it's been my honor.

standalone fics / headcanons

Aaric Graycastle - intimacy alphabet Bodhi Durran - by your side - where were you in the morning? - not that bad at all - the night we met - intimacy alphabet - fractured - defective 🆕 Brennan Sorrengail - you're somebody else - this is me trying - intimacy alphabet - older (agegap!Bren) - you called - rest - defective (platonic) 🆕 Dain Aetos - midnight snow - part of the family - intimacy alphabet Garrick Tavis - all the small things - intimacy alphabet - one for the books Imogen Cardulo - the dress Liam Mairi - harvest day - intimacy alphabet 🆕 1. the spider 2. one too many 3. change of plans Mira Sorrengail - reunited - mercy Ridoc Gamlyn - not joking - love at first fight Xaden Riorson - a brief history of Navarre - intimacy alphabet - together 1. i wish i hated you all fourth wing boys: - excuses, excuses - under the weather - that time of the month - bedtime 🆕 - pet 🆕 all fourth wing boys + girls - study season random thoughts about multiple boys - dragon rings - xaden's birthday

girlfriendverse

Sawyer and Peach masterlist

Liam and Spark masterlist - relationship questions

Garrick and Angel about Angel 1. keep her safe 2. resson (garrick's version) 3. letters from samara 4. what was I made for? 4.5 thank you (optional spicy chapter in the middle of #4) - misc relationship asks - together (platonic Angel / Gare / Xaden) - he can call me angel if he wants to

Brennan and Duchess masterlist

Ridoc and Sweetheart about Sweetheart 1. love at first fight 2. like snow on the beach 3. questions 🆕 4. not alone - relationship questions

Bodhi and Darling (no particular reading order) about Darling - not that bad at all - by your side - the night we met - deja vu - glad it was you

Dain and Love about Love 1. falling, floating, flying 2. reunification day: 3. five thirty 4. two reunions

Aaric and Sunny 1. conscription day 2. assessments

misc girlfriend stuff - modern!girlfriends' music tastes

poly fics

Dain + Xaden - our girl Ridoc + Sawyer 1. hey roomie Garrick + Bodhi - three in the morning Xaden + Liam - liam's lesson

not reader inserts

“Jeez, J, when did you start locking that window? I almost broke it trying to get it… open,” he finishes, staring at you.

You definitely aren’t Jason. Not even close. No, you’re his neighbor, who is clearly in the middle of an all-nighter, if the mostly empty bowl of popcorn, widespread array of textbooks and notebooks on the coffee table, and Hello Kitty pajama pants you’re wearing are anything to judge by.

So it was the third window from the right.

You stare back at him for a moment, blinking. “Nightwing?”

“Sorry, wrong window. I’m just gonna, uh…” he steps backward, about to climb back onto the fire escape, when you notice the tear in his suit.

He’s bleeding. That needs sterilization and maybe stitches, sooner rather than later.

“No, you’re hurt,“ you protest, “I’m a med student. Let me take a look at it. You don’t have to take your mask off, and also, like, HIPAA, so…”

He doesn’t speak any further, but he doesn’t make any attempt to run. Okay.

“Just… stay here.” You dart into the tiny bathroom, digging in the drawers for supplies. You still aren’t fully unpacked, and don’t remember where you put them all.

Wait. Wrong window? Who in your building is close with Nightwing? You don’t know any of the other tenants except your next door neighbor. He looks like he has connections, but not the Batman-and-company kind.

Moving to this godforsaken city was a terrible idea that you should have let your family talk you out of. But this is where they need doctors, and where they accepted your below-average test scores, so…

There’s a thud from the other room, and you pop your head out the door, seeing your houseguest collapsed on your secondhand IKEA rug.

Fuck.

Guess you’ll have to do things the fast way.

He’s still breathing, which is a comfort, and he’s vaguely conscious. Kneeling beside him, you press a hand into the large wound in his side, feeling it close up under your palm.

He’s still limp, but there aren’t any other tears in the suit, and none of his bones seem broken — it must be his head.

You run a hand through his hair, feeling for blood on his scalp. Sure enough, you’re met with sticky crimson at the back of his skull, coming from a laceration that’s probably an inch long. Sealing it up seems to do the trick, because after a few seconds he sits upright with a gasp, his hand flying up to his heart.

You scoot a few feet away to give him space, knowing that this kind of reaction is typical— the few people you’ve saved have told you how disorienting it felt, the sudden rush of adrenaline and… healing. Nobody’s been able to describe it any way else.

