’s crying right now? Like, in front of you?” Hardcase was sounding increasingly concerned, and not nearly awake enough for this. 

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” 

“Then give him a hug or something! Don’t just stand there watching him!” 

“A hug?”

He could practically hear Hardcase’s facepalm. “Yes, with your arms! Hang the kriff up and comfort him!”

Dogma’s eyes widened in trepidation. “Uh, I’ll try, but–”

“And get someone to turn the kriffing alarms off!” He heard Hardcase say something else, presumably to a medic in medbay, and then the comm call cut off, leaving him alone again. 

In the short time it had taken to call Hardcase, it looked like Patch had calmed down a little more, but his hands still shook visibly as he sat curled up around his knees, letting out a quiet hiccup every now and then. Dogma took a deep breath, bracing himself before wrapping a stiff arm around Patch’s shoulders.

Patch flinched slightly before leaning into the touch, so Dogma offered him a hand, which he gripped tightly. Hardcase must’ve called someone, because the lights stopped flashing and the alarms petered off, and finally Patch could breathe again. 

The medic opened his eyes, finally starting to register his surroundings. With an exhale of relief, he slumped into Dogma’s side. He looked up, blinking in surprise as he began to realize what happened.

“...H-Hey kid. Sorry about that.” His voice was hoarse, and his ears burned with embarrassment as he gave Dogma a sheepish look. He took a few grounding breaths, trying to look a bit less like he was falling apart at the seams. 

“It’s okay… a-are you alright?” Dogma asked, stiffening slightly.

Patch quirked his head to one side, mentally scanning himself before answering honestly. “No, but I will be… c-can we head back to the barracks? I’d like to grab the rest of my armor before Kix or Coric drags me off to medical.” He could already feel his forearms burning, but he made a noise of surprise when he noticed that the bracers on his arms weren’t his own. 

Dogma nodded, fumbling for a moment before standing up, giving Patch a hand. “Sure, uh– can you stand?”

Giving a grunt of affirmation, Patch took Dogma’s hand gratefully. He sniffled, trying to avoid getting any more tears and snot on Dogma’s loaned armor, if he could help it. “Yeah, ‘m good.”

With slow steps, the duo made it back to the barracks. Dogma was quick to help Patch locate his armor, awkwardly offering him a tissue when he sniffled for the 3rd time. “Ugh, thanks vod’ika.” 

Dogma nodded, looking like he wanted to say something. “What is it, kid?” Patch asked, still feeling a little guilty at putting him in that situation. Even now, he was reliant on Dogma helping him put his armor back on. He let out a sigh of relief when he could breathe again, safe in its familiar weight.

Biting his lip in frustration, Dogma looked away, breath trembling. “I-I can’t – Is there… I’m not good at this! How do I help you?” 

Patch blinked in surprise before letting out a huff of amusement. “You already have, vod’ika. You stayed, you found what worked, and you called someone who removed the triggers. Thanks for these, by the way.” He handed back the loaned armor bracers before reaching and grabbing his weighted blanket from his bunk to wrap around his shoulders.

“Oh…” Dogma blinked, realizing he had indeed done those things. He watched as Patch reached into his utility belt to grab a metal tin, helping him open it when his shaking hands gave him trouble.

Giving him a nod of thanks, Patch grabbed a mint before offering one to Dogma, which he hesitantly accepted. “Sorry for putting you in that situation, Dogma, but you did good.” 

Dogma shook his head in refusal. “Y-You don’t need to apologize. I just– I’m not good at this…” He repeated himself, looking down at his hands. This whole medic assistant thing was pretty daunting, especially for an early-graduated trooper like himself. If it had been the start of the war, there’s a good chance he would still be on Kamino.

“Heh, nobody is, at first. The first time I helped someone with a blaster wound, I thought I was going to throw up.” Patch cracked a grin, relieved when Dogma returned it. 

“Come ‘ere, kid.” He lifted one arm, raising the corner of his weighted blanket for Dogma to join him if he wanted. Dogma hesitated for a second before scooting closer to the medic, mirroring their earlier positions, if a bit less awkwardly. 

A few minutes later, Coric came into the barracks with a couple bacta patches and a look of concern, followed by a wave of troopers more than ready to get back to their bunks. The next day, Captain Rex came by and set up a system for Patch to be alerted before drills, to give him time to put on his armor and use his coping strategies beforehand. They briefly discussed having a designated evacuation partner, in the case of an actual emergency, but settled on simply alerting the other medics (and his closest bunkmates) to be ready to assist Patch in the case of an evacuation. 

Kix gave him another once-over after firstmeal, changing his bacta patches with an unnecessary level of concern before returning the favor and taking him off of duty for the next 24 hours. He still didn’t take off his armor, probably wouldn’t for the next couple days. But as he sat in his bunk, curled up under his weighted blanket playing sabaac with Fives, Tup, Dogma, and Jesse, he couldn’t say he regretted it. It was nice to be the patient, the one being taken care of, for once.

Full Fic:

[clone-medic-patch]

Patch thoughts:

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here, but I’ve been writing a fic with Patch in it, and I’ve had a lot of thoughts on his character development recently, so I thought I’d share! When I post the next chapter, I’ll probably post a link here as well!

Patch is an original 104th member (pre-Malevolence); he was in the escape pod with Wolffe (in his medic grays) when the Malevolence attacked, and has some related trauma 

Appearance: has a sole patch on his chin (like Waxer’s, but rounder), hair slightly longer than regulation (just a bit of grey); he’s slightly less active than his brothers, so he’s not a stick like most clones; (his metabolism is also starting to slow down, being one of the older clones). His armor has a grey stripe on the chin like his sole patch, and his paint is wolfpack grey, except for one of his gloves, which has a stripe of red paint.

Patch is very warm and affectionate around his brothers (great bedside manner), but can lash out in anger a little bit when he’s triggered; has dealt with depression in the past, but is doing a lot better nowadays

Has aviophobia (fear of flying/dying in something that flies), and definitely had a panic attack the last time he tried going on a Jedi cruiser

Was struggling mentally after the Malevolence, but it came to a head at the Battle of Khorm, when he lost his last batchmate, Blunt, and developed depression. During this time, his aviophobia got bad to the point that he had to be sedated anytime he went on a gunship.

Through some finagling, General Plo managed to get him reassigned to Coruscant, where he was stationed at the Coruscant Medical facility, and took classes to be a rehab specialist (although he’s still officially listed as a member of the 104th). The 104th, being a rescue battalion, is on-planet more often than most, so he still gets to see them fairly often.

Saw mindhealers at the jedi temple for a while, where he learned multiple grounding techniques to combat his aviophobia, including eating a mint, listening to music, and the occasional fidget toy (he likes the textured ones). He’s more than happy to share his coping strategies with his vode, and can use CBT strategies as part of his training as a rehab specialist (although isn’t certified as a mental health specialist).

After the Umbara campaign, multiple 501st troopers are needing PT/OT services, so when Rex sends out the temporary assignment request, Patch accepts (he’s doing better mentally now, and has been wanting to face his fears and hopefully join the 104th full-time soon, now that his rehab specialist training is done)

Doesn’t like taking off his armor because of Malevolence-related trauma, and only really does so to sleep; sleeps with a weighted blanket gifted to him by General Plo (bunks near Tup and Dogma when with the 501st)

Is on temporary assignment with the 501st (in my fic); hopes to rejoin the 104th afterwards, assuming he can handle living on a Jedi cruiser again

has a lot of old-man habits, and constantly acts like he’s 50-years old instead of barely 26 standards