“What… just happened…” he pants, looking down at his side. The skin is completely closed, a thin stripe of silver in place of the gash he’d shown up with. It looks just like the rest of his scars, ones that are years old. The only evidence is the smears of blood on your hands and the floor, and the tear in his suit.

“You had a wound on the back of your head, and I… closed it. And probably fixed the concussion you probably had.”

But there’s no tech that can do that, and certainly nothing you, a civilian, have in your apartment. “You’re a meta.”

“Please don’t tell anybody,” you blurt.

His face immediately softens from shock to… something else. It’s hard to tell with the dim lighting and the mask surrounding his eyes. “Hey,” he soothes, “your secret’s safe with me, alright?”

You nod, chewing your lip. He hangs out with Batman. He’s gotta be trustworthy, right? He’s probably friends with some metas, even.

Speaking of Batman…

“You should probably take it easy for a while. Is there someone I should call? Does Batman have a burner phone or something? He has to, right?”

He laughs. “I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be okay getting back on my own.”

Ah. Okay.

“If you ever need anything, uh,” you grab a stray notebook off of the table, scrawling your number on a page, “Give me a call. No questions asked.”

“Thank you. Get some sleep, okay? Whatever you’re studying for, you got it.”

Even though things are reportedly okay out there, the wards raised and immediate threats mitigated, there’s still too much to do in the aftermath. Too many fractures to fix and wounds to seal, too many injuries that were beyond your skill level.

Sawyer’s, namely.

That’s why you came in here to begin with, to scrub his blood off of your hands.

And because it feels like your muscles are being peeled apart fiber by fiber.

And because your vision is starting to darken at the edges.

“You need to stop this before you collapse.”

“I can’t…” you manage, gripping the edge of the sink to keep yourself upright, ignoring the throbbing in your knuckles. “They need me.”

“If you continue at this pace, you will cease to be useful for the rest of the week. Is that motivation enough?”

He knows exactly how to hit where it hurts, you’ll give him that. But as long as he doesn’t tell—

“Angel?”

Of course he knew exactly what you were thinking. Of course he told Chradh, who told Garrick, who came running as soon as he heard, somehow always just seconds away from wherever you are in moments like this.

Thankfully it only takes a thought to unlock the door, because walking toward it might tip you over.

He’s at your side in a heartbeat, checking you over for injury, but finding none.

“I thought it was over,” you whisper, more to your reflection than to him. “I thought I was fixed.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, starting to tidy up your hair, the only thing he’s not afraid to do, that he knows won’t hurt — you’ve been mending all kinds of wounds today, and touching any part of you could cause you pain.

You let go of the basin, the blood rushing back to your aching fingers, and turn toward him, wrapping your arms around his waist and closing your eyes.

His hands remain at his sides. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please.”

The desperation in your voice, and the fact that you’re asking at all, is enough for him. With the utmost gentleness, he slowly, carefully, wraps an arm around you, settling his hand on your back, and waits for a sign of discomfort — finding none. His flight jacket is unbuttoned, and he adjusts the lapels to let you burrow into the fleece-lined leather.

The warmth of his skin against yours starts to soothe the chill — but there’s nothing he can do about the pain.

It’s changed, no longer the localized agony of a broken bone or a stab wound, but now a full body ache, your muscles and joints protesting with every movement. And with Garrick here now, his heart pressed to yours and his palpable love and care for you, his deep concern… it’s suddenly just all too much.

“There’s just too many of them. I can’t… I can’t fix them all.”

Gods, it even hurts to cry.

“I know, angel. I’m so sorry. But you did everything you could. You helped so many people, saved lives, even. And now you need to rest. We’ll figure this out, I promise you. We’ll fix this. I don’t know how yet, but we will.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Attagirl. Do you have it in you to shower?”

Not really, no. But you need one, after dealing with… all of that. And maybe it would help, somehow. Not with the pain, but with… whatever this feeling is. Defeat? Guilt?

You’ll put a name to it later.

You still haven’t responded to Garrick.

“I did.”

Tab deserves a tropical vacation for putting up with you, and communicating to Garrick and Chradh like this when you’re too tired to talk or too afraid to speak for yourself.

“Not enough livestock in the tropics. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He’s got it down to a science by now, after many such instances where you’d reached your limit and been unable to properly care for yourself. You don’t need to do much, just comply with his gentle prompts and put one foot in front of the other as he guides you back to the dorms, gets you both through the shower and dries you off with a gentle breeze before dressing you in your favorite pajama — one of his old, time-softened shirts.

It’s unclear whose room this is now, if it’s anyone’s at all, but Garrick is still able to unlock it, and it doesn’t show signs of being inhabited. The furniture is still in the same spots, the bed still made up, and it’s still so natural to climb back in with him, to synchronize your heartbeats and finally start to unwind.

“Don’t,” Xaden calls. “I have something else.” He jogs the last few steps over and presses a glass sphere into your hand, and it all just… stops.

The overwhelming feeling dissipates almost instantly — replaced with a icy sensation in your palm. You nearly drop it, fumbling it between your hands. “What is this thing?”

“A conduit. It’ll draw some of the power out and store it.”

The orb looks like it’s full of swirling water, waves crashing against the glass.

Interesting.

“How do you feel?” Liam asks softly.

“Less,” you answer, still staring at it. “Just… less.”

“Less is good,” Bodhi supplies. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift to you, from our sister.”

Oh.

So the two of them had written to her after all. What exactly did they say? That you were inches away from losing your grip on reality, weren’t strong enough to handle your bond with the third-meanest dragon in Navarre?

They were probably a bit kinder than that. But only because they feel such deep pity for you.

Though with this thing in hand, you might be able to survive.

If only you’d had it from the start.

———

Somehow, the normally-shitty water pressure of these showers has increased tenfold in the last two minutes, coming out much faster than it can drain. Twisting the knob in either direction doesn’t help, either. You’re going to flood the whole bathroom at this rate.

The water isn’t even following the rules of physics anymore. It’s drawn to you somehow, wrapping around you like a blanket rather than like a liquid that’s supposed to fall down with gravity.

A blanket that quickly covers your nose and mouth.

You’re going to drown.

You’re never going to see any of your friends again. You’ll never see Liam again, won’t be able to protect him or the other younger marked ones next year when they show up.

You’ll never see another of his soft smiles, never hold his hand again or feel the gentle touch of his roughened fingers against yours.

Focus. Focus, stay calm to conserve the air in your lungs, and you’ll live through this. You can get the fuck out of here, and someone with a much better command of magic will fix this.

“It’s YOU making this happen. Control it, or I’ll have to start over and pick another human.”

Like your death would just be an inconvenience to her.

Relax, relax, think calm thoughts. Imagine the water draining, and the faucet turning off… the water melting off like it’s supposed to. But how are you supposed to relax if you can’t take deep breaths, or any breaths at all?

Control it, she said. You’re in charge of the water. It’ll do what you want if you ask it.

Stop.

Drain.

Dry up.

It obeys, the flow reducing to normal, and the water falls to the floor, pooling around your ankles.

“Maybe you are competent."

You don’t acknowledge the remark, too busy heaving onto the tile.

Your hair is still dripping when you sit down at the table for breakfast, hanging flat down your back and soaking into your shirt.

You’re fucking freezing.

Xaden eyes you with suspicion. “What happened to you? You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks. I almost drowned in the shower ten minutes ago.”

Garrick snorts in amusement. “How did you manage that?”

You glare at him, and everyone’s eyes widen as their cups of coffee start to rumble, threatening to spill over.

“Holy shit. You’re a water-wielder?”

“Evidently so,” you say, stabbing your fork into a piece of potato. “The gods certainly have a sense of humor.”

———

“Now, what was going to look like an accident?”

“Dain’s demise,” Garrick answers before you can open your mouth. “She was quite descriptive. Something about him having to collect his own teeth off the floor…?”

“Harming a member of your own squad is prohibited in the codex. You know that,” Xaden says, looking entirely disaffected. “I’ll also remind you that it was your idea to move into his command.”

You can’t argue there — it was in fact your idea, a hasty decision made immediately after you’d found out that Xaden was transferring Liam to a different squad to act as Violet’s bodyguard.

It had felt great in the moment, though.

“Richfield and Mairi reporting for duty, squad leader,” you greeted, clapping a hand onto Dain’s back as you passed him by, settling into an empty space beside your friend as Liam fell in with the first-years behind you, giving them a shy smile.

The look on his face was fucking priceless.

“Devera already approved the transfer. Good luck.”

“At least she can’t kill you now,” your friend supplied cheerfully, seeing the stricken look on Dain’s face.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want to be expelled for violating the codex.”

This might actually be fun.

Not for Violet, though.

“I don’t need one bodyguard, much less two.”

“Ungrateful little brat.”

“First, I’m not here for you, I’m here for him. Second, did you really think that you made it all this way entirely on your own, or by dumb luck? Look around you. Every person here, myself included, has done something to keep you alive since you got here. You do need protecting, because you have yet to convince anyone otherwise, and I am not going to let you of all people be the reason Xaden meets his end.”

“And what exactly have you done to help her?”

“Not killed her.”

“Satisfactory.”

“You can make this as easy or as difficult as you want. We’re both stuck here either way.”

The crunch of snow under boots has you looking up, meeting eyes with a man in a blue hoodie.

Why is he back here? The theater’s main exit is around the corner, and the parking lots, too. This is just a back door for emergencies and for the cast members who smoke.

And for having a good post-show breakdown.

He doesn’t look dressed for the theater, though. Maybe he’s just out for a late night walk?

“You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The response is automatic. But what other option is there than fine, especially when you’re talking to a stranger?

“You’re the fairy, right? You were amazin’.”

So he did come to the show.

You shake your head. “I tripped, I… I almost fell.”

“I didn’t even notice. I don’t know shit about the ballet, though.”

The heat of the stage lights has evaporated from your skin, and the quarter-inch of day-old snow on the ground is soaking into your pointe shoes, likely ruining them.

Another slice off the top of your paycheck.

“The director noticed. I’m sure she did.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you say, more presently now, “thank you for checking on me, but I’ll be fine.”

Someone calls your name, another young woman from the company, one who has bothered to change shoes and throw a coat over her base layers. “There you are!”

She stops short in front of the kind stranger, whose name you still don’t know. “The director wants to see you,” she says softly, notes of remorse and empathy in her voice. Her boots crunch in the thin layer of snow as she retreats.

You need to follow her, to go meet your doom.

He extends a hand to help you up. You reach out to take it, and he gently pulls you to your feet.

You linger there a moment longer than appropriate. “I need to go get yelled at, so…” you say, looking up at the man.

His hand is warm, firm, as is his gaze. “I meant it, love. You were amazin’. Tomorrow will be better, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, a puff of warm breath curling into the air.

“Attagirl,” he says softly. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

It’s a decent walk home, but he counts it as workout number three-and-a-half for the day. Time to get — he checks his phone — six hours of sleep before Roy is banging on his door to start it all over again.

But first, he should text that girl from Bantr.

MANC97: That was amazing

MANC97: Still no idea which one is you

BALLETGIRL: Thanks. Wish the director thought so, too.

He holds his breath.

MANC97: What do you mean?

BALLETGIRL: She’s pissed that I slipped on stage. I didn’t fall, but it came close. I don’t know how it happened.

So you’re the girl from the parking lot.

MANC97: I’m sorry

MANC97: Hope you’re alright

It feels lame, but what else is he supposed to say?

BALLETGIRL: I’m okay. And tomorrow will be better. Goodnight :)

MANC97: goodnight

He reaches back into the pocket of his hoodie, finding the program that he’d stuffed in there as soon as he’d been handed it. Clara, no, Ice Queen, no… Aha. Sugar Plum Fairy.

Time to do some research.

Saturday, December 4th ———————

Tomorrow — well, today — is a Saturday, with both a matinee and a five o’clock showing, and a social hour in between them for audience members to linger and meet the top-billed cast. Part of the company’s attempt to charm more well-off people into becoming donors, no doubt.

Whether or not you’re getting paid extra for this remains unclear. But it’s been nice so far, mainly because most of the attendees are bright-eyed young girls who want to be like you when they’re grown up. You chat a while, ask what level of classes they’re in, do a few pliés together and take a picture for mom’s FaceBook, rinse and repeat.

But the next person to approach you doesn’t have a little girl in tow.

“Miss Fairy,” he greets with a grin and a shallow bow.

You just blink at him for a moment. “You came back.”

You don’t have much time to ruminate on it before a woman standing next to him captures your attention.

“Oh, you were brilliant, love,” she gushes in an accent just as thick as her counterpart, “Pure class. How long have you been at it?”

“Nearly my whole life,” you answer modestly, “but this is my first year as the fairy. I’m honestly terrified.”

“Ah, love, you have nothing to be scared of. That was amazing.”

“You’ll have to excuse my mum and her enthusiasm,” he adds, and you breathe a mental sigh of relief — this woman isn't his wife.

“No way is this your mother. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.”

She laughs at that, warm and full-hearted. “You’re too kind, dear.”

You take the next step. “I’m so sorry, I never caught your names.”

“Georgie,” the woman offers. “And this is my son, Jamie.”

“Georgie and Jamie,” you repeat. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

“I told you today would be better,” he says softly.

You just smile.

“How are you liking England?” Georgie asks.

“Quite well. I haven’t gotten the chance to explore much yet, though. Hopefully I can stick around for a few days after the season ends and be able to see some sights.”

“You’ll have to go to a proper football game. And watch one in a pub. Oh, and see the palace, of course. The London Eye, Tower Bridge…”

Your roommate slips through the double doors and around the stragglers in the lobby, two stacked trays full of coffees in her hands. “It was my turn to go get drinks for the snow crew,” she explains, sounding out of breath. “How long until the cast meeting?”

You pluck the top tray off the stack before she can drop it, taking one of the paper bags from her as well. “They said five minutes a few minutes ago, so probably like, now.”

You turn back to your guests. “It was lovely meeting you both. And I’ll be sure to get some football in before I head back to the states. Thank you for coming!”

You don’t hesitate a second, dropping to your knees beside the man who’s been hunting you down for almost three weeks now, who has been inches away from ending your life on multiple occasions, cradling his cheeks in your hands.

His skin is burning — he definitely has a fever, probably caused by some kind of infection. But he doesn’t have any major wounds visible. Maybe it’s something airborne? Kashyyyk has some weird species that are definitely bloodthirsty, if not venomous. They probably have some especially gross diseases, too. Maybe he caught a virus last week when he was stalking you.

You cast a glance over at his little droid, who has lowered the foot he’d had extended out, having been ready to zap you should you cause his master harm. You must have passed the sniff test, then, proven yourself soft enough not to take advantage of Cal in his state of delirium.

Really, it’s almost like he’s drunk.

“You’re too… too good,” he slurs, lips parting to expose the blood between his teeth. “Thas’… your problem.”

“So you’ve told me before.“

What is wrong with him? He seemed perfectly healthy the last time you met — well. As healthy as someone who has proceeded that far toward the Dark Side can be.

You continue with the basic trauma assessment that Cody taught you, smoothing a hand over each of his arms, then his sides, and when he cringes, you know you’ve found it.

There’s a piece of metal embedded in his side — a jagged, rusty one, at that. How the fuck did he not notice, or why the fuck did he not pause his hunt to seek treatment?

“I hope the empire gave you a tetanus shot.”

He stirs. “Hm?”

“Nothing. Just… c’mere. Let’s get you up and somewhere I can work on this.”

He makes a few sounds of discomfort as you help him up from the ground and sling his arm over your shoulders, but is largely obedient, focusing on his footsteps and not falling over.

“We should be safe in here.”

The droid turns his lamp on, lighting your way as you move through the cramped hallway of what must be an abandoned imperial base. They’ll feel right at home, then.

“Are you attached to this uniform?”

His voice is weak. “That a joke, Jedi?”

His sense of humor is still intact. That’s a good sign.

The pocket knife you keep on you for non-lightsaber emergencies slices through the glossy material of his uniform with surprising ease, along with the thin black shirt he wears underneath.

Now you can truly see the wound, and exactly how red and irritated the skin around it is. It isn’t actively bleeding, which is even more concerning — how long has it been there, for things to have crusted over?

As soon as your fingers brush his skin, his hand flies up, curling around your wrist.

“Look at me,” you coax.

Yellow irises meet yours, seemingly struggling to focus. His pupils are constricted, even in the very low light of the building you’re currently occupying. Is he… high? Or is this just a Dark Side thing?

“You have my word that I’m not going to hurt you.”

He’s silent for a moment, likely considering how much your word means to him. You had limped him all the way here, after all, and not taken the cheap shot at killing him when he was down. That means something, right?

“This game of ours isn’t any fun if you die.”

That’s enough for him to crack a pained smile and loosen his grip, but he still squirms every time your fingers brush his skin as you clean the edges of the wound.

Either it hurts really bad, or no one has touched him there before. Probably both, actually. He’d gone from being a Jedi, and a child one at that, to years of laying low, to being an instrument of the empire. And he really doesn’t seem the type to avail himself of the galaxy’s many brothels.

Master Kenobi had once mentioned to you how Jedi could clear someone’s mind, effectively rendering them unconscious with a focused thought and a wave of their hand — but it would take skill, and for the other person to be soft-minded enough to be manipulated. Being strong in the force means that it probably won’t work on him. But he’s basically drunk right now, so it’s worth a shot.

Deep breaths.

I’m just a conduit. The force flows through me, and does what it wills to achieve balance. And right now, balance means helping him back to the light. Helping him survive, so he can fight alongside me rather than against me.

He’s been curled in on himself in pain, but his posture starts to relax, his eyelids no longer scrunched closed but gently shut, as if he’s sleeping.

Success.

Now you just need to maintain that state until you’re done. And not cause any further damage when you remove the metal.

I am one with the force. The force is with me. I can do this. I am one with the force. The force is with me. I can do this.

———————

When the thirteenth brother wakes, he’s sitting in his ship, in the hangar of the fortress on Nur. BD hops onto the dashboard, with an urgent whoop-woo!

“What… what just happened?”

The droid adjusts his position, so that he can project the recording onto the ship’s windshield — at several times the speed of reality, Cal watches Jedi girl limp him into that abandoned workshop, settle him on the table, knock him out, perform minor surgery, limp him back to his ship, settle him in the pilot seat, and give BD an affectionate pat before closing the hatch.

BD must have piloted them out, somehow. That would be really impressive if Cal wasn’t so angry, if his head wasn’t still spinning and his wound still throbbing.

“Go charge up,” he says over his shoulder by way of goodbye, his saber flying into his outstretched hand.

BD knows exactly what will happen next, because droids are creatures of observation, and this pattern has held firm for weeks now.

Cal fights with that pretty Jedi girl (check), and she escapes, or he lets her escape, against his better judgment (check). He returns to base, fuming (check), and immediately seeks out any of the other inquisitors who are willing to fight (in progress).

In an hour or so, he’ll return, sore and bruised if not mildly burnt by their saber, and need another stim, or even two.

But Cal isn’t a bad fighter. He can hold his own against the grand inquisitor, and had to do so repeatedly to prove himself worthy before he was assigned to you. So why he always returns with one more bruise or one more burn doesn’t make sense.

Not a lot of things about Cal have made sense lately.

BD still stays up at night most of the time, watching Cal from his charging pad, counting his breaths and wondering how the two of them got here — what moment, exactly, Cal made the decision to change sides in this whole intergalactic scheme, or what moment it was decided for him, more like.

It feels like there are memories missing, days and weeks that just aren’t there, but BD knows that they happened— even if they’d been wiped from his drives.

Had Cal been the one to do it, or someone else? Probably whoever was responsible for reconditioning Cal, turning him into the aggressive, often volatile inquisitor he is today.

The little droid has had half a mind to run off with Jedi girl, because being on the side of the empire feels wrong, and the path of destruction Cal has cut through this sector of the galaxy in search of her is deeply upsetting.

But that would mean abandoning Cal. Giving up on his best friend, who’d explored four entire planets with him, spent hours working on lightsabers and modifications to make them a stronger team. He might not remember any of it, but it still happened, damn it, and Cal is still good, deep down.

Good, but sick. Very sick. And that’s probably in part BD’s fault. He’d given Cal the first shot as a quick fix for a moment of panic — a simultaneous injection of caffeine and painkiller to get him through a fight with some creature that wanted to kill him. They’d both intended it to remain that way.

But of course it didn’t.

Cal kept getting into near-death situations and encountering stronger and stronger foes, and it became a habit. They’d even developed a signal — Cal would raise his arm and snap, and BD would toss one of the little vials to him, ready to be administered.

Cal was never good at pacing himself, either. He’d worked a hard-labor job in the Bracca scrapyards, 12-hour shifts that may as well have been 12-hour workouts. That pattern continued once they’d met, and Cal had taken on the quest for the holocron. He’d explore in long stretches, spending hours at a time away from the Mantis, and sleeping less and less as the situation became more dire.

So, more stims.

And now… it’s like Cal isn’t even trying to avoid injury. Even if he did, he’d probably still need them.

Cal knows he has a problem. He’d all but admitted it to BD the other day, when the droid had to break the news about his stim tray being empty. Cal had used all four of them, one when he woke up and three to get through the day with that wound on his leg that he refused further treatment for.

He’d flung his datapad onto his bed, or tried to, at least, but it hit the wall, hard enough to dent the durasteel.

BD had stepped back, wanting to avoid any other projectiles — but Cal saw him flinch, and snapped out of it, dragged his hands down his face while muffling an expletive into his palms. “I’m not mad at you, buddy. Just… fuck.”

And then he’d left like he did now, to go get his ass kicked.

He’ll be back, to drag himself through a cold shower and into bed for maybe five hours of fitful sleep, and then the cycle will repeat again